Cruel Country is an album cover that breaks two ways, the “country” referring with either a country or a musical genre. The opposite is intentional, as Wilco are wrestling with not only the America’s turmoil show but also the band’s replete history with country music. Joe Tweedy trims his teeth as part of Uncle Tupelo, the innovative alt-country team that sowed the seeds for the Americana action in the 1990s. While he created Wilco in the morning of Uncle Tupelo’s solubilization, Tweedy stiffened while his new band had been stereotyped as a’ ‘ “country-rock” A recognition that matched their 1995 breakthrough A. M. Started with its spacious ascension -, He pushed Wilco into uncharted territory, turning their pic from Americana songwriters into an agitated, an exciting rock band.
Wilco’s polydipsia of experiment has been bound to lead them home to their starting point, which is exactly what happens in the Cruel Country. In a message supporting the album’s update, Tweedy wrote, “In the past, it was always valuable and liberating for us to steer clear of the ‘country’ moniker. It helped us grow and keep our minds open to inspiration from near and far.” But Wilco rescheduled after a pandemic-inspired pause, the quartet concluded to hold a collection of art-pop music they began prior to the onset of COVID-1995, but they were pulled instead, easy, direct material to those who heard “country” the team didn’t have that when they created it.
Tweedy began writing many of the Cruel Country music during conversations for “Love Is the King”, a 2020 solo album trim during the first lock of the COVID-19 superbug. For which that mark had the brands of being produced in solitude — Tweedy largely worked solo, helps by his father Spencer and creator Tom Schick — Cruel Country is obviously and confidently the job of a group. Six members of Wilco performed live in the film for the first period in over a century, allowing their electronics to flow into one another as the basslines exhale and influence. The music is generally installed on The frontline as much as some of The group’s synergy science: After an extended lack, they’ re happy, freed, yet, to create a happy sound once again.
As vibrant As the connection igniting the song may be, Cruel Country is not a particