Though the strength of Wilco in their post-Jay Bennett incarnation
will not be fully apparent until the band's official follow-up to
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, this year's early influx of new Tweedy
material is evidence enough that the curmudgeonly lead-elf can
certainly manage his own affairs. After a career of releases that
find Tweedy leaning on others for support (or supporting others)
— Jay Farrar, Jim O'Rourke, Billy Bragg, Bennett — this
new EP, available as a bonus disc with limited edition copies of
Foxtrot, is our first recorded glimpse of Tweedy the solo,
confident troubadour.
Obviously, Tweedy's strength as a songwriter has manifested itself
over and again throughout Wilco's catalogue. Tweedy's a more
charismatic and accomplished artist than Bennett; his mix of
mysticism with minor-key world-weariness has always been tempered by
Bennett's knack for functional and lush orchestration. So it would
make sense that, in the vacuum created by Bennett's disputed
departure from the band, Tweedy would revert to the slanted bard
Bennett had been working to reform.
But he hasn't. His gift for making abstract poetics emotionally
resonant is the driving force behind "Woodgrains" and "Bob Dylan's
49th Beard" — two songs whose spare foundation of chords and
quiet noises sounds like Tweedy recording solo from Jim O'Rourke's
bedroom. There's a hushed strength to the compositions that suggests
a new direction for Tweedy (if not for the entire band). As on
Foxtrot, he pulls feeling from the spaces between the notes,
from the atmosphere he creates with a tired voice. But here it feels
stronger, emptier — there's more emotion to extract from a
bigger void.
Conversely, two of the EP's tracks employ the grand mechanics of
Summerteeth's most Brian Wilson-esque moments: "Magazine
Called Sunset," with its jumpy piano and soaring strings, and an
alternate version of Foxtrot's "Kamera," a more direct and
forceful take on the song. "Sunset" is a sweeping melody with
Bennett's fingerprints all over it, while the beauty of "Kamera" lies
in its pounding repetition.
But it's the disc's final track that makes the strongest case for
Wilco's brighter future. "More Like the Moon" ambles simply through
basic country-folk guitar picking, until synths swoop in from behind
and Tweedy starts plucking a pensive and involved monologue from his
acoustic. "I see us all as something, nothing like we truly are,"
Tweedy musters from somewhere in the gorgeous gloom, and his guitar
starts talking again, summoning ghosts. The instrumentals are languid
and flowing, the singing low and sweet. The song is stripped down but
full, almost bursting, with things unsaid and instruments unplayed.
One can only hope that Wilco's next opus will offer such crystalline
melancholy in such a simple and comforting way.
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