I LOVE Wilco, they are probably my favourite band of the last 10, 20 years, consistently releasing albums that explore new horizons while maintaining high songwriting standards. I have seen them four times, in Belgium, the Netherlands and the USA, and they never disappoint.
For every gig they use a completely different set list, while always throwing some interesting covers in the mix (occasionally, they only play covers, working from lists of songs the fans have given them). Sometimes the band, which is built around the genius of songwriter Jeff Tweedy, concentrates on the sweet soft side, other times they go for loud, experimental atonal guitar noise, courtesy of Nels Cline who, when he gets into that mad zone, looks electrified, as if he had put his fingers into a socket.
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They have created 13 studio albums, and a new EP has just been released. The music is Americana (that undefinable fusion of country, folk, pop and rock) with punk roots and experimental side tours, ideal for boys and girls over 50, who need bite, melody and a fair dose of melancholy to keep the blood from clotting up.
Wilco was formed by Tweedy in the mid-1990s, after the break-up of his previous outfit, the rootsy punks Uncle Tupelo. Tweedy is a prolific fellow. Apart from his work with Wilco, he has recorded several solo albums, has produced albums by soul singer Mavis Staples and folk legend Richard Thompson and has three books to his name, including an engaging memoir and one on the art of songwriting, which every aspiring songwriter should read.
Like many rock musicians, he struggles with modern times when music is losing much of its importance. The days when you proudly walked with a plastic bag with the name of a record store printed on it are long gone. These days, everyone streams their favourite songs, pushed by algorithms that tell us what we like. It has become a huge struggle for musicians to make ends meet.
Running a band (Wilco currently has six members) is costly. Record and CD sales won’t pay the rent. Income from streaming is only significant if you have millions of hits (Wilco does have songs in that category). So gigging and selling merchandise (T-shirts, caps, tote bags, coffee cups, you name it) is the only way to make real money.
Like many of his contemporaries, Tweedy is using the internet to promote his band. Apart from the usual social media outlets, he also runs a Substack account under the banner of Starship Casual. I can’t remember how I heard about it, but I do now get the newsletter. In a recent one Tweedy asked fans to suggest songs which he and Wilco should cover. I wrote that he had to do a Cat Power song, preferably “Maybe Not".
***
I left it there, but a few weeks ago I suddenly got a message from Starship Casual, referring to my song suggestion and asking me to expound on my choice, and to contact them on a certain number. After some technical hiccups, I managed to add them to my WhatsApp contacts. The following conversation ensued:
Wilco: Hello Fred. How are you doing, man?
Me: Hah! It’s working! Good, thanks!
“So yes, please do a Cat Power song," I wrote. Explaining my choice, I told them that I had discovered Cat Power and Wilco around the same time, in the mid-1990s. I went on that “Maybe Not" was my favourite Cat Power song, calling it “the saddest song in the world" (it can still make me cry), and suggesting that a Wilco version could make people wipe away the tears as well.
“Yeah," they wrote back. “So how long have you been following my content?"
Strange question, but eager to make a good impression, I replied: “From when you started, I think. It came with a different Substack post, something like ‘if you like so and so (I think it was Patti Smith) you may also like so and so'.’’
I proudly added that I had just come back from the USA and had seen them perform in Manhattan. “It was very good and experimental," I wrote, trying to show them that I had paid attention.
By now I was sure that they would do a version of “Maybe Not", and that this would mean that I would get a mention on Tweedy’s Substack, etcetera. Fame! I called out to my partner, who was busy in the kitchen: “I think I’m on WhatsApp with Tweedy!" “Wow, that’s exciting," she replied.
I continued my schmoozing, telling Tweedy (by now, I was convinced that it was him I was communicating with) that I had also bought his latest book, World Within A Song, and that I had been watching the series The Bear, which is set in Chicago and uses a couple of Wilco songs, particularly the one called “Via Chicago". “In other words," I added, “it has been a proper Wilco month or two."
“Okay ..." said the other side, followed by, “Thanks, I really appreciate that!’
And then they asked: “So do you have my official fan card?’
I looked at the screen. An official fan card? I didn’t know such a thing existed. Would I want one? The only time I was ever a member of such an institution was when I joined the Dutch Beatles fan club.
***
Okay, let me explain my fan club issues.
