where the blacktop cracks

I can still think of lots of good reasons to live in California: the gorgeous landscape, the diverse population, and the abundance of avocados, to name just a few. Also, it doesn't hurt that Wilco scheduled six shows for this state alone. For my last gig on this run, we crossed just a few yards over the border to Harveys Outdoor Arena in Lake Tahoe--the band's first concert in this town.

Wilco, Harveys Outdoor Arena, June 28, 2009: I may be forced to defer to the rock tourism by-laws, but I count my longest streak of Wilco shows at eight, on a tour that started in Canada, weaved down the Western seaboard, then jumped over to Denver. In between, we skipped a gig in San Diego, which is why we may have to await the refs' decision. This year's journey, which saw no interruptions in the schedule, falls just short of that figure and equals the tally from a hallowed pre-blog run in 2004.

Photo courtesy of bbop

I don't throw these numbers around to show off--quite the contrary. Mostly, these sums serve to remind me of my limits. We call it the Wall (not to be confused with the Great Wall), and it's that seventh charge that seems to get me, when fatigue and homesickness finally take their toll. You could even argue we had it relatively easy this time, spending nearly a week in Los Angeles, then coming back to my home turf for a couple days. But our trigger fingers allowed little rest, and I'd been running ragged for days before we piled into the car early Sunday morning (albeit with bags of delicious French-style baked goods) for the four-hour drive to Lake Tahoe.

But the yin to exhaustion's yang is the second wind, and somewhere along I-50, the adrenalin returned and spirits picked up. And once stationed at Harveys, a sumptuous bathroom break didn't hurt either. (Next time, we're going for the bathrobes.)

Regular readers may have noticed that I like to create a semblance of an arc in my posts; the same applies to my rock tourism. Because I see so many Wilco shows, I often search for (or manufacture?) a continuum linking their gigs. It's the way my brain catalogs the experiences.

So as the Berkeley date seemed to renounce the Saratoga show, this Harveys performance, I'd hazard, expanded on the previous evening's triumph. It didn't matter that the crowd was nowhere near capacity, leading Jeff to call us "cute" and offering to hug everyone. It made no difference that the promoters didn't set up a barricade, leaving us to partially police ourselves. In fact, it was such a casual show that the singer ducked out during the second song for a pee break; though his ever professional bandmates spotted him for the duration of the track, Glenn threatened to start his own stampede toward the john.



This goofiness didn't, however, distract from the music. If the collective spirit distinguished the Berkeley show, then maybe Tahoe benefited from the mountain air or the crowd sparseness, allowing each note to be savored without distraction. The likes of "Bull Black Nova" and "One Wing" rung out, though in entirely different ways, and I remember thinking that "Side with the Seeds" couldn't have been a more appropriate pick. Wait, I take that back--"Casino Queen" was the evening's no-brainer, even if Jeff had to whip up the intro twice before he got it right.

The evening's rendition of "Spiders" is also worth reporting, if only for the comedy. Jeff picked out a textbook-example pimply, long-haired, Converse-clad teenager, who responded with the classic guileless "who me?" before stepping up. But he wasn't alone. A friend followed, and the two of them assumed strumming duties. That too was a temporary situation, as the friend seized control and convinced Jeff to relinquish the guitar entirely. The second kid was pretty damn good, to tell you the truth--someone has been practicing at home! After the song ended, Jeff held up his "mangled" and "smoking" pick so that everyone could witness the duo's handiwork.

Any encore with "Outtasite" is all right by me, especially on the last evening we were to spend together (for now). Nels and Pat continue to win over crowds with their Fred-and-Ginger routine on "Hoodoo Voodoo," and I'm thankful for "I'm a Wheel" because it allows the band to sneak under curfews--and for other reasons too.

Despite my earlier protestations, seven does not, in fact, suffice. I've been doing that silly thing of checking the band's tour schedule and hoping for some autumn dates, even when other domestic concerns are crowding my agenda. I take comfort, though, in knowing that Wilco dates are never far away.

The Tahoe show marked the third gig we attended with Okkervil River opening. It had been a number of years since I saw them in concert, and though I have good memories of them, I haven't investigated their music for a while. As a live band, they were wonderful. Their earnestness and effort were irresistible, even after three shows, and I promise to give them another try when they come back to town.

See also:
» waiting for a postcard
» i have no idea how this happens
» it's become so obvious
» can't find the time to write my mind

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can't find the time to write my mind

In my rush to get us to Bakesale Betty before Wilco's Berkeley show, I forgot my camera at home. At the time, it didn't matter so much, since the stage at the Greek Theatre is notoriously tall and imposing. Little did I know, however, that the night would include some prime photo ops. The photo-free account, then, will have to do instead.

Wilco, Greek Theatre, June 27, 2009: Berkeley, unlike Saratoga, I have some claims on, and I'd better get used to it, as it appears that the Greek Theatre may be Wilco's new Bay Area home for a while, barring platinum-level sales and/or prominent placement in an Apple ad.

Two years ago, someone teetered at the edge of the big 4-0 at the Greek, but early on, we heard indications that this show could surpass that night. A staffer mentioned that the show was fully sold out of all 8,000 tickets, and the scalpers seemed to have no luck scoring extras. Up front, we pitied the photographers stuffed into the rather narrow workspace, the barriers pushed as far forward as possible to accommodate all the ticketholders ready to take over the hillside.

Bottom line, Berkeley shaped up as an antidote and repudiation of the Saratoga experience. Though double the capacity, the Greek felt substantially more like a rock show and not, in the words of a couple of witnesses, a corporate gig. Or perhaps, squeezed in as we were, we had no choice but to pay attention.

