The Wilco Book
Wilco have shifted from their twang-tinged yet upbeat AM years to the plodding moodiness of A ghost is born, from a rock group with a banjo to the nation's premier adult-alternative (whatever that is) band. And throughout this evolution, critics went from yawning to raising an eyebrow to gushing over their every note and lyric. But, here's my question: Have Wilco really evolved into a better band?
A new coffee-table book, The Wilco Book, seeks to shed light on this question, if not through candid pictures, then through candid dialogue, indulging every Wilco fan's fantasy, from behind-the-scenes shots of the band at Sear Sound Studios to insight on the band's philosophy behind songwriting. Thrown in for good measure (and to keep literary types happy) are two forewords by Henry Miller and Rick Moody and a CD of never-before-released tunes (all of them forgettable).
Wilco have indeed evolved-but into something too serious, too esoteric. Songwriter Jeff Tweedy used to buy fans waiting in line for his shows boxes of Dunkin Donuts. For encores, he would call up members from the audience to play cheesy 80s numbers with him. He'd belt out high-five-friendly lyrics like "Roll another number for the road." Tweedy was an everyday guy playing everyday songs. No attitude, entourage or coffee-table books in the works.
That was before firing half the band, checking himself into rehab and hiring literary stiffs like Moody to deconstruct his songs. (Do I need the etymology of the word "ajar" to appreciate "She's a Jar"?) Now we're treated to banal statements from his new book like "all art is political in the sense that [there's a] choice to make, rather than destroy," which have a Miss America tinge to them. Pass me a Kleenex, Jeff.
The Wilco Book also includes drawings by an eight-year-old Tweedy, close-up shots of the band's gear and pictures that are part science-textbook, part Wallpaper magazine. However, most of the book is needless filler: a biography of Walter Sear (who?), a foldout diagram of something planetary-looking, a snapshot of a dog mounting a beat-up car.
That said, some of the interviews are illuminating. John Stirratt is one of the most likable bassists in the business. Keyboardist Mikael Jorgensen's observation, "The thing I've learned in this band is the value of things that have fewer knobs," is heartfelt, though inaccurate, given the copious amounts of buzzes and whistles on recent albums. And much of the artwork scattered throughout the book is eye-catching but left unexplained.
Curiously, there is little if any mention of Wilco primogenitor Uncle Tupelo. No mention either of Tweedy's better half during those Belleville years, whose wordsmith skills dwarfed Tweedy's and more than anything probably pushed him lyrically to "celebrate ambiguity and complexity and uncertainty," as Moody fails to mention. Indeed, very little context is given to the band's roots, or origins in roots music for that matter. There's a picture of Korean "clicker sticks"-but not a banjo or slide.
Seems Wilco's targeted audience is no longer bumpkins from the Midwest, but bobos from the coasts. Maybe that's whom adult-alternative targets. Those are, after all, the only folks who read coffee-table books.