Saw Wilco last night at NU's spring concert. The opener was Elliott Smith, the sensitive singer/songwriter who apparently has a drug and numbness problem. Enough of the other usual sources will write about this better than I: Ellen – The Daily. (Other links to follow.)
My theory is that Wilco messes with him every time he falls asleep on the plane ride. The boys sneak back to Smith's coach seat, whispering. "Jeff, he's gonna wake up!" "Shhh! Shut up, no he's not." Then Tweedy sticks Smith's fingers in the cup of ice water, and they run back to the front of the plane, giggling. (Again in the safety of first class, they realize that cup of ice sounded really cool. Upon landing, they locate the nearest refridgerator and set up the four-track in the freezer. MP3s are available within hours.)
But, for all their infernal meddling with the sonic nature of the universe, Wilco had a spirit last night. Not had spirit — the most pathetic musician has spirit. Wilco had a spirit — a driving kernel sitting somewhere in the back of each of their minds, a body-transcendent rock image of themselves and nobody else.
They have reached a point where Wilco's biggest influence is Wilco, and the stage, while still high and wide, never seems to realize how empty it really is. There were only four guys up there. Confidence does so much for rock, but confidence in awareness can do so much more.
