Wilco

This is the seventh time in my life that I've had the chance to see Wilco live, across different phases of their career. Some of those shows remain among the best I've seen in all these years. Every single time I watch them, enraptured, studying them closely, and every single time I fail to understand how they manage to cram all that chaos into “Via Chicago”: Jeff Tweedy serenely keeps strumming his chords on acoustic guitar and singing, seemingly oblivious to the racket the other five bandmates are building up right next to him, completely drowning him out. When the chaos subsides, everyone falls back in behind the leader, easing the tension, coming back together in unison in a way that feels utterly natural, as if nothing had happened in those few seconds. And you just stand there, in disbelief. It can't be real. An unreal band.

Not to mention what happens during “Impossible Germany”, the most anticipated song of any of their shows, a kind of millennial-era “Firth Of Fifth”, or in the motorik build of “Spiders (Kidsmoke)”, or – moving on to more recent compositions – in the shifts from “acoustic” to “noise” in “Bird Without A Tail/ Base Of My Skull”: these are just some of the many reasons that keep drawing us back to stand in front of their stage, the same reasons behind this warm Roman evening that serves as the epilogue to the hottest August ever.
The noise coda of “Handshake Drugs”, the sweetness of “Hummingbird” and “Jesus, Etc”, the refined roundness of “Theologians” (dedicated tonight to the American Pope), the irrepressible energy of “Heavy Metal Drummer” and “I’m The Man Who Loves You”, the closing one-two punch that pushes us straight into rock'n'roll (“Monday”/ “Outtasite”), the many alt-country nods, back to where it all began.

Yes, because one day Jeff Tweedy picked up the roots of the sound of his homeland, country music, and patiently began the process of reworking it that would allow him to attach the alt- prefix to it, gradually steering those sounds toward far-flung places, well beyond his own original idea, past any stylistic boundary imaginable. A process that started with his previous band, Uncle Tupelo, where both he and bassist John Stirrat, who has remained by his side ever since, were already present. Tonight Stirrat takes center stage to sing “It’s Just That Simple”, from the very first album released under the Wilco name, “A.M.”, as if to say “I was there”, even back then.

Then one day Jeff Tweedy met Glenn Kotche and Nels Cline (two of the best in the world on their respective instruments, drums and electric guitar), and the revolution became total, helped also by the contribution of Jim O’Rourke, who was part of the lineup for a while. The results are still right here in front of our eyes. With just one flaw: I dream of seeing a set where I could hear “Bull Black Nova”, “Hotel Arizona”, “Radio Cure”, “At Least That’s What You Said”, “Sky Blue Sky”, “Either Way”, in place of a few objectively less significant songs (I won't bother naming them) that the American band keeps playing live, tracks that don't fully do justice to what Wilco have meant, a stellar lineup that has had the same revolutionary impact as Radiohead, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin. A shortcoming (in the setlist choices) that we can forgive them even on this occasion.

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