Wilco in happier times

The double-bill of Wilco and Richard Thompson this past November 9th in New York spawned a fury of invective from fanatical trolls on e-mail lists all across the world wide web. Jordan Hoffman was there, and has tried to piece together just what went wrong, if anything at all.

Tix
It was some Saturday afternoon in early October. I was laying in bed, awake, though not conscious, hungover and mealy-mouthed, blasting Metallica's "Garage Inc." hoping it would bring some life back into me. The phone rang, and it was John J. I hadn't seen or spoken to John J. since the free Sonny Rollins show in Damrosch Park in August of '98. It was an afternoon I didn't remember fondly, as I spent most of it dealing with The Girl who was weeping and hostile about something that seemed really important at the time. I had also been doing my best to reserve seats for Beth and James. Reserving seats for someone at a free concert in New York is a Sisyphusian task, and it allows you to see up close the meanest, rudest, and most heavily accented of our city's population. I haven't sworn off free shows entirely, but since that afternoon my policy has consistently been every-man-for-himself, maybe-I'll-see-ya, maybe-I-won't.

John J. speaks to a non-verbal Hoffman. "Hey, wanna go see Richard Thompson?" John J. doesn't know about my escalating bar tab, and I've seen Thompson three time. He continues, "He's playing electric, and with a band." Now I'm interested. I've only seen him solo acoustic--great shows, don't get me wrong, but I've always regretted not being able to see him cut loose on the electric. "And it's a double bill with Wilco," John goes on. John is like my fairy godmother of shows. I had no idea this was happening. I gather the strength to say, "sure." Good thing, John had already bought the tickets.

Yogi's
The night of the show John and I meet at Yogi's, affectionately known as "The Bear Bar" (not to be confused with the Bear Bar on 2nd Avenue), about a block north of the Beacon Theater. I don't have any money, so I'm forced to drink the special, Miller Genuine Draft. I also give John a check for the tickets, but post-date it a few days. Then we start talking about Thompson, about how he might be the world's greatest living guitar player. He's kinda bummed that Wilco will be cutting into his performing time, though I remind him that Wilco is surely a worthy band. They may not be as complete as Son Volt, the other half of the now demised Uncle Tupelo, but they have a loutish, sloppy quality that ought to act as a nice counterpart to Thompson's professionalism.

Then, two of my buddies show up, Pete and Josh. These are guys who still know how to party, who still live in the East Village, and are wondering just who the hell this Richard Thompson guy is that'll be cutting into Wilco's set? They both order up a few Knob Creeks, start pounding 'em back, and begin telling us about the time they drove down to Philly to see Wilco, but missed half the set because they were eating cheesesteaks. What they did see was amazing, rock n' roll in the flesh, energy and excitement unparalleled. Checking the time, I realize the show starst in three minutes. John and I head out, Pete and Josh, convinced the show won't start on time, order another round.

Wilco
We get inside the Beacon just as the interior lights are dimming. We hear an introduction; I recognize the voice as either Meg Griffen or Rita Houston, the DJs from WFUV. We find our seats and Wilco tears straight into "California Stars" from the album of unreleased Woody Guthrie songs they recorded with Billy Bragg. They're tight and together, making good use of both organ and piano. I look around and find the place nearly empty. Over the next three songs, mostly upbeat tunes from their newest album "Summer Teeth," stragglers are still making their way into seats. I don't know what this tells you about Wilco fans.

Then something happened that everyone prays will never happen to them at big ticket shows: I had to take a dump. And it couldn't wait. At the first ballad (because I rock hard, you see) I headed out and downstairs to deal with this situation. The bathrooms were crowded . . . crowded with Wilco fans? They were having Wilco conversations, mostly about how odd it was to see their rough n' tumble band at a prestigious venue like the Beacon. While that may have been true, didn't they know they were missing a show upstairs?

I got back upstairs, and found Wilco hitting a number of tunes from their mammoth "Being There" double album. I couldn't help notice how the band seemed kinda dour, not making much of an attempt to be friendly. I was then told about the heckler in the front row who called out to frontman Jeff Tweedy, "Smile Jeff, it doesn't suck to be you!" To this, Tweedy reportedly responded, "is that why you're smiling, because it does suck to be you?" Not only nasty, but twisted logic. During the rousing finale of "Misunderstood" which included the shouted (nay, shrieking) refrain "I want to thank you all for nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all!" Mr. Tweedy took the mike off the stand and stood directly in the face of the fan who tried to perk things up earlier. It was kinda creepy. They finished up with their happier quasi-hits "Must Be High" from A.M. and "Outta Mind, Outta Sight." They were tight, snappy and impressive. Then they were gone.

