kleph
14-02-2006, 02:10 PM
A few years back I lost my job to retrenchment, my girlfriend to frailty and my best friend to AIDS. I spent the next 18 months driving across the United States looking for another, visiting old friends and spending way way too much time wallowing in nostalgia and melancholy. Despite it all, I had a pretty good time.
During my travels I ended up in a record store in Dallas Texas and, on a whim, picked up a record I had heard some good stuff about as well as some half-remembered chatter about some controversy or another - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.
I played it in my car as I drove around the country. Long stretches of interstate where your mind wanders between the monotony of the pavement and horizon. Where a clever billboard keeps you occupied in thought for 20 miles. I didn’t really listen to the record at first. I just played it. By the third time through it hit me - this has to the greatest album of the 21st century.
While I doubt it will keep that honor over the next 96 years I’m pretty sure it will come out near the top for this decade and I am absolutely sure it will be a record people will be citing as a major influence a quarter century from now.
Wilco are the remains of the now legendary alt-rock band Uncle Tupelo. Critics’ darlings, they have been a staple among the coffeehouse and patchouli set for quite a while. I found them interesting but not engaging enough to shell out cash for a brand spanking new CD.
The record was set to be their fourth offering on Reprise. It was to pick up where the last album, Summerteeth, left off. Summerteeth was a glorious pop achievement and it boasts I believe the strongest songs the group has ever penned and performed (particularly "Shot in the Arm").
But the pop sensibility of the record didn’t reconcile well with the dark subject matter. It not only seems in conflict with itself througout; the material was uneven at best. Much of the record seems like filler and the phrasings often teeter off the edge of clever into goofy. The power of the high points doesn’t make up for the weak parts.
YHF was originally slated to be released on Sept. 11, 2001. It didn’t happen due to problems with the label rather than the other events that transpired on that date. And for Wilco, like much of the world, it was a long dark journey before the light could be seen again.
The executives at Reprise deemed the record a "career ender" and, when Wilco balked at the changes ordered, the band was released from the label. The best explanation for the decision that anyone will fess up to is that the album doesn’t have a single. They were cut loose despite a strong and maturing track record. Instead of despair, Wilco members described the feeling as "like Christmas." They owned the record, they owned their destiny and they knew the former would lead to the latter.
They immediately made the album available on the Internet. The power of the music was clear by the massive number of fans downloading it off the site. Record companies again took notice and more than 30 then started a feeding frenzy for the band. Nonesuch won and bought the rights to the now already legendary record.
(Irony time. Nonesuch and Reprise are both owned by AOL TimeWarner. The same executives that Oked axing the band eventually ponied up to buy it back again. It’s just icing on the cake that the whole sordid tale was being filmed for a documentary and forever captured on celluloid.)
With this story alone, YHF becomes the perfect allegory for the soullessness of the music industry and the mass culture it caters to. The quality of the record is almost incidental except for the fact it is brilliant. Do believe the hype. This record is not only as good as billed, it’s better.
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is much more than the next logical step for Wilco, it’s a defining musical statement. It’s the soundtrack for the new era, for better or worse. The record is the perfect document for the world that has changed so much since 9/11. There is a horrible despair and loneliness that runs through the work. A sense of disjointedness as if things are barely holding together and could fall apart with the slightest effort. Oddly, that same anxiety heightens the work’s transcendence. The brilliant lyrical sensibility is heightened by the tension; the understated musicianship is reveled as brilliant by its simplicity.
A theme running through the album is the sounds and effects of short-wave radio. Voices, names and information blindly wending its way through the aether almost mournfully looking for someone to pull them down and listen. But the two ends of the system, sender and receiver never intimately connect. Neither ever know how the message connects and possibly changes the other. The songs often end in a wave of these sounds but it’s hard to tell when they fully sweep over things because the guitars, the piano and the singer himself are imitating the cacophony as well.
It’s a metaphor for the Internet. It’s a metaphor for the disassociation caused by modern culture. It’s a metaphor for every failed relationship you have ever had. And that is what makes YHT a universal statement. As one reviewer put it, "No one is too good for this album; it is better than all of us."
And the lyrics, which seem so clear and obvious on first listen, eventually take on this terrible mutilation of meaning as well. The album ends with the line "I've got reservations / About so many things but not about you" Its plainly stated, but repeated again. And again. And again. And the dissonance of the short-wave transmissions slowly and inexorably takes over – the voice, the music and, finally, the meaning.
And, for many of the songs, there’s a feeling of quiet desperation, as the singer seems to finally understand the paradoxes of his own life and feelings.
I always thought that if I held you tightly/
You'd always love me like you did back then
Then I fell asleep and the city kept blinking/
What was I thinking when I let you back in?
The meaning of the songs and the music eventually lie with the listener. Listening to the record becomes a deeply personal experience when one understands that. The sad and disquieting air of the proceedings stems from the suspicion that, despite our best efforts to understand, there might just not be any meaning in the message at all. (Consider it like pulling the one piece of real mail out of the five dozen pieces of spam you hotmail account collected in the past 12 hours)
But it turns out there is. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is a high-traffic station on the network of short-wave radio stations operated by Mossad, Israel's intelligence agency. The one way communications allow the agency to communicate with agents using a tactical call sign consisting of three phonetic letters. Although the broadcast voice is always female, it's not an actual person but a speech synthesizer - automatic machines do the actual announcing, sending out a seemingly endless stream of rota-styled messages.
And she eventually becomes just as important as the song she sings over. She becomes her own message to the listener even if they are aware of her origins or not. I like to think of her as our Pandora. The box of evils has been opened and are flying loose upon the world but the lid was closed quickly enough to save one thing that gives us a chance to face it all – hope.
