Wilco

Part 1: Via Chicago

This is not a joke, so please stop smiling

("I Am Trying To Break Your Heart")

Chicago: a word that, to my ears, will always carry its own particular echo. It was one of the first non-European place names I ever came into contact with: because of distant relatives who'd settled there, I'd heard it invoked in my family more or less for as long as I can remember, and every time it conjured up in my head a place that was far away, big, important. When I finally managed to go there, I liked it so much that I actually considered moving there for good, had life not steered me elsewhere. In short, a place I'm undeniably attached to.

What kind of place is Chicago? It's the third most populous city in the United States, for a start, as well as the largest metropolis in the Midwest. Two facts that already tell us something useful: Chicago is an unassuming giant, one that reigns supreme in middle America. A region equidistant from both coasts, geographically and culturally in the middle, forming the heart of the deepest, most down-to-earth America, the America of ordinary people, indifferent to the upheavals of the wider world.

And yet Chicago has plenty of firsts to its name: the first skyline pierced by the silhouette of a skyscraper; the first metropolitan city, before they were even called that; the first nuclear reactor, developed with the collaboration of our own Enrico Fermi; the first fast-food chain, starting with McDonald's itself. Skyscrapers, urban skylines, nuclear energy, hamburgers: revolutionary innovations, but above all towering symbols that have done an enormous amount to lodge the United States in the collective imagination, for better and for worse.

To all intents and purposes, Chicago was the first fully "American" city, in the sense that Boston and Philadelphia remained European outposts on the New Continent, California an autarchic nation within a nation, and New York a city-state irreducible to anything around it or contained within it.

Like the rest of the country, Chicago is a reservoir of contradictions: a traditionally progressive city that is nonetheless home to the Chicago Tribune, America's leading conservative newspaper; a city at the forefront of labor struggles (the 1886 Haymarket riot gave its name to the entire workers' movement) and of gay rights (it boasts the first homosexual rights association and the first gay village in the US), yet one that provided the backdrop for the most traumatic episode in the history of American counterculture (the 1968 Democratic convention); a city whose universities produced the first school of urban sociology, but also Milton Friedman's disastrous "Chicago Boys"; a city where the Black population outnumbers the white one, yet where genuine segregation persists against the former, confined to a run-down South Side; a city that likes to appear civilized but has always been violent, from the gangster era of Al Capone and Sam Giancana to today's annual murder rates, among the most dispiriting on the continent.

It's a center of high industrial and financial standing, where people work hard. But it's also the cradle of the Wicker Park arts community, of the Art Institute of Chicago (America's second-largest museum), of Leon Golub's paintings, of Vivian Maier's photographs, of "The Blues Brothers" and "The Untouchables".

And then, of course, there's the music: the city of Benny Goodman and his multiracial orchestra, of blues finally gone electric, of Chuck Berry's first recordings at the Chess studios, of the first free jazz stirrings within the AACM; later, of the house clubs that kicked off the new electronic wave, of the industrial scene that brought rockers and ravers together, of the post-rock that redrew the boundaries of the contemporary, of that alternative galaxy orbiting between Touch and Go and Electrical Audio, and of plenty of lesser-known things too, like its wonderfully original psychedelic, power-pop, new wave and hardcore undergrounds. Art forms that draw inspiration from the two faces of this provincial metropolis: on one side the frenetic, futuristic, cyber-capitalist face; on the other the melancholy, isolated one, paralyzed by brutal winters or sitting in quiet contemplation on the shores of Lake Michigan, tied to its roots without being reactionary.

Wilco are a Chicago band. Not just because they formed there and still live there, but because they belong deeply to that cultural ecosystem: they're a product of it, and in turn they've helped to reshape it. Their trajectory reflects many of the traits outlined above: they started out picking up the roots-rock baton from Uncle Tupelo and ended up tinkering with languages bordering on the avant-garde; they're a band of dazzling instrumentalists who nonetheless wield their virtuosity with an unassuming, unstarry discretion; they write visionary music and lyrics, but with the understated plainness of the man on the street; they're an unmistakably American band, exquisitely midwestern at that, yet they've forged a universal formula that has won everyone over, with its heart in the countryside, its head in the city, and the rest of its body everywhere at once.

