There are women here. That's the first surprise. Lots of women. Aside from Mark Eitzel and Mark Kozelek, nobody in recent times has inspired geek love so much as Smog's Bill Callahan. Yet, instead of the expected crowd of pale young men there must be a fifty-fifty split of the sexes here tonight. It seems no one is immune to Callahan's charms - a modern day Woody Allen for doomed romantic losers.
Still, regardless of sex, the Smog fan is a strange beast. You probably haven't lived (or actually, perhaps you have) until you've witnessed one of them make repeated requests for that cheery Callahan ditty 'Dress Sexy At My Funeral'. It's like a 'Fast Show' sketch. They make Morrissey fanatics look like fly-by-nights. There's even a lone dancer by the end, which must be wrong on about 37 counts.
In fact, the parallel with Morrissey is probably appropriate. Both are singular voices - cult figures who incite journalistic fervour and ridicule in equal measure simply because their worldview never changes. Just as the Mancunian miserabilist wakes up to life in a 'Carry On Film' circa 1953, you can bet when Callahan opens the curtains he just knows it's going to be another Smog-ish type of day: sexually dysfunctional, wryly depressive and emotionally barren. Metaphorically speaking, his songwriting pulls the wings off a butterfly - but that he does so with such exquisite humour and style, means we keeps coming back for more.
Tonight's set alternates between the peeping-tom-looking-through-the-panty-drawer solo material that made his reputation and the more upbeat country-ish numbers where the backing band swing like the Velvets playing Cohen. The material from this year's 'Supper' LP sounds awesomely good, and, on the likes of 'Truth Serum' and 'Butterflies Drowned In Wine', Callahan's deep monotone keeps the tension perfectly before he dispenses the killer payoff lines.
For such an introverted performer it all makes for a surprisingly involving spectacle. Aside from the odd legs akimbo guitar move, Callahan remains static throughout, yet it's difficult to take your eyes off him. Old favourites like 'Lets Move To The Country' and 'I Could Drive Forever' are greeted like long-lost friends by the faithful. He encores with the desolate 'I Break Horses' before running over time and leaving the stage with requests still ringing in his ears.
He doesn't play 'Dress Sexy...' for that poor soul at the back, but no matter. Everyone else seems to have left happy - in a miserable sort of way.
