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"Why is everyone looking at me like there's something fundamentally wrong?" sings Bill "Smog" Callahan in his trademark molasses baritone at the beginning of his twelfth album. From there, he digs up non-answers and wry jokes and veers close to self-parody in codeine-tempoed folk depressives that come on like a particularly dreary Raymond Carver story.
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©Copyright 2009 Rolling Stone; Jann S. Wenner, editor and publisher
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