Chicago has done a lot for Wilco, and Wilco has done a lot for Chicago. "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" is, first and foremost, a monument to the schizophrenia of their hometown, and it's no coincidence that the cover is dominated by the bizarre "corncob" towers of Marina City, which turned from architectural curiosity into cult attraction largely thanks to them.

Part 2: Rock 2.0

I wonder why we listen to poets when nobody gives a fuck

(“Ashes Of American Flags”)

By the end of 2000, it's already clear to everyone that Wilco are no ordinary band. To their name they already have a shy but prescient debut ("A.M."), a double album revealing their experimental ambitions ("Being There"), a baroque concept record with which to storm the world of auteur pop ("Summerteeth"), and the two chapters of their intense Woody Guthrie tribute shared with Billy Bragg ("Mermaid Avenue"). The enthusiasm is almost unanimous, and sales are doing reasonably well too. Their career path is now clear, but for Jeff Tweedy that's not enough: he wants to aim higher, to create a total work that absorbs his omnivorous musical culture, a mad "Pet Sounds" that would enshrine him among the sacred monsters of the new American rock.

The band is already at work on material for a possible new album (provisionally titled "Here Comes Everybody"), but the leader soon realizes something is working against his visionary intentions: even though their sound has long since evolved and cross-pollinated, the dusty stamp of alt-country keeps branding them in a way that feels far too cumbersome. And he wants to shake it off, that ghost that seems to be haunting him, so as not to be automatically associated any longer with the genre that made him famous but represents only a small part of what he has to say. The main limitation is identified in drummer Ken Coomer: his playing is too classically rock, whereas Tweedy wants to start precisely from a deconstruction of the percussion in order to give shape to his magnificent obsession.

As if that weren't enough, there's another matter weighing on him: his relationship with Jay Bennett is growing increasingly tense. Bennett isn't just the co-writer of most of the songs and the band's principal guitarist, but a volcanic figure whose brilliant multi-instrumental talents played a decisive role in turning them into the elusive creature they are today. A minor genius, in short, but one with different ideas from his own, and perhaps not up to the great leap Tweedy is dreaming of. The frustration of those sessions convinces him once and for all: he needs a new drummer and a new arranger.

Not long after, a benevolent fate would grant these hidden wishes: in May 2000, he was invited to play at the Noise Pop Festival, which that year was exceptionally held in Chicago. There he met Jim O’Rourke, mad hatter of the city’s experimental scene and a producer with an already illustrious pedigree. Just the year before, O’Rourke had left critics the world over slack-jawed with “Eureka,” a masterpiece that blended and reassembled fifty years of rock and pop imagery into a sumptuous chamber-pop frame.

Tweedy holds him in unreserved admiration, going so far as to name his previous work “Bad Timing,” a fascinating tribute to the American primitivism of John Fahey, as one of his favorite records. He asks him to play together, and O’Rourke agrees, bringing along his trusted drummer Glenn Kotche. The latter is not just an outstanding instrumentalist but also an extremely curious and creative musician, passionate about unconventional rhythms and found percussion: in other words, the perfect person to realize Jeff’s vision. The three perform under the name Loose Fur, and come away so energized by their chemistry that they arrange to meet in the studio to record some tracks (they will surface three years later on their self-titled debut LP).

