rosin smells and turpentine smells

I should be thankful to the Outside Lands folks for, at the least, saving this blog from solely devoting itself to you know who, you know what, and you know where. But with that temporary diversion out of the way, it's back to providing fodder for the restraining order. The court is now in session.

Wilco, Outside Lands Festival, August 24, 2008: As previously mentioned, I hate festivals, but a couple of names will draw me in, regardless of circumstances. Even by that measure, the Outside Lands planners unknowingly outdid themselves; not only were the festival grounds a hop, skip, and a jump away from my doorstep, Wilco was scheduled to play the stage closest to my flat. In fact, the Twin Peaks stage occupied the exact same spot where Jeff Tweedy had played for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival the year before. Genius!

I know all the rules about festival sets: They're shorter and less spontaneous, with few back-catalog bonuses. Also, the amateurs come out. Despite all this (not to mention the show I saw earlier in the week), I was superexcited for Wilco's set. I wonder if it had anything to do with Broken Social Scene's energizing performance or the fact that the photo corps and a large number of festival badgeholders crowded the area between the barrier and the stage to get a view of the band. Perhaps I was just anticipating the fruits of our labor after having set out early to secure our spots at the front of the stage. Then again, it could've been the knowledge that even after Wilco's set, the festivities were far from over, as I had a houseful of friends eager to get down to some serious Rock Band action.

Pick your provenance; all I know is that it felt totally natural to belt out the more fiery verses of "You Are My Face," though it made the insiders in front of us turn around and take notice (in a good way). In fact, I'd venture to say that the set veritably brimmed with joy, despite Wilco's reputation for serious and solemn compositions, such as the opener "Remember the Mountain Bed" or "Via Chicago" later in the gig.

Thus, we got a good amount of banter from Jeff Tweedy, including the use of the word "schlong"; Nels Cline flashing us the single safety pin that held together his fly; and Glenn Kotche luxuriating in the rock drummer pose that has marked the intro to "I'm the Man Who Loves You" for more than a year now. And away from the stage, a beautiful young girl (no older than 9 or 10) had us transfixed as she played air guitar to each selection, sometimes strumming, but often shredding, as appropriate.

On a less flippant note, Nels has made "Impossible Germany" a nightly showstopper with the improvisations and digressions he introduces to the song, but today's performance was one for the books. Yes, I know I've said that about a million times before, but I've never seen Nels in such a zone, with his eyes nearly rolling out of their sockets and his body all but knotted around his guitar as he cleaved out notes that no one could've guessed were possible.

Nels revealed his inspiration at the end of the tune, when, catching his breath, he marched up to Jeff's mic and emphatically dedicated the song to John Cipollina. Jeff, in turn, took the opportunity to defuse the drama by calling it a "pretty good solo" and pointing out Nels's pants predicament, as mentioned above.



Word is Wilco's headlining opportunities have drawn to a close for the year, though some high-profile opening slots await. If this was indeed our last chance for 2008, I couldn't have asked for a better send-off--but I hold out hope that another hurrah awaits. À bientôt.

See also:
» used to be one of the rotten ones
» feels lucky to have you here
» i try to stay busy

used to be one of the rotten ones

I misspoke; before I could see Wilco again, I had to get through three days of the Outside Lands Festival, which took place literally five blocks from my flat. You really can't say no to that. The Wilco summation will follow; for now, here's the rest of the weekend.

Outside Lands Festival, August 26-27, 2008: Granted, if Wilco weren't on the bill, I'd probably would've stayed home altogether, as I did on Friday, when the park was apparently packed (like you'll have any problems finding those concert reports elsewhere).

The thing is, I hate festivals, though I wasn't always like this. I once pined for the U.K. summer festivals--until my overarching love of British music peaked in 2000. Oh sure, I've been to one, two, or even three in the States, but more often than not, I skip them, including those in my part of the world featuring my favorite bands. Yes, I'm looking at you, 2005 Download Festival, with Doves and British Sea Power.

On top of that, I'm a bad festival-goer. I don't go to discover new talent; the club bookers in San Francisco typically guarantee a nice stream of up-and-coming bands in more reasonably sized venues. And despite paying the supersize ticket price, I don't get much bang for my buck. Instead, I do what I always do: camp out for my favorite(s). I did exactly that on Sunday, though thankfully, the Twin Peaks stage hosted most of the bands I wanted to see anyway. Saturday, meanwhile, was left for milling about, and in the process, I finally saw some new-to-me acts.

Hands down, my favorite act of the weekend (barring my usual obsessions) was Broken Social Scene, and not just because they namechecked Wilco as "America's best band" as they signed off or even because they brought Spiral Stairs, née Scott Kannberg, à la Pavement, vis-à-vis Preston School of Industry for their final song. I haven't seen them in concert in a few years, but You Forgot It in People ruled my airwaves for a time, and it was great to be reminded why. I think I counted 11 people onstage at one point, and at another juncture, we witnessed six or seven guitar players all slinging their trade at the same time. I loved it when I saw them at Bimbo's, and it translated even better to the festival, where they managed to sound simultaneously dreamy and rocking.



Theatrics aside, I also got a better idea of the band's numerous fluid layers and interplay, not to mention who was responsible for what song and the different influences they brought to the collective. Random thoughts: So Brendan Canning has been singing those songs? Why didn't I recognize Andrew Whiteman when I saw him with Apostle of Hustle? And indeed, Kevin Drew is no small presence either. I especially loved it when he silently directed Liz Powell to join Amy Milan on vocals for "Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl"--proof that Broken Social Scene never squanders a collaborative opportunity. Yay Canadian collectives!



