It's been several years since I've seen Wilco live. Drummer Ken Coomer had just been dumped for Glenn Kotche, and I was impressed by the latter's ability to add nuance to an instrument that's usually dumbed down in pop music. He seemed to take the place of Jay Bennett as the band member whose job it was to affix odd, discordant sounds to what Jeff Tweedy had described as essentially folk music. Then utility man Leroy Bach left and was replaced by three additional music nerds and the band released A Ghost Is Born and though I tried, I just didn’t care anymore.

It wasn't just that Tweedy's vocals were buried and his lyrics unnecessarily oblique; the arrangements were surprisingly limp considering the pedigree of the musicians. So I was curious to hear what the band sounded like after these few years, now that its current lineup has been playing together for a while. Are they as bland as they sounded on the album?

The Auditorium Theater is a gorgeous venue. Designed by Dankmar Adler and Louis Sullivan in 1886 one can only imagine the incredible musicians and performers who have played there over the past century. I'm not used to attending concerts with 4,000 other people, but I was happy to make an exception for a good band in a beautiful theater.

We were shoved midway up the balcony. The theater was mostly empty for the opening band, the unremarkable rockers Detholz—and that’s a conceit as far as I’m concerned. Why do people show up late to everything? Why do they blab during shows? But once the opener finished up people started filtering in: girls in heels, meathead guys in untucked shirts. I hate to judge but I couldn't stave off the feeling I was attending an event rather than a concert. How could Jeff Tweedy, staring up into all those white faces, think anything else?

Tweedy was his usual self-deprecating self, but it was a charmless, attention-grabbing self-deprecation, and one I couldn't really warm to. What was his comment about "Heavy Metal Drummer" being their one and only hit (from their greatest hit record) supposed to invoke other than a knowing, self-satisfied guffaw from the audience? The band and the audience seemed to be taking part in a great big circle-jerk. Tell us we’re cool and we’ll tell you how cool you are for liking such a cool band. Blech.

The band debuted several new songs that sounded like obvious descendents from the batch released on Ghost. Oblique lyrics, abrupt shifts and discordant asides resulted in one big musical non sequitur. In a way, it makes sense. There’s so much music readily available these days, so much information on the bookshelves and on the internet. So many unnecessary bloggers (I include myself). How does one react to it all? How does one command attention when everyone is being pulled in so many directions? You bust it all up. Complicate things until they don’t mean anything anymore. Just like our media-saturated world.

Wilco has carved a neat island for itself, but it’s one governed by exclusivity. My political awareness, like some cynical reporter’s, has simultaneously grown more informed and sour over the past six years of Republican rule. It’s an age of boundaries and categories, and try as Wilco may to transcend musical genres, the band has simply devolved into musical excess, no different than the kind that sunk so many great rock bands of the 1970s. I wouldn’t say it’s prog rock (though I can’t listen to “Muzzle Of Bees” without Genesis’s “Stagnation” rising from the airbrushed ether of my memory), but it is a kind of obvious, self-indulgent art rock. This is music for grad students.

Kotche’s a fine drummer and a hoot to watch, but he’s loathe to rock, thumping on his toms when the songs demand a good, strong, simple snare smack. He opened it up in the second encore, but most of the energy was sucked dry by Tweedy’s self-conscious and ironic monologue during an extended version of “Kingpin”. The solos by the supporting cast were strong but lacking in any real improvisational spirit. It seems in the band’s attempt to break out of the Americana mold they’ve gone generically international. That wouldn’t be so bad except they’ve forgotten the one thing that built their audiences in the first place: heart.

I suppose it sounds corny to use that word, but music is soul. And that’s not to say all music has to be emotional—far from it. But the heart of the performer zaps the nerves of the listener, and there were few heartfelt moments during the Wilco show. My favorite songs were the ones co-opting Woody Guthrie lyrics, especially the lovely, rich “Remember the Mountain Bed” and the soaring “Airline To Heaven”. They were full of heart. Their lyrics weren’t buried in convoluted constructions. They were clear and honest. And that’s what was so great about the Americana bands of the 90s: there was a directness in them that welcomed all listeners into the fold. I realize the genre is dead and stale by now, but those old records were fierce and friendly.

During the show my eyes kept drifting to the one holdover from Uncle Tupelo’s last incarnation, bass player John Stirratt. I’ve seen too many shows to have any delusions of how fun and cool it must be tour all over the place and perform the same songs night after night. While listening one night to Stirratt’s record Arabella, co-written with his wonderful twin sister Laurie, a good friend of mine pointed out how backup singers bring something special to a recording that full-time lead singers never could. It’s like the difference between a career minor-league baseball player swinging his heart out as compared to a wealthy major-leaguer who walks up to the plate with a stadium full of grouchy fans haunting his swing. I know a lot of people who would only want to watch the world-series best, but as for me I’d rather sit in the stands with a few dozen companions watching a guy play his tail off.

Labels: review, tweedy, wilco