Bill Callahan has been singing his wise, funny, reflective songs since the early 1990s, a fact he points out here on a song called “Pathol O.G.” “It started out as a way to communicate with other people—and myself—and the spirits,” he deadpans. “I don’t wanna say that it saved my life but it gave me life.” The further Callahan goes down his private road, the more dreamlike and rewarding his little digressions get, not to mention the more fully he’s able to articulate his revelations in music, blurring the line between indie-folk, alt-country, and spiritual jazz. Songs stretch organically into the six- and seven-minute range, ditching their shoes, airing out the space between their toes. He celebrates the mystery of his creative compulsions (“Why Do Men Sing”), whips up a dozen puns about the state of Wisconsin while meditating on life and death (“Lake Winnebago”), and comes to better understand his late father by having children of his own (the stunning, playful “Empathy,” a song only—really, only—Callahan could write). An American original.