When Tweedy returns to the studio, his mind is made up: he brings Kotche along and, after discussing it with the others, decides to cut Koomer loose. The band’s sound changes radically: the newcomer pairs immense technique with an unbridled imagination, and doesn’t limit himself to drumming but makes extensive use of percussion, bells, homemade instruments and even a hammered dulcimer. O’Rourke is also brought in for the sessions, playing a variety of instruments (including a toy piano and a handheld synthesizer) and helping steer the band toward ever more experimental shores. Bennett, who still makes a crucial contribution both as a writer and as a session player, starts to see his traditional role as the band’s “extra man” threatened, and chooses to focus on production, personally engineering the album alongside sound engineer Chris Brickley.

During mixing, however, an irreconcilable difference in vision emerges between him and Tweedy, who struggles to convey to his friend the complex overall concept into which each song should fit (these tense moments are documented in Sam Jones’s film “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco”). Bennett’s mix ends up satisfying no one, to the point that he himself accepts the possibility of having O’Rourke take over the mixing duties. They put him to the test by handing him the first track on the tracklist: the result leaves everyone speechless, and Tweedy asks him to go ahead and mix the whole album. Stung by the snub and eaten up by his own insecurities, Bennett packs his bags, bringing an end to the first incarnation of Wilco (he would die in 2009 of an apparently accidental overdose of anti-anxiety medication). At the end of the sessions, O’Rourke jokingly says something to Tweedy that turns out to be unintentionally prophetic: “Watch out, Jeff, they’re gonna fire you because of me!”

In the early months of 2001 the album is ready, and it even has a title: “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” a mysterious phrase Tweedy found in the cult anthology “The Conet Project,” a dense compilation of numbers station recordings assembled by the British label Irdial in 1997. The singer can barely contain himself, eager to unveil his long-awaited masterpiece to the world, but he’ll soon realize he reckoned without the tavern keeper.

With the market on the verge of collapse and the internet’s aggressive rise, the record industry is changing fast, increasingly forcing labels to scramble in order to avoid going under. These corporate restructurings don’t just affect the small fry, but also those giants once considered unsinkable: take Time Warner which, to stem the financial hemorrhage caused by falling sales, not only merges with AOL but launches a plan to cut a staggering 600 jobs.

One of the unlucky ones is Howie Klein, president of Reprise (a Warner subsidiary), which has our heroes under contract. It was thanks to his enthusiasm that, up until now, the band had a relatively easy ride despite skepticism from the top brass, and his departure can only have devastating repercussions on this already precarious situation. With Klein out of the picture, it’s A&R head David Kahne who takes charge, and his verdict is as blunt as it is stunning: the album cannot come out. The reasoning behind it, with its tragicomic whiff of rock archaeology, might make you laugh or cry depending on your taste: the work is “too difficult,” and the label doesn’t want to shoulder a flop it considers a foregone conclusion. And that’s not all: if the band wants to release it through other channels, they’ll first have to buy it back, since the label owns the rights.

As energetic as he is fragile, poor Jeff is on the brink of a nervous breakdown, but manages to keep his spirits up and launches a fierce legal battle to reclaim what’s rightfully his. His lawyer manages to negotiate a deal that terminates the contract in exchange for $50,000 to buy back the rights, but in the meantime word starts to leak out and a scandal erupts: the Chicago Tribune runs a lengthy piece on the affair highlighting its many absurdities (chief among them: the utter lack of faith shown in a band that has always sold well and has thousands of fans worldwide), sparking a controversy that deeply embarrasses Reprise. To stop the bleeding, the label is forced to soften its stance and decides to hand over the rights for free, finally freeing the band from its grip.

At this point, all Tweedy can do is go looking for another potential distributor, but he’s skeptical, since the process would take time and risk delaying the album’s release even further. On top of that, there’s the awareness that online piracy is by now rampant, and the news that low-quality snippets of the album are already circulating on file-sharing sites only adds to his unease.

The decision he makes to break this impasse is nothing short of incredible: on September 18, 2001, the Wilco website posts the full, free stream of “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.” The move is driven by a desire to keep control of his own material after coming dangerously close to losing it, but it’s also grounded in a long-term vision — as risky as it is far-sighted, not to mention deeply generous: if the gesture is appreciated and people like the record, the fans will buy it.

