Wilco - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002/Nonesuch)

People suck. Jeff Tweedy is more aware of this than most. Steeped in a puddle of Americana, Wilco's fourth album, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, finds the lead songwriter trying to stop, and figure things out. He uses this album as a vehicle to question why people, especially himself, do the things that they do. In relationships, a term I am using very broadly, we cannot seem to stop hurting one another as well as ourselves. Why? We aren't given an answer. Instead, by the end of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, we are left with a band, a man, an album, on that very same path of self destruction.

It's a path worth taking, though. The album opens with “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart,” a song that, on the surface, seems intentionally mean-spirited. Tweedy sings about purposefully inflicting the kind of emotional pain that only a singer/songwriter could deliver, and he comes off as some sort of drunken asshole. But then come the drums. The drums that are almost silent throughout the verses come in jarringly in between Tweedy's admittance of maliciousness, contradicting the cocky and self-assured attitude of the lyrics that came before. The rest of the “noisy” sounds serve the same purpose: audible shorthand for Tweedy's conscience. The same formula is used throughout the album. The songs that are bred from uncertainty are caked with experimentalism and noise. This explains the spacey production found on some of the songs, and the more blatant noises found on others. The problem is that only a few of these songs are as good as “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart.” Tweedy's droning voice on “Ashes of American Flags” fades into the rest of the ambient noises found on the track, and we are left with only the sharp guitar lines to jolt us awake. It's not a pleasant feeling.

The rest of the album picks up the slack, though. Wilco doesn't let us forget that this is the same band that made Summerteeth, and provides a good number of solid pop songs. Nothing on this album can get girls dancing on tables faster than “Heavy Metal Drummer” nor does “Pot Kettle Black” fail to break the tension built up from the multitude of the slower songs. These songs, while easy to listen to, do not break from the harsh theme of introspection of the album as a whole. “Jesus Etc.” is heartbreakingly apologetic, as is “I'm the Man Who Loves You.”

Ultimately, what makes this album so good is that it, like all other great albums, is not merely a collection of songs, but one cohesive unit. The songs seamlessly flow into one another, creating swelling emotions that climax at the end of “Poor Places,” but leave us in a wondering daze with “Reservations.” “I've got reservations/ about so many things/ but not about you,” he sings, and we could see this as a happy ending, but why then, are we left with about three minutes of ambient noise? Taking this time to put the dots together, and digest the album as a whole, it becomes clear. That line is just that. A line that's fed with the outcome of heartbreak nearby. And the path goes on. Not since my last cigarette has self-destruction felt this good.

PS. I haven't quite figured out if I wanted to do some sort of numerical counter for albums, so let's just call this one a 4/5.