CD Reviews

Smog

A solitary, late-night drive to nowhere.

A cold, deserted alley where the fallen snow has all turned to grimy slush.

A house suddenly deserted by people who once tried to care for each other, where every forgotten object is a mute testimonial to what might have been.

These are the places you should be when you listen to Smog.

Bill Callahan, the only member of Smog, has been to all of them and to places even emptier and more desolate than that.

He could be the hidden observer in every conflict, the man silently watching every fight, every heartbreak, every disappointment. His music bears the weight of a man who has seen and felt it all and only has a few bitter memories to show for it.

Callahan writes songs about the desperate. His characters canât connect with anyone and find vague solace in brief, unsatisfying relationships with others as empty as themselves. Each song is driven by incredible self-loathing, whether it be
Callahanâs or his characterâs (the lines between the two are often unclear), leaving you struggling to find something, anything hopeful to connect to.

1996âs The Doctor Came At Dawn and this yearâs Red Apple Falls are packed with these kind of astonishingly intimate revelations.

Doctor, the stronger of the two, features songs about people picking up the pieces of shattered relationships. They read as
Callahanâs hidden diary entries: there are songs about stalking ex-girlfriends (ãYou Moved Inä) and about reminiscing over their left-behind belongings (ãAll Your Women Thingsä). The songsâ emptiness are balanced by the warm, reverberant sound of Callahanâs guitar, which adds muscle to the fragile skeleton of the lyrics.

Red Apple Falls mines much of the same territory but is hampered by the production by experimental composer/musician Jim OâRourke. OâRourke (best known for his work in the band Gastr Del Sol) unnecessarily adds full instrumentation to the albumâs songs. The effect is smothering, and it overwhelms Callahanâs weak voice and delicate songs.

Every album, no matter who  creates  it, is an attempt to take the listener somewhere. Smog albums are trips to the dark, inhuman side of life, where others are distrusted, emotions are inadequate and, as Callahan sings in Doctorâs ãSpread Your

Bloody Wings,ä ãthe most beautiful thing youâve ever seen spits bile into your eye.ä

By B. Erin Cole

Cruel Timothy

Music fueled by a message can be a powerful thing, but the strength of the message dwindles when the music is barely tolerable. Enter Cruel Timothy.

Cruel Timothy seems like an admirable guy. In the booklet accompanying his CD, Rules of Thumb for the Molested, he encourages non-profit reproduction of the photos within. These photos depict a bald Cruel Timothy with his head  painted white and the albumâs title written in black on his skull. 

His message seems to be conveyed by the other shots in the booklet. They reveal the ãrules of thumbä hinted at on the CDâs title: ãItâs not your fault, You will make it through, Silence is the greatest weapon against you and Donât become an abuser.ä

Cruel Timothy has valid points, and they might make one be interested in hearing his music. His songs donât sound that bad until he starts to sing. His voice is like hearing something wounded and howling in agony because its legs have been crushed under an 18-wheeler.

At other times ÷ most notably in the song ãThat Invincible You,ä an obvious attempt to sound like heâs a beatnik in a smoky room ÷ he sounds like he might nod off at any minute. This drains the enthusiasm to keep listening.

Cruel Timothy appears to want to help anyone who might be hurting. A noble idea, but writing self-help books might be a better way to do that.

By Josh Haberberger