The site quickly reaches astronomical traffic peaks, so much so that during that year’s triumphant tour, audiences are already able to sing the new songs along with the band. Meanwhile, the “Wilco case” dominates the trade press, and countless labels, big and small, scramble to sign a band that, just months earlier, had been subjected to humiliating conditions to assert its own rights. The moment is ripe for a counterattack: in November, Tweedy accepts an offer from Nonesuch, judged a good compromise between major-label muscle and indie spirit, and the album comes out on April 23, 2002 (ironically, this label too is a branch of Warner, which thus finds itself in the paradoxical position of having given away for free the rights to an album it now has to buy back: in other words, the band was effectively paid twice by the same people!).

Our man’s prediction would not only be confirmed but vastly surpassed: record stores are besieged and the album flies off the shelves. It will go on to sell over half a million copies in the US alone (56,000 in the first week), earning a gold certification and reaching number thirteen on the Billboard chart. A heroic triumph, for them and for the entire alternative world. Tweedy would face further legal headaches when Irdial sued him for using, without permission, a fragment of the numbers station recording referenced in the title (he decides to pay up rather than go through a trial), but his battle is won, and won gloriously.

In hindsight, that bold move, carried out almost casually, set a striking precedent, flinging open a world of new possibilities and dealing a significant blow to old market conventions. Tweedy’s move may not be the most radical act of rebellion by a musician against a record label’s abuses of power (it’s hard to go further than the Pillars of Hercules that is “Metal Machine Music”), nor the strangest (remember when The La’s asked fans not to buy their first and only album?), nor even the most relentless (that prize probably goes to Prince’s no-holds-barred battles): and yet, that impeccably polite “screw you” dealt to a label that goes from throwing its weight around to begging forgiveness remains one of the proudest comebacks an artist has ever pulled off against their tormentors. The contrast between the record executives’ timid uncertainty and the band’s mature self-assurance — willing to bet everything on themselves where their opponents surrendered before even taking the field — marks an irreversible 1-0 win, both strategically and morally, and would go on to encourage countless others not to bow down in the face of similar abuses.

Over the years, streaming and/or free downloading of entire albums ahead of their official release would become a tried-and-tested promotional strategy, championed by giants like Radiohead, U2 and Nine Inch Nails, and later revisited by Wilco themselves on two separate occasions. The debate over moves like these remains open and likely always will, but credit must be given to Tweedy & co. for contributing to the cause in a structural, positive way.

Wilco would relentlessly pursue their dream of total independence, a legacy of the very punk ethos that shaped Tweedy. Not content with already producing their own albums and owning their own studio, in 2011 they launched their own label, dBpm, through which to release all their work and perhaps also lend a hand to fellow artists in difficulty. Today, in effect, they no longer have to answer to anyone for their choices: their goal can be said to have been achieved. And they earned it entirely on their own.

Part 3: The last classic?

Oh, distance has no way of making love understandable

("Radio Cure")

A cornerstone work of the 2000s, "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" is often framed by invoking the tiresome category of postmodernism. We beg to differ from this widely shared judgment: although the fragmentary nature of both music and lyrics is undeniable, mirroring the real sense of disorientation that swept through post-9/11 America, the album still seems to vibrate with that heartfelt vertigo that illuminated rock's great milestones, without giving in to the lure of a resignation that lurks nearby but never takes over.

Rather than the first glimpse of a new musical civilization (a definition that might better suit an album like "Ok Computer", to which certain critics insist on comparing it), "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" resembles the spectacular final gasp of a saga running out of steam (and, as such, it would be more aptly placed alongside solemn alternative funerals like "American Football" or "For Carnation"): from this standpoint, it doesn't seem so far-fetched to consider it the last classic, in the traditional sense, in the history of rock.