This essay first appeared on my website kleph.com (http://www.kleph.com/story/wilco.htm).
© 2003 C.J. Schexnayder
During my travels I ended up in a record store in Dallas Texas and, on a whim, picked up a record I had heard some good stuff about as well as some half-remembered chatter about some controversy or another - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.
I played it in my car as I drove around the country. Long stretches of interstate where your mind wanders between the monotony of the pavement and horizon. Where a clever billboard keeps you occupied in thought for 20 miles. I didn’t really listen to the record at first. I just played it. By the third time through it hit me - this has to the greatest album of the 21st century.
While I doubt it will keep that honor over the next 96 years I’m pretty sure it will come out near the top for this decade and I am absolutely sure it will be a record people will be citing as a major influence a quarter century from now.
Wilco are the remains of the now legendary alt-rock band Uncle Tupelo. Critics’ darlings, they have been a staple among the coffeehouse and patchouli set for quite a while. I found them interesting but not engaging enough to shell out cash for a brand spanking new CD.
The record was set to be their fourth offering on Reprise. It was to pick up where the last album, Summerteeth, left off. Summerteeth was a glorious pop achievement and it boasts I believe the strongest songs the group has ever penned and performed (particularly "Shot in the Arm").
But the pop sensibility of the record didn’t reconcile well with the dark subject matter. It not only seems in conflict with itself througout; the material was uneven at best. Much of the record seems like filler and the phrasings often teeter off the edge of clever into goofy. The power of the high points doesn’t make up for the weak parts.
YHF was originally slated to be released on Sept. 11, 2001. It didn’t happen due to problems with the label rather than the other events that transpired on that date. And for Wilco, like much of the world, it was a long dark journey before the light could be seen again.
The executives at Reprise deemed the record a "career ender" and, when Wilco balked at the changes ordered, the band was released from the label. The best explanation for the decision that anyone will fess up to is that the album doesn’t have a single. They were cut loose despite a strong and maturing track record. Instead of despair, Wilco members described the feeling as "like Christmas." They owned the record, they owned their destiny and they knew the former would lead to the latter.
They immediately made the album available on the Internet. The power of the music was clear by the massive number of fans downloading it off the site. Record companies again took notice and more than 30 then started a feeding frenzy for the band. Nonesuch won and bought the rights to the now already legendary record.
(Irony time. Nonesuch and Reprise are both owned by AOL TimeWarner. The same executives that Oked axing the band eventually ponied up to buy it back again. It’s just icing on the cake that the whole sordid tale was being filmed for a documentary and forever captured on celluloid.)
With this story alone, YHF becomes the perfect allegory for the soullessness of the music industry and the mass culture it caters to. The quality of the record is almost incidental except for the fact it is brilliant. Do believe the hype. This record is not only as good as billed, it’s better.
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is much more than the next logical step for Wilco, it’s a defining musical statement. It’s the soundtrack for the new era, for better or worse. The record is the perfect document for the world that has changed so much since 9/11. There is a horrible despair and loneliness that runs through the work. A sense of disjointedness as if things are barely holding together and could fall apart with the slightest effort. Oddly, that same anxiety heightens the work’s transcendence. The brilliant lyrical sensibility is heightened by the tension; the understated musicianship is reveled as brilliant by its simplicity.
A theme running through the album is the sounds and effects of short-wave radio. Voices, names and information blindly wending its way through the aether almost mournfully looking for someone to pull them down and listen. But the two ends of the system, sender and receiver never intimately connect. Neither ever know how the message connects and possibly changes the other. The songs often end in a wave of these sounds but it’s hard to tell when they fully sweep over things because the guitars, the piano and the singer himself are imitating the cacophony as well.
It’s a metaphor for the Internet. It’s a metaphor for the disassociation caused by modern culture. It’s a metaphor for every failed relationship you have ever had. And that is what makes YHT a universal statement. As one reviewer put it, "No one is too good for this album; it is better than all of us."
And the lyrics, which seem so clear and obvious on first listen, eventually take on this terrible mutilation of meaning as well. The album ends with the line "I've got reservations / About so many things but not about you" Its plainly stated, but repeated again. And again. And again. And the dissonance of the short-wave transmissions slowly and inexorably takes over – the voice, the music and, finally, the meaning.
And, for many of the songs, there’s a feeling of quiet desperation, as the singer seems to finally understand the paradoxes of his own life and feelings.
I always thought that if I held you tightly/
You'd always love me like you did back then
Then I fell asleep and the city kept blinking/
What was I thinking when I let you back in?
The meaning of the songs and the music eventually lie with the listener. Listening to the record becomes a deeply personal experience when one understands that. The sad and disquieting air of the proceedings stems from the suspicion that, despite our best efforts to understand, there might just not be any meaning in the message at all. (Consider it like pulling the one piece of real mail out of the five dozen pieces of spam you hotmail account collected in the past 12 hours)
But it turns out there is. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is a high-traffic station on the network of short-wave radio stations operated by Mossad, Israel's intelligence agency. The one way communications allow the agency to communicate with agents using a tactical call sign consisting of three phonetic letters. Although the broadcast voice is always female, it's not an actual person but a speech synthesizer - automatic machines do the actual announcing, sending out a seemingly endless stream of rota-styled messages.
And she eventually becomes just as important as the song she sings over. She becomes her own message to the listener even if they are aware of her origins or not. I like to think of her as our Pandora. The box of evils has been opened and are flying loose upon the world but the lid was closed quickly enough to save one thing that gives us a chance to face it all – hope.
This essay first appeared on my website kleph.com (http://www.kleph.com/story/wilco.htm).
© 2003 C.J. Schexnayder