Song 101: Danny Callahan

This is one of my favourite songs, has been for over 15 years, but I'm writing a little about it because I suddenly remembered an odd evening I associate it with.

'Danny Callahan' is from Conor Oberst's 2008 solo album 'Conor Oberst'. I've mentioned it before briefly, I think. Of all the songs in the whole world, it is the one that, however many new times I listen to it, never fails to catch me unawares and kick me in the guts.

It manifests as a jaunty tune, and it's not entirely clear, over the first couple of verses, what it's about, with some vaguely philosophical lyrics. Then, after a brief solo, the lyrics focus on what the song is really about, which is about a boy, a real boy Conor Oberst knew, called Danny Callahan, who died of cancer.

The lyrics go

"What gauge measures miracles? And whose heart beats electrical? 

We feign sickness with our modern joy,

but even western medicine, it couldn't save Danny Callahan - 

bad bone marrow, a bald little boy.

But the love you feel he carries inside can be passed.

He lay still, his mother kissed him goodbye said, "Come back!

Where are you going to alone? Where are you going all alone?""

and, I swear, there is really nothing else, over the last 16 years, that has so often brought me back in touch with the tragedy and beauty of life.

Particularly as Conor Oberst, with Bright Eyes, and solo, is often known for vocal and lyrical histrionics, whereas here, he underplays it. It's a beautiful vocal performance, and I think his greatest song, which, considering I played 'First Day of My Life' to the three of us in a momentarily empty and still maternity ward on the day Rosa was born, is not a light compliment.

Well, anyway, there's the song ... I love it. But I remembered one of the first times I heard it, certainly out of the context of my discman, in October 2008, a month or so after the album was released.

I was in Chicago. I went to Chicago with three other people, one of whom was a friend of mine, the other two who were friends of my friend, to run the Chicago Marathon. We ran the marathon. For me, it went pretty badly, nowhere near as well as I hoped. It was very hot, my body didn't work properly. I made it to the finish without stopping, because if I'd stopped, I'd have been in the middle of Chicago, cramped and parched, without a map or the strength to get myself started again.

So I was proud to finish my first marathon (4hr3, perfectly fine, really, but on a good, cold, wet, day with an injury-free preparation, I had a 3h20 in me, I'm sure of it) but in a slightly weird, slf-recriminatory and sulky mood. We still had a week in Chicago, and after weeks, if not months, of taking care with food and drink, I was now not.

One of my friend's friends was a really nice guy and also his brother lived in Chicago, and so he knew, and was able to arrange, some really good restaurants to eat in.

One of them was, I'm pretty certain - this place https://www.alinearestaurant.com/, fairly recently opened at that point, and already Michelin-starred, and within a few years judged the best restaurant in the world.

I say I'm pretty certain ... I'm 99% certain that was the place, but that week is one of those weeks where my memories are a bit surreal.

I remember the atmosphere was low-key, chilled, the food was stunning, the wine was flowing, and on the stereo came Conor Oberst's solo album in its entirety - a soundtrack I was absolutely delighted with. Sounds like an ideal evening, right?

But I haven't mentioned my friend's other friend, yet, have I? 

Look, I'm not one for being mean about someone in public, but I haven't seen this person since, in fact haven't seen any of them for many years, I'll use no names, there is not a cat in hell's chance anyone associated will ever read this. I feel ok about it.

There had already been signs. This person did not agree with tipping. Well, perhaps, on the grand scale, this is fair enough. American service staff are made to rely too much on tips and not paid enough. But that, I don't think, was this person's point. It was just that they got too much. Well, each to their own, except, when we had all got a taxi, and I had provided the tip at whatever the generous American rate I had researched was, the person literally grabbed some of the money out of the driver's hand as I was giving it to him, snarling "Too much!".

So it was in the restaurant, the relaxed, hospitable, not overly pricy considering it was on the cusp of global acclaim, restaurant, as the evening went on, the person became increasingly, loudly contemptuous of the decor, the food, the service staff.

I remember at one point just sitting back and realising with dread that the rest of the restaurant had fallen silent and our dining companion was the only voice that could be heard, against the background of Conor Oberst's poignant tunes. Ah, Brits are great, I'm sure they were all thinking. 

Often, particularly in recent years as I've become almost entirely re-un-socialised, I tell myself I'm super-weird, have always been weird, have no graces, am uncomfortable to be around, and that's my problem. But when I remember evenings like this, I really can tell myself that, no, it was always, and is always, other people that are weird and bad, not me, and if I have, in the end, reacted to that by giving up on trying, so be it.