IN REVIEW: Wilco - "Cruel Country"

 

From their inception in the mid-nineties, Wilco ran from the notion that they were a country group; while I'd never considered them as such, I conceded some alt-country leaning tendencies in their first few records, the kind of ragged and intelligent Americana that was miles apart from the chicks-and-trucks dreck that soundtracked beer commercials and line dances. Even at their most country (like, say, Casino Queen or Passenger Side from their debut), there was that burgeoning Wilco wit that elevated it from the majority of what the genre had to offer. By the time they developed into the American Radiohead not even a decade into their career, country was the furthest thing from most folks' minds when they thought of Wilco.

It's a little weird, then, that their twelfth album (and second double album) would find the band fully embracing the country label for the first time. Now, it should be said that a country album from Wilco doesn't sound markedly different from many of their other works, although it bears mentioning that this is perhaps their least experimental release outside of its concept. There just isn't anything all that challenging or against the grain here, rather a bunch of mostly acoustic, mostly mid-tempo offerings that feature simple arrangements and little to no studio trickery. 

Its honest, plain presentation is either a breath of fresh air or a hard pill to swallow depending on what you value most out of the band; there are no sudden detours into noise rock, no chilling tension building exercises, and no grand artistic statements to be found (the closest we get to any of the above is the jam section of Bird Without a Tail/Base of My Skull). This, by default, draws the focus to Wilco's songwriting and performance abilities, which are in fine form here; the group's greatest strength has never been difficulty, rather chemistry, and their playing here is as warm and comforting as a hug from a dear friend. Take the breezy, melodic Hints, which finds the members locked in harmony and creating one of the record's most effortlessly effective moments, or the nocturnal groove that seeps from The Empty Condor, acting as a welcome sip of a different flavour. 

This brings us to the obvious question of whether or not Cruel Country deserves the double album treatment, and it most assuredly doesn't. It's not even the fault of the songs, as they're fine enough and there's nothing offensively bad here; there's just so little variance across its 77 minute run time that it's mostly successful when used as background rather than focused listening. I'd started to mentally drift from it by the time the eight minute ballad Many Worlds showed up at the halfway point and, even though its progression is likely the most interesting on the record, I couldn't help but tune out a bit. They do try to counteract this by putting some of the strongest tracks on the back half; the energetic Falling Apart (Right Now) injects some much-needed life into the record, the pastoral Story to Tell hits a majestic sweet spot between The Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Country Song Upside-Down plays out like a charming, Wilco-ized tribute to Long May You Run.

These moments are tasked with holding interest on an album that's not really interesting enough to warrant its supersized stature, and I will unsurprisingly opine that Cruel Country would have worked much better as a normal 40 minute album. With its single differentiating trait established early and its insistence on playing within stricter parameters than past Wilco releases, this is an album that sadly wears out its welcome for me. Having said that, though, I'm grateful for the focus on what the band does best; being artful and difficult was starting to sound like a chore on recent efforts, and that they wanted to shake the weight of expectation off and just bang out some good tunes is certainly commendable. Cruel Country, like virtually every double album that's ever been released, simply stifles its quality with its quantity.

May 27, 2022 • dBpm

Highlights The Empty Condor • Falling Apart (Right Now) • Story to Tell