Other highlights include Andrew Bird, whose majestic tunes filled the expanse admirably, and Lupe Fiasco, who was just pure fun. I think I recognized two whole songs from the latter, but I totally appreciated that Vallejo ranked high on his list of Bay Area shout-outs.



My goal on Saturday was to catch the set by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, a band I've always liked, even if I couldn't admit it to my Brit-addled friends in the early '80s. Judging by our reception smack dab in the middle of the Polo Field, you might have guessed we were watching Benmont Tench and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, but that geekiness aside, they delivered a ton of hits, along with some covers, obscurities, and a couple of tracks with Steve Winwood.

I'm a sucker for the audience singalong, which is what we heard for several songs, such as "Free Falling," "I Won't Back Down," and just about every other song they played. But what may have been my biggest takeaway from their set was witnessing a true rock 'n' roll frontman ply his trade. I see very few arena-filling bands, so I'm always surprised by the energy, ego, and, well, absurdity required to engage the audience. Sure, it's present to a certain extent with any band on any stage, but I suppose there's often a tongue-in-cheek or self-deprecating element to the so-called indie rockers I favor. Not so here--and it suitably complemented the audience's wide-eyed embrace of the songs just fine.

Unfortunately, I can't say I enjoyed every musician who performed over the weekend. I won't even bother discussing ALO, but I was hoping for more from Nellie McKay and Regina Spektor. Granted, I'm not a huge fan of female singers as it is, but their appeal evaded me for different reasons. Nellie easily qualifies as eccentric, but she struck me as someone who tries way too hard, and I couldn't find her actual songs underneath all the patter. Regina, however, didn't engage me at all.

See also:
» rosin smells and turpentine smells
» here comes the action
» the power of suggestion, the element of chance
» feels lucky to have you here

i try to stay busy

...which, over the course of the last couple of weeks, has encompassed sitting on the couch with a No. 1 foam finger wrapped around my hand, hooting "USA! USA! Wooooooo!" at the TV, and fanning myself off at the mere mention of the Water Cube. These Olympian achievements have also inspired me to contemplate setting a new personal record: how many consecutive shows I can attend that involve only Wilco, members of Wilco, that other name that dominates this blog, or any combination thereof. I await the medal ceremony.

Wilco, The Winery at Eagle Knoll, August 20, 2008: Speaking of records, I embarked on perhaps my most extensive rock tourism run around this time last year, starting in Vancouver, covering much of the Western seaboard and wrapping up in Denver. My plans are less ambitious this summer (if you ignore the not inconsequential trip to Alaska), and I even cut back on the initial itinerary, finally settling on Boise alone.

Part of the fun of rock tourism is venturing to places I'd probably never go otherwise, and in that regard, Idaho has ranked high on the list for some time--partially because of its relative proximity to California, partially due to the potatoes, and partially as a function of the goofy punch line it would provide at some point in the future. Truly, dreams can come true! (That said, if the gig had taken place the same week that men's Olympic swimming was broadcast, this report might not even exist.)

But as I've robotically repeated a million times, the best thing about these out-of-the-way places is often the venue itself. In Boise, this meant a small winery--not at all like the courtly and colorless complexes more common in my part of the world. Instead, we found ourselves in a small rolling amphitheater-like space. Outside of what we discovered was the unofficial standing-room pit area, the concert-goers spread out blankets and lawn chairs, while the stage might as well have been a gazebo. Jeff Tweedy himself commented that it felt like they were playing in someone's backyard.

I think we came to decide that the Alaska shows were almost like warm-up gigs, albeit thousands of miles away. That is, they were loose and less than perfect, though not without their charm. Back in the lower 48, we didn't witness anything on a par with Alaska's more pronounced missteps, but the band didn't quite stay in the lines either. (Note: I hate staying in the lines.)

To the band's credit, malfunctioning equipment led to a couple of diversions, most prominently when the bass started making crackling noises. John, understandably, seemed particularly flustered, but so did Jeff, who remarked he was "dying" up there as he tried to banter with us while their staff brought out amps and fiddled with cords. Though not fully content, they launched into "Handshake Drugs" anyway, and it was probably more than a minute into the song before John's resourceful tech switched out the bass guitar--problem solved!

Since I'm going with the "bad news first" model, I'll also mention there was a matter with Jeff's mic (also fixed by one of the trusty crew) and a slightly off-harmony "War on War." Then again, I'm not sure how many people noticed the latter.

But on the flip side, there was plenty to enjoy too. I loved that they opened with "Hummingbird," Jeff extended an admiring "nice" to Nels on "Walken," Jeff kissed Glenn's "guns," and I got a great reminder of what that one riff in "Poor Places" does to me.



Capping off the night was a real treat, wholly unsuspected: The band brought on Fleet Foxes, the openers, for Dylan's "I Shall Be Released." We had heard it in soundcheck but didn't put much faith in it being played right away, as the kinks seemingly needed to be worked out. In fact, I was resigned to the idea that I'd have to enjoy the rough version--but I was glad to be proven wrong.



The camaraderie between the bands had been clear, with several members of each group coming out for the other's set, but it was cemented here. In his intro, Jeff praised their singing, and at the end, everyone was smiling and hugging.



Next stop: Home, where the streak continues.

See also:
» all of my maps have been overthrown