Smog

Smog, by its very nature, suffocates.

Tonight, early summer London skies have already turned a deathly black, only this time under the influence of encroaching night – the grey heat-haze of the hottest months is yet to come. When it does, commuters and tourists – hell, everyone trapped in the backalleys and broad lanes of the capital’s snakes ‘n’ ladders layout – will cough and splutter through their days and nights, silence forever punctured by incessant background noise.

But not tonight, please… it shouldn’t happen tonight.

I blame Islington Academy – I’m yet to visit a venue that steals away a musician’s soul with the glee exhibited by this weak-pish-sponsored cave of twisted metal and plastic. This is where the spirit of song comes to die, its cries of discomfort drifting ceiling-wards through cigarette smoke and dry ice. At the front a sizeable hardcore make their affection for this man – Bill Callahan – entirely clear. Everywhere else, though, there is only the chatter of indifference and the lingering scent of a ligger too many.

Which is a crying fucking shame, because everyone here knows that Smog would enthral, albeit gently, for hours upon end if given suitable surroundings; surroundings that amplified this man’s monotone musings above the sound of inane bar-side conversation. The wonderfully graphic imagery of his songs – ‘In The Pines’, for example, with its talk of trains ploughing focused furrows through rural Southern States – would blossom and become so much more than just words and rhymes. The music – ever understated – could breathe and flex itself. Tonight it’s as if the shell around the onstage band has an oppressive effect upon them – they stand semi-static, damn-near statuesque, the only movement detectable on the twin monitors facing the venue’s cramped balcony that of four frames of film on an apparent loop, divergence a distinct no-no.

We’re left wondering what could have been over what is, and are ejected into the night sooner than we’d expected, driven from comfort by the presence of such irritation. It’s hardly the fault of the band – it’s not like they book the tours that line their pockets – but a little forethought would have spared what is, ultimately, borderline embarrassment. Callahan looks wary and suspicious of the crowd before him; they, in turn, either hope to swing opinion or simply don’t give a fuck.

Had we stayed longer we’d have certainly collapsed clutching our necks, strangling ourselves to find some semblance of peace. Suffocation of a different kind, but equally distressing.