Wilco are the greatest live band playing today because they’re the
most romantic band playing today. They woo their audiences, play with
them—they aren’t afraid to take risks, to slide a little out of
control. After a decade as a band—originally alt-country, now
something else entirely—they have endured collapse and lineup
changes and rehab, and are at their prime.
Two years ago, I saw the Chicago six-piece at an outdoor
amphitheater in Pompano Beach, Florida. It was a drunken party, women
on their boyfriends’ shoulders, woo-hooing through quiet stretches of
song. Jeff Tweedy seemed almost nervous at the outpouring of oblivious
affection. “You better not show me your tits,” he said sheepishly to
one shoulder rider. “I don’t know what I’d do.” When a guy rushed the
stage and sat down at his feet, Tweedy said, “That’s weirder than if he
tried to hug me.” (He’s not always so gentle—Tweedy famously
smacked an aggressive fan who scrambled onto a Missouri stage a few
years back.)
The sold-out crowd at Marymoor Park on August 21 was a total
contrast—rapt and reverent, singing along at the appropriate
moments, clapping on demand, cheering for solos and climaxes. The sound
was pristine—it could’ve been louder, but a park staffer said
that was the band’s choice. This was a concert, not a party; it was
more devotion than celebration.
Wilco started without a word. Tweedy dove gently into the intimate
“Sunken Treasure,” he and the crowd lingering over the line “I was
maimed by rock ‘n’ roll.” A song later, they went into “I Am Trying to
Break Your Heart.” Whenever, wherever I hear it, that song kills me. I
was in the photo pit at the front of the stage, staring straight up
into Tweedy’s nostrils, camera clicking away—and still stricken.
Nobody does true romance like Wilco.
Tweedy is a master of worn-in, worn-down, hoping-to-just-get-by
lyrics, and he can stretch a common image into something sad and
quietly dramatic. From “A Shot in the Arm”: “The ashtray says we were
up all night.” And “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart”: “Let’s undress
just like cross-eyed strangers.” And “Jesus, Etc.”: “You were right
about the stars—each one is a setting sun.” As he sang them, the
words sounded easy, intuitive, and true.
Every great rock band has its lead and its foil; in Wilco’s case,
Nels Cline is the reserved, smoldering instrumentalist who counters
Tweedy’s diamond-in-the-rough street-corner troubadour. Throughout the
night, Cline played a 12-string electric, as well as a six-string and
lap-steel guitar. His solos from Sky Blue Sky seemed more
eloquent live than on the record—they were longer, more
expressive, and, watching him play them, they made more sense. He
quietly switched tones and moods within the songs, taking his own small
detours, but always heading toward that crucial moment when he fell in
sync with the rest of the band.
“Via Chicago” was the peak of the set, the band at its most daring
and playful. Transplants in the crowd shouted out love for their home
city as Tweedy strummed an acoustic guitar, alone in the spotlight.
Suddenly, the rest of the band crashed in like they had come from
another song, metal to Tweedy’s velvet, a different rhythm at a crazy
volume, then fell back into silence. People in the crowd exchanged
surprised, what-the-fuck? looks. Tweedy continued strumming
like nothing had happened. Then another crashing intrusion, laughable,
and this time Tweedy’s quiet melody and the band’s off-kilter roar
aligned into manic crescendo and took the song into orbit.
During the first encore, Tweedy introduced “a friend of ours, a
local guy.” Seattle avant guitarist Bill Frisell emerged in jeans and
fleece, looking like he’d just shut down his computer and walked over
from Redmond to sit in on a couple of songs. Besides demonstrating that
Wilco are friendly with respected senior musicians, he didn’t add much.
As self-contained as the band are, I don’t think he could’ve.
The sky had darkened and a tilted crescent moon hovered on the left
side of the stage. The night air was fresh, free from the past
weekend’s humidity. It was not the time to leave Marymoor Park. The
crowd’s only wish: a second encore.
“Spiders (Kidsmoke),” like “Via Chicago,” pivoted on heightened
engagement with the band and the audience. It began with a drawn-out,
subdued drum pulse, Tweedy’s lyrics oblique and the rhythm suggestive.
The song unfolded slowly, and though we all knew what was coming, it
was still a rush when it arrived: an explosion of guitar heroics, a
burst in the atmosphere from devotion to celebration. Now fists pumped
and woo-hoos went up. This was the feeling of falling in love, and it
was mutual.