Tag: music

The Healing Sound

by Noel Nocciolo

It would be remiss for anyone not from New Orleans who attends the annual New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, (presented by Shell, lest you forget) or speaks of their experiences at the festival, not to, at the very least, mention the atrocities left in the wake of 2005’s Hurricane Katrina. It is everywhere. In Arthur Miller’s Death Of A Salesman, Mrs. Loman utters the phrase, ‘attention must be paid.’ It must.

I have no need to get political; the inaction of our government under the current administration in the aftermath of the hurricane speaks for itself without the need for commentary, least of all, mine. On my walk to Surrey’s for breakfast my first morning in town, I came upon a bumper sticker which read, “I Never Thought I’d Miss Nixon.”

It is not over down here. It is not even close to being over. Fortunately, annual events like Mardi Gras, JazzFest, Voodoo Music Festival, and various business conventions bring tourism, which puts money back into Orleans Parish and those who inhabit it. These trips, hopefully, cause tourists like myself to discuss what they’ve seen upon returning home, which causes conversation, action and change. (I know I’m the Queen of Wishful Thinking, but it can’t hurt to put in print.) Unfortunately, our national media, for the most part, is no longer covering the wake of Katrina with any sort of consistency and our country has a fairly short attention span as it is. The woman who sat next to me on my flight from New York City to Dallas, (where I met my connecting flight, as well as my Mother, to continue on to New Orleans) was surprised when I said that my visits to New Orleans are always “great, but bittersweet.” “Why bittersweet?” she asked me. I’m floored. I want to be a smart-ass in my response because ‘oh-my-god-how-can-she-not-understand???’ but instead I’m kind. I may be only one person, but President Andrew Jackson was elected by a margin of one.

I’m opting now to stop being a bummer for a bit, and report on JazzFest itself, which is definitely far from a bummer. JazzFest is AWESOME. When I hit the ‘shuffle’ option on my iPod, what it gives me is schizophrenic at best, or downright puzzling…..and I find value in all of it. If you even remotely love music, the mixed-bag of everything that is out there, then the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (presented by Shell) is the festival for you. On any given day, you can hear a huge country/western star, a Top 40 rapper, hip-hop groups, dj’s, Cajun and zydeco, a bluegrass band from Tennessee, a gospel church choir, jazz legends, rock legends, and brass bands. The diversity in music is unparalleled; there is truly something for everyone. If you want a festival experience where you’ll hear the newest indie buzz-band, and buy five-dollar bottles of water, go to Coachella.

Day one saw Robert Plant and Alison Krauss playing most of the tracks from their beautiful collaborative “Raising Sand,” as well as a bluegrass version of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” and Krauss’ popular track, “Down By The River To Pray” from “O Brother Where Art Thou?” with Plant and T-Bone Burnett providing the harmonies. Krauss, in her demure way, seemed to provide the perfect antidote to the fact that at nearly sixty years old, Robert Plant is still every bit the rockstar he was in the 1970s (minus the mudsharks) even if he is playing toned-down Americana bluegrass.

Sheryl Crow wasn’t holding back at the start of her set, playing songs off her new record, “Detours” which is in part inspired by Katrina. Her passion and conviction in delivering the new songs was beautiful to watch. She lost me when she started in with her old hits, “Leaving Las Vegas” and “A Change Will Do You Good.” I’m sure the fair-weather fans wanted to hear something they could sing along to, but it paled in comparison to her new material.

My Mom loves Ozomatli. We caught them at 2005’s JazzFest, and she never passes up an opportunity to dance, so from Crow’s set we ambled over to the Gentilly Stage. We walked up just in time to catch their new track, “Magnolia Soul” which is unabashedly written about New Orleans with in-your-face verses like: “saw your crescent smiling place/all the way from uptown-downtown-lakeside-to-river/heard ‘W’ don’t care about them/gotta watch who you make your friend/otherwise people come through and backstab you again” and chorus, “let the good times roll/the sad times gone” name-checking the motto of New Orleans, “Laissez les bons-temps rouler.”

