every song's a comeback

When Wilco's European dates were first announced, my preference was for the Paris-Gent-Amsterdam string of shows, but alas, the cost of traveling during high season deemed otherwise. After some juggling, though, I settled upon the series of gigs you may or may not have been following in this blog. Berlin, especially, loomed as the treat to end my run. For now.

Wilco, Kesselhaus, May 24, 2007: A.k.a., "I Went to Berlin and All I Got Were Wiggles Toddler Wipes."

Rock tourism in Western Europe isn't necessarily harder than it is in the States. Thanks to the newfound rash of European discount airlines, zipping from country to country is somewhat akin to crossing state lines (passport control notwithstanding), and sheepishness aside, even the complete lack of language skills didn't significantly impede our progress:

Us [haltingly, embarrassingly]: Ein currywurst und ein Coke Light?
Them [in perfect English]: That will be three euros.



I will say, though, that rock tourism in Europe, especially for this twitch-prone crew, is in other ways a lot more relaxing. We took badly needed naps and wandered around charming neighborhoods, yet we got to the venues at still ungodly though not horribly demanding times to start up the queue. And once inside, we took our spots at the front of modest stages--exactly the outcome you hope for.

Not that the Kesselhaus was small, by most measures. The cavernous warehouse reminded me of the legendary Hacienda in Manchester, England, as depicted in the movie 24 Hour Party People (sadly, I never darkened the club's doors--and have yet to make my pilgrimage to Manchester, for that matter!). Despite all the claims of Berlin's amazing nightlife, I didn't spot anyone with glowsticks hanging off the top floor for this show.

Early in the gig, Jeff inquired into the makeup of the crowd. It was somewhat of a relief to find that the Americans weren't as prevalent here as they were in Cologne, as befits a city as diverse as Berlin. In the final, unofficial count, representatives of Great Britain, Canada, Scandinavia, the Mediterranean, and Eastern Europe all piped up, but Jeff's favorite audience member was a guy who claimed to have come from Antarctica.

Regardless of their origin, they were audibly united in their love for Wilco, even if their voices dropped off after the first few lines of "Misunderstood," which went off without a hitch tonight. The singalong portion of "Jesus, etc." required a bit of prodding, as did the shouting in "Kingpin"--a natural fit for the city, as Jeff substituted "Berlin" for "Pekin" (I love pandering)--but overall, the crowd responded enthusiastically to both new and old material.

Favorite moments from the show include "Pot Kettle Black," the first time I've heard the song live in--well, forever, even if Jeff forgot the first couple of lines. "Spiders" also took another left turn; if the previous night's treatment played up the song's cock rock possibilities, Berlin seemed to inspire a nod to the nation's native sons, as Mike piled on the keyboards to build up the blips and bleeps that once elicited so much controversy. The only slight blemish on the song was Glenn breaking his kick drum and Jeff's too-much-information confabulation of how Glenn managed to limp through the rest of the number.



My admiration for Nels Cline is well documented, and I still can't shut the fuck up about him. As a guitarist, he's above reproach, but those expert licks don't prepare you for his physical presence. Sure, there's his work on the lap steel, reawakening tracks such as "Airline to Heaven" or "Sunken Treasure"; the laser-like chords he picks out for, say, "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," "Poor Places," and "Hummingbird"; or the glorious clusterfuck he encourages in "Handshake Drugs" or "Shot in the Arm."

So while there's no discounting his musical contributions, his onstage energy deserves a mention. Whether Nels is setting his sights on Glenn to work his kit (or his teeth), egging Mike to play Nels's guitar while simultaneously manning the keys, shooting looks at John and Pat on the other side of the stage, or almost literally getting into Jeff's face, he's magnetic. I want him to be in the band forever.



When it comes down to it, I can't get over how much fun the band seems to be having with each other. Back in November, I thought I saw Wilco at their loosest and their best, but I was mistaken. Their command of the new songs was certainly on display at these shows, but not at the expense of good, old-fashioned goofiness, as evidenced by Glenn's nightly arms-aloft tribute to Shellac's drummer, Nels playing the guitar on his back, or Jeff's willingness to laugh at himself--or, more likely, Glenn.



All told, it's impossible for me to pick out a single favorite show from this run. Of course, Bill Fay's appearance in London deserves a special mention, but the second night in London was just as satisfying, and the energy of Berlin is hard to dismiss. Even Cologne held surprises. I guess I loved them all!

Carla Bozulich and Bobb Bruno opened the show again in Berlin, and Carla said for the second night in a row that it was her birthday, though this time, cake had been served. They played a similar set as the night before, though they changed up the song order. It was hard to tell the full crowd reaction, but I think she got at least one unqualified, approving hoot from the punters.



I usually love coming home and flying into the fog bank blanketing my town, but this was a trip I wish I could've extended indefinitely. Until I win the lottery and truly give it all up for rock tourism, I'll settle for the knowledge that I was privy to an addictive combination of great pals, new attractions, and deliriously inspiring shows by some of the kindest, most generous musicians I've ever seen.

Check back in June for the next run. Heh heh.

See also:
» hate it here
» wherever you go, wherever you land
» a party there that we ought to go to

hate it here

Haha, just kidding! It's been a blast, and we managed to survive 24 hours in Cologne as functional illiterates before Dunja arrived to act as our official German speaker (and to see Wilco, of course). I hope Paul doesn't hate me for squelching our potential debut on BBC TV, but at least we got to visit the Chocolate Museum. Yum!

