Callahan drones on with dreary metaphors such as ‘like a church that’s far away’ (and some odd ones, too, ‘like a severed hand’), over a musical backdrop that’s fiddle-filled slow country with a hint of western. Yes, he does both kinds of music.
He croons and wheezes and groans and sighs about his life and regrets, about rivers and the sea, time and tides, trains and roads. ‘I’ve got limitations, like Marvin Gaye’, he croaks on ‘The Sing’. He’s got limitations alright, and while I can his world-weary view and occasional lyrical quirk, with the notable exception of the slow-burning and darkly atmospheric ‘Summer Painter’, the delivery is just drab.
Bill Callahan Online
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