As far as contemporary rock albums go, Wilco’s 2002 release “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” is pretty much as good as it gets. Seamlessly fusing country, folk and straight-ahead rock, the record manages to be unabashedly strange without a whiff of pretentiousness. Songs like “Jesus, Etc.” combine vivid lyrics and unique melodies in a way that is surprisingly accessible despite a concerted effort to avoid pandering. My only complaint is that some of the noise breakdowns sound a bit too much like a baby in a blender, but that’s just nitpicking.
With their new release, “Sky Blue Sky,” Jeff Tweedy and company have produced a decidedly simpler album. Sticking mainly to a blueprint of ’70’s classic rock, Wilco has delivered a record your father would love – not that this is necessarily a bad thing, (your dad’s hip – he wears jeans, he owns a bong) it just seems like an unlikely step in the band’s notable progression.
Technically, the group has never been better. Newish additions Nels Cline (guitar) and Glenn Kotche (drums) effectively flesh out a sound that is complementary to Jeff Tweedy’s lyrics yet still successfully creates a personality of its own. Nowhere is this advancement more apparent than on the album’s best track, “Side With the Seeds,” which puts Cline’s anthemic playing on full display as he shreds convincingly enough to make Keith Richards blush – if he still has sensation anywhere in his body.
Strangely the album still comes off a bit monotone. Frontman Tweedy’s traditionally poignant lyrics, previously the paramount feature of Wilco’s music, manage to carry about as much weight as Gandhi in space. Lines like “What am I gonna do when I run out of shirts to fold?/ What am I gonna do when I run out of lawn to mow?” don’t really tug on the heartstrings.
Fans of Wilco’s more granola efforts will appreciate the Elliott Smith-esque “Please Be Patient With Me” that harkens back to the band’s “Mermaid Avenue” days with its stark simplicity and sparse arrangement. Other highlights include the upbeat “What Light” (a rumored single) that sounds like something Tom Petty might have written in his wettest dreams.
Ultimately, it’s futile to denounce a band this talented. These guys could form a death-metal barbershop quartet, and I’d still be in the front row flashing them my sweater muffins. The difficulty lies in improving on the relative perfection of “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” something that no one really has the right to expect. Understandably, the band comes up a bit short, but the album is by no means a disappointment. Here’s hoping the next record will be the one to give them the super-stardom they so richly deserve. Until then, your best bet is to put on “Jesus, Etc.” and start looking for your dad’s glassware.