Why We Fly! Wilco in America!
Wilco. One simple word evokes hyperbolic fodder from journalists. It seems as if every rock writer has commented in print on this band, and if they haven’t, they most definitely have commented loudly and boisterously in a bar over a round of drinks with their friends. Be it writing about Jeff Tweedy and his stint in rehab for prescription pills, or the oft-asked question in music magazines: “Is Wilco “’The American Radiohead?’” Or the most jaw-droppingly ridiculous Wilco-fact; that Warner Music Group refused to release 1999’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and when it was released, (under Nonesuch Records, which, hey! is under the umbrella of Warner Music, so Warner actually DID release it, after they bought their way out of the deal…so ironic and funny, huh?!) it sparked more hype than anyone could imagine, critical acclaim, x-amount of copies sold, changes to the lineup of the band, blah blah blah.
Yes. We know all of this. (And if we did not know this, I just gave you the Cliff’s Notes Version Of The Tired Facts About Wilco.) So let’s get down to it, shall we?
Ok, here goes: I love this band. I geek-out hard-core to this band. There are scores of others like me, thankfully; sanity in numbers. I am a Wilco-geek, and I blame my friend, Jack. It’s really all his fault. Two years ago, Jack’s band, Steel Train (which are also amazing, and if you have not yet heard them, you should…immediately, and you can blame this article on your newfound Steel Train geek-ness) played a festival in Florida that I attended. Wilco was on the bill, too, and since Jack had talked them up for awhile, I figured, what the hell, I’d check them out. Jack’s taste is (for the most part) pretty great. (He geeks-out to the soundtrack to Wicked……different strokes for different folks.) Their set knocked me on my ass, and the next day I bought Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and for one solid month, it did not leave my stereo. Every couple of months I would trek to my local record store and buy a new Wilco-journey. (Yes, I just wrote ‘Wilco-journey.’ Get over it.) The journey was a beautiful one; filled with the repeat button on my iPod for certain tracks that would remind me of the many fucked-up boys in my life who also love Wilco. Like evangelical Christians who want to coerce new churchgoers to their congregation, I then made mixed-cds for my parents and planned my summer trip home to California around when I could take Mom and Dad to see them at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. (Mom and Dad actually really loved them, and have now told all their friends, which, I’m sure, has contributed directly in AARP members adoration for Wilco, and to Starbucks’ soaring record sales of 2007’s Sky Blue Sky.)
It probably will come as no surprise that when I heard the announcement of a five night residency in their hometown of Chicago, in which they promised to play everything they had ever recorded, I knew that my inner geek-dom had found a new level and that I needed to be there. The TicketBastard gods smiled upon me, and I scored tickets without issue for the two nights I wanted. I booked my flight, bought long underwear for the below-zero Chicago-in-February-weather, and I went.
And I cried. And I text-messaged fellow Wilco-geeks from the show. And I drank lots of whiskey. And I laughed at Jeff Tweedy’s admittedly lame in-between-songs banter. And I debated with my girlfriend which member of the band was more delicious. And I got irritated when she told me that they’re all married and (mostly) with children, minus one who is (apparently and rightfully so) a total player. And I worshipped at the altar of greatness. The shows were awesome. They played a core set of songs each night, along with a sprinkling of randomness. My first night, Monday, opened with “Blue-Eyed Soul” off A.M.; the song that happened to be playing the moment over a year ago when I realized that drama with one of the opposite sex in which I had become entangled was not worth the stress. From there, the beautiful “Remember The Mountain Bed” from the Mermaid Avenue sessions with hipster-violinist Andrew Bird sitting in for embellishment and “Bob Dylan’s 49th Beard”; a B-side from the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot era. My tears flowed during the absolutely unexpected “We’re Just Friends” and “My Darling”; songs from Summerteeth which had not been played since 1999, and songs that for me, were heaven. They brought out a horns section, which enhanced the beauty in “Walken” and “Monday.” Start to finish, it was pure bliss, but the icing on the cake was the fans. Every single person in that theatre could not imagine being anywhere else. It was nearly a three-hour show, and I sincerely doubt that anyone left early. Even the security guards were pleasant as a result of the overall energy of the fan-ness of the room.
