I’ve always found the "American Radiohead" tag Wilco are often given to be a little rushed and vacant. However, if there is one similarity that both bands possess: the ability to create beautiful records that are somehow met with indifference and apathy upon first listen. I’ve never really loved any Wilco record from the off. Even Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, which I now consider to be one of my favourite records of all time, initially stirred nothing in me. Their inability to smack people in the face upon first listen is not so much down to their lack of gusto, snarl or sonic power but more down to the sheer level of depth and intricacy within their records. This album is no different; I could almost hear my apathetic exhalations ring out over the closing moments of the CD’s first play. Now, after hitting double figures in playback’s, the sighs have turned into relative gasps. They are a crafty bunch.
Some have accused Wilco of softening in recent years, even the term "dad-rock" being wildly and unfairly batted around. Since Sky Blue Sky they have had two new members to settle into the group permanently, multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone and Nels Cline; the latter begs the question, how the fuck do you fit Nels Cline into a pre-existing band without it becoming the Nels Cline show? This settling in period has now reached their third album and is perhaps now over - Cline now feels integrated into the band, rather than it sounding like Wilco and Nels Cline, as it occasionally did on the previous two records. While Wilco have certainly matured, sonically and emotionally, to say they are lacking as a result, would be a gross mis-understatement.
'Art Of Almost' is the album’s opening monster. A seven minute mesh of schizophrenic, manic sounds that range from the In Rainbows-like openings, through the distinctly Wilco middle section, ending amidst a sea of cacophonic guitars courtesy of Nels Cline (and with a distinct nod to German music of the '70s). It is almost a direct continuation of the preceding album’s most hysterical moment 'Black Bull Nova'. Wilco are almost playful in crazed offerings such as these, giving an indication that they are more than capable of producing an album full of such frenzied sonic expulsions – maybe one day we’ll be treated to it. ‘I Might’ has a gloriously rambunctious feel to it, and, while meticulously executed, it almost possesses the fuzzy charm of garage-poppers The Monks, as the organ keys tinker their way through with playful delight. 'Born Alone' captures most accurately where Wilco "are" as a band right now, simultaneously capturing the shredding guitar and pop-hooks, with the refrained, often deep and delicate textures and instrumental complexities.
There are some wonderful Tweedy lyrical moments too, the opening line of 'Open Mind' - “I would throw myself under the wheels of any train of thought” - almost embodying Tweedy’s own often detrimental plunge into his own mind and music.
'Capitol City' feels uncomfortable, like Wilco trying to squeeze themselves into another style instead of a natural extension of the band's own sonic gravitation. 'Standing O' too feels like the band is a little out of sorts, the rootsy-rocky number perhaps attempting to revisit the Wilco of old, endeavouring to trade on past glories once achieved over a decade ago on 'Being There', here proving both unsuccessful and wholly unnecessary.
The closing triplet of 'Rising Red Lung', 'The Whole Love' and 'One Sunday Morning' lays the album to bed smoothly and softly. The closer - twelve minutes of mid-tempo rock - should be a drag but is instead a delight. It feels like a distant relative to 'Spiders (Kidsmoke)' from A Ghost Is Born, which was deeply indebted to the soundscapes and repetitions of Neu!, with flurries of bursting guitars that made it a romping rollercoaster of a song. Here, we have the same length and the same use of repetition, but an ever delicate and simplistic guitar hook and gorgeous piano are the song's core, as a steady and delicate beat ticks things along. Tweedy’s vocals perhaps strike deepest here, displaying what a deeply emotive power his voice is capable of containing, even in its simplest form. Wilco have ingrained their ability to merge emotion and experimentation into their sonic mould. Where normally the two struggle to meet, Wilco have found a perfect breeding ground where sincerity and earnestness can lie alongside flat out craziness and nerve-shredding sonic assaults. As always, the results are unpredictable and often mixed, but no less intoxicating.