I revisited this one with my brother while traveling back from Charleston, New Year’s Day, 2012. I hadn’t noticed before how downright depressed the whole thing is. (Important: not “depressing”… “depressed.”)
The “depression” manifests itself in two ways:
1. The rather slow and passionless singing and playing
2. The outrageously sad and self-pitying lyrics of Jeff Tweedy
Concerning point #1: there ain’t a single “happy” song here. More than that, there’s hardly even a “bright” song here. I would not call Summerteeth a “happy” record, but its cynicism was expressed in punchy, colorful ways; “I’m Always in Love” had huge drums and synths, and sappy hits like “She’s a Jar” had touching harmonica mini-solos. The somewhat joyful moments on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot—the piano parts on “War on War,” the annoying guitar on “I’m the Man who Loves You,” the choruses of “Heavy Metal Drummer” and “Jesus, Etc”— are still overlaid with a smothering blanket of sad ambience. Tweedy’s melodies are mostly beautiful, but the man makes no effort to draw them out, mumbling most of his words and practically demanding you to shout along at a higher octave. The less experimental and perhaps more “classic” Wilco tunes, such as “Camera” and “Pot Kettle Black,” are double-tracked in a manner that I’d call anti-Lennon: the second voice kills off the energy inherent to the melodies.
I haven’t even mentioned the three maudlin monsters of the record, which are far removed from the Wilco of Summerteeth, but still not quite as “far out” as people would have you believe. “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” is probably the best and most unique of them, with its rambling folk melody and kind of serene cacophony. “Ashes of American Flags” is not quite as successful (for reasons I’ll explain in a second), but it’s still pretty epic, I suppose. It has guitar and piano hooks that its near-cousin “Reservations” (the final song on the album, and one of my least favorites) lacks.
Concerning point #2: Jesus fucking Christ Jeff Tweedy. Why the fuck are you so fucking sad? You have a wife and kids. You are the lead singer of a pretty great band, one that’s recording their first album with Glenn motherfucking Kotche. You live in America in what I can only assume is a nice neighborhood. And yet you give me this:
“I’m down on my hands and knees everytime that a doorbell rings / I shake like a toothache when I hear myself sing”
“Phone my family, tell em I’m lost on the sidewalk / And no it’s not OK”
“Cheer up, honey I hope you can / There is something wrong with me”
“I want a good life with a nose for things / a fresh wind and a bright sky to endure my suffering”
C’mon, man! Seriously? You don’t suck that bad. You don’t suck at all. So suck it up.
Some people probably respond to these lyrics, and to them I apologize. To me, they’re just a little overdone. Tweedy’s bludgeoning us with emotions. Perhaps I wouldn’t mind so much if he expressed himself in the style of “Misunderstood”—i.e. screamed— but he just mumbles these bits alongside everything else, ho hum.
The depressed-ness of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot makes it a unique record, but not a great one. I prefer a more varied emotional palette, like on a Ghost is Born, a record that’s less “produced” and more satisfying. Does there have to be a light in the darkness? I don’t think so. But if you’re gonna do something that’s entirely grey, you gotta have different shades. And maybe, I don’t know, try to actually “sing” a few tunes.
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