Day two was an unbelievable downpour, which resulted in a soggy, muddy mess and a stream running through the crowd, to which children responded by floating on plastic rafts. You may take that metaphor as you will. Sadly, I did not have the pleasure of watching the stage crew squeegee Billy Joel’s piano. Thankfully, we did head to Tipitina’s that night to see the Blind Boys of Alabama. Important Fact To Know: They Are Indeed Blind. My Mom, the gospel music neophyte, was incredulous as these dapper gentlemen were walked to the stage and positioned for the show. The music was the stuff of angels. The men, ranging in age from 70 to 85, brought the crowd to their feet, and although the show was slower paced than most, (they were filming a live DVD and frequently stopped) it kept the crowd. Dr. John ‘made a house-call’ and played a song, as did local R&B singer Marva Wright, pianist Henry Butler, and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Susan Tedeschi sat in on a few songs, as well. She looked as though she were playing dress-up in her Mother’s closet with a sparkly cocktail dress and heels. Still, there was nothing childish about her voice (or the playing of her guitar for that matter). When she sang her verse in “People Get Ready” I thought I was listening to Bonnie Raitt’s alter-ego.

Day three was one of choices. Having perks at a festival are a beautiful luxury. Since we were blessed with access to Miller’s ‘hospitality tent’ (which would have been even more hospitable if I actually enjoyed the taste of beer) we found ourselves in a dilemma. Do we stay in the tent since it’s raining pretty hard, and chill out on the couch and watch the screen of the main stage? Or do I go see an old friend play his trumpet to a few thousand people at another stage, and not be able to get back into the tent because everyone with a tent pass will have clamored their way inside and it’s now way past capacity, and closed, and we’ll be stuck in the outside crappy weather for the rest of the day? Tough call. The couch won. My Mom may be awesome (she saw The Beatles three times, and was invited by Marvin Gaye to be his date to the Grammys… truth) but she’s also sixty. Couch. Shelter. And Irma Thomas, a hero of the local scene who recently won a Grammy, on the mainstage owning it.

My time spent in New Orleans is one filled with duality. On Saturday before the festival, my Mother and I went to the famed Commander’s Palace for their three-course Jazz Brunch. On Sunday before the festival, we took a drive through the Ninth Ward and Lakeview. My stomach, still full from the delicious gourmet cuisine we enjoyed the day before, miraculously kept from vomiting as we looked at the wreckage. You would think that the storm had occurred maybe a month prior by the looks of the Ninth Ward. It is nearly three years later as I write this. It is only as we turn off Claiborne Avenue to signs marked “Habitat For Humanity” and various church organizations that we begin to see small shreds of hope in streets still piled with debris from August of 2005. The bright colors of the houses which make up Habitat for Humanity’s Musician’s Village are welcomed signs that things are slowly moving forward, but there is so much still to be done.

Punctuating the weekends of JazzFest, I volunteered with the Tipitina’s Foundation to help with two silent auctions and benefit concerts, held at Tipitina’s Uptown music venue. The first was for “Instruments-A-Comin’’ to raise money to keep music programs and instruments in Louisiana schools. Locals Rebirth Brass Band and Galactic performed, as well as Little Feat, whose live show is every bit as thrilling as their recordings from thirty years ago. The second was for “Injuns-A-Comin’” to raise money for the Mardi Gras Indians; for their instruments and beautiful costumes, without which a subculture within this town would cease to exist.

Thursday of the second weekend of JazzFest is known as “locals day” with reduced-price admission and smaller crowds. 2008 marks the first year after Katrina to have seen a locals day, and what better act to commemorate the event than Louisiana/L.A. native, Randy Newman. Randy is one of my favorite songwriters ever; his stuff is snarky, truthful and entertaining. He is also proof, like Tom Waits, Neil Young and Bob Dylan, that God plays fair and gives the Gift Of Profound Songwriting Talent to those who have weird, and at times un-listenable and conventionally god-awful voices.

Talented or not, I often wonder if before Disney/Pixar gave him the green-light to provide music for “Toy Story” if they’d actually listened to his back-catalogue (case in point, ‘Guilty’: “Got some whiskey from the barman/got some cocaine from a friend” and ‘Rednecks’: “We’re rednecks, rednecks/don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground.”) Luckily for Randy, though he works for the mouse, he isn’t an icon for tweenage girls, and Disney does not need to comment on his past like they comment on Miley Cyrus’ present. Before playing his most (family-suitable, sarcasm-free) widely-recognized song, “You’ve Got A Friend In Me,” he revealed that some folks from Disney were in the audience, and in town for work. Disney has a new animated feature in production, “The Princess and The Frog” which is set in New Orleans, and features music by Newman and Dr. John; music that was recorded, in New Orleans, the day before this show. For the record, in addition to his song from “Toy Story” he did play both “Rednecks” and “Guilty” as well as tongue-firmly-affixed-in-cheek, “I Love L.A.” and “Short People” for his bosses at Disney, his kids, the media, me, and the rest of JazzFest. Maybe there are some balls left in Hollywood after all. (For further evidence of such balls, spend 99 cents and download “A Few Words In Defense Of Our Country” on iTunes.)