My second show, I arrived early and snagged a spot in the front, stage left, against the railing, so that my photographer-friend could dip in and out of the photo pit, and so that I could really get in touch with my inner-crazy. The guy in front of me sported a LebowskiFest “Achiever” tee and a positive attitude which was unparalleled. Every couple of songs he would say to my friend and I, “Ladies! Are we still having the best night ever?” His joy was completely without sarcasm. The guy behind me arrived solo and said that he had “moved heaven and earth for a ticket,” and offered to buy a fellow fan a drink; which I declined due to the fact that there was no way I was sacrificing the killer spot for a trip to the ladies room. During the second part of the set, the horns came out for “The Thanks I Get,” “Hate It Here,” “I’m A Wheel” and most notably “I’m The Man Who Loves You,” at which time Jeff Tweedy looked up to the stage left box, about fifty feet above me, and said, “I love you, Susie!!” to his wife. I noticed that during “Hate It Here,” Mrs. Tweedy shook her head as if to say, “why does my husband lie to millions of people?” during the verse, ‘I do the dishes, I mow the lawn.’ Case in point, behind every great man is one hell of an amazing woman.
As I close this bit of remembrance, I am reminded of something Jack once said. When asked about hanging out in New York City’s most “in” neighborhoods, he said that he would choose the Lower East Side over the Meatpacking District, because at least the cool-kids drinking over-priced cocktails had heard of Wilco. Where the Riviera Theatre differed from the Lower East Side, was that the “cool” was shed, and gave room only for joy. It bubbled over and I felt like I was a part of a club of people who were there solely for the music, not for the hype of journalists. The music was a part of them, and it was a ComiCon-esque pilgrimage for Wilco fans.
I continued on my “Let’s-continue-to-fly-cool-places-to-see-Wilco” trip, and went to both performances at Tipitina’s; a small club in uptown New Orleans. And when I say small club, I’m talking small like the El Rey Theatre in LA or Irving Plaza in NYC. I’m talking up close and personal, in my case, five feet from the stage on the right, making sex-eyes at the delicious guitarist.
But I digress.
I went to the second of the two shows with my friend, Rachelle: New Orleanian, wife, beer company executive, bass player of ManWitch; all-female punk rock outfit and mother of eight-month-old, Ruby Rose. Simply put, Rachelle is punk-rock. Wilco shows are not punk-rock. At the end of the day, what are you gonna do?
The shows were great. The vibe in the club was not. We heard unbelievably popular “A Magazine Called Sunset” and New Orleans-native John Stirratt’s “It’s Just That Simple” with Jeff Tweedy backing him up on the bass. We also got more marijuana smoke than The Dead or Widespread Panic at Bonnaroo, and people who, literally, elbowed you out of their way with not as much as an acknowledgment, so that they could check the caucus results from their iPhone. The vibe was so palpably not the norm, that Jeff Tweedy made a comment the first night, (regarding the weed) something to the effect of “whoa….you guys are really stoned……is that legal down here?” His tone was that of simple straight-forward-ness, NOT the tone of ‘yes it’s cool to be high, someone please pass me the joint.’ On the second night, Tweedy asked if the crowd was performing some sort of voodoo-like shape-shifting, and asked drummer Glenn Kotche, to “get us out of this.” Judging by both the intangible vibe and the tangible setlist, ‘this’ must have meant, “I’m tired of being mellow, let’s rock and maybe this weird crowd will rock with us?” Kotche began “Heavy Metal Drummer,” which began the set’s rock and roll finish.
After being shushed by a fan taking Rachelle and my (very VERY brief) conversation personally, and having the girl next to us, literally, pass out and drop to the floor, she decided that the Wilco crowd needed…something…perhaps a bit of punk rock? She ran into a friend who accidentally spilled beer on her (red, poufy, very loud) head of hair, and decided that we were not going to beat it, OR join them, it was going to be something else entirely. We were going to become the people that I loathe at shows; it was really to be the night’s only salvation. Rachelle’s friend poured his Miller High Life all over himself, all over Rachelle, and all over me. We laughed at the spontaneous ridiculousness. Those around us did not. I made devil horns and repeatedly yelled “Punk’s Not Dead!” On that note, we decided that we were done stirring the pot, and clawed our way to our rightful place at the side of the stage, away from the (lame) crowd.
Wilco is magic, but my checking account, and emotional availability, is thankful that the band’s next stop on the tour is Sydney. After all, at the end of four shows in two different states, how many more times can you laugh, cry, jump up and down, and have beer spilled down your chest?
Do Australians get this worked up over Wilco? Maybe I should find out sometime…