Simply, everything clicked between the audience and the band. Jeff remarked that it was their favorite place to play and didn't seem to hold it against us that the city had turned his oldest son into a hippie. (On a more pedantic note, let me say I'm pretty sure he meant the Bay Area in general and not the Greek specifically, as I've heard him testify to the same effect at other local venues.) In any case, it didn't feel at all like scripted stage banter, and I'm confident it wasn't.

When we first stumbled into the pit, we welcome a new addition: a young boy who, earlier that day, had arrived with his family and took their place in line after us. I recalled them from the last show at the Greek, and we urged him to come to the front between Brianne and myself. B and I held strong suspicions about what might happen, but I don't think either of us wanted to make any promises. Also, there was the matter of the high stage and the contortions necessary to make it work. We offered Jamie a small warning, but I'm pretty sure it didn't register.

Of course, we were right on the money. Jamie helped the cause greatly by locating the pick tossed down at him, and we got confirmation that he was the night's chosen soloist. Even with Jeff sprawled on his side and hanging half off the stage, it became apparent that Jamie would need a helping hand, and B and I sprung into action, each grabbing one of Jamie's legs and lifting him up. The funny thing is that B and I shared maybe a moment's communication but didn't consult with the liftee at all. He didn't seem to mind, though, distracted by bigger events. As his reward, Jamie's solo was deemed "tasteful" by the songwriter--high praise indeed.

For the first time in this string of shows, I could actually hear the vocals, thanks to the audience-mix monitors placed at the edge of the stage. Thus, Jeff's dedications to Susie came through, and the lyrics to the new songs, which were still mostly mysteries to me, finally registered. As if "Spiders" weren't already loaded enough, something about this gig fired up the band even more, moving both Jeff and John to get some air in the course of the song. Closing out, Nels and Pat left everyone with an impressive parting shot of their guitar rivalry on "Hoodoo Voodoo."

See also:
» when nobody gives a fuck
» it's become so obvious
» back in your old neighborhood

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when nobody gives a fuck

I often stretch the definition of where I grew up, but let me be clear: It was not in Saratoga. Those 15 minutes down the freeway (that didn't even exist when I lived in San Jose) might as well have been a light-year. And after seeing Wilco's show at the Saratoga Mountain Winery, I couldn't distance myself fast enough.

Wilco, Saratoga Mountain Winery, June 26, 2009: If it weren't for our front-row seats, we likely would've spent another night in Los Angeles (and at Largo). And immediately following this gig, I sort of wished we had. But a week later, after a couple more concerts and allowing for some reflection, I'm glad we were witness to this most unusual of Wilco dates.

In the Bay Area, a handful of venues bear the brunt of my venue snobbery. I love to gripe about the Shoreline Amphitheater, but I'm rarely tempted to go there. On paper, though, I'm the target audience for the Saratoga Mountain Winery, what with the parade of reunion shows and adult alternative acts that comprise the venue's schedule. I've resisted so far, even forgoing shows by many of my favorite musicians, but I couldn't hold out this time.

I admit that the Mountain Winery is a gorgeous, smallish venue, and the view from the top is breathtaking--if Silicon Valley is your idea of a panorama. Our seats, in combination with the low stage, made the show feel more intimate than the engagements we'd already seen (and were yet to see) on this leg of their tour.

This proximity would prove to be a problem. Not long into the show, a patron approached the band and complained to Jeff about the sound mix. Thus began an extended--and at least unilaterally undesired--conversation between the two. This happened on the opposite side of the stage, so we heard only half the conversation, but I can assure you that it went on for too long.

I know some of the best rock shows are built on crowd interaction and the energy between the band and the audience. But this was not that kind of show or that kind of crowd. These were not fans wanting a short word or some acknowledgement from the musicians, nor did they show the exuberance that can sometimes spill into a goofy faux pas or inspire a silly riff. Instead, they seemed to treat the music as merely a backdrop to their drinking, grinding, texting, and assorted other activities.



Before the end of the gig, we'd see two sets of middle-aged couples grinding on each other, more than one unwelcome introduction, far too many electronic interferences, and one rather unhappy band. Jeff can be known for his sarcasm onstage, but his horror was evident--except, apparently, to the couples in question--and comical, whether he was pretending to adjust the mix, reprimanding a guy sitting directly in front of him for videotaping the show, or trying to block the sight of an overly amorous couple. And that was all in the front row!

More damning were the reactions from other members of the band, especially Glenn, who's usually so cool and easygoing. We could see him lodging complaints with his fellow band mates; also, he flexed his pre-"I'm the Man Who Loves You" moves to the concertgoers in the side seats, away from the pests in the front.

We later learned that was just the half of it. A world of nuisances were hidden from us, many of which we were happy to not know. Would you believe this is supposed to be one of the nicest parts of the South Bay?

Anyway, I hate dwelling on the bad stuff, and I have to say that the troublemakers were a small--if conspicuous--minority. Look past them, though, and a rapt, supportive crowd emerged. Overall, the band transcended the interruptions and put on a fine show. They took advantage of the sylvan setting to pull off "Remember the Mountain Bed," even if John forgot some of the lyrics. It would've been a great night for "Misunderstood," but the "nothing"s would surely have been lost on the intended audience. But hey, we sang "Happy Birthday" to Matrix, even if he had to bring out his birthday cake himself.



The early curfew, for once, proved a blessing, putting the brakes on this semi-trainwreck of a show. This time, I don't mind saying it: I hope Wilco never comes back.

See also:
» it's become so obvious

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