Wilco Concert Review

I should confess that I have some very ambivalent feelings about Jeff Tweedy.  I think he’s one of the best and most important song-writers of his generation, but I also find him obnoxiously pedantic and, at times, exceptionally self-indulgent.  His embrace of avant-garde noise sometimes makes for eloquent soundscapes and sometimes tips into a realm that sounds suspiciously like the alley cats in my neighborhood getting laid.

I could probably get over all this if his fans (and some music critics) didn’t talk about him as if he were the only guy making his kind of music or, worse yet, that his particular brand of avante-garde/pop/country/rock is the only valid expression of modern music.  Ryan Adam’s did a better job of expressing this frustration than I ever will, so I’ll let him take over for a second….

Take that, you snobs!!!

OK, so it’s not Jeff Tweedy’s fault that Jim DeRogatis wrote a bad review about Ryan Adams, but you see where I’m going with this… or maybe not, and that’s fine too.

At any rate, we arrived at the Bushnell to find an impatient throng donned in carefully pressed flannel and delicately frayed denim. We made our way to our seats and took stock of the stage. A mountain of drums, keyboards and amps were ringed by 1″ plumbing-pipe stands erected with long, incandescent, vacuum-tube-like bulbs perched atop them, such that one might expect Nikola Tesla to arrive at any moment for the seance.

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Head full of candy bags, costume shops and punks in drag.

Head full of candy bags, costume shops and punks in drag.

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