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
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Friday, July 03, 2009
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
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
Thursday, July 02, 2009
it's become so obvious
As you may have noticed, I go to great lengths to see Wilco, but sometimes I luck out and settle into a town for more than a day--say, for a Chicago residency or those multiple-night stands the band used to do at the Fillmore. This year, the extended roadshow landed a little closer to home, bringing Wilco to the Wiltern for three dates, and then some.
Wilco, the Wiltern, June 22, 23, and 25, 2009: With my deepest apologies to Vladimir Nabokov: Los Angeles, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
Gah, I love this city. Before the week was over, we'd nab tickets to a Page-Off, eat far too much delicious food (Kogi! Jitlada! Hugo's! Langer's!), and take our seats among the Tonight Show studio audience, to scratch the surface. Oh, and there was the matter of a trifecta of Wilco shows.
The temptation is to cast any of Wilco's stretched-out stays as a mini-residency and to see which rare cuts they'll dig out for the shows. After last year's blowout, they've proven they can play everything, but on a more practical note, it appears that they work from a general template for each tour.
Thus, though I nursed a vague hope that the West Coast would hear John Stirratt's "It's Just That Simple," I didn't really think it would happen--and in fact, it didn't. Instead, our reward came in such selections as "Shouldn't Be Ashamed," complete with a substantially reimagined solo by Nels, as well as "In a Future Age" and "Box Full of Letters," to name just a few.
I am, however, burying the lede, as the single event already reported all over the blogosphere is Feist's surprise appearance for the live debut of "You and I." I remember seeing Carla Bozulich sing "Forget the Flowers" with Wilco a number of years ago and Jeff remarking that it was a written as a duet, but they could never get anyone to sing it with them. Oh, how times have changed.
In some ways, Feist looked more at ease than Jeff, though he was clearly delighted with the collaboration. Then again, she's had a lot more experience jumping in and out of musical combos. Regardless, they charmed the room, and I felt so fortunate to have been there.
Speaking of stage presence, the strongest impressions I got from this show--confirmed further by the gigs to follow--had everything to do with the band's confidence and joy. For some time now, Wilco shows have included a heap of smiles, compliments, inside jokes, and hugs, but it's been easy to lose track of those lighter moments amid the band's towering musicianship. For these shows, though these elements remained, I think we saw one other aspect emerging: The band really has a frontman now. At the least, they're getting closer to it. Or in the words of Flanagan, "Tweedy's hair is fantastic."
There's so much else I could cover from these three days, but I'm already way behind on my blogging, so I have to skim over the singer as a pitchman, my favorite soloist of this swing, the guest percussionist, and extremely generous benefactors. (Also: Krycek!) As far as I'm concerned, though, Wilco and the Wiltern continue their winning streak.
See also:
» i've run out of metaphors
Wilco, the Wiltern, June 22, 23, and 25, 2009: With my deepest apologies to Vladimir Nabokov: Los Angeles, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
Gah, I love this city. Before the week was over, we'd nab tickets to a Page-Off, eat far too much delicious food (Kogi! Jitlada! Hugo's! Langer's!), and take our seats among the Tonight Show studio audience, to scratch the surface. Oh, and there was the matter of a trifecta of Wilco shows.
The temptation is to cast any of Wilco's stretched-out stays as a mini-residency and to see which rare cuts they'll dig out for the shows. After last year's blowout, they've proven they can play everything, but on a more practical note, it appears that they work from a general template for each tour.
Thus, though I nursed a vague hope that the West Coast would hear John Stirratt's "It's Just That Simple," I didn't really think it would happen--and in fact, it didn't. Instead, our reward came in such selections as "Shouldn't Be Ashamed," complete with a substantially reimagined solo by Nels, as well as "In a Future Age" and "Box Full of Letters," to name just a few.
I am, however, burying the lede, as the single event already reported all over the blogosphere is Feist's surprise appearance for the live debut of "You and I." I remember seeing Carla Bozulich sing "Forget the Flowers" with Wilco a number of years ago and Jeff remarking that it was a written as a duet, but they could never get anyone to sing it with them. Oh, how times have changed.
In some ways, Feist looked more at ease than Jeff, though he was clearly delighted with the collaboration. Then again, she's had a lot more experience jumping in and out of musical combos. Regardless, they charmed the room, and I felt so fortunate to have been there.
Speaking of stage presence, the strongest impressions I got from this show--confirmed further by the gigs to follow--had everything to do with the band's confidence and joy. For some time now, Wilco shows have included a heap of smiles, compliments, inside jokes, and hugs, but it's been easy to lose track of those lighter moments amid the band's towering musicianship. For these shows, though these elements remained, I think we saw one other aspect emerging: The band really has a frontman now. At the least, they're getting closer to it. Or in the words of Flanagan, "Tweedy's hair is fantastic."There's so much else I could cover from these three days, but I'm already way behind on my blogging, so I have to skim over the singer as a pitchman, my favorite soloist of this swing, the guest percussionist, and extremely generous benefactors. (Also: Krycek!) As far as I'm concerned, though, Wilco and the Wiltern continue their winning streak.
See also:
» i've run out of metaphors
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)