My last day of JazzFest, I took the streetcar to City Park with my friends, Rory and Dasan, in town from San Diego, and Mr. O’Neill, Rory’s dad, whom I’ve been staying with all week. It was on the streetcar that I encountered Completely Bizarre Celebrity Spotting Number One Of Three: Kristen Schaal, a.k.a. Mel, the stalker-super-fan from “Flight of the Conchords” a show that amuses me to no end. Walking around in search for food while at the festival, Completely Bizarre Celebrity Spotting Number Two Of Three: John C. Reilly, perfectly blended in with crowd in a hat and sunglasses. Grooving to Stevie Wonder, Completely Bizarre Celebrity Spotting Number Three Of Three: Michael Cerveris, who in all honesty, is only a celebrity to the community of Broadway geeks. (This prompted me to text my friend, Rachel, and her mom, Shira, who share an unnatural, mutual crush after seeing multiple performances of Cerveris as the botched sex-change chanteuse Hedwig in “Hedwig and the Angry Inch.” Shira’s text response? ‘Fuck You!! Lol!”) Upon consulting IMDB, turns out all three are in town filming “Cirque du Freaks” with Salma Hayek. Maybe not so random after all, but still arresting for someone who doesn’t expect to see what is commonplace around my neighborhood in New York City, or in L.A., or at Coachella for that matter, at my annual outing in New Orleans.

Stevie Wonder headlined on Friday. Once announced, instead of playing, he instead introduced his daughter, Aisha, who sings back-up, and said a few words about the recent death of his Mother, and called for a moment of silence for “all of those we lost during Hurricane Katrina.” He then proceeded to play three songs that I, and most of the crowd, didn’t recognize; an odd way to start a show, especially to a festival of tens of thousands. He later had the crowd dancing and singing along to “Higher Ground,” “Ma Cherie Amour,” “Signed, Sealed, Delivered, (I’m Yours)” and “Living For The City,” and brought up Irma Thomas to sing with him on “Shelter In The Rain,” which was one of the most profound unrehearsed moments I have ever had the privilege of witnessing.

As I attempt to re-read and edit this piece, which I have done often in the week following my experiences in New Orleans, with hopes of finding a way to end it, I am interrupted (of course, of all things) by my friend Alex’s MySpace bulletin, which simply states, “Katrina and New Orleans.” I obviously click it, and Alex writes that he “…just got back from a few days in New Orleans. I wasn’t there for Jazz Fest but a life-changing journey that took me to the front lines of poverty, racism, government ineptitude, and an extreme need for volunteers to bring hope, love, and labor to the city. I need some more time to further understand everything I experienced and then do a better job communicating why it is important for you to care and ultimately be involved.” I immediately dial his number, and we proceed to have an hour-long conversation that I am still having issues wrapping my brain around. Alex attended Coachella, like he’s done the past few years. Except this year, instead of returning on Monday to his job and life back in Venice after a weekend of fun and music in the desert, he boarded a bio-diesel bus with 150 or so other volunteers, bound for New Orleans. Sean Penn spoke at Coachella, because during Katrina he was in New Orleans, in a boat, pulling people from the water. He wanted to provide opportunity for a new generation of volunteers to be challenged to look and work beyond their day-to-day life. (His speech can be found on youtube if you are so inclined.) He paid for three buses, food, camping and provided volunteer experiences as well as transportation back to Southern California, in exchange for these 180 people to have their eyes and hearts opened to an experience that would be undoubtedly life changing.

