Wilco

No one seemed to be having much fun when Wilco played a packed show at the House of Blues in Anaheim, California, in the spring of 2002. The crowd was pin-drop silent. Some people were crying. The dark cloud of September 11 clearly still hung in the air, potentiated by many of the moody new songs that comprised most of the set. Jeff Tweedy looked like he had just come from the dentist.

He did perk up toward the end of the set, however. “How many of you have our new album?” Tweedy asked. He eyed the hands raised in response—about a third of the crowd—even though Yankee Hotel Foxtrot wouldn’t be officially released for another few weeks. “That’s fucking awesome,” he exclaimed, finally smiling.

Maybe Tweedy knew something we didn’t. By the end of the year, many hailed Yankee Hotel Foxtrot as a masterpiece, and the disc topped several prominent music polls. Wilco’s artistic victory against the oppressive, counterproductive forces of the record industry would be cited as a triumph. But while the album catapulted the band firmly to national and international fame, the members of Wilco would be celebrated first and foremost as hometown heroes.

Tweedy’s always been quick to note that, technically, he’s not really from Chicago, but we’ve been quicker to claim him and Wilco collectively as our own all the same. Indeed, with Billy Corgan touring his Smashing Pumpkins everywhere but Chicago; Kanye, Common et al. living in New York; and R. Kelly spending more time in the courts than on stage, Wilco’s our most visible source of local pride. The band has reciprocated with dozens of special appearances, holiday shows and now this unprecedented five-night stand, where the group promises to play its entire back catalog.

Tweedy was in his late 20s when he formed Wilco out of the ashes of Uncle Tupelo. A decade later he’s hardly middle-aged, but certainly no kid, either. In fact, he has kids of his own and all sorts of adult problems to deal with, many of which (like the band turmoil depicted in the acclaimed documentary I Am Trying to BreakYour Heart, or a subsequent stint in rehab for an addiction to painkillers) he’s dealt with publicly. As we’ve watched Tweedy belatedly grow up, Wilco’s output has reflected that personal growth.

What’s liable to make these shows so memorable is the contrast between Wilco’s modest musical roots and the more experimentally minded material of recent years. Hell, last year’s deceptively middle-of-the-road Sky Blue Sky was in some ways the band’s most radical experiment yet; Tweedy would wonder in interviews how the lack of long feedback drones could prove more controversial than their presence. Fans themselves debated how the clean, sober and (most of all) stable version of Wilco compared to its looser, anything-goes early incarnations.

Back then Wilco had much more in common with the Replacements than, say, current peers Sonic Youth, even though Tweedy always had enough love for both strains of rock. Like the Replacements, Wilco could have ended after its celebrated 2001 Taste of Chicago performance, its last with creative linchpin Jay Bennett, but growing up also means leaving the sulking to the kids and plowing forward.

Post-Bennett, Wilco has barely touched its pre-YHF catalog, which is another reason watching them dive into the dusty corners of “Summerteeth,” “Being There” and even “A.M.” should be such a treat. Another reason is that the current iteration of the band is also its most capable. While Wilco has always been a strong live act, never before has it been packed with such potential. Guitarist Nels Cline and drummer Glenn Kotche are two of the few rock players equally well-versed in jazz. Pat Sansone and Mikael Jorgensen are more anonymous but no less accomplished utility players. And bassist John Stirratt, teamed with Tweedy since the Uncle Tupelo days, again and again proves both band anchor and the perfect complement to Tweedy’s moody output.

Throughout all the changes, Wilco somehow managed to keep many of its original fans. Tweedy once hypothesized they stick around expressly as conscientious hecklers, old schoolers concerned the band was going too far out, even as newer fans attracted to Wilco’s more idiosyncratic side complained certain songs and albums sound too reined in. As each side tries in vain to will Wilco from one stylistic pole to the other, Tweedy and crew just seem grateful for the attention. Performing every last note of its oeuvre is therefore likely the band’s way of giving back, offering something for everyone by playing everything.

—Joshua Klein

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