Tale of Two CDs
Wilco’s new disc exceeds expectations; Jay-Z and R. Kelly’s project does just the opposite
Jeff Tweedy’s no genius, but he is a tunesmith with ambition. Tweedy first began reaching beyond himself on Still Feel Gone, his second album with the seminal alt-country act Uncle Tupelo. The record opened with Tweedy’s stunning “Gun,” which changed tempos abruptly and sliced up a fist-pumping rock-anthem with start-stop instrumental breaks reminiscent of radical art-punk band the Minutemen. Once Uncle Tupelo dissolved and Tweedy formed Wilco, he quickly moved from bittersweet country rock to experimental pop, where minimalism butted heads with production excess.
Wilco’s much-anticipated fourth LP Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (Nonesuch) takes its name from a mysterious message on a ham radio recording, and the album likewise assumes the style of a hard-to-fix transmission. The songs regularly descend into noise, starting with the opening track “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart,” which emerges out of rattle and drone—à la Yo La Tengo—and derives what momentum it has from the process of its own collapse. The song offers cryptic lyric phrases (“I assassin down the avenue”; “you’re quite a quiet domino”), and as Tweedy mumbles mismatched words in a sleepy rap, the song’s message of communication breakdown and intentional abuse becomes more and more disquieting.
That theme of being unable or unwilling to reach someone pops up throughout Yankee Hotel Foxtrot: in “Kamera” (about how difficult it is to keep track of one’s own lies), in “Heavy Metal Drummer” (about losing a lover to another, or to the past), and in “I’m the Man Who Loves You” (about a profession of love that can’t be properly articulated). In a very real way, Wilco’s recent affection for weird sounds and bits of discordance reflects Tweedy’s need to convey his frustration with how difficult it is to say anything at all.
Ironically, multi-instrumentalist Jay Bennett—the man responsible for helping Tweedy establish the sonic architecture for this vision of chronically disrupted interpersonal relationships—had his own falling out with Tweedy during the recording of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and was kicked out of the band. Because Tweedy is such a difficult character, some reactionaries are bound to overrate Jay Bennett and Edward Burch’s just-released debut album The Palace at 4am (Part 1), and denigrate Yankee Hotel Foxtrot in the process.
That would be a mistake. Bennett and Burch’s Palace is a pleasant place to visit, and useful in helping to define Bennett’s contribution to Wilco, but its amiable minor-ness also serves to clarify why the cult of Tweedy continues to grow. All the layers of rot and sugar that comprise Yankee Hotel Foxtrot make the record into a substantive artifact, with unusual contours and multiple meanings. Besides his ability to knock out catchy folk-pop melodies—as on the thoroughly enchanting “War on War,” “Jesus, Etc.” and the aforementioned “Heavy Metal Drummer”—Tweedy pushes himself and his bandmates to create something true and memorable, with the shape of art. On “Ashes of American Flags,” he confesses, “all my lies are always wishes,” which goes a long way to explaining how the self-expression that Tweedy strives for can only be attained by sharpening his hooks into spikes.
—Noel Murray
The collaboration between urban music superstar R. Kelly and hip-hop ruler Jay-Z seemed like an inspired idea a few months ago. Memories of the success enjoyed last year by Jay-Z’s remix of Kelly’s “Fiesta” loomed large, and each artist confidently boasted that the disc’s advance sales would exceed any figures either had previously attained. Now, in light of Kelly’s image woes and possible child pornography litigation, their pairing seems more a disastrous miscalculation than a recording landmark. And though The Best of Both Worlds (Jive Records/Roc-a-Fella/Def Jam) isn’t really a bomb, it’s overly predictable and formulaic. Kelly’s vocals are frequently uninspired and lifeless, while Jay-Z’s verbal proficiency and fluidity are repeatedly wasted on X-rated lyrics and tired “gangsta” taunts. The songwriting, arrangements and production aren’t exactly stellar, either.
The 13-cut disc contains a few decent moments, most notably “The Streets,” in which Kelly and Jay-Z express genuine regret and dismay at the cruelty, betrayal and disappointments they’ve experienced on their way up the music ladder. “It Ain’t Personal” has acerbic, bitter, yet compelling commentary detailing the inability (or refusal) of close associates to believe in the skills of Kelly and Jay-Z. Had the collaborators expended identical creative energy on the rest of the disc, they would have crafted a magical, or at least memorable, album. Instead, no matter how much they insist these tracks reflect the ultimate musical pairing, Jay-Z and R. Kelly have mostly given their fans the least, rather than the best, of both worlds.
—Ron Wynn
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