There's no mere name-dropping here, but genuine reworking in a record that is a-narrative without being anti-narrative, where the thickness of the packaging can never stand in for the depth of the writing, and where any hint of retromania is categorically banished. The feeling grows stronger if we look at the two following records, with which it forms an unspoken trilogy where YHF is the "programmatic" album, "A Ghost Is Born" the "unresolved" one, and "Sky Blue Sky" the "mature" one: a configuration that can't help but recall the great "triptychs" of the 1960s (with particular reference to Dylan's '65-'66 visions).

Much has been said about Chicago and how much water from Lake Michigan poured into their bowl, but it's the United States as a whole that takes center stage in this great novel in notes, which ends up being a thrilling journey through everything America has produced musically, along a path where Townes Van Zandt and Steve Reich walk hand in hand without stepping on each other's toes. The method is ingenious in its transparency: taking their roots baggage and hammering away at it with techniques borrowed from the avant-garde (musical, like minimalism, but also conceptual, like the Burroughs-Gysin cut-up technique), achieving a jarring avant-country suspended between recovery and innovation. And it's on this lopsided stretcher that Tweedy's cryptic lyrical impressionism rests, a master at turning his own crises into universal tragedies through his raw, slurring delivery.

A blurred synth tremor, drums advancing along their own track under a drizzle of dulcimer and prepared piano, then an acoustic guitar embroidered with glockenspiel holding steady a hungover voice that seems to be asking itself how it ended up there: this is the oddball opening of "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart", a spirited lesson in arranging imagination that also parades organ, Wurlitzer, autoharp, a noise-bridge and a finale of tape loop and whistling, a cubist accident clashing with the song's simple melody and literary bitterness. And it's this same cognitive dissonance that cooks up the moody pastiche between Big Star and Neu! on "Kamera", that hijacks the tearful Cohen of "Radio Cure" into a haze of electromagnetic interference and marching-band rhythms, that frays the West Coast harmonies of "War On War" with cynical effects-laden blows, or that conjures a synthetic version of the Band on "Heavy Metal Drummer".

Contamination and deformation, then, but also purest exercises in style: Gram Parsons could have written "Jesus, Etc.", so placid is its blend of violin and lap steel; genuine college-rock tenderness breathes through the lo-fi guitar work of "Pot Kettle Black"; the southern vibrations of "I'm The Man Who Loves You" are 100% scorching, and the prog-vaudeville winks of "Poor Places" are a finger-licking delight (an ideal preview of the more "European" atmospheres of the following record).

In between, the horizonless twilight of "Ashes Of American Flags", somewhere between Steinbeck and Peckinpah, cannon blasts and deathly gusts of wind, a requiem of dust that unites winners and losers alike. To close, "Reservations", a metaphysical gospel for piano and concrete-ambient crackle, a tail of silence that snuffs out the universe like a match, ash dissolving into the ocean in an amniotic regression toward the Uncreated. Whatever follows that silence can never be the same as before.

From then on, especially after the decisive arrival of Nels Cline, Wilco would cement their double identity as voracious encyclopedists (in the studio) and gracious entertainers (on stage), pairing their renowned production craft with a boundless live unpredictability that updated the Grateful Dead's electric carnival, making every one of their shows unmissable.

Nowadays, they're perhaps the last rock band capable of handling prehistoric artifacts such as the power of the rhythm section and the flashiness of guitar solos without ever coming across as backward-looking, rhetorical, or self-indulgent, not even for a moment. If the epic spirit of the golden-age songwriters has managed to wade through two decades of monstrous aesthetic ebb, we owe it in large part to them and to those who moved from the same premises. Though deeply rooted in the musical history of their own country (and their own city), they've forged a skeleton key that seems to fit every lock: a result that borders on the miraculous, given the complexity of the world we live in.

None of this, in any case, would have been possible without the fundamental break marked by "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot", the last twitch of a History that refuses to die on the page.

for Nazario

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26/08/2018