Wilco
A Ghost Is Born
On Sale Now
For $13.48

If you ever want to listen a record about identity crisis, then A Ghost Is Born is the one to hear. Lead singer/songwriter Jeff Tweedy goes through the (e)motions that primarily concern perplexity towards the blurred lines between individuality and embracing pop star status. At different points in the record, the narrator is a “cherry ghost” that “will always die.” In another occurrence, he questions to himself or his fans “exactly what do you want me to be?” What it all comes down to is the fact that existing is “less than you think.” By the denouement of the record, Jeff and company come to terms with just being there, as opposed to being something easily definable. And that’s been the beauty of the band from the get-go. They never make the same record twice.

The lyrical content is possibly the most striking element of Wilco’s latest opus. The record is sprinkled with bizarre imagery from bees to spiders to birds and wheels. But the summation is that the record reveals itself to become “an echo” that people will remember. It’s hard to tell if Jeff is striving for greatness and longevity or openly accepting the flawed circumstances of living. I’d probably sooner go for the latter and the soundscape captures that. A Ghost Is Born is a record that lies there at ease instead of begging for catharsis, gradually revealing its nuances, as opposed to their last breakthrough album which practically shouted out a sonic second coming. The production is dry and simple as opposed to flashy and unstable. Guitars don’t hit the roof very often except during the bruised beauty of “At Least That’s What You Think.” Still, they remain comfortable and confident without ever reaching out beyond expectations. It may not be a record that will cause a ruckus in the industry like their infamous predecessor, but it has the same audacious sensibility that innovative bands like The Beatles once embraced. It’s hard not to hear elements of great 70s rock with jaw-dropping moments such as the whimsical Randy Newman-piano influx of “Hummingbird,” easily one of the best songs of the band’s impeccable career.

Before you get flooded with hype and blame me for heightened expectations, please understand that Wilco is my favorite band of all time and always will be. I’ve been following their career since Being There, and they continue to encapsulate everything I worship about music. They contain elements of punk, country, rock, blues, and folk and they freely experiment with their sound without a shred of fear or weakness. More importantly is that they never make the same time record twice. A Ghost Is Born is no exception. However, it is quite possibly their second weakest record to date. It’s a record that doesn’t jump out at you, which is sometimes a complement and other times, a criticism. Tweedy’s tendency to provoke and test the patience of audiences is apparent throughout the overlong radiator noise drone of “Less Than You Think.” The musical elasticity convoyed with bouts of sonic schizophrenia is on display all the way through, even if it doesn’t always congeal. Jeff’s gorgeous hush during “Hell Is Chrome” is counteracted with the hammering yowl of the rather bland rocker “I’m A Wheel.” The comatose one-note Casio stomp of “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” is redeemed by a boisterous bridge. The solidity seems to stem from a lack of a direction, allowing the record to float around like an apparition. But some experiments simply annoy rather than enthrall.

“Spiders” has outbursts of atonal guitar, which sounds as if a six-year-old just dragged a drumstick along the strings and plucked nothing resembling an actual note. Yet the incredible canto of “Spiders are singing in the salty breeze/Spiders are filling out tax returns/Spinning out webs of deduction and melody/On a private beach in Michigan” is just one of the better examples of Tweedy’s extraordinary ability to weave eccentric poetry with subtle social allegory, and by the time he exclaims that “There’s no blood on my hands,” it becomes cacophonously political. Even with the less stellar songs, there is still a redemptive quality that doesn’t make the listen a complete throwaway. “Handshake Drugs” is carried by a beautiful melody, but is dragged down by rather lifeless assembly, which is strange coming from the ubiquitous Jim O’Rourke on board as full-time producer. In comparison to both Wilco’s last two records, there aren’t as many moments where the music seems to breathe and implode on its own, and become an unexpected entity. Think of the noise opera eruption during “Misunderstood” or the bombastic buildup of “A Shot In The Arm.” Dynamically, A Ghost Is Born is divested of a cataclysmic sense of release. Even the noise tacked on at the end of some tracks doesn’t feel genuine, but strained. “I’m A Wheel” doesn’t fit the aura of the record and stands out like a sore toe. “Company In My Back” could be one of their best seduction anthems, and serves as one of the better examples where everything comes together and you find yourself bouncing along with the plucky high-tuned drive-by springtime bridge.

Maybe Wilco needs some a shot in their own arms in order to insist on more assertiveness, to give them a razor’s edge before they head back into the studio next time. Possibly more distortion and fewer pianos are warranted even if their latest is still better than anything else out there right now. Sure they let the songs exhale, but almost to an overindulgent extent while others sound claustrophobic instead of approachable. And yet, there is something to appreciate on even the more humdrum tracks on the album. The band is certainly aware that it is damn near impossible to surpass the expectations stapled to the ears of those who have the immense pleasure of hearing Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, one of the best records ever made, so give them props for not going grandiose, sticking with simplicity and meeting the expectations just fine. But A Ghost Is Born could’ve been even stronger if they had opted to make the proceedings a double record, possibly to give to the world, their very own White Album. During the weakest track, “I’m A Wheel,” Tweedy pauses abruptly to simply go “Um” as if he’s unsure where to go next. Indecision and struggles with divinity as well as identity carry a good portion of the record giving it a deeper context than anything that gets active radio play. A sub par Wilco effort is better than nothing at all, and they will always continue to make interesting records. The moment the band became my favorite was when they performed “Misunderstood,” and Jeff belted until his face turned red. This was followed by the stripped-down acoustic ballad “Bob Dylan’s Beard.” On A Ghost Is Born, there are only a few scattered moments that give me the same kind of goose bumps that I got from their earlier records and live shows. Then again, I’ve yet to hear this material live, where it could take on a whole new shape and sound. Let’s just hope this specter comes back to life, and more importantly, let’s hope that everyone discovers the kind of contribution Wilco has given to music throughout their career. Tweedy continues to speak from the soul and the band follows him at all times, creating art organically in such an unabashedly original fashion that makes them hard to classify but easy to revere.

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