The blessing and the curse of the essence of New Orleans is that it is not like anywhere else in the United States. (Post-Katrina, my mom has taken to calling it a developing nation) Hearing live music is not a privilege reserved for the wealthy, people drink on the street, cook with an amalgamation of spices specific to the region, bury the dead in above-ground plots because coffins cannot stay in the below sea-level flood grounds, and plan social events around crawfish boils, fishing trips and LSU football games. In speaking of life before The Thing, as many locals refer to it, it would be easy for any average-Joe American to understand New Orleans if it were like what we all know. It is even harder to understand after The Thing, because this mystical, unlike-any-other place has now had its insides torn apart, and is trying to sew, or have them sewn, back together into some semblance of order. Most of life would be easy to comprehend if it were in black or in white. It’s the grey area that makes it frustrating, irritating, uplifting and profound. Whether it is relating with others on the idiosyncratic-wonderfulness that make us who we are through an internet forum such as this one, or talking to visitors from all over the country about what is going on in this community, understanding is the component to how we connect to one another. New Orleans is looking for a little understanding. How we interpret and change what we see, be it my small contribution to raise money for the Tipitina’s Foundation and the musical culture of New Orleans, or Alex’s experience with the Dirty Hands Caravan to ‘inspire revolution as a job for the young,’ is up to us.

The outline of experiences that were offered to volunteers can be found on www.thedirtyhandscaravan.com and updates may be found on www.dosomething.org

If you want to read a beautiful account of the storm and its aftermath, check out Times-Picayune columnist Chris Rose’ 1 Dead In Attic, now in wide release, published by Simon and Schuster.

Donations can be made to Brad Pitt’s charity, www.makeitrightnola.org and Habitat for Humanity’s local chapter, www.habitat-nola.org, and to the Tipitina’s Foundation, www.tipitinasfoundation.org to help preserve the musical culture of Louisiana.

Spreading the Good Times

by Jonathan

In 2005, Socratic’s album Lunch for the Sky provided listeners with enough colorful, smile enducing piano driven rock songs to fuel the rest of summer’s memories as they faded in the rearview mirror. Now, with their new album Spread the Rumors, the band is back for another crack at becoming your soundtrack for the three hottest months. Produced by Mark Hoppus (front man for Blink 182 and +44), Spread the Rumors is a more diversified and fleshed out album than the band’s previous effort. Catchy songs like Boy in a Magazine and Contant Apology will have you singing along with them long after the CD has stopped spinning. Long Distance Calls does a respectful job of channelling Paul Simon (without the annoying Chevy Chase bits) while bringing its own Socratic spin. Trust me. Once the steel drum kicks in, you’ll be sold on this band. Maybe the meanest trick of the entire affair is the song May I Bum a Smoke, a love letter to toking-induced, carefree daydreams. I’m as straight laced straight edge as a guy can get and I still catch myself singing this incredibly fun song out loud constantly.

The second half of the album mellows out a bit (Spread the Rumors and The Diamond in a World of Coal) and makes for perfect nighttime driving music after the fun of a summer’s day has been had. The latter song (possibly my favorite of the bunch) will have you built up and elated during its final chorus in a way that only a really great rock ballads can. All in all, if what you’re looking for is a rock album that is at times poppy toe tapping melodies and other parts reflexive lyrical and instrumental arrangements, I don’t think you can be dissapointed with Spread the Rumors. I recently got a chance to talk with Socratic’s new bassist and lead singer Louis Panico. The following is what he had to say about recording the Spread the Rumors, becoming a member of the band and what to expect when you come see them live (which I recommend to all of you):

How long have you guys been working on this thing?

We had songs for a while. The last album was Lunch for the Sky in 2005, I think. And then we did a free EP. So this our second release. We had a few demos and recorded them in Ohio with a few friends of ours. We sent them along to Mark Hoppus and he said he wanted to do our record. We were like “cool”. We had those 5 songs. He was like “you wanna come in in 2 weeks?”. We were like “sure!” . We had 5 songs and two months to write the rest of our record. It was pretty cool. I mean, we had a few songs floating around for a while and that gave us a chance to just sit down and for a few weeks straight: just play, play a bunch of new material. It was cool.

If you guys went into the studio with just five songs, how much was he involved in the songwriting to flesh out the rest of the album?

