#52: "Jim Cain" - Bill Callahan

I used to be darker, then I got lighter, then I got dark again. Same.

I was standing in the living room of an apartment that I had rented in Logan Square. A home full of memories, corrupted and yet beautified. I knew a lot about music. But I hadn’t heard Smog or Silver Jews yet. This is where I first heard both, recommended by the boyfriend of my roommate at the time. Perhaps he should’ve turned into Natalie Portman in Garden State by saying, “these bands will change your life.” Smog/Bill Callahan and Silver Jews did.

I always focused on pop music, the melody, the rhythm, the catchiness. I grew up listening to The Beatles and The Beach Boys after all. But there were bands that didn’t create ear worms. They were born writers of the written word. They just happen to pick up a guitar and form a band too. That’s not to dismiss or minimize their compositions as a whole but honestly, both Smog and Silver Jews - I automatically think of their words first and foremost. I want to read them every bit as much as I want to listen to them being sung.

If you asked me then that the songwriters of both bands would go on to become my favorite lyricists, I would have laughed in your face. There’s a funny moment in the documentary I Am Trying to Break Your Heart where a fan declares to Jeff Tweedy on stage that she thinks his lyrics are poetry. I would agree with that person. Tweedy was always number one until I heard Bill Callahan and then David Berman. Tweedy is now third on my list of favorite lyricists.

I own a copy of a book that contains Bill Callahan’s lyrics and to me, it is a book of poetry. I am still eagerly waiting for someone, anyone to do the same for Berman. The two songs I first heard from Callahan were “Butterflies Drowned in Wine,” which will come up again later in this series as well as “To Be of Use,” a song that gave me shivers since I mostly have those same fantasies he sings of. Another moment of “oh, I’m not alone in thinking that!”

Weird thoughts always creep up while writing, whether it’s a song or an essay or a review. An editor would crop them out, but I keep them in. Sometimes I wonder about how my three favorite lyricists choose which words to sing and how they are pieced together. Luckily, Jeff Tweedy wrote an entire book called “How to Write One Song,” about his process. Callahan, maybe there are interviews out there that elaborate further. Berman, taken from us too soon.

The one thought that interjects when I write lyrics is often, “why can’t I write a line like…” (insert a Callahan or Berman or Tweedy line here). But the answer is, “write like yourself.” That’s the impression I get from most writers. The old cliche of “write what you know,” is probably still apt. Though there’s an art to the creation, the invention of something entirely new that’s out of your range of personal experience. Songwriters have written about murder without having committed it themselves after all.

I can’t help but wonder where Bill Callahan was when writing some of my favorite songs of his. With the one I’m focusing on today, he was going through a bad breakup. The abovementioned ones along with the delicate beauty surrounding “Small Plane,” manage to work their way into my brainscape. “Jim Cain” conjures up all kinds of images in me. Everything from Double Indemnity to the film I Used to be Darker to paintings of the moon. How do some artists manage to put something out into the world that only lasts four minutes but contains multitudes for an open-hearted listener?

“Referring to something as “a routine case” - an allusion to the world of a private detective as if it is one of Cain’s own characters talking. The next line — “The death of the shadow came a lightness of verse” — reveals many different angles. First, there’s been some sort of murder that connects back to the private detective aspect of the song. Yet, it’s not a typical death as it is about the demise of a shadow which results in “a lightness of verse.” Here, we’ve shifted the point of view of the song back to Callahan’s own circumstances as moving away from a depression or darkness in perspective allows his lyric writing — or “verse” — to embrace a more loose and even humorous feel. The last two lines could be a return to writing about Cain as the dark nights force him to work “until I’m frazzled.” Callahan emphasizes the need to bury oneself in work. This means no shortcuts while attempting to find closure while also implying that there needs to be something more in order to find contentment and even enlightenment - Scott Bunn

For the life of me, I can’t figure out why the opening plucked strings in Dmaj make me cry right at the onset of “Jim Cain.” Is it because the first chord is identical to the one in “The Wind” by Cat Stevens and I can’t help but think of Bill Murray’s sad face outside the barber shop in Rushmore? Talk about associational memory - Rushmore was also the last film I showed my dad before he went into Hospice. (He got to see Fight Club & The Matrix too).

It’s kind of a silly line of dialogue but maybe we should approach art like The Protagonist is told to in Christopher Nolan’s Tenet - “don’t try to understand it, just feel it.” If I were to play Bill Callahan for a focus group of people, I am almost certain that the majority wouldn’t be moved to tears immediately. They might even be turned off by his vocal style - monotone, soft-spoken, almost story talk-singing to someone sitting near a campfire.

Grasping at the fleeting, the unknowable, the lost semblance of time is the sublime way we put words together. Whether spoken, written or sung, we are co-dependent on language and linguistics. On nearly every Callahan record, there is a refrain or lyric that is transcendent, beyond poetry, veering more into the perfect sentence someone said in a moment that made you feel adored. Maybe that’s why we love music so much. It feels like someone is saying what we’ve been longing to hear. Same goes for movie dialogue said by a character - oh, if only reality, I could’ve thought or said something like that.

