It’s a chilly Wednesday afternoon and Tulsa’s Woody Guthrie Center is playing host to a signing event. This was the deal: RSVP in advance for free entry (no day-of tickets available), endure a security check that would make the most diligent of border control officers look like a fumbling amateur, then stand in line for thirty minutes awaiting a brief audience with the visiting celebrity.
“Mr. Tweedy”, as one of the WGC’s documents repeatedly and rather formally refers to him will sign no more than two items per person and only things that were bought by attendees as they were corralled into the merchandise table bottleneck on their way into the center. Such were the specific instructions and requirements to get items signed (books open on the page that he prefers to sign, album covers presented with the side to be signed clearly indicated) that the unfamiliar might have expected the aforementioned Mr. Tweedy to be sat upon a shimmering throne, reluctantly dispensing autographs to a stream of pitiful, obsequious plebeians.
But, of course not. Because this ain’t just any old Mr. Tweedy. This is Jeff.
In the dimmed lighting of the Guthrie Center, under the watchful eye of what seemed like a small company of gruff looking minders, Tweedy sits behind a black cloth-covered table, almost lost among the glass display cases that contain Guthrie-related artefacts and photos. To his right, there’s enough bottled water to keep him running to the restroom all night; to his left, a collection of black Sharpie pens that would be the envy of any office supplies vendor; and directly in front of him, a queue of loyal followers, snaking its way through various galleries, each clutching their recent purchases, each eager for the visitor to endorse them with an indecipherable squiggle.
Mr. Tweedy, or Jeff as I’m sure he prefers to be known, exhibits none of the celebrity self-importance that the preparations might have suggested. With his characteristic cheeky grin, he is welcoming and affable and, in his boyish mid-Western accent, he engages each person in friendly small talk while signing their various Tweedy and Wilco-centric purchases. The person ahead of me in the line compliments Jeff on his band’s show last night at the nearby Cain’s Ballroom. Tweedy thanks him and says he hopes they play a better show tonight. There’s the icebreaker I needed. When it comes to my turn, I ask, “Did I just hear you just say that you hope you’ll play a better show tonight? How could that be possible?” Jeff snickers, grins and almost shyly thanks me for my fawning praise. He then begins to search for the Post-It notes in my books that indicate where he should apply his signature and the name of the complete stranger he is signing it to.
As we chat, he notices our accents and asks my wife and I which parts of the U.K. we hail from. I tell him I grew up in the Portsmouth area of Hampshire, which elicits from him a completely blank look and no comment. My wife tells him she’s from the Sheffield area. His face lights up. “That’s where the Human League are from, right?” he asks, rhetorically, “and Gang of Four. I’m friends with their drummer Hugo. I like to know as much as I can about the non-London bands.” I avoid the pedantic instinct to point out that Hugo and his gang were actually from Leeds (maybe Jeff was thinking of the county, not the city, and I guess another 35 miles up the M1 is close enough) and instead, Mr. T and I have a brief discussion about the enduring greatness of ‘Entertainment!’, Gang Of Four’s 1979 debut album. After that, there’s a quick, “Thanks Jeff – see you tonight”, and we’re done.
Jeff is in town because the rest of Wilco are too. Their two Tulsa dates are sandwiched between three nights in Austin, Texas and three in St. Paul, Minnesota. Dubbed ‘The Shows FKA Winterlude’, this mini-tour will be the band’s last shows of 2024. Winterlude was the name given to the traditional Wilco residency that took place for several years in Chicago. FKA revives the concept, but breaks from the norm, taking the show to some of their favourite venues outside of the windy city. Fortunately for Tulsans, the consistently wonderful Cain’s Ballroom is a great favorite of Wilco’s and makes it onto their short list of special places. As the beloved venue nears the end of its centennial celebrations, what more fitting highlight could there be than a brace of Wilco shows?
Okay, consider this: The Shows FKA Winterlude is billed as “no repeats.” This means that whether they play twice or thrice in each venue, no song will be performed more than once during those shows. There’s no opening act, just Wilco playing what is really one long set punctuated by a short intermission that probably serves as a bathroom break. Excluding their trips to the little boys’ room, across the two nights the band are on stage for 345 minutes, not far short of six hours performance time, during which they serve up at least one song from each of their thirteen studio albums, one from this year’s “Hot Sun Cool Shroud” EP, a couple from the “Alpha Mike Foxtrot: Rare Tracks” compilation, a few from their “Mermaid Avenue” collaboration with Billy Bragg and one from the “Loose Fur” ‘supergroup’ album. Sixty-eight songs in total. For music fans seeking value for money, I think we may have found it right here.
It is surely some measure of the quality of a band’s catalogue that they can play sixty-eight songs without a cover version in sight and still leave fans disappointed that they didn’t get to hear more of their personal favourites. For sure, there are several songs I wish had been included, but I’m already wondering how on earth Jeff remembers the lyrics to that many songs and how the band can perform them all so tightly and with seemingly effortless precision and virtuosity. However they do it and thank goodness they do.
Even if I had planned to consider the two nights separately, I don’t think I could have. The buzz of the first show, the one that Mr. Tweedy seemed to feel was in some way substandard, lingered delightfully through the ensuing twenty-four hours until the second show, and felt a bit like a prolonged wait between the main set and the encore, but without the stomping and applause.
