“Jeff Tweedy is a twat,” one former major-label president told me at the height of the singer’s travails with Reprise. Though acknowledging the enduring merit of Wilco’s music, the executive–who didn’t even work for Warner Brothers–marveled at Wilco’s desire to make “indulgent albums” for what had become the music industry’s largest corporation. “It’s unacceptable at this time for any artist to behave the way he does. Who does he think he is? Neil Young?”
- from Learning How To Die by Greg Kot
What is the big deal with Wilco? And are we talking about the songs or the band? So many questions.
If we pick the band, we have to pick which band. It’s like the old adage about replacing your axe handle three times and the head twice; is it still your axe? Wilco ‘the band’ has barely made two records in a row with the same guys. Though Jeff Tweedy (let’s face it, he is Wilco) may curiously remark that the revolving door has always been good for the process, that’s hardly an unselfish attitude for rock band unity.
There’s something epic about a band that stays together. Bob Dylan, when he was on the road backed by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, remarked that talking to those guys was like talking to one mind. That’s a band. A unit. One need only examine myriad reunion tours or dinosaur acts with one or two original members to realize that a band is defined by a specific set of individuals.
By many accounts, the current Wilco incarnation (Version 5?) seems to be the most cohesive and band-like ever. Yet still, their latest release Sky Blue Sky has been at once lauded for it’s warm sound and un-weirdness and derided as being lazy and mellow.
Yes, Tweedy seems the very definition of restless ambiguity. How a lot of folks just can’t get behind the shruggy attitude is understandable. How can we know if he doesn’t know? People like to be comfortable with their choices, they like to know what to expect. The notion of certainty isn’t in Tweedy’s vocabulary. He can’t seem to make up his mind. Dust bowl hat and denim one night, Nudie suit the next.
So maybe we are talking about the songs, for Wilco songs are not comfortable, nor are they predictable. And as many a well-trained fan will tell you, it’s all about the music. The insular, stubborn, lonely music. Lord knows there’s enough of it with all the bootlegs, live recordings and side projects.
It seems the songs are both a soundtrack to and spawn of a complex brew of artistic insecurity. One can trace it back to the build-up and aftermath of the well-documented brouhaha over Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. (We won’t recount that whole mess here, but the short of it is: artist sticks it to the man.)
Yet even die-hard Tweedyheads don’t love every song on every record, (though they are pretty defensive about the gestalt of the thing) for there is a tendency to grate and whine. But again, Jeff doesn’t care! If you like it, great. You’ll be treated well. If you don’t, that’s cool too. He’s probably on his way to the next thing anyway.
For a lot of people the big deal boils down to this: the songs don’t rock hard enough for a rock band and they’re not out there enough for an avant-garde outfit. They’re right down the middle, balancing precariously close to what has been coined “dad-rock”. A whole legion of boomers - their beloved old time rock n’ roll becoming marginalized - have latched on to Wilco music. It’s ostensible edginess is just the ticket for waning hipness.
Somewhere along the line, a myth was born. A metamorphosis from songwriter to artiste. Songs about chicks and guns gave way to songs about… what? The über-sensitive singer has bested the suits, kicked the dope, and finally assembled his band. To Tweedy’s credit, he appears to have jettisoned Wilco’s own hype long ago. Maybe that’s the point of over seven minutes of synth noise on “Less Than You Think”; he’s daring you to turn him off. Maybe that’s the point of zigging when everyone says zag.
Maybe the big deal is there is no big deal. It’s not the band’s fault that many critics and fans gush over every burp and twaddle. After all, these are just a bunch of guys doing their thing. Their work as a body commands a certain respect. Time will tell. As the painter George Hughes once did say, “The artist always, always has the last word.”
© Stephen Mockensturm for Listen In. Some Rights Reserved.
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