The Beatles? you say. Didn’t they split in 1970? How old does that make you, Fred? Don’t worry, I was way too young to remember the one time they played in the Netherlands, which was in 1964 (without Ringo, who was sick). But growing up in the 1960s, it was inevitable that you would be confronted with The Beatles.
They wrote songs that were great to sing along to, even if you were nine or 10 and didn’t speak any English yet. “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah," wasn’t difficult. The radio played an endless series of Beatles songs, “A Hard Day’s Night", “Day Tripper", “I Feel Fine", “Ticket To Ride", “Penny Lane". And pretty soon, I too was a fan. For a long time George was my favourite Beatle. He was “the quiet one’, who had written beautiful songs such as “Something" and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps".
By the age of 11, I had become something of a Beatles nerd, taping Beatles programmes from the radio and looking for their records wherever I went. In a Rotterdam store I found an album on the Italian Joker label, a bootleg with seven Beatles songs on one side and six Rolling Stones tunes on the other. “Fantastic!’ screamed the sleeve in the top left corner. “Beatles & Rolling Stones at their rarest!
It was a huge disappointment, because the sound was horrendous.
My favourite album was The Beatles Again from 1970, which on the front cover showed the four lads from Liverpool in their later years, hippies with beards and brown jackets. I mainly bought it for “Hey Jude", which hadn’t yet been released on any album. I still own that same copy. The inner sleeve says I bought it at Postzegelhandel Philorga on the Lijnbaan in Rotterdam. That same year, 1970, I joined the official Dutch Beatles fan club. I remember receiving a welcome letter and a little magazine with news about the various Beatles and their activities.
Excited, because now I really belonged to the hardcore, I wrote the fan club a letter asking a question about the 23-second song “Her Majesty’ at the end of Abbey Road (yes, I was a Beatles nerd). For the next few weeks I looked hopefully at my mother as she returned with the mail from the post box downstairs. But the fan club didn't care to respond to an 11-year-old’s letter. I waited and waited, then gave up. I did not renew my membership, and switched to The Rolling Stones instead. But no more fan clubs for me, thank you very much.
Back to Wilco.
I ignored the fan card question. I wrote about having recently acquired a rare Wilco 10 inch EP, which someone had sold at the Cape Town Record Fair.
The person on the other side (I wasn’t so convinced anymore that this was Jeff Tweedy himself, but I still thought it could be one of his associates) ignored my display of Wilco affection, and became a little impatient: “You haven't come across my fan card or you don't just want to get it?" Huh? “I haven’t come across it," I answered, a bit taken aback. “Okay. Alright, would you love to get one then?" came the next question. “What does it entail?" I asked, still wanting to believe I was chatting with an honest person.
“Well," he or she said, “all my special fans have my fan card, the importance of the card is to know my real fans and also if I want to gift them or go on a vacation trip with them or host a big event they will be the ones to get it first through their mail." I stayed quiet. This didn’t sound very exciting. In fact, it sounded like a lot of bullshit. I mean, a vacation trip with Wilco, really?
“Hope you understand?" they pushed. “Maybe …" I wrote back. “Can I find it online? The conditions etc?" The other side now really became impatient. “You're lucky to meet me, I'll help you get the card easily. It will only cost you $200."
I gasped and laughed out loud. Only $200?!?! They, whoever it was, continued. “If you’re interested I will send you my administrative manager username on Telegram who’s in charge of my official fan Cards." Telegram. Now that sounded seriously dodgy. “Ha ha," I responded. “that’s a hell of a lot of money for a freelance journalist. So, sorry, I have to decline. I’ll still buy the music though."
The other side became more insistent, seeing an opportunity rapidly fading away. “Okay ... Look, I understand now. I'm being considerate here. how much can you afford for my official fan card then?"
So either this was a scam, or those Wilco guys were so desperate for money that they tried each and every trick to get me to pay them $200. My thumbs touched the buttons on my phone. I remained polite. “Sorry, whoever I’m talking to, but I think I’m a bit too old to join a fan club. I understand the financial struggles of musicians (and freelance writers for that matter) and I’m happy to support them through buying their music and merch, but that’s all I can and will do." And, with more than a touch of hurt, I added: “Funny, I thought you were genuinely interested in my cover song choice and all you wanna do is sell me shit."
This time, I didn’t wait for an answer, I blocked the caller. But I will send a link for this story to Starship Casual, just to see how much Wilco care.
♦ VWB ♦
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