Wilco, Live Music Hall, May 22, 2007: Just in case you're wondering who sees Wilco in Europe, consider this: Of the first dozen or so people in line for the show in Cologne, I'd say three of them were German. Make of that what you will.

I can't speak for the other Americans, but I can tell you why I've made the trip to see the band (no stalker jokes, please). From my limited experience, seeing Wilco in Europe, especially outside of England, is like going back in time. The clubs in Europe are much smaller than the theaters that Wilco fills in the States these days. Less important but somewhat amusing is the male-female ratio at the shows; much as in the old days of Wilco, the crowds are predominantly male. In Cologne, Paul estimated an 80/20 split, and I won't argue with him on that count.

Set aside the demographics and other superficial concerns, and the concert experience is pretty much the same. The language barrier didn't really factor into the show once the music started, and it stopped neither the banter between Jeff and the audience nor the stream of audience requests. My favorite exchange:

Fan: "Misunderstood!"
Jeff Tweedy: Play something good?

Conceded: Rock tourism is not for everyone. As such, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't already have a heightened interest in the band or performer in question, but for those who do, the minutiae of differences in each performance can be endlessly fascinating; for me, they're the reason I almost always prefer the live show over the recorded output.

Sometimes, those variances are as esoteric as the slight tweaks that Nels puts into "Impossible Germany" or Jeff injects into "Spiders" every time they're performed; in fact, I could swear I heard a touch of "Dancing Days" in Jeff's guitar parts for the latter in the night's show. On the other hand, they can be as obvious as Jeff momentarily forgetting the lyrics or, in the case of this gig, Glenn missing the cue that ends the barrage of "nothing"s in "Misunderstood." I suspect that the musicians aren't always happy with those flubs, but as a concertgoer, I find them endearing and charming. I'd rather watch real humans in real time making beautiful music together--warts and all--than a clinical, pristine recording of the same any day.



Other highlights: Paul got the "obvious references to Germany" setlist he had hoped for, encompassing "Impossible Germany," "I'm a Wheel," and "Spiders." "Handshake Drugs," most notably the Jeff-Nels guitar face-off that comprises the climax of the song, still leaves me gaping every time. Also, I may never tire of "Impossible Germany," and I don't think I'm alone in that camp. Watching Jeff as he looked to Nels during the song, I was reminded of my other favorite performer's comment about playing with musicians who happen to be friends: It's almost like seeing a concert for himself. And in case you were wondering how the natives of the country feel about the song, rest assured that they seem to love it, judging by the cheers that welcomed the tune.



Carla Bozulich and Bobb Bruno joined the tour in Cologne, and Nels took his place with them on a handful of songs; Mikael Jorgensen and Glenn Kotche also pitched in for one song each. Carla is an undeniably arresting presence onstage, and her gorgeous voice and bracing lyrics may be her most powerful tools. She played a mix of originals and covers, old and new, rock and experimental, as you might expect from a performer who proudly brandishes her disparate influences and interests.

See also:
» a party there that we ought to go to

sha sha

I'm back from Los Angeles to see you know who doing you know what at you know where. The report will follow as soon as I can translate the notes I scribbled by candlelight on cocktail napkins. In the meantime, here's a shortish one to glance over.

The Night Porter, The Hemlock Tavern, October 19, 2005: Maudie and I fetched Heidi from SFO and came right back into town to catch a benefit show by Carla Bozulich's band. The proceeds from this gig were earmarked for Quintron, Miss Pussycat, and their Spellcaster Lodge in New Orleans. We knew little of the artists but were glad to check out Carla's band again. I hadn't seen them since a weeklong Wilco run back in November 2004, so I was curious to check out their progress since then.

Obviously, a headlining slot is different from an opening slot. For one thing, there's the size of the venue and the audience. But in addition, the band had spent nearly another year with each other and with the songs. Tunes that sounded more like sketches last year seemed a lot more polished now, and the band also had a palpable chemistry. I recognized a few songs from the earlier shows, and this time, I could even hear the words. "Sha Sha" (if that's the correct name) was the highlight of the set: a dreamy, meditative piece with soft harmonies and subtle instrumentation. But the band was also capable of screeching, howling roof-raisers. While Carla was tuning for the nonencore encore, Shahzad tormented her with a couple of U2 songs, but he still seems like a cool guy. And alas, thus are the economics for a new band that they had to drive back to LA that night in a van with a broken CD player.

The openers certainly deserve noting. The first was Anni Rossi, who had a beautiful voice that reminded me a bit of Emiliana Torrini. She played the violin, though defintely not in the typical classical fashion, and her songs had an off-kilter though ultimately melodic feel to them. She had come from LA with the Night Porter and accompanied the band on one song that I believe they referred to as "Nuevo Depresso."

The middle act was a one-man band called the Militant Children's Hour. He used a small drum kit and an electric guitar and dressed in a woman's jumper, '80s-style plastic sunglasses with a grid pattern on them, and plastic wrap encasing his head. His vocals were distorted so that he sounded like an evil Transformers robot. Every single song pretty much sounded the same--like a much more primitive Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, say--but we've felt compelled to talk about him to everyone we know, so he's definitely succeeded on that level.