All of the songwriting is ours. We did some preproduction with him, and he listened. He gave us thoughts on arrangements and stuff. “You need to make this part shorter, this part longer.” That was basically it as far as songwriting. We came in to record the songs. And he was a cool guy to work with. He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to write songs. He’s a good songwriter, obviously. So musically, when it came down to instruments, he gave his opinion. We asked him a bunch of questions. “What do you think we should do? This or that?” You know? His influence is definitely there. And I know when it came to the lyrics, he worked on a few things with us actually. He heard a line from us and then said “you know, maybe you can try this line this way”; change a few melodies here and there. He’s an awesome guy to work with.

When you and I talked the other night, you were describing this new album, in comparison to Lunch for the Sky, as a more fleshed out, fuller sound. I don’t really know what that means. I’m not a musician at all. Nor do I aspire to be!

Lunch for the Sky was a pretty long record. I actually, personally, wasn’t even a part of the band then. I wasn’t a part of that record and just overall that record was a bit longer, was more a “let’s just go out and play” type deal. This record is a lot more cohesive. A lot of the songs are shorter. They get to the point. We’re still ridiculous in the sense that Socratic is always going to be ridiculous. It’s pretty simple. Nothing’s too long. The whole record, I think, is 40 minutes. Maybe right around 40 minutes long so it’s pretty cool. There’re 12 tracks. And it flows. It flows very nicely.

What was the process of you coming into the band and becoming a part of the songwriting?

I’ve known them my whole life. I played guitar and sang in a band called The Showcase and before that a band called Blue Star Drive. All of the bands I’ve been in, I’ve known them. I’ve played with them. I live in the same town like 5 minutes away from Duane and Vinnie. I went to school with Kevin. I went to highschool with him. I knew him for a long (time), like very well. He had another band too. We’d always hang out and play music. It was very cool. What’s cool about Socratic, I think, is that everything’s split. And it’s cool because we all contribute and we all listen to each other. Even if someone else wrote an entire song, we play it and we’re like “oh man, let’s try this. Let’s try that.” Everyone’s very open. And everyone writes. I wrote all of my songs in my last band. I would write guitar even though I write bass now. And Duane obviously writes. Vinnie writes. And Kevin writes and Tom knows what’s up; our drummer. And Tom’s actually a really good guitar player. It works out.

If some of my listeners/viewers/readers aren’t too familiar with your band, how would you recruit them into your audience? How would you sell your band?

I would just tell them to give us a chance, to check us out. Come see us play. We all like playing. We enjoy it very much. We all have a good time. So just check us out is what I would say. In terms of our music and stuff, I think we’re fun. I think we’re just real down to earth people and I think it’s more than then music too when you come to check us out. We love to just hang out too. When you come watch the show, when we’re done we’re off stage. We’re hanging out at the bar. Whatever. I think Socratic is all about having a good time. And if you want to have a good time, come hang out with Socratic. That’s what I would say.

Socratic’s new album Spread the Rumors comes out Tuesday, May 6th everywhere. For more info or to hear a few tracks visit http://www.myspace.com/socratic

So Here’s Your Next Favorite Band…

by Noel Nocciolo

In 2005, Ludo released a five song rock-opera entitled Broken Bride, in which the protagonist builds a time machine to go back and save his love from her eminent death. In 2008, I’d like to build a time machine and go back to the other night at the Trocadero Theatre in Philadelphia and save myself from asking five guys I’ve known for the last five years the wrong questions. It’s not about how they were raised or how they feel about the state of our union. At the core of it, it is really just about five guys from Missouri, Texas and Nebraska, (three of which are vegans and no one, tour manager notwithstanding, own an iPhone). It’s also about their music, and more specifically their live show.

Ludo’s new album, recently released on Island Records, You’re Awful, I Love You, is well-recorded and a lot of fun, but to truly appreciate the band you are hearing, you have to see them live. You’re Awful is on heavy-rotation in my life, much like the last three albums from the Flaming Lips, but like fellow Midwesterners, it is all about the stage show. Granted, Ludo does not currently have dancing Santas and aliens onstage, but I am not ruling out that possibility, nor something similar, for the future. Ludo will be on the road most of 2008 and you must go see them. Period.

On stage left, there is guitarist Tim Ferrell. Tim is what you might get if you cross the guitar genius of Eric Clapton with the lightning-quick fingers of Dimebag Darrell. His vibe is understated: “I’m Not Putting On A Show, I Am Playing My Instrument Because This Is Who I Am And This Is What I Have Always Wanted To Do.” His demeanor is calm and thoughtful. When we talked in their dressing room after the show, he wore a Frank Zappa t-shirt and feasted on vegan junk food (I was as shocked as you that it exists!). Someone mentioned Perez Hilton and Ferrell truly did not know who that was. However, he did graduate from Notre Dame. This is refreshing and without irony.

