Greg Kot, "Wilco: Learning How To Die"
Picking apart the legend of Jeff Tweedy


Rock bios are generally full of sex, drugs and rock & roll -- unless they're about Wilco. Here we have virtually no sex, not much drug taking (apart from some early tales of alcohol and a relatively insubstantial painkiller addiction), but plenty of rock & roll. And in the end, isn't that what it's all about?

Chicago Tribune music critic Greg Kot lays out the story of Wilco in this detailed, informative biography. Actually, it's more the story of Jeff Tweedy than anyone else. Born and raised in the southern Illinois town of Belleville, Jeff met singer/guitarist/fellow music nut Jay Farrar in junior high school and eventually formed a band, the Primitives, with him. Their sound was deeply rooted in American country and folk, but fused with the raw power and nihilism of punk rock. Think Johnny Cash meets Black Flag.

Kot's book takes the reader through the Primitives' days and nights living in shithole apartments and playing shithole clubs. Eventually the Primitives become Uncle Tupelo and gain and even larger following, resulting in recording sessions, contracts, albums, tours -- making it it out of Belleville and beyond. The band recorded three critically hailed albums and virtually spawned the "alt-country" genre, but Farrar left the band suddenly, forcing Tweedy to reconstruct under the name Wilco. Farrar's follow-up band, Son Volt, gained the initial upper hand (their debut album, Trace, fared much better than Wilco's debut, A.M.), but Tweedy, determined to push Wilco unto more and more adventurous territory, had the last laugh.

Despite A.M.'s mediocre performance with fans and critics, Tweedy pushed ahead with the sprawling, ambitious Being There (he deferred a good deal of his songwriting royalties in order for the album to be released as a double CD at no extra cost to the customer), followed it up with the twisted studio wizardry of Summerteeth (aided in large part to Wilco's latest secret weapon, multi-instrumentalist Jay Bennett) and became a cautionary tale for boat-rockers everywhere with the dense, difficult, beautiful, and briefly unreleasable Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Almost everyone with a passing interest in contemporary rock music over the last three years knows the story behind that album. Tweedy, Bennett, utility player Leroy Bach, bassist John Stirratt and drummer Glenn Kotche pushed the envelope about as far as it would go, creating beds of noise and dramatic arrangements for the gorgeous songs of YHF. Their label, Warner/Reprise, wouldn't accept it, Wilco took the album to the smaller, more adventurous Nonesuch Records, it received boatloads of acclaim, and now Wilco are the coolest kids in the school while Warner Brothers come off as clueless corporate suits.

This isn't the first time Wilco was snubbed by execs. When Summerteeth was brought to the record company in late 1998, the powers-that-be complained that there was no "hit" to extract from the album. Hotshot producer David Kahne was asked to help mix "I Can't Stand It," in an effort to beef it up for airplay. Of course, airplay never followed. Wilco on the radio, as delightful a prospect as that is for discriminating music fans, carries the same probability as Philip Glass on a reality TV show.

Kot tells the story in amazing detail, drawing from an exhausting pool of interview subjects (it seems as though everyone involved in Wilco's history was interviewed). The book isn't merely a linear telling of how the band got together and went on to prosperity; a good deal of music-business politics is discussed and dissected as well.

Whenever speaking of Wilco and its history, it's always crucial to note how they've become symbolic of music business bullshit and how genuinely talented artists fall victim to almighty dollar. Tweedy is a singer, a songwriter, a musician, but certainly not a corporate ass kisser. He didn't get into music for the money and makes that fact clear throughout the book. Kot constantly hammers home the point that once upon a time, record companies were interested in artist development, whereas now it's just a matter of who can score a hit. Here today, gone tomorrow. No wonder one-hit-wonders are more popular today than ever before.

