You know that moment where someone sings for the first time and you can just tell there’s going to be a singer? Well Bill Callahan isn’t that. Don’t take that the wrong way, I think his voice is great, but it’s like Bob Dylan, that’s why they're called singer-songwriters, not singers. I’ve known about Callahan since I first heard “Sycamore” off of his solo debut. Now that album was much more upbeat than this one. But his voice sounds just as good, if not better with time. He’s got a special gravel to him that isn’t low enough to be Tom Waits, but it’s not nasally enough to be Willie Nelson. It’s not conventional but I can’t stop listening. His songwriting skills are there too. “Lonely City” feels like the “In The Wee Small Hours” album cover (Sinatra-heads unite). While “Why Do Men Sing” feels like the Velvet Underground was a supremely lonely old man. The length does a bit of a disservice to the album, he doesn’t have a huge range and after a while his voice just blends the songs into the background. It’s still an earnestly sobering release that I think will age better with time.