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Music

Wilco’s Set at Pitchfork Music Festival Broke My Heart

The seminal rock band took the stage in their hometown the day after the release of their new album, and somehow disappointed.

Photo by Ellie Pritts

You gotta see Wilco in Chicago.

This seemed to be the phrase nearly every single person told me when they found out I’d be attending this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival. Of course, there was genuine excitement for the rest of the lineup—Makonnen! Jamie xx! Future Brown! Vic Mensa! Shamir! Chance the Rapper! Sleater-Kinney (I guess)! Et cetera!—but something about Wilco playing the opening night in their hometown really rung home (those fuckin’ buildings from the cover of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot are, like, right down the street from the festival!) Wilco is the most Midwest band that you can think of, have released some of the most critically acclaimed records of the last two decades, and to top it all off, a day before their headlining set, the band released a surprise new album they decided to put out for free. It was a perfect blend for a perfect night for indie rock and all its glory. Except, well… It wasn’t.

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Continued below.

But before we get into that, let me just take a moment to give some background on me: I’m from Iowa. I attended the University of Iowa. The reason I share these facts is because I want you to know that Wilco is a very important band to people in Iowa because, on top of making sweet music, they proudly wave the flag of the Midwest so aggressively (and truly there isn’t anything that a good Midwesterner loves more than talking about how dope the Midwest is). At my college radio station (shout out to 89.7 KRUI, The Sound Alternative!), there were multiple posters with Jeff Tweedy’s big ol’ grin hanging on the walls. Wilco is a band that, even if you aren’t really familiar, you support, because, hey, they’re Wilco, man. How can you hate on them? They’re like the hip person’s version of Dave Matthews Band. When I was a senior, they played a concert in the ballroom of the union at the university. Before my friends and I went, we smoked a bunch of weed and drank some cheap beer and listened to old Wilco records. The apartment was the stereotypical shitty apartment you’d expect to find in a college town. I probably wore some flannel. I was definitely wearing skinny jeans. My friends were dressed similarly. I have no idea what songs Wilco played at the concert, but I remember singing along and thinking it was awesome. After the show, I bought a Wilco T-shirt with a bald eagle on it smoking a joint. One time I wore that T-shirt to a family gathering and my mom got mad. It was awesome.

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I say all of this to, I guess, justify my thought that last night’s Wilco set was boring as hell. I’ve been trying to figure out why it was that way—was it because they played too many new songs that no one knew? Was it because Jeff Tweedy has, uh, packed on a few pounds? Was it because I wasn’t wearing flannel this time?—and I still can’t quite figure it out. The set the performed was musically good. After all, these guys are incredible musicians who can basically play guitar with their toes. But out of the multiple times I’ve seen Wilco—this marked five or six, I believe—they seemed to just not really give a shit. And that’s incredibly disappointing.

Wilco is a band that’s rightfully earned their spot upon the top tier of indie rock. If you ask any music nerd, there’s a good chance Yankee Hotel Foxtrot will be at the top of their list of favorite records. King Jeff Tweedy. To a generation of kids who grew up trying to make sense of why being in your twenties sucks so hard, Wilco provided a soundtrack that somehow felt both mature and confused—and they did it while being fuckin’ pros with their instruments. There is arguably no band that rivals the musicianship of Wilco. And it’s a joy to be a fan.

Photo by Ellie Pritts

And so with all this information—facts I agree with, because, again, I am a fan of Wilco—I kept dealing a conundrum in my head last night: Why the hell do I like this band? The performance felt so phoned in. Looking out at the crowd, genuinely no one seemed to give a shit, on top of the band just not really giving a shit either. The band debuted pretty much their entire new record Star Wars, but could not have been less excited about it. My crew was just to the right of the stage, close enough to where I could’ve thrown at football at Jeff Tweedy’s forehead if I wanted to, and there was absolutely no energy, no thrill, nothing. It seemed as if the band felt like they were obligated to be there, running through the motions, like waking up at the start of the week with an especially Monday morning feeling. Just get through the day, you think. It’s going to be OK. Except they were doing that in front of at least 20,000 people.

The unfortunate thing is that—on top of the obvious statement that nobody wants to watch a music act suck—seeing a band as important as Wilco phone it in is just flat out disappointing. At least half of the festival’s attendees probably got into cool indie music because of Wilco and the type of bands they represent, and to see them just not give a shit feels insulting. Yeah, Jeff Tweedy, you are important and I am very appreciative of the music you’ve provided for me over my 28 years of existence. I will forever be thankful for “I’m Trying to Break Your Heart” getting me through Some Real Shit™ and that strange moment my love for “Jesus, etc.” caused a girl to kiss me and how “Via Chicago” makes a cup of coffee taste especially nice. I have no doubt your music will provide these types of moments for generations to come, and I hope it does. But damn. Last night did not deliver.

I came here to see one of my favorite bands perform what I hoped would be a beautiful and memorable set in their hometown, Chicago, a city that arguably does the best job representing America, the humble middle class, and everything the country stands for. This was supposed to mean something, damnit! Again, that phrase ringing through my head—you gotta see Wilco in Chicago. I did, and seeing Wilco in Chicago broke my heart.

Kill your idols.

Eric Sundermann will be sweating in Chicago again today. Follow him on Twitter.