Wilco

Wilco (the Album)

(Nonesuch)

I’m a music journalist who has been hiding a secret: I never received the “Wilco is God” memo. That’s right. On the day in school when Wilco was anointed “The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread” by all the other hipster kids who grew up to be music critics, I was absent. Home sick, I’m sure. And I’m equally sure that the sickness must have done something to my brain, because I still haven’t forked over and bought the line that Wilco is "The Most Amazing Band In The World."

It’s not for lack of trying. I have liked singles. “Heavy Metal Drummer,” for example, is flat-out a great song. And I remember that with A.M., I sort of came a little close to almost experiencing the swooning, drooling, inchoate excitement Wilco evokes in others, especially critics. With every new record, I hope the heavens open and the Wilco light shines on me, converting me from a Wilco Won’t into a one of those smiling, happy people who don’t decamp from Wilco concerts muttering they’d rather have root canal – without anesthetic – than stay for one more self-consciously self-referential soporific tune.

With Wilco (The Album) I once again hoped – although given the title, not too much (see “self-consciously self-referential,” above).  But Lo! The opener, “Wilco,” with its sharp melody, genuine energy and a light touch, is just the sort of thing Wilco can do well when it gets over itself (hard for Wilco to do in general, so even more of a feat when singing about yourself.) I was cheered. But – that was it. The rest of the album crashes in songs that are fey, bloodless, over-thought, and safe. In short, boring. Sure, the single, “You Never Know,” is a standout, but that’s only because it sounds so much like George Harrison that Tweedy has a second career as the Rich Little of rock. And while on her own albums Feist can be difficult, edgy and uncompromising, on her duet here (“You and I”), she’s smoothed to such a soft sheen that she might as well be tween princess Colbie Caillat. That’s the problem with Wilco (The Album). Nothing is particularly bad, but neither is it particularly good. It’s just...fine. Adequate. Passable. One colorless song bleeds into another and then it’s over.

I missed the Kool-Aid. Again.