On drums and bass guitar are Matt Palermo and Marshall Fanciullo respectively. Matt is the youngest of the group and possesses the kind of dry sense of humor found in a Christopher Guest movie. Marshall might be one of the most polite men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Their contribution to the Ludo Live Show is understated and completely perfect.

In the center of the stage is singer/guitarist Andrew Volpe. Another member of the band described Andrew to me years ago as a “human cartoon character.” He is indeed this, but it is not a slam. Gregarious, talented, and prone to the f-word and licking his guitar, Andrew is all that, and a bag of Wavy Lays. His way with words is humorously unlike any other modern band in pop music, case in point lyrics of single, “Love Me Dead”- ‘Kill me romantically, fill my soul with vomit then ask me for a piece of gum, bitter and dumb, you’re my sugarplum, you’re awful, I love you!”

On stage right is Moog player Tim Convy. In life and onstage, you get the sense that Convy is glue. He offsets the antics directly to his left with a sense of groundedness in introducing the band’s members, and saying hello to the city in which they are playing. He says to me just before walking onstage, “We’re in Philadelphia, right?” He is not joking or trying to come off as a rockstar who is too cool for school. Simply put, their tour in support of the Presidents Of The United States Of America, and the work that they and their label are accomplishing to fully break into the mainstream, is absolutely exhausting. Convy pulls double-duty as the business liason of the group, and the player of its quirky Moog. He works his ass off with a smile that cannot help but warm you.

If Ludo were a term paper, its thesis (like its press bio) would be “to entertain people without making them dumber.” The thesis is supported by smart lyrics and a solid stage presence. The conclusion is that they accomplish their thesis and the footnote is that you simply must buy their new record and go to a show.

A Three Word Breakdown with Phil Kosch of Treaty of Paris

by Noel Nocciolo

When I think of Irving Plaza in New York City, I think of a hip-hop show I attended, circa 2000. MC Supernatural played a game with the audience called, “three words,” in which he solicited the crowd for three random words. Anything. Everything. The only stipulation was that the words had to fit into the concept of the rhyme he was freestyling. I know one of the words was “antiseptic” and I believe another might have been “prophylactic.” Whatever it was, it all worked, and it was an extraordinary feat.

I recently returned to Irving Plaza (newly re-christened The Fillmore at Irving Plaza, like so many of our nations’ mid-size music clubs) as a guest of my friend, Phil Kosch, to see his band, Treaty of Paris. I decided that an abridged, more interview-like, version of Supernatural’s three word game would be a different, if not better, way of conducting an ‘interview’ with someone I know, whom I feel weird ‘interviewing’ in the first place. Here’s what Phil had to say:

Three Words:
1) To describe Yellowcard: acoustic. pop. tour.
2) Best Things About The Road In General: freedom. monotony. food.
3) Worst Things About The Road In General: not. seeing. friends/family.
4) To Describe The 2008 Presidential Race: too. much. press.
5) To Describe Your Hometown Of Woodridge, Illiniois: twenty-five. thousand. people.
6) That You Think When You See A Hot Girl At A Treaty Of Paris Show: my girlfriend. is. sexier. (I gave him four words on this one)
7) That Sum Up Your Experience(s) In Las Vegas While Making Your Record: I. cannot. tell.
8) People You Want To Invite To Dinner: Don Cheadle. Ghandhi. Sylvester Stallone.
9) Wishes That You Have For This Year: Spain. success. touring.
10) Things That Get You Out Of Bed In The Morning: music. the girl. the family.
11) Reasons You Think People Should Take The Time To Listen To Your Band: new. fresh. sexy.

Treaty of Paris recently released their label-debut, “Sweet Dreams, Suckers” on Andrew McMahon’s (Jack’s Mannequin/Something Corporate) Airport Tapes And Records. They are currently on tour with Yellowcard.

