In 2007 Bill Callahan bid farewell to Smog, packed away the lo-fi and declared himself (with almost unprecedented positivity) a “turning wheel bound for good”. Woke on a Whaleheart virtually brimmed with heady confessions of love and romance, tied together with vibrant swathes of gospel harmonies and production that twinkled and shone with Callahan’s seemingly new found faith in mankind.

Which was all very well, but this apparent cheeriness was not to everyone’s liking. Critics and fans seemed to prefer the old Bill Callahan, the one who for the best part of 20 years had been nursing a mostly half-empty glass.

“A return to form!” has therefore been the cliché of choice following the release of Sometimes I Wish we Were an Eagle. Which is more or less a euphemism for, “Gee, we’re glad Callahan has had a rough few years.” For, whoever was responsible for inspiring Callahan to lighten the load is long gone, leaving behind an emotional open wound that painfully informs the album’s nine songs.

It’s often easy to confuse basic storytelling with reality, but it’s evident that Callahan has approached the writing of Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle from an acutely personal perspective. His accounts of being “ripped by reality” after waking from a dream of false hope, or pitching himself as a metaphorical horse whose steadfast rider is the memory of a lost love, indicate these narratives have been shaped by experiences that define genuine loss.

The desire to make sense of his grief leads Callahan back to the bleakness he inhabited under his former moniker, however, the album doesn’t lay claim to the abrasive qualities of early Smog recordings. Whilst Whaleheart’s over-worked arrangements were an entirely hit and miss affair, Callahan has refused to consider the album as a failed experiment. Instead, he’s given careful consideration to the competing elements of restraint and bombast.

As a result, the strings that ebb and flow throughout Jim Cain are significant and lovely, but tempered by caustic, primitive beats, whilst Too Many Bird’s electric piano (which should be desperately kitsch) is rendered poignant by the authority of Callahan’s deeply affecting baritone.

The album’s effectiveness at harnessing the breadth of sound that all too often threatened to suffocate Woke on a Whaleheart points to Callahan’s personal need to establish a trajectory for recordings under his own name. Eid Ma Clack Shaw’s tug of war between the conscious and subconscious certainly has its genesis in Smog’s impenetrable melodies, but the interlocking staccato strings, piano and percussion signifies a level of complexity that separates the before and after.

Although Bill Callahan is often saddled with adjectives that sit at the – œdepressive’ end of the descriptive spectrum, his material often contains a distinct undercurrent of hope and redemption. As Sometimes… flows through The Wind and the Dove’s haunting Middle Eastern-inspired intro and around the shimmering melody of Rococo Zephyr, there’s a sense the weight of frustrated introspection is lifting. My Friend continues to propel Callahan onwards; long sweeping, string sections maintaining momentum as his declaration of enduring love is affirmed by the determined refrain of his guitar.

The album’s conclusion is preceded by the instrumental wilderness of Invocation to Ratiocination. Strange and distorted voices echo across an eerie void whose only other occupant is the disconnected, melancholic keys of a singular piano. Bill Callahan emerges from this unsettling interlude to announce an epiphany of sorts. Over the course of nearly ten minutes, the understated folk of Faith/Void sounds like a mix of both resignation and relief.

Callahan’s repeated assertion that “it’s time to put god away” isn’t the hallmark of yet another loss, but the welcome end of a hard-fought spiritual battle, and the confirmation that Smog is dead…

…long live Bill Callahan.

Sometimes I Wish we Were an Eagle is out now.