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Contents on this page were published in the June/July, 1995 edition of the Washington Free Press.
WFP, 1463 E. Republican #178, Seattle, WA -USA, 98112. -- WAfreepress@gmail.com
Copyright © 1995 WFP Collective, Inc.
MUSIC REVIEWS
BY
LANCE DAVIS
Like most people I know I'm probably too damn cynical when it comes to music appreciation. However, the first time I heard Uncle Tupelo I was emotionally moved in a way usually reserved for the taste of a home-cooked meal, the curve of a woman's hips, and the L.A. Lakers. Here was a band that managed to pitch tents in both the pre- and post-punk camps, as comfortable drawing inspiration from Leadbelly and Hank Williams as they were the Minutemen and Black Flag. And lyrically, this band was second-string to no one (pick any icon and, to my ears, they hold up). Featuring the two-headed genius of Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy, Uncle Tupelo could offer the barroom philosophizing and homespun socio-politics of Merle Haggard and John Fogerty, but also the tender, lovesick homilies of Maria McKee at her best.
Unfortunately, 1994 brought with it sudden, shocking news of D-I-V-O-R-C-E. In many ways, I suppose, the tension that helped to create four memorable albums also proved to be the band's epitaph. But life (and music) goes on, and it wasn't long before bootleg tapes of Jeff Tweedy's new band, Wilco, were circulating among the Uncle Tupelo faithful. (FYI: Tapes of Jay Farrar's solo album have also surfaced on the 'Net, but an official release date has yet to be announced). Finally, in late March, Wilco's album A.M. (Reprise) was released, and to my heart's contentment, it pretty much picked up where Tweedy's Anodyne songs left off. In fact, five musicians from that landmark LP also play on A.M. In addition to Tweedy, there's John Stirratt on bass and vocals, Max Johnston on lap steel, dobro, fiddle, mandolin, and banjo, Ken Coomer on drums, and Lloyd Maines on pedal steel. And while lead guitar work on the album is ably handled by Brian Henneman from the rootsy bar band The Bottle Rockets, Jay Bennett will be filling those shoes on tour.
A back-porch blend of rock, folk, and country, with Tweedy's cracked tenor in top form, A.M.'s simple, catchy melodies recall other sweethearts of the country-rock rodeo like Gram Parsons, The Jayhawks, Tonight's the Night-era Neil Young, and even the past two Lemonheads albums. And not surprisingly, the overall theme of the record is the loss inherent in breaking up, and change as a result of that loss. This is a collection of bittersweet yarns from the smoking section, certainly applicable to any failed relationship, but anyone looking for insight into the Farrar/Tweedy fallout need only listen to the album's opening lines: "You, always wanted more time/ To do, what you wanted to do." Perhaps the most biting attack on Farrar, though, be found on the album's closing cut, "Too Far Apart," when Tweedy spits out, "Is it really punk rock, like a party line?/ Do you have to think about that?/ Can I give you some time?/ 'Cause when I really needed you, you were gone/ So long..."
And though A.M.'s obvious point of departure is the Uncle Tupelo breakup, there are a few other lyrical stones overturned. "Casino Queen" is a boot-stompin' sing-along about losing all of your money gambling, and it bears more than a passing resemblance to "Happy" from Exile on Main Street. "Passenger Side" sounds like a gin-soaked first-take about, what else, drinking and driving, and it features one of the great Neil Young references ("Roll another number for the road/ You're the only sober person I know"). And when Stirratt takes a turn at the mic for his haunting lament "It's Just That Simple," he sounds like Jerry Garcia circa Workingman's Dead.
Despite the feeling of loss and bitterness which permeates this album, I can't help thinking that this is one of the most therapeutic albums I've heard in some time. Intentionally or not, this is music as catharsis. Recently, while driving north on a lonesome strip of Interstate 5, I came to the dismal realization that my life and the lives of nearly everyone I knew seemed out-of-control and groundless. And there, between rest stops in central Oregon, and teetering of the edge of depression, I heard Jeff Tweedy sing, "Your life's been stinking, your heart's been shrinking, and you're too busy thinking to stop/ You blink and you're blue." I realized then that there's more to life than morbid self-pity. There's the taste of a home-cooked meal, the curve of a woman's hips, and the L.A. Lakers. And there's also Wilco
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