Why We Fly! Wilco in America!

by Noel Nocciolo

Wilco. One simple word evokes hyperbolic fodder from journalists. It seems as if every rock writer has commented in print on this band, and if they haven’t, they most definitely have commented loudly and boisterously in a bar over a round of drinks with their friends. Be it writing about Jeff Tweedy and his stint in rehab for prescription pills, or the oft-asked question in music magazines: “Is Wilco “’The American Radiohead?’” Or the most jaw-droppingly ridiculous Wilco-fact; that Warner Music Group refused to release 1999’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and when it was released, (under Nonesuch Records, which, hey! is under the umbrella of Warner Music, so Warner actually DID release it, after they bought their way out of the deal…so ironic and funny, huh?!) it sparked more hype than anyone could imagine, critical acclaim, x-amount of copies sold, changes to the lineup of the band, blah blah blah.

Yes. We know all of this. (And if we did not know this, I just gave you the Cliff’s Notes Version Of The Tired Facts About Wilco.) So let’s get down to it, shall we?

Ok, here goes: I love this band. I geek-out hard-core to this band. There are scores of others like me, thankfully; sanity in numbers. I am a Wilco-geek, and I blame my friend, Jack. It’s really all his fault. Two years ago, Jack’s band, Steel Train (which are also amazing, and if you have not yet heard them, you should…immediately, and you can blame this article on your newfound Steel Train geek-ness) played a festival in Florida that I attended. Wilco was on the bill, too, and since Jack had talked them up for awhile, I figured, what the hell, I’d check them out. Jack’s taste is (for the most part) pretty great. (He geeks-out to the soundtrack to Wicked……different strokes for different folks.) Their set knocked me on my ass, and the next day I bought Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and for one solid month, it did not leave my stereo. Every couple of months I would trek to my local record store and buy a new Wilco-journey. (Yes, I just wrote ‘Wilco-journey.’ Get over it.) The journey was a beautiful one; filled with the repeat button on my iPod for certain tracks that would remind me of the many fucked-up boys in my life who also love Wilco. Like evangelical Christians who want to coerce new churchgoers to their congregation, I then made mixed-cds for my parents and planned my summer trip home to California around when I could take Mom and Dad to see them at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. (Mom and Dad actually really loved them, and have now told all their friends, which, I’m sure, has contributed directly in AARP members adoration for Wilco, and to Starbucks’ soaring record sales of 2007’s Sky Blue Sky.)

It probably will come as no surprise that when I heard the announcement of a five night residency in their hometown of Chicago, in which they promised to play everything they had ever recorded, I knew that my inner geek-dom had found a new level and that I needed to be there. The TicketBastard gods smiled upon me, and I scored tickets without issue for the two nights I wanted. I booked my flight, bought long underwear for the below-zero Chicago-in-February-weather, and I went.

And I cried. And I text-messaged fellow Wilco-geeks from the show. And I drank lots of whiskey. And I laughed at Jeff Tweedy’s admittedly lame in-between-songs banter. And I debated with my girlfriend which member of the band was more delicious. And I got irritated when she told me that they’re all married and (mostly) with children, minus one who is (apparently and rightfully so) a total player. And I worshipped at the altar of greatness. The shows were awesome. They played a core set of songs each night, along with a sprinkling of randomness. My first night, Monday, opened with “Blue-Eyed Soul” off A.M.; the song that happened to be playing the moment over a year ago when I realized that drama with one of the opposite sex in which I had become entangled was not worth the stress. From there, the beautiful “Remember The Mountain Bed” from the Mermaid Avenue sessions with hipster-violinist Andrew Bird sitting in for embellishment and “Bob Dylan’s 49th Beard”; a B-side from the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot era. My tears flowed during the absolutely unexpected “We’re Just Friends” and “My Darling”; songs from Summerteeth which had not been played since 1999, and songs that for me, were heaven. They brought out a horns section, which enhanced the beauty in “Walken” and “Monday.” Start to finish, it was pure bliss, but the icing on the cake was the fans. Every single person in that theatre could not imagine being anywhere else. It was nearly a three-hour show, and I sincerely doubt that anyone left early. Even the security guards were pleasant as a result of the overall energy of the fan-ness of the room.

