Bill Callahan‘s music is suiting to the high desert of central New Mexico, where he played last week to a packed crowd in Albuquerque. The evening was frigid – the town had barely seen rain for weeks and the venue where Callahan was supposed to play had nearly been torched a week before by a five-alarm fire next door. Albuquerque in winter feels down-and-out. Sunlight hardly helps make the dead cottonwood trees less sinister and lonesome. The night Callahan played, the whole town felt like a song from his catalog.
