YTI⅃AƎЯ

In 2022, Bill Callahan put out a record called REALITY. Except that wasn’t the title, it was YTI⅃AƎЯ. 

I saw him several months later in Philly. For sale on the merch table was a powder blue ball cap with YTI⅃AƎЯ in red lettering. I wanted it.

By then, I had long accepted my state of baldness, manifesting it first at Park Slope Barbershop, with a buzz cut that went nearly to scalp, and then with the purchase of a Wahl trimmer so I could DIY that business and save some bucks. With that decision, head gear became vital.

Now I wear a hat a lot. Like the majority of my waking hours. Ski caps in the winter because our old-ass house leaks in cold air like the sea into a hulk. For temps above 45 degrees or so, I rely on an array of ball caps, partly to protect from the sun and other times because my head feels weirdly naked sans lid.

You can’t wear Mets caps all the time because there’s too too much pain, so Bill’s cap — a high quality article, I’ll add — went right to the top of the rotation. 

Maybe it was the the very next day that I walked into the bathroom with YTI⅃AƎЯ on my head. But washing my hands, in front of the mirror, what I saw was REALITY framing tired eyes, crow’s feet, a couple days’ growth of silvered stubble, and, jeez louise, are my ears getting huge? I paused for a second, recognizing the truth delivered, and then I laughed a little because I think Bill Callahan, in addition to writing some of my favorite songs of all time, is, at least in the time I’ve been in one of his audiences, the funniest of musicians.

I hope so much that the mirror effect was intentional, that he got joy out of its conception and the eventuality of his legion of fans confronting the cold discovery of the agedness.

That YTI⅃AƎЯ giving way to REALITY is the perfect precursor to his latest record, My Days of 58, on which I bestow my first Old AF Certificate of Achievement (I’ll have to create an actual certificate at a later time and mail it to Drag City).

Sometimes, to really hear a record, I need to take it on a drive. I would love the first vinyl experience to be the official listen, but there’s often too much going on at the house and I’m guilty of multitasking. True to form, I liked what I heard on that first listen of 58, but it wasn’t deep. I agreed with my homey Tom when he said, He’s consistent.

Then I took it on the road, windows closed, distractions minimized. And 58 became so much more.

(Noting that Tom also soon recognized the depth of this fine rock.)

BC shared in a couple interviews leading up to the release that he had cancer recently. Stage 1, ideal, it’s under control, he says. But cancer. At any age, that kind of thing is going to take your brain hostage. All I can say is thank goodness BC thinks through his guitar.

I’m no stranger to the little demon inside. Mine was a pulmonary embolism, more commonly known as a blood clot in the lungs. In the hospital, knowing nothing about it, I was struck by the tenderness of the nurses and doctors when they told me. I didn’t google PEs until I got transferred out of the ER, to find out that the fatality rate is 5-10% for hospitalized cases.

On this record, Bill seems to hit on every corner of my constant contemplation, the questions that loom as the distance to the horizon shrivels. He’s got two kids, maybe a little younger than my Max. The song Empathy simply crushed me:

Gia and I saw him recently, a fantastic show in our town’s little music venue that quite often delivers. If he didn’t play the entire new album, he came really close. Pathol O.G. is a powerhouse , and it starts out:

When he sang those last three words live, 20 yards in front of us, his eyes, his face, underlined the sentiment. He does love it. Like, a lot. I am grateful because I anticipate that I’ll need a steady soundtrack for the days ahead, “So I can take one last long trip / Out on the highway.”

Take a drive. Give this one a listen. My highest rating, 5 of 5 fiber thins.