My second show, I arrived early and snagged a spot in the front, stage left, against the railing, so that my photographer-friend could dip in and out of the photo pit, and so that I could really get in touch with my inner-crazy. The guy in front of me sported a LebowskiFest “Achiever” tee and a positive attitude which was unparalleled. Every couple of songs he would say to my friend and I, “Ladies! Are we still having the best night ever?” His joy was completely without sarcasm. The guy behind me arrived solo and said that he had “moved heaven and earth for a ticket,” and offered to buy a fellow fan a drink; which I declined due to the fact that there was no way I was sacrificing the killer spot for a trip to the ladies room. During the second part of the set, the horns came out for “The Thanks I Get,” “Hate It Here,” “I’m A Wheel” and most notably “I’m The Man Who Loves You,” at which time Jeff Tweedy looked up to the stage left box, about fifty feet above me, and said, “I love you, Susie!!” to his wife. I noticed that during “Hate It Here,” Mrs. Tweedy shook her head as if to say, “why does my husband lie to millions of people?” during the verse, ‘I do the dishes, I mow the lawn.’ Case in point, behind every great man is one hell of an amazing woman.

As I close this bit of remembrance, I am reminded of something Jack once said. When asked about hanging out in New York City’s most “in” neighborhoods, he said that he would choose the Lower East Side over the Meatpacking District, because at least the cool-kids drinking over-priced cocktails had heard of Wilco. Where the Riviera Theatre differed from the Lower East Side, was that the “cool” was shed, and gave room only for joy. It bubbled over and I felt like I was a part of a club of people who were there solely for the music, not for the hype of journalists. The music was a part of them, and it was a ComiCon-esque pilgrimage for Wilco fans.

I continued on my “Let’s-continue-to-fly-cool-places-to-see-Wilco” trip, and went to both performances at Tipitina’s; a small club in uptown New Orleans. And when I say small club, I’m talking small like the El Rey Theatre in LA or Irving Plaza in NYC. I’m talking up close and personal, in my case, five feet from the stage on the right, making sex-eyes at the delicious guitarist.

But I digress.

I went to the second of the two shows with my friend, Rachelle: New Orleanian, wife, beer company executive, bass player of ManWitch; all-female punk rock outfit and mother of eight-month-old, Ruby Rose. Simply put, Rachelle is punk-rock. Wilco shows are not punk-rock. At the end of the day, what are you gonna do?

The shows were great. The vibe in the club was not. We heard unbelievably popular “A Magazine Called Sunset” and New Orleans-native John Stirratt’s “It’s Just That Simple” with Jeff Tweedy backing him up on the bass. We also got more marijuana smoke than The Dead or Widespread Panic at Bonnaroo, and people who, literally, elbowed you out of their way with not as much as an acknowledgment, so that they could check the caucus results from their iPhone. The vibe was so palpably not the norm, that Jeff Tweedy made a comment the first night, (regarding the weed) something to the effect of “whoa….you guys are really stoned……is that legal down here?” His tone was that of simple straight-forward-ness, NOT the tone of ‘yes it’s cool to be high, someone please pass me the joint.’ On the second night, Tweedy asked if the crowd was performing some sort of voodoo-like shape-shifting, and asked drummer Glenn Kotche, to “get us out of this.” Judging by both the intangible vibe and the tangible setlist, ‘this’ must have meant, “I’m tired of being mellow, let’s rock and maybe this weird crowd will rock with us?” Kotche began “Heavy Metal Drummer,” which began the set’s rock and roll finish.

After being shushed by a fan taking Rachelle and my (very VERY brief) conversation personally, and having the girl next to us, literally, pass out and drop to the floor, she decided that the Wilco crowd needed…something…perhaps a bit of punk rock? She ran into a friend who accidentally spilled beer on her (red, poufy, very loud) head of hair, and decided that we were not going to beat it, OR join them, it was going to be something else entirely. We were going to become the people that I loathe at shows; it was really to be the night’s only salvation. Rachelle’s friend poured his Miller High Life all over himself, all over Rachelle, and all over me. We laughed at the spontaneous ridiculousness. Those around us did not. I made devil horns and repeatedly yelled “Punk’s Not Dead!” On that note, we decided that we were done stirring the pot, and clawed our way to our rightful place at the side of the stage, away from the (lame) crowd.

Wilco is magic, but my checking account, and emotional availability, is thankful that the band’s next stop on the tour is Sydney. After all, at the end of four shows in two different states, how many more times can you laugh, cry, jump up and down, and have beer spilled down your chest?

Do Australians get this worked up over Wilco? Maybe I should find out sometime…