Metropolis, Fremantle, Australia.

I looked like someone
I used to know
And if I ever was myself,
I wasn't that night
-- Handshake Drugs

Back when I was feeling out the boundaries of what subculture West Australia has to offer (its a depleted reserve kids) Mac and I stumbled into an absinthe bar named Dominion - presumably named after the Eurovision-goth Sisters of Mercy hit. Having deemed to learn all I can about this notorious intoxicant and squeeze the nettle for all its worth, I spent most the next day not exactly regretting the rainbow of cocktails I'd poured into myself, staggering around the dust-bowl, a fairly accurate description of our yard in late summer. It was bright and the fuzzy warbles emanating from ipod included Arab Strap, Robert Johnson, Elbow and a tune that really drove a nail through my memory Wilco's Handshake Drugs, with its cute staggering rhythm and ode to not knowing what the fuck is going on. There was a shimmering haze all around it. A Ghost Is Born was shortly to be released, and despite being their 5th album, 8th including collaborations, I had somehow successfully navigated my way through not hearing a single cognizant note in their nine year existence.

My life was about to change.

It can be tough living up to treetop high expectations. For the first half hour it seems like Wilco must one of the all time great studio bands. Its lumpy. They look uptight, taciturn. Maybe the drugs haven't kicked in yet. No one says anything. It's hard to fathom just how little stage presence Jeff Tweedey's supporting cast display. They're his bitches, no doubt. Between songs a few renegade observers attempt to spark some dialogue with a few leading salvos. JT downs them with some mock growling and clenched fist waving. That's not poetic license, that's a literal description of what he does. Mostly, the A Ghost Is Born numbers are pale imitations of their studio equivalents. Some sounds they have trouble recreating, although the out-of key notes on I Am Trying to Break Your Heart sound fantastic. Handshake Drugs has choppier than usual guitar rhythm, and close attempt at a freak-out that doesn't seem to lack effort, despite the sensation that something has been left behind. Its followed by A Shot in the Arm and At Least that's What You Said which, being played back-to-back should have equated to just about the best ten minutes of my life. The rhythm section isn't completely cutting it. Error free for sure, but its so unimposing you occasionally have to remind yourself its there. Maybe its the new overhead soundsystem, which is definitely clearer and somehow tamer than the stonehenge wangstack that flattened my brain whilst watching Fantomas with the ever-impervious ChrisDad. The drummer thrashes his hair and gurns with the best of intentions, but the punches just aren't landing. Somewhere in A Shot in the Arm JT seems to remember there's Something in his veins "bloodier than blood", as iterates the desperate mantra with increasing desperation.

It's a peculiar audience, very little movement, almost non-existent, older, mainly glasses wearing, but worse still there seems to be a moribund despondancy. What did A Ghost Is Born do to these people. I could walk into the Fremantle bereavement centre and find them all again, bereft of hope. And is there some tradition amongst Wilco fans to howl like wounded coyotes? I wouldn't so much mind, nay, probably welcome it, if the guy bang up behind me could vary it just a little bit, at least retain some hint of spontaneity. JT finally greets us more than half an hour in. He asks if this is pirate country, and opens a discussion with an inebriated punter who apparently flicked him off earlier. The new material sounds the freshest. It's definitely more poppy than their last outing, with perhaps just a hint of Nilsson. There's more soul, especially in the vocals.

At the end of the main set I almost utter "that's it?", not because I don't know they'll return, but there's a sinking feeling I can't disguise. The encores, two of them, are an improvement. I'm the Man Who Loves You is a rejuvenating rocker, and Radio Cure shows, as I used to say of Perth's under celebrated Belts, they're one of the few bands who know not only how to rock, but also roll. JT gives props to those who've made the tour possible, including a dear friend of twenty years who helped kept him clean and drove him to rehab; "fucker", he adds. Kingpin - I never would have picked this to be a show stopper, has a call and response routine, with lengthy lengthy lengthy introduction tracing rock n roll's inception on chain gangs trhough to Sly Stone. Jeez, if JT really is this loquacious then what the Hell was going on in the first half hour? Regardless, we get the opportunity to scream between "what can you do"'s, and since we're in pirate-town, scream like pirates. Arrrrrrrrrrrr. It feels good. Arrrrrrrrrrr. Many patrons are going for regular aaahhhhh shrieks. Chumps (and chumpettes) say I, for how often are you going to get the chance to scream at Wilco like a pirate? How often are you going to get the chance to scream at anyone like a pirate? Arrrrrrr, This is truly good for the soul.

Once every so often as you stagger down the road of life you're struck by a blinding lyrical flash "I don't believe in touchdowns", "remember me, Standing still in your past, Floating fast like a hummingbird" and the like, its a strange day when that happens at a gig. Words often work most effectively on a personal level, like someone whispering something into your ear, something entailed for you and only you. Marry that to the mob mentality of a gig and you join the private and public hand in hand. And its during the climax of Spiders (Kidsmoke) and the reference to a "private beach in Michigan", I suddenly realise, there are no beaches in Michigan. Or for a thousand miles in either direction. It's a moment of other-worldliness amidst this hypnotic witchcraft. The banshee axe assault isn't quite as effective as on record, mainly due to the the rhythm section's inability to replicate a sparse, clean backdrop, but nevertheless there's unerring resonance of krautrock super-geniuses Can and their dangerous trance creation Mother Sky. I don't use trance in the commercial 4/4 doof-doof aberration sense, more the barely tapped vein of middle European rapture through weird-ass pagan folk music and astral projection. With guitars. Try it some time; you can't fall incurably insane more than once. There's an lethal rip-tide somewhere underneath it all that could cost us all our brains, however there's a slow inexorable judder to the big rock that's almost disappointingly predictable and the moment is lost.

Transcribed by ReverendChris

A word on the support: I missed the opening act, but, according to the bar staff at any rate, featured a solo guy on acoustic guitar, which in all likelihood means Something for Kate have split up. YES! It's not that I can point to any single element of SfK's makeup that's truly egregious; they're just so much the epitome of everything that was wrong in Australian music during the 90s. A turgid post-grunge chug. Don't get me wrong, I truly thank grunge from the bottom of my heart for killing rock, but that these pitiful goons with their hand-me-down Eddie Veder growlings were actually passing themselves as something "alternative"... alternative to what? Yeah, they probably could have chosen accountancy as an "alternative" career path but there's no need to heap this manifold crap on us.

And since I started writing this, I rented out Wilco's I Am Trying to Break Your Heart documentary. Its a different band, I swear