Wilco amble on stage with Tweedy looking particularly cheery and happy to be here. As he heads toward his position marked by an array of effects pedals on the floor and on a small table next to him, guitarist Nels Cline holds his hands in a praying gesture of gratitude that appears to be directed as much to the guitar techs offstage to his right as to the adoring audience facing him. This is hardly surprising, really. Those guitar techs have got a busy night ahead of them. After almost every song, there are guitar changes for Cline, Tweedy and multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone. John Stirratt gets in on the act too, switching out his bass several times. Even the drum tech flits on and off stage between songs, adding or removing percussion paraphernalia to or from Glenn Kotche’s kit. I know the use of a such a cornucopia of guitars is due to the different tunings and sounds required for each song, but after a while even the most musically sympathetic viewer must begin to wonder if they’re making all these changes just to show off their immense instrument collection. Whatever the case, theirs must be among hardest working tech crews in the business and, based on the results of their endeavours, one of the best.
It’s rewarding to see so many newer and, dare I say, younger fans in the Wilco audience. Tweedy notices this too. During one pause between songs, as Nels Cline is handed his Jerry Jones all-white, double-neck, longhorn guitar, Tweedy asks a young lady in the front row if it’s her first Wilco show. She nods in confirmation, prompting him to apologize – “I’m so sorry you had to see this guitar at your first Wilco show.” Another pre-teen hangs over the safety barrier, transfixed by what he’s experiencing. The band notice him too, and he walks away from the gig with pair of drumsticks, Jorgensen’s set list and, get this, a vocal microphone, all handed to him by band members. What a special night for that young man. Cynics might say they’re currying favor to ensure they have an audience when all of us old bastards are long gone. The realist would say they are just cool, caring, kind people.
As is normal for Wilco at Cain’s or elsewhere, the sound is near impeccable. If there’s one very minor criticism it’s that, during some songs, Mikael Jorgensen’s contribution, such a critical element of their studio recordings, seems to be somewhat back in the mix. Having said that, I’m in the second row from the stage so I may be missing some of the front of house sound. Jorgensen seems perfectly content and sits studiously in his keyboard compound, at some points looking like he has in front of him a physics dissertation that he’s proof-reading before submission.
In all his chiseled-jaw, high-cheekboned, shaggy-haired handsomeness, Glenn Kotche actually looks a bit stern, with just an occasional smile, but despite this, I’m sure he is extremely cheerful inside – I certainly would be if I could work my way around a drum kit like that guy can. Always original and inventive, it’s little wonder he looks so focused. And in what seems like well-earned recognition of his drumming dynamics, on the second night he gets to do a drum solo, something I never imagined I’d witness at a Wilco show.
As the evening progresses, that entirely organic cycle of audience enthusiasm fuelling the band’s performance which in turn increases the level of enthusiasm soon kicks in and eventually, as audience and band alike settle and relax into their groove, everything seems to switch into a joyous autopilot with everyone, band included, being carried along and wondering what’s coming next. For his part, Jeff seems so excited by the whole thing that he’s dancing about in a style not entirely unreminiscent of Jack Black in “School of Rock”!
There are many highlights and a handful of oddities. ‘Art Of Almost’ is delivered with a spacey, desert feel, something akin to a jazzy, Doors-like jam. ‘How To Fight Loneliness’ takes on an Hispanic theme, with Jeff soloing on acoustic guitar, and ‘Kamera’ is given a very interesting post-punk grunge treatment.
The sets on both nights nicely balance gentler acoustic material with songs that are, at least in their live format, resplendent with extended lead breaks, guitar jams, interactions and duels. Cline deservedly receives many plaudits for the inventiveness and dexterity of his guitar work and this performance gives no reason for that to cease. But not be overlooked are both Sansone and Tweedy, neither of them shirkers when it comes to displaying their guitar chops. Notable, of course, is a stellar version of ‘Impossible Germany’ (see my video here) that sees Nels at his very best, but equally so, a breathtaking version of ‘Kingpin’, a song Wilco have barely played live in the past decade, that has Nels and Pat shooting guitar riffs across the stage at each other as if in a sonic tennis rally. With Sansone providing brilliant solo work, ‘Bird Without a Tail / Base of My Skull’ is somewhat heavier than the version on “Cruel Country’”but no less pleasing.
In terms of album representation, fourth after “A Ghost Is Born”, “Sky Blue Sky” and “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” is “A.M.”, which contributes six songs to these sets. Glenn apparently has some objection to Jeff introducing songs as being “from our first album”, which of course means Tweedy defiantly continues to do so. But it’s pleasing that he does, as among the songs drawn from their almost thirty-year-old debut is a raucous version of the riff-heavy ‘Casino Queen’ and a ringing, upbeat ‘Box Full of Letters’. I could go on describing version differences and notable idiosyncrasies of songs throughout the set, but that would simply turn into a list in which there genuinely wasn’t a low point.
You know that Dawes track, the one in which Taylor Goldsmith expresses his hope that, “…all your favourite bands stay together”? That song seems to spring to mind nowadays when I’ve just seen Wilco. I’m really not a philistine living in denial of healthy musical evolution and change, but it really is very hard to imagine that a different Wilco line-up would be able to thrill and captivate quite like this one. So, I appreciate Taylor’s sentiment and I hope that Wilco do precisely what he hopes.
I’m fairly sure that most live music lovers maintain somewhere a list of the top ten gigs they’ve attended in their lifetime. I know I do, and following these Wilco shows at Cain’s Ballroom, my list got a shake up and the gig that was at the top has been deposed. Wilco are often referred to as the ‘Best Live Band in America’, a daunting mantle to carry, but that task must become a great deal easier if, in fact, you actually are the best live band in America. And, frankly, based upon this showing, it would take a whole lot to wrestle that title away from Wilco right now.
