Wilco

LOW opened for Wilco last night at Hammerstein Ballroom. The Minnesota band continues to illustrate why they've been around for quite a while,
perhaps without listeners like myself even knowing it. They have a
familiar sound, both eclectic and soothing. And as we climbed the steps
to the second Mezzanine level, I wracked my brain to figure out where
I've heard them before.

I have to admit: I was prepared to be disappointed last night, not
because I don't like Wilco's new album, Sky Blue Sky. (I really like its
mellow tone and for that, I may be in the minority.) Rather, because
the last time I saw them was unbelievable; "unbelievable" as in part of
the triumvirate of the best lives shows I've ever seen. July 2005, they
played an endless concert at the Albright Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo
New York; the weather was perfect, hot but breezy; the venue was small
not even close to overcrowded, and they were at their best. This past
October, I went into mourning when I learned Wilco was playing a concert
in my college gymnasium and I couldn't extricate myself from yearlong
plans to attend. The Albright Knox Art Gallery's grounds, St. Vincent
College's gym, and countless other college gyms: those are the venues I adore,
and the ones I bow down to Wilco for playing. And so, Hammerstein Ballroom
seemed rather large and as can be typical of NYC, impersonal. I
couldn't shake that thought as we settled into our general admission
seats, stage right, about 6 rows back. Hammerstein Ballroom has a
shoddy elegance about it. The stairs have tape on them, and there are
pillars obstructing views. But our seats were great, and the creaking
wood steps and seats are a throwback to its pre-war origins. The refreshment
stands have old neon signs, and they sell the kind of popcorn old movie
houses are famous for. Cold beers, good seats, no lines in the
bathroom, and I was on my way to being proven wrong.

When Wilco ascended the stage, my preconceptions vanished entirely.
They have that quality: an ability to completely obliterate everything
but the present. Their performance make me conscious only of that exact
moment. I'm not wondering when the hell they're going to come out. I'm
not wondering what they'll play next. I'm not wondering what the lines
in the bathroom are looking like. I'm not wondering how many more times
the hipster next to me is going to get up. I'm not wondering how long
they'll play or when they'll call it a night. I'm completely engrossed.
They grabbed me early with some of my favorite songs from Sky Blue Sky,
"Impossible Germany," "Either Way," "Shake It Off". They opened with
"You Are My Face", and as Tweedy started with the litany of lineage "I
remember my mother's sister's husband's brother", I felt once again like
he was telling me a story. The kind of stories Johnny Cash, Willie
Nelson, Kenny Rogers, and Woody Guthrie tell. Maybe that's
why I like the new album. Critics complain that it lacks Yankee Hotel
Foxtrot's experimentalism. However what the album may lack in the
experimental, it gains in its new twist on Tweedy's alt-country roots (from the Uncle Tupelo days). They kept me awed with Foxtrot favorites like "I'm The Man Who Loves You," "Jesus Etc.," and "I am Trying to Break Your Heart." "Walken" and
"Handshake Drugs" sounded even better live than on disc. Being wrong never felt so good.