Smog

The final date of the season for the "obSESSIONS" series featured none other than Bill Callahan aka Smog. Now, it's not that the man needs much introduction, but anyone who lived through the music scene of the '90s will remember the legendary aura surrounding his exploits. Described as solipsistic, reclusive, introverted, Smog was/is the bearer of an image that in some way inflates the cult around him, already fueled in itself by truly extraordinary music. So having the chance to hear him live for the first time was something of a small event. And a small-event atmosphere was indeed palpable at the Galleria Toledo, where the excitement felt thick enough to cut with a knife, and where the audience response proved to be pretty strong both qualitatively and in numbers. In short, the theatre was nearly full and the reception was among the warmest.

But let's take things in order. The evening opens with Scottish bard Alasdair Roberts, former member of Appendix Out and the man behind a handful of solo albums of minimal, introverted folk.

The set, voice and acoustic guitar alone, lasts roughly half an hour across five songs that, for this reviewer, didn't say much, though the audience clearly enjoyed it, judging by the applause. Ok, I'll admit it, I'm not particularly fond of Roberts' music, so… but the guy plays with real passion, and in the end that pays off. Even more appreciable is his slide guitar contribution to Smog's encore at the end of the show.

Then it's Mr. Callahan's turn. Well, let's start by saying he takes the stage with a four-piece band, tight and Velvet-esque to the core. So much so that, if we weren't talking about Smog, you might mistake them for an actual band in their own right, rather than the backing outfit of a singer-songwriter (however sui generis). The sound is genuinely powerful, no messing about. And Callahan, like a good conductor, keeps a constant eye on his musicians; he turns towards them, checks that they're following the "score" during the trickier passages, and only turns back to face the audience once he's satisfied with the result. But the band plays diligently, and gives him no reason for complaint.

Smog's voice is deep, dark, far deeper than on record, so much so that it hints at a future evolution towards the late-period Nick Cave style of crooning, while the setlist manages to strike a balance between fast, driving numbers and the usual intimate ballads, even slower and more narcotic live. Literally worthy of applause (which duly arrives) are the performances of "Rock Bottom Riser" and "River Guard", for instance. Callahan, however, doesn't give the crowd much in terms of interaction, aside from a wry "Do You Like My Feet" (he's playing barefoot…), though his facial expressions are enough to convey just how engaged he is in the performance. In short, he's not just phoning it in, and that's to his credit.

In conclusion, a cathartic show without so much as a single flaw. If only there were more like it.

Photo by Pietro Previti

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