Richard Thompson tearing it up, picture c/o Anne H. Miller

Intermission
I was pleased with the show for the most part, anxious to see Thompson, and growing curious over who in the theater was there to see which band. I turned to the couple behind me--middle aged, dressed well-to-do. "Are you here to see Thompson?" I asked them. The man answered that his wife was just along for the ride, and he was here to see Wilco, but interested in sticking around for the second act, especially after poking around on the Internet and learning that Thompson was an unsung British "legend."

Pete and Josh showed up, and they were pissed. "This was not a Wilco show," they argued. "A Wilco show has people dancing, gettin' rowdy, kickin' dust off the floor. This was bullshit." The crowd was rather docile. Josh piped up, "I'm going to write a letter to the band, apologizing on behalf of the City of New York." Pete, perhaps a little less angry, pointed out that a bar band shouldn't play this far uptown.

They were going to leave, but I convinced them to stay for at least a few songs just to see how well Thompson played guitar.

Richard Thompson and Band
Richard Thompson took to the stage in a black T-Shirt, looking uncommonly buff for an Englishman. His son (with Linda) Teddy stood to his left, readying for rhythm guitars and backing vocals. His longtime associate (and not a relative) Danny Thompson stood behind with a plugged-in stand-up bass. The not-English Mike Jerome played drums, and Pete Zorn, looking more and more like a schoolteacher with age, handled backing vocals, saxophones, clarinets, flutes, and various percussion instruments. They went straight into "Cooksferry Queen", the lead off track from Mock Tudor, Thompson's vocals coming out clear and urgent, unlike the squeaky uber-hip Jeff Tweedy. His mini-guitar breaks between verses proved that what he can do on an acoustic he can do ten times on an electric. I was left with this one thought: Wilco is a band, Richard Thompson is a God.

He played two more from "Mock Tudor," told a few of his trademark wry jokes. And he dealt with a heckler with wit. When knuckleheads in the crowd started shouting for "Vincent Black Lightning" (which, of course, he would play) Thompson joked that he'd get to it "after the crap." When someone shouted for it again, Thompson pointed and said, "somewhere there's a village missing an idiot." After the applause and laughter died down, he apologized. What class!

He then tore into "Hard on Me" from "Mock Tudor," a remarkable number that picks up right where "Shoot Out The Lights" leaves off. Much like "Lights" it affords Thompson measure after measure of room to just dazzle with guitar skills. Perhaps what's so striking about his playing is how unique he sounds. He approaches rock guitar as though he'd never heard the white-boy blues of Page or Clapton. His sound is wholly unique; there's no one to compare him to, except maybe elements of Tom Verlaine and Dave Schramm. At the end of "Hard On Me," an emotional ringer of a song to boot, I turned to John J. and said without fear of overstatement that, with the possible exception of Cyrus Chestnut at the piano or Arturo Sandoval at the trumpet, I have never seen a musician with such mastery of his chosen instrument.

During it, somehow, scores of, I presume, Wilco fans, decided to up and leave.

Other highlights of the show including a rousing, sing-along version of "Tear Stained Letter," and baritone sax-enhanced version of the Linda Thompson sung ode to money squandering, "I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight." He then came out for a solo acoustic version of "Vincent Black Lightning" and that was it. 60 minutes. We wuz robbed.

The Aftermath
That night, angry fans rushed to their computers to voice their numerous complaints. Flame wars erupted. The consensus? A double bill was a bad idea. That Thompson played for fifteen minutes less than Wilco was a miscommunication over special union dispensations.

The couple behind us came away reborn as Richard Thompson fans, and even bought a few CDs on the way out. Josh and Pete recognized Thompson's guitar power, but didn't like his singing, and were absolutely starving, so they left early. They actually bumped into Wilco outside the theater, and offered up apologies for the quiet audience. Wilco demurred, saying it was a Richard Thompson night, and that he's a fucking legend. John J., who didn't know much about Wilco, left unimpressed by them, but still gracious for the 60 minutes of Thompson. I noted how the Thompson fans were willing to sit through Wilco, but it didn't work in the reverse. I also concluded that Wilco, even if at a glorious raggedy bar somewhere, do their best work on record, where the producer is able to layer in the piano, organ, and get the vocals up front better.

Ticket prices are too high these days to monkey around with wacky double bills. It may've worked at the Fillmore, but those days are over. I was among a handful of fans who was excited to see both bands (even if I did come away with more from the second act), and any promoter worth his salt should know that the slightly grittier Dave Matthews-style fans of Wilco wouldn't go for Thompson. The day we can all get into the Beacon for $15 might change attitudes, but until then, give the people what they want.