Tweedy's fickle nature with band members is also evident in Wilco's history. Kot does a good job of remaining objective, and although you get the stories from all sides, and Tweedy basically seems like a nice guy, you can't help feeling that the myriad personnel changes in Uncle Tupelo and Wilco may have something to do with Tweedy's stubborn nature in dealing with people who fly in the face of his overall musical vision. Guitarist Bob Egan was gradually phased out with little sympathy, as was outspoken drummer Ken Coomer (replaced by Kotche after Tweedy was introduced to him by noise-rock guru Jim O'Rourke, who would end up having a huge effect on Tweedy's musical experimantalism). Jay Bennett's dismissal from the band in 2001 was not only acrimonious, it was a substantial subplot of "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," Sam Jones' 2002 documentary on the making of YHF.

Reading interviews with Bennett, Tweedy and the rest of the band members, in addition to hearing Kot telling the story from the beginning, it's easy to see how Bennett's studio domineering and general head games got in the way of the band. Was Tweedy feeling threatened? Perhaps. Was Bennett nudging Tweedy out of the spotlight? Maybe. But as difficult as it is for a Tweedy fan like myself to admit, Bennett's prowess as both as a musician and a studio engineer were crucial to YHF's sound. The band may be happier, but Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is a peak that they may never surpass.

This is indeed a great story about a musician who loves music, and will compromise nothing for his vision. Fans of Wilco and Uncle Tupelo will be in heaven. Casual fans who just want a good story about making music on your own terms will learn a few lessons. Readers looking for stories about groupies, heroin addiction and dressing room debauchery will have to look elsewhere.

The Tragically Hip, "In Between Evolution"
An offering from our neighbors to the North

By Tom Johnson, Delicious Media Contributor

Canada's other big musical offering (besides Rush, not to mention Neil Young), the Tragically Hip, have been turning out high-quality rock for nearly two decades now. A staple in their homeland, the Hip is hardly known in the US. Their latest effort, In Between Evolution, seems to be a concerted effort to break through to a little more exposure in the states. Unfortunately, as with most efforts to break through, it suffers from a few flaws. Minor as they may be, it's unfortunate to see a band struggling to get attention. Explaining that the Hip deserve the attention should be unnecessary - but as with all things truly good, it generally misses the attention of the public at large who seem to need things more watered down and generalized.

The problem with In Between Evolution is that it sounds, in a way, like two separate pieces - a short section of "different" material (for the Tragically Hip, at least) followed up by a too-short album of traditional Hip material. The album kicks off in high gear with the raw, almost-punk energy of "Heaven Is A Better Place Today," singer Gord Downie straining to reach the upper echelons of his vocal range. In some respects, it's as if the Hip made a conscious effort to resurrect a bit of the "hard rock" sound they shed after their first couple of albums Up To Here and Road Apples - with mixed results. It's not as if these first three songs are bad songs - they just seem to lack some of the heart this band pours into their music. There's an odd transition between "Gus The Polar Bear From Central Park" and "Vaccination Scar" that illustrates the change that happened in the band between the classic Day For Night and the follow-up Trouble At The Henhouse - from a rock band with thoughtful lyrics to a thoughtful band that happens to rock. Between tracks three and four, the tempos change, the attitude changes, the song structures change, and that's a good thing - I don't think I would have gotten that much out of an entire album filled with that many out-and-out rockers, to be honest. What I've come to love with the Hip is an ability to straddle folk-rock and hard rock, favoring just slightly the folk-side of things due to Downie's intriguing, oft-humorous, but always thoughtful lyrics.

