Feelin’ a mellower mood tonight. Or rather, like I might have been bitten by a tsetse fly. I’m beat, but before the African sleeping sickness completely overtakes me, I’m gonna chill a bit with the new Wilco album, Sky Blue Sky (Nonesuch Records).

I don’t get around to much Wilco back at home base, mostly because a certain friend of mine is a freakin’ nut for them. Hanging out with him almost always involves: copious amounts of beer, sometimes brewed by him (we like us our barley and hops, what of it?); bad movies (I don’t know how we went one more day without checking out Gingerdead Man…Gary Busey in da house!); and, oh yeah, after he’s got a little sauce in him, there’s about a 99% chance of Wilco. Sometimes an LP, sometimes the I Am Trying to Break Your Heart movie. There’s a moderate chance of Uncle Tupelo, but strangely, rarely any Son Volt, although I know he’s got it. I rarely mind, depending on my level of drunkitude. There are sure as shit worse friends to have than Wilco fans.

I am, however, certainly enjoying having this one to myself for right now, not having seen mi amigo since I got a hold of it. Oh, we’ll share the experience eventually, toasting Jeff Tweedy’s talent while declaring undying platonic love for each other. Then he’ll go puke in the bathroom sink and I’ll pass the fuck out on the air mattress on the living room floor while watching his well-worn VHS copy of Demon Knight. (Shit, I should call that fucker, see what he’s doing this weekend…)

The band in question, I’m assuming, need no introduction, so…what’s the deal with this Sky Blue Sky? It’s been in stores since May, I’m a little late to the party, but that’s my m.o., baby! In my ‘tardy opinion…not blown away, but another solid effort from a damn solid outfit. You won’t hear the fuck-it-let’s-try-it experiments of the last two records. No oddball noises or voice samples, no droning passages or soundscape kinda stuff. They seem content to play it pretty straight this time, but it suits them because it doesn’t sound like a throwback to earlier material. It’s just another step on the Wilco path. Not the countryish twang of A.M., not the sunny pop of Summerteeth, but what Tweedy and company were feeling when they went into the studio. In the interest of complete disclosure, I do kinda miss the “damn, what are they gonna do next?” vibe I got from the last two, but Sky really sounds like a band comfortable in its own skin, with nothing to prove. Besides, it’s not like “normal” pop rock tunes with guitar, bass and drums topped with “Ooh, babe, I miss you.” The creativity on display here is more akin to the Band. You won’t be wowed by how “out there” Wilco can get, but if you’re inclined to liking intelligent, confident songcraft, give ‘er a shot. Piano, Hammond organ, lap steel, Mellotron and more all create a warm, friendly atmosphere. Kingpin Tweedy’s words still tend towards relationship matters, but often open to interpretation. They convey a mood without being specific, which is a true songwriting talent. Forgive me while I quote a lengthy chunk of “You Are My Face”: “I remember my mother’s / Sister’s husband’s brother / Working in the goldmine full-time / Filling in for sunshine / Filing into tight lines / Of ordinary beehives / The door screams I hate you / Hate you hanging around my blue jeans / Why is there no breeze / No currency of leaves / No current through the water wire / No feelings I can see / I trust no emotion / I believe in locomotion / But I’ve turned to rust as we’ve discussed / Though I must have let you down / Too many times / In the dirt and the dust”. Incidentally, the harmony vocals as the verses lazily jangle along remind me of “The Boxer” by Simon & Garfunkel. It doesn’t sound like it, and I’m probably just addled by sleeping sickness, but there it is. The twin lead guitars towards the end of “Impossible Germany” (while a third plays rhythm – fuck yeah!) come off like a languid Thin Lizzy. (By the way…if your musical diet doesn’t include a healthy dose of Thin Lizzy, four out of five doctors agree you likely have poor eyesight and erectile dysfunction. Hey, I have no medical background, I just report the facts.) “Sky Blue Sky” lopes along with a down-home lilt that comes effortlessly to these guys. “Please Be Patient with Me” is a heartfelt plea to a partner, and I’m playing it for my girlfriend the next time I see her, as it articulates in 3 minutes 19 seconds what my paralyzed tongue can’t. “What Light” exhorts all, “If you feel like singing a song / And you want other people to sing along / Just sing what you feel / Don’t let anyone say it’s wrong”. The chorus is simple, catchy as hell, and kinda dumb. Also stuck in my head at work today the entire time I’m listening to some woman tell me she wants her account number changed because it ends in 666. Instead of telling her that’s AWESOME like I should, I let the song play in my head while she implored me in some indeterminate accent, “Because dat is de mark of de debbil.” (Ah…sometimes I like my job.) “On and On and On” ends things on a pseudo-hopeful note with a mid-tempo piano riff, because “we’ll stay together yeah” but still “we’re designed to die”. I’m thinking of having it play at my funeral, right after “Baby Got Back” but before “Fuck Christmas”.

OK…I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that avant-garde guitar hero Nels Cline is on board to further elevate these tunes out of the realm of “ordinary” rock/pop. His sheer control of his six strings is striking, and a perfect fit, especially if you’ve heard him freak out on his own, or with Mike Watt or others. (Check out the Live at Perkins’ Palace disc from Banyan for some primo 70s Miles Davis style skronk ‘n skree!) Also, Jim O’Rourke didn’t produce this like he did Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost Is Born (Wilco did it themselves). As an ex-member of Sonic Youth and countless explorations of the outer reaches of sound on his own and in a group context, he doubtless had an impact on those two beloved albums. He’s on board here for a little acoustic guitar as well as string arrangements. (For those of you who care about such things. Don’t fret none, I’m one of you. I understand.)

That’s really about it. I’m pretty sure the guy next door hates me and may be breeding tsetse flies. Before the sleeping sickness totally engulfs me, I’m gonna go smash his window and bust a bottle over his head. Just to be sure. Good night.

Maxwell Custer will have a profile page next week. This editor swears. Or he'll buy the beer next time they're out.

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