Well it seemed like a routine case at first
With the death of the shadow came a lightness of verse
But the darkest of nights, in truth, still dazzles
And I work myself until I'm frazzled

“The death of the shadow came a lightness of verse.” Like a lot of lines in Callahan’s songs, there is ambiguity and beauty. I can’t explain what every line means and sometimes it does seem randomized. Kurt Cobain kind of did the same thing - “I tried hard to have a father but instead I had a dad” has little to do with “Teenage angst has paid off well, now I'm bored and old.” But it fits. I often imagine some songs being built like magnetized poetry you’d assembled together on a refrigerator. But there is some consistency and intention within.

Bill Callahan was happy, at peace. But it wasn't to last (he had broken up with Joanna Newsom at the time of recording this album). The slumbering beast of love, "the lion walking down city streets," awoke, and it was pissed. He got dark again. "I started telling the story/ Without knowing the end." And he's still doing so. Over the past two decades, Callahan's music has chronicled his unique, troubling insights about responsibility, faith, and love. The darkness that falls over Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle does not make it a Smog record-- it is an uncommonly gentle darkness that sounds light at first blush. Smog's malevolence seemed like a sweeping indictment of human nature, but here, Callahan's lyrics feel intensely personal. The record, an evident break-up affair, has such a strong air of private conversation that listening to it feels like eavesdropping; the second-person pronouns sail right past us to strike the target of the absent beloved. The reverent intimacy can become almost uncomfortable, as Callahan proffers up his words in the same way the devout handle rosaries. - Brian Howe

James M. Cain inspired Bill to take on his persona. He understood this writer. He engaged into a headspace where Cain was wrestling with the psychology of time. A two-step with loneliness that felt both self-imposed and rejected. Bill explains, “James Cain was saddled with being called the father of hardboiled fiction. Apparently, he didn’t like this saddle. I tried to write the lyrics in a bunch of different voices at once – a voice that could be his, mine, or one of his characters. He was born in Maryland, like me. And wanted to be a singer. Like me. But was told he wasn’t good enough. Like me. He died in alcoholic obscurity.”

There’s the sound of the acoustic, the band coming in and then the arrival of Bill’s calming low baritone that might lull you into meditation. The strings swell in a way that recalls “Wichita Lineman,” or a classic folk ballad of that same era. All the while, our storyteller here is just talking about a variety of feelings that culminate into something truly relatable. (Bill has a sneaky way of doing that - being clever and clear without ever being pretentious).

I started running, and the concrete turned to sand
I started running, and things didn't pan out as planned
In case things go poorly and I not return
Remember the good things I've done

I think that’s all we can hope for when we shed our mortal coil - someone will remember the good things we’ve done. As long as we didn’t repeat the bad things or learned from mistakes, maybe we’ll turn out okay in the end. The protagonist’s introspection mirrors Callahan’s own experiences and aspirations. In the way Bill sees himself as Jim, is the way I see myself as Bill. Then in turn, I can see myself as Jim Cain in this song too.

Callahan often finds the romance in the mundane of a writer sitting at home wrestling with his demons. There’s a simplicity and restraint to his songs, almost as if the music is there to highlight the words rather than the music being the sole focal point. Again, a lot of the chord structures behind Silver Jews songs are recognizable, never complex. The song arrangements with both of my favorite lyricists aren’t what stand out. It’s their way with words.

If you find yourself bored with the music of Smog/Callahan, Wilco, Silver Jews or Big Thief, I might feel a little sad since I’m of the opposite mindset. But when I think about how they became favorites of mine, a lot of it has to do with the lyrics. “Jim Cain” certainly is a gorgeous-sounding song - a beautiful slow-tempo waltz of sorts. Most of the time, it is just a guitar, bass, drums, maybe some strings sprinkled in. You won’t necessarily think the music stands out. Why not try to focus on the words since I think that’s what Bill does and in turn, became an inspirational figure to me.

This won’t be the last time I write about a Bill Callahan song. I have a couple more in mind particularly, “All Thoughts Are Prey to Some Beast.” I think about how I bought the vinyl for the record that contains this song and how much I was moved by what was being conveyed even if I couldn’t understand every line. I understood the emotions. This was nothing like “Butterflies Drowned in Wine,” still the first song I ever heard that sold me on his talent. It also didn’t hurt the simple fact that he recorded a cover of Kath Bloom too.

Callahan has historically been a wordsmith first and a guitarist second. And he rarely belts or feels the need for catharsis. I think simply just having written the kinds of words that he has, must be comforting and life-affirming. Anytime I hear a Bill Callahan track, I feel comforted and grateful that lyrics like these can exist in the world and that I can go back to them at any time. And much like Bill, I hope people will remember the good things I’ve done too.