Maybe the blame lays with producer Adam Kasper - known most significantly for his work with the Foo Fighters' last two albums, both of which possessed a decidedly harder edge than their predecessors. Throughout the album the guitars are turned up loud, panned hard left and right, drowning out Downie's voice that floats right down the center of the soundstage. I find myself straining often to make out what Gord is singing - a shame with lyrics as impressive as his always are. This is likely a purposeful effect to play down the band's true signature, Downie's trademark tuneful, choked warbling. It's no secret that the Hip have struggled to take off in the US while enjoying massive success in their homeland. Where the Hip are basically Canada's answer to Pearl Jam, in the States the Hip have barely made a dent in the market. The band frequently sells out arenas at home, but it's nothing unusual to find them playing small clubs stateside. When I've played the Hip for the unitiated it's always been Downie's soft barkings that draw the most comments. "You get used to it," I say frequently, but I don't believe it - I've always enjoyed Gord's voice and have never understood how it turns people off. What is there to "get used to?" Gord's slightly nasal delivery is no less characteristic than Michael Stipe's voice, yet it
somehow manages to stand out just enough to throw off newcomers. Perhaps it's because it's unfamiliar and unusual - when it comes to the unfamiliar and unusual it appears that US listeners are most hesitant. American audiences need their rock verified - maybe we got burned on too much meaningless, throwaway rock the labels threw at us for so long, who knows. All I can say is that before most Americans can commit to something, we need to know the music is good by seeing it endorsing commercials, backing action sequences and love scenes in movies, or hawked at the end of meaningless teen dramas. Without that, sorry guys, we just can't determine if it's any good. (But we have no problem downloading mp3 after mp3 of pop pablum. We've got no issues spending hours downloading the latest sound-alike tune from Nickelback - they did, afterall, have a track in Spiderman a couple years back. But parting with our hard-earned cash for something that might be different sounding? No way, we're not having it.)

The identity issues evident early on in the album are erased quickly with multiple listens as the album finds its own groove and pacing. I probably won't ever be able to hear it as a single, solid piece, but upon inspection, I can't find a better place for the three oddballs on the album than right up front - get 'em out of the way so they don't throw off a good flow later on. Placing them at the end would blow the emotional closer, another Hip trademark. Regardless of whether it's an up-tempo or down-tempo number, the Tragically Hip has managed to end on a note of beauty with a track that always leaves you wanting more. "Goodnight Josephine" is no different. An upbeat ballad of sorts to a young girl lost, as far as I can tell, in the distractions of teenage life, dating, and maybe abuse, "Goodnight Josephine" somehow manages to beat the odds its subject matter might impose on other bands to actually wind up sounding hopeful. And that's the thing that really keeps the Hip from making it in the US. There's nary a song in their catalog about suffering, hurting others, drowning sorrows - if you haven't been paying attention to what sells today, these are sure-fire hit material. If the American music-buying public can't openly sulk to their purchases, it has no place in their collections. Downie writes not out of a need to heal his own scars, but in hopes of getting everyone else see the good and the beauty that's out there. That's too bad - it's hard to place happy, thoughtful songs in movies with lots of explosions and over-emotive teens. We just can't get enough of that crap.

Tom Johnson likes corn, but only if it's popped. Accomplishments include being crowned "belch king" for the first half of 6th grade. He also enjoys writing his own bios.

a programming note

As you may have noticed, Delicious Media has been a little light on content lately. I'm still very much interested in maintaining this site; however, my "real" job has been much busier and it's getting rather difficult for me to get a decent wireless signal at my house when I use my girlfriend's iBook. So blogging in general has been somewhat neglectful on my part, and I apologize. My priority in terms of blogging has always been my main blog, pressure drop, and I would be doing a disservice by throwing half-ass reviews up here. I will do everything I can to get reviews of the following items on Delicious Media this week:

Mike Keneally Band, "Dog" (the long-awaited new album from one of my favorite singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalists; expect lots of superlatives)

Wilco, "A Ghost is Born" (another long-awaited one: Jeff Tweedy and the boys get even weirder, but more "organic")

The Decemberists, "Her Majesty the Decemberists" (a new "favorite band" for me, and a great new album with a unique sound. Me likes)

Greg Kot, "Learning How To Die" (speaking of Wilco, this is a great new book about the band, which traces back to Tweedy's humble Illinois beginnings, through Uncle Tupelo and the current incarnation of Wilco. Good stuff)

All this week. Check it out.

"Solaris" and "Solaris"
Two brilliant directors take on Stanislaw Lem


Tarkovsky or Soderbergh? That's the question I was asking myself last night while settling into bed for a good night's sleep, the perfect end to a lazy holiday weekend.

Monday afternoon, while Liza was earning holiday pay at Borders, I sat on my porch and read "The Dogs of Riga" until it got too cold, did some laundry and watched my two latest Netflix acquisitions, Andrei Tarkovsky's 1972 film "Solaris" (based on the Stanislaw Lem science ficion novel) and Steven Soderbergh's own 2002 version of "Solaris". I enjoyed them both a great deal, and although the purist in me hates to admit it...I have to say that the more recent version was more interesting to me.

This isn't altogether surprising; after all, Soderbergh is a brilliant, fascinating, unique director. In my opinion, the Coen Brothers are the only contemporary filmmakers who are in the same league (and, if you ask me, they've been slipping a bit lately). Soderbergh's "Out of Sight" and "Traffic" are among my favorite films of the last ten years. So if anyone's going to do a remake, why not bring in the best of the best?

Tarkovsky is a director (I should say "was" -- he died in 1986) of whom I've heard great things, but have never seen anything from until yesterday. His groundbreaking "Andrei Rublev" is considered one of the finest Soviet films ever made, mired in controversy due to Cold War-era restrictions and sitting on the proverbial shelf from 1966 until its release in 1971. Anyone who gathers accolades, controversy and DVD releases from Criterion deserves my attention.

So I watched the 1972 film. The cinematography is lush, bright, and manages to convey brilliantly both the beauty of nature (in its initial scenes) and the cold, clinical settings of outer space. An obvious comparison can be made between this film and "2001: a Space Odyssey" (which Tarkovsky reportedly hated for its "coldness"), and like Kubrick, Tarkovsky revels in long, ponderous shots that take their time, allowing the viewer to soak in the settings. Call him the Anti-Tarantino.

Like the novel, the 1972 version of "Solaris" (and its 2002 counterpart) concerns a space station orbiting the planet Solaris, whose astronauts have been cosmically freaked out by strange goings-on. Psychologist Kris Kelvin is sent to the space station to check things out. There's a lot of exposition -- a bit too much, in my opinion -- prior to Kelvin's blast-off. When he arrives, Kelvin finds that the two remaining crew members (not counting the one who committed suicide) are being visited by characters from their past. Kelvin is apparently not immune to these bizarre events...his long-dead wife appears as well.

The story is an interesting one, and Tarkovsky makes a lot of noise about love, loss, and our existence in general. I enjoyed the sights and sounds of the film, but it almost seemed too idiosyncratic for its own good. It's hard for me to put this in context with the rest of Tarkovsky's work since I haven't seen any of it yet. The shortcomings of this otherwise satisfactory film make me want to explore more of his work ("Andrei Rublev" is on my Netflix cue).



Soderbergh admits that his film is not a remake of Tarkovsky's, but rather another interpretation of Lem's novel. Fair enough. Almost from the beginning, it seems as if it's on a different wavelength as the 1972 film. Kelvin (played excellently here by George Clooney) is shown in the opening scenes as dark, depressed and moody (his wife committed suicide several years prior), but is told of the failed Solaris mission and is whisked off almost immediately. There he finds -- like in the original film -- freaked-out crew members, their long-dead friends and family, and -- of course -- his long-dead wife.

Unlike Tarkovsky's version, Soderbergh chooses to focus on Kelvin's attempt to hang on to this apparition that poses as his wife, in an attempt to repair the broken relationship and make amends (he feels responsible for her suicide). He's deluded, of course; his wife is dead and is no longer real. While concentrating on the relationship may illicit groans from purists and give the film "chick flick" appeal, there's really nothing wrongheaded with taking this approach. It gives the science fiction genre a humanistic element sorely lacking in an age of robots and special effects. Beneath the hum of space station machinery, there lurks a cerebral, caring film.

I wholeheartedly recommend both versions of "Solaris," while leaning a bit more on the 2002 version. But keep in mind that these are not whiz-bang special effects-laden movies. If you're willing to sit back and enjoy an interesting story that takes its time and looks great (and also sounds great - the modern-sounding score in Soderbergh's version is brilliant), you're in for a nice ride. Two of them, in fact.