Wilco live @ Edgefield - August 23, 2007

If I had a choice between my own wedding or a Wilco show, I would probably choose the Wilco show. I’m deadly serious. There are not many things, which elicit the same slavish devotion I have given to Jeff Tweedy et al over the last decade. And yet during the ten years in which Wilco have been the objects of my unrivaled affection I’ve only managed to catch them live once. The show in question took place in the Ambassador Theater, Dublin in 2001, mere weeks after the release of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. The world was still scratching its chin in bemused wonder. Looking back it may well have been one of the best shows I’ve ever been shown.

Cut to last week; August 2007 and the long anticipated second coming of Jeff Tweedy. We left work early, armed with thankful hearts and a picnic rug, and drove out to Edgefield ready to make some beautiful memories. The sky was blue; some might say sky blue sky. The sun was high and hot. There were planes buzzing backwards and forwards across the gorge and hundreds of happy Wilco fans with picnic blankets and middle-aged clothes. The thing about Wilco shows is that they are attended by the nicest people in the world because only the nicest people in the world like Wilco. The look was very much suburban, middle class, bring your baby and a bottle of cheap wine. At least two thirds of the crowd seemed stoned, the air was thick with it, when I brushed my teeth that night, the very toothpaste tasted somewhat suspect.

Around 7:20, dressed demurely in black shirts and jeans, the band took to the stage. I pushed forward just five rows from the front; close enough to see the smile twitching at the corner of Jeff Tweedy’’s mouth. They opened with “Either Way”, the first track off new record, Sky Blue Sky. They sounded crisp, tight, ridiculously accomplished, the epitome of good musicianship. All round the stage you could see people catching each other’s eyes, nodding in smug satisfaction, convinced from the very first note that it was going to be a remarkable show. And so it was. They played a mammoth 26 song set, incorporating two lengthy encores and an onstage invasion from Minus Five veterans Peter Buck and Scott McCaughey. They played songs from every one of their studio albums, plucking one each from the two Mermaid Avenue records and reaching as far back as A.M. to deliver a rousing bar room version of “Too Far Apart.” Though they only hit nine of the twenty two songs I’d crossed my fingers for on my fantasy set list, I left feeling entirely satisfied that Wilco had ticked all the boxes last night.

Three songs in, the acoustic guitar came out and Jeff launched into a crunchy, whining version of “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart.” The crowd bellowed along, creating something a little more human and intimate than the mechanical howl usually associated with this song. It was the first moment of the evening where I realized that no band on this earth could ever do justice to these songs or lyrics. It made me remember the interview on the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot documentary where Jeff Tweedy says, “these are my songs. I make them and I get to destroy them and put them back together any way I see fit.” Many of the songs last night fell victim to Tweedy’’s cut/paste aesthetic and were all the better for falling under the chopping board. Things slowed down next with a folksy nod to Woody Guthrie on “Remember The Mountain Bed” and picked back up with “Handshake Drugs” which, in my opinion, has always been an overlooked Wilco classic and last night came of age, swaggering all over the stage like a drunken streetwalker. “Shot In The Arm” definitely hit my top three songs for the night. There was something special about seeing a fitter, happier Jeff Tweedy, alcohol, pill and angst free, smiling on stage, surrounded by what must surely be his all time fantasy Wilco line up, singing the line, “”What you once were isn’’t what you want to be anymore,”” singing it like he really meant it. The entire crowd was hitting every syllable and as they croaked through the last static drenched chorus I looked up and two airplanes were taking off across the skyline.

There were crunchy guitar solos, but nothing too self-satisfied on “Side With The Seeds” and “Shake It Off” and the definite possibility for spontaneous dance with “War On War” as everyone swayed and the sun started to go down over the Columbia Gorge. In fact at one stage later in the evening Jeff slipped on his dancing shoes and did a few impromptu twirls around the stage. It did my cynical little heart good to see him kick back. “Jesus, Don’t Cry” was almost lounge-esque. Under the club lights, everything felt an awful lot older and classier than a field in Troutdale really ought to. “Walken” was a surprising choice, sounding somewhere between a Muppets theme song and a hark back to A.M. era country Wilco. It was all good but “I’m The Man Who Loves You” rocked like something illegal. Glen Kotche mounted the drum kit, sticks held aloft, dripping sweat before following that signature guitar intro into the most jaunty, sugar and spiked version of “I’m The Man” I’ve ever heard. I remember catching a stranger’s eye in the middle of the many woo-hoos and exchanging a look of mutual and unexpected good fortune. Thereafter they swooped from petulant teenage guitars into the piano laden bliss of “Hummingbird” and rounded the set with the haunting simplicity of Sky Blue Sky closer “On And On And On.” There’s something about the deliberate simplicity of this song which reminds me of an older, more grown up and less angsty “So Misunderstood.” Perfectly highlighting the absolute purity of Jeff Tweedy’’s vocals, “On And On And On” fell across the stage like a kind of epiphany, a reverend hush pointing towards something more.

Sure enough, mere seconds later the boys were back, strumming through a paired down version of “Bob Dylan’s 49th Beard,” crunching through the pure pop bliss of “The Late Greats,” going all smooth on a tight as toothache rendition of “Hate It Here.” This song, more than any on the new record, reminds me that Wilco, unlike most bands, excel at making really accomplished musicianship, sound almost effortlessly simple. “I’m Always In Love” with its Beach Boys harmonies and sonic screechings felt trippy, gorgeous and bubblegum sweet under the open sky. Old favorite, “Outtasite (Outta Mind)” though somewhat unexpected, was a sweet reminder that right from the get go, Wilco have always been a boundary-pushing outfit. Then they were gone, disappearing back stage. Quite honestly I would have been satisfied, happy enough to mutter, “this then is all,” and wonder back to the car park but the lights didn’t come up.

Instead we were treated to Wilco plus selected members of the Minus Five: Peter Buck, struggling to pick up the guitar part on “California Stars” but nevertheless swaggering like he belonged as the guys formed a Spinal Tap-esque wall of guitarists behind Jeff. “Heavy Metal Drummer” rested easily with the predominantly stoned and swaying crowd who by this stage were coasting high on a tide of late night joy and sheer value for money. The last two songs did not disappoint. “Via Chicago” has always been my favorite Wilco song and so to hear those familiar chords so far into extra time was always going to be a sort of peculiar blessing. I closed my eyes. I kind of prayed and I got lost. Jeff Tweedy’’s voice was cracking ever so slightly with the emotion of it all. There were enormous, animalistic drum splurges from Glenn Kotche, which suddenly fell silent exposing the fragility of Tweedy’s voice. It was a lesson in fireworks, in godliness, in controlled explosions. I opened my eyes to mouth the final, “I haven’t gone too far,” there was a blinding white light, an airplane and the smallest tear in the corner of my eye. It was worth the six-year wait just for this. And to finish, as predicted “Kidsmoke,” a behemoth of a tune with any number of wild guitar solos and frenzied spider mutterings, boiled down to a minimal drum beat and an entire field full of clapping converts. We thought it was over, we could only hear ourselves beating time and then from nowhere, the final unasked for explosion of drums, guitars, everything Wilco could muster and more besides. After which they were gone, back to Chicago or the innerscape of Jeff Tweedy’s head, wherever they best exist. I was so full with it all, talking felt like a nuisance.

Twenty-four hours later with quiet ears and hindsight I am saying, this was a mind-blowingly amazing show, no one could say otherwise. It was intimate and consuming, a far cry from any previous outdoor venue experiences I have suffered through. Tweedy himself was on form, bantering with the crowd, smiling, obviously comfortable to be playing his music. Each member of the band from Mikael Jorgensen, the maraca tossing newbie in the back to John Stirrat providing the unassuming yet solid bass foundation and Glenn Kotche, presiding sweaty, eclectic and omnipotent behind his customized drum empire was so assuredly capable of carrying the music I would pay to watch them perform an entire set by themselves. However last night it was Nels Cline, frantic and writhing with guitars and lap steels and Heaven knows what other evil instrumentage that really sucked my attention. I can only assume that Jeff Tweedy has finally found the kindred innovative spirits he’s so long sought and it’s making him smile and even sometimes consider dancing and perhaps this is no bad thing.