|Photo by Bernd Bodtlander|
Stripped of the security of a past, the hope for a future, the existentialist mopes. O, the detestability of human existence, he thinks. O, to be stuck in this interminable now, all skin and bone, slogging through the air of the present. Or, to restate: Life sucks.
In Nausea the first explicitly existentialist novel Jean-Paul Sartre portrays the dissolution of a fictional French writer, Antoine Roquentin. Sequestered in a small town with few friends and a book of history to write, he experiences an intense philosophical crisis as he struggles with the bounds of human existence. In his attempts to reconcile himself with reality, Roquentin enters a state of persistent nausea, both literal and metaphorical. And in the cafés where he enjoys what little social contact the small town offers, he listens very carefully to records. A waitress, Madeleine, turns the crank on the phonograph:
. . . there is no melody, only notes, myriad tiny jolts. They know no rest, an inflexible order gives birth to them and destroys them without even giving them time to recuperate and exist for themselves. They race, they press forward, they strike me a sharp blow in passing and are obliterated. I would like to hold them back, but I know if I succeed in stopping one it would remain between my fingers only as a raffish languishing sound. I must accept their death; I must even will it. I know few impressions stronger or more harsh.
And that was just some obscure old ragtime record! What would Roquentin have thought if it was Smog he was dealing with?
Dress sexy at my funeral, my good wife, Smog sings on his latest album, Dongs of Sevotion, for the first time in your life. His voice is low, laconic, half-dead. The drummers hits are jazzy yet indifferent; guitars are attended to but barely so. The songs narrator goes on to request that his beloved make an announcement to the assembled mourners:
Tell them about the time we did it
On the beach with fireworks above us
On the railroad tracks
With the gravel in your back
In the back room of a crowded bar
And in the very graveyard
Where my body now rests.
Smog a.k.a. Chicagos Bill Callahan descended like a dark cloud onto the happy valley of indie rock in the late 80s. As with many musicians starting up at the time, he utilized 4-tracks and cheaply dubbed cassettes as a lifeline to a life in music. Today, however, where once he used the 4-tracks limitations to build a scary intimacy into his songs, Callahan uses an orchestra, bringing a highly arranged grandeur to his dour sarcasm. He sits comfortably (but fidgeting) in the company of people like Elliott Smith and Lou Barlow of Sebadoh and the Folk Implosion musicians once accused of being adherents to low fidelity but really studio rats all. While Smith and Barlow have moved on to major labels, Callahan still records for the Chicago indie Drag City. One loses count, but Dongs is at least his seventh full-length in a decade.
Smith, Barlow and Callahan often come across as borderline pricks, especially in their opinions of women and loved ones. Of the bunch, however, Callahan is the worst by far, taking the gilded desperation of Nick Drake, melting off the gilt and trading in the gold for a piece of ass. Callahan just seems like one of those guys whose self-hate masks a far greater distaste for the world at large. One imagines hes quite cruel to lovers and exes.
His songs, though, theyre wonderful. The lyrics are funny in the darkest ways and dark in the funniest. And when the lazy players who usually back Callahan retire (or get fed up), evil machines take over: Half of these tracks contain loops and synths that resemble malevolent respirators. They are sounds that remain as afterthought, floating on air.
The best song here is called Bloodflow. It sports a beat like a sped-up, slowed-down human heart: Hold on hold on with a grip so tight/It dams my blood makes my head feel light/Hearts will start and hearts will stop/And the blood will flow until we drop.
Sartre would be proud.
In his e-mailed epistle, an unnamed Touch & Go Records publicist writes, You could quote me on this: Fuck Smog! He also offers up the new self-titled album from his labels alternative to Smog: the For Carnation, a project led by Los Angeles Brian McMahan. No stranger to ridiculous band names, in the mid-80s McMahan was teenage guitarist for a powerful Louisville, Kentucky, hardcore band called Squirrel Bait; in the early 90s he was front man for the even better, less classifiable Slint, whose long, steady songs, interesting time signatures and soft, enigmatic vocals interspersed with guitar flameouts brought to mind the sound of grinding beef. The immediate impact of both Squirrel Bait and Slint was small, but their ever-widening gyre often seems as if it has sucked in the entirety of indie rock. Palace Brothers, Gastr del Sol, Tortoise, and a substantial part of the rosters of Chicago labels like Thrill Jockey, Drag City and Touch & Go wouldnt have existed without these bands, nor would many of todays artier strains of hardcore and punk.