Claustrophobia. Technofear. Paranoia; an intense desire to escape. Road movie; the great and unexplored beyond. Friends in tow; one bottle whiskey (opened), one suitcase (closed), and one scarred, bruised and battered guitar. Home; a deep red Chevy, let loose on a desolate and open dustbowl.

Jon Bon Jovi has spent the entire latter half of his career trying to convey images that Bill 'Smog' Callahan seems to have at the flick of a switch. Make no mistake; Smog is not a name that you're about to see pitted against Billie and Christina at the next Smash Hits poll winners party. One man and his battered old guitar may sound cliched, but in these climes there is little that doesn't anymore. Now, even the cliché is clichéd, and Smog are here to remind us that Melancholy is back in fashion.

Bare, grazed and heartbreakingly honest, this is an album full of woe and pity. Many sounds, styles and instruments are utilised; keyboards, drum machines and orchestration aswell as the 'traditional' bass and guitar all make welcome appearances. The Hard Road finds Smog's scowling aggressive peak - angular, jagged and unnerving, with Callahan's soft but powerful vocals lolloping along to the continual interruption of a distorted yet plaintive guitar.

Gentle and laid back, yet fierce and emotional, Smog's music is that of an extremely troubled mind, at times sounding like a harsher yet more fluid version of fellow sulk-turned-uplift masters Witness, stripped down of sentimentality and starved until its soul begins to show. The result? A breathtakingly genuine insight into the real troubles we face from time to time, and a sobering reminder that when things aren't bad they can be pretty damned great.

So dim the lights, pour yourself a dream, watch the curtains go up and don't fret.

Because this road movie has a happy ending, and you're the star.

9/10 Karl Cremin.

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