Wilco: Wilco (the album)

Wilco are one of those bands that I have never really locked horns with, along with acts like The Hold Steady and Conor Oberst which I imagine appeal to a similar group of people. With all the brouhaha that has accompanied the release of this record I thought it might be time to make a detour and cross paths; to challenge my assumption that they are a bland, radio friendly outfit straddling the twin peaks of indie rock and Americana… where the oxygen is thin and judgements are softened by the nostalgia that accompanies a small time indie band with experimental leanings made good. That kind of introduction leaves this review wide open for comparisons: Arcade Fire’s future? Ryan Adams? R.E.M…?

But that’s mostly hot air, an angle, an attempt to find a way in to music that a handful of listens later still hasn’t captured my imagination, or even teased it except for a moment here, a moment there. But it’s not a safe that needs cracking, it’s just eleven songs. So what’s my problem? It’s this: If I get busy articulating just why people should avert their eyes from the blandness I will be left with a bad taste in my mouth. Haunted by the image of a few thousand people bobbing up and down at a Wilco show, the camera pans back, swoops out through the exit over the heads of excited latecomers to a shot of me ranting outside on a soapbox, spitting venom against the wind.  

Boo-hoo eh?

They don’t slide neatly into the oft-repeated “dad-rock” category unlike The Hold Steady, who fell head first into that stagnant well the first time I heard them. It’s a hole I’d like to think I won’t follow them down. To me Wilco’s current sound has a head made up of the grey pop-rock of Elliot Smith and the Broken Social Scene sound, and a body that wants to be a ball breaking country rock band, but has to accept it’s role as henchman, or sidekick.

The final minute of ‘Bull Black Nova’ develops the insistent, nervous brood that carries the tune into a discordant squall where the tense stabbing of the piano becomes the stepping stone for the swirling, distorted guitar arpeggios to take over and unleash the most vicious noise on the record. Jeff Tweedy’s voice and lyrical approach is not the kind that lets me hear the words all that easily, even when I am trying. On this track his singing is placed back in the mix then lifted by reverb. He seems to come to the fore during the bridge which marks a gap in the tension and the density. The temporary release in his acceptance that “it can’t be undone, it can’t be undone” is enhanced by the triumphant major chords which ring out from the guitar.

But it doesn’t last long. Strange noises accompany the slow downslide back to the marching panic that only seems to draw more strength every time Tweedy’s narrator indulges in the temporary relief from what sounds like a violent mix of guilt and fear. He mops his brow, but the sun just rises higher in the sky, the final drops of moisture evaporate, the brush sets on fire and the song disappears in an inferno. This song gets more interesting and strangely more powerful the further I delve into it, rewarding an exploration of the synthesis of narrative and musical arrangement. But I can’t say I’ll want to listen to it again all that soon.

The piano playing features strongly on another up-tempo track; the almost rockney, bar-room swagger of ‘You Never Know’. Everyone’s strumming and singing in unison on the “I don’t care anymore” refrain, Tweedy building his observations from the keystone theme that “every generation thinks it’s the last, thinks it’s the end of the world”. It’s the kind of song I can imagine cropping up on a Wes Anderson film. Actually they all are, and that might be where I end and a Wilco fan begins…

The production is thin and papery, just like M Ward’s latest. Is this the result of the rise of the mp3 sound and the in-ear headphone? Does it resist being drowned out by the hum of a tube-train? I’m not suggesting this is a conscious tactic, but it doesn’t sound like an album that would unveil itself when listened to on a top notch stereo. On the playful bounce of ‘I’ll Fight’ the bass gets quite lost beneath the strum of the guitars and the swirl of the organ. You know it’s there, but it sounds limp, without a shred of individuality or punch. There is little space in the sound, but you couldn’t call it dense because no instrument seems to carry any real weight or character. It’s more of a mist of voices, guitars and organs blurring into a tune which is all well and good, if you like the tune.

Elsewhere there are certainly flashes of texture and character. It might be my imagination, but it seems to me that the singing saw on ‘Deeper Down’ merges with a wobbly pedal steel and goes back again, it’s a subtle and successful trick. The bright acoustic guitars chime together pleasantly, the vibraphone sounds beautiful behind the brief clanking and the cymbal washes of the songs mid-section, the snappy, hop-scotch electric solo is a vivid and colourful touch in the third quarter. The arrangements are altered for every verse; it feels like a song built of various intros and a couple of outros. It’s the most sonically interesting cut and is the perfectly jaunty palette cleanser with which to usher in the most emotionally visceral cut, ‘One Wing’ which is led by vivid lyrics and prominent, creative drumming.

So my assumption that Wilco are (or at least have become) bland doesn’t hold water. The album is very diverse within the broad sonic boundaries, the only real constant being Jeff Tweedy’s voice, which I can’t say is ever anything more than inoffensive to me. But this wide territory is just an unfamiliar arrangement of very familiar elements, the horizon is convincing but not inspiring.

The best songs are comprised of well crafted sections which keep the attention and don’t jar in transition. Softer, straightforward cuts like the Feist duet ‘You and I’ and the lazy alt-country of ‘Country Disappeared’ drift past without catching my eye. Some cuts spark interest in the first few seconds, before getting mired in a middle ground, like the very Elliot Smith-like resignation of ‘Solitaire’ and the lonely intro of ‘I’ll Fight’. Jumpy sing-along tracks like ‘Sunny Feeling’ give me the musical equivalent of hay fever… 

The band clearly has a lot of ideas and they succeed in putting them into practice and developing them too; but it hasn’t won me over. The record leaves me feeling a little vague and hazy with nothing much added or taken away. Not bland, but the drab production aesthetic and the slightly disimpassioned tone put a distance between me and what the band may be trying to impart. I’m not sure they have anything that important to say, but they’re certainly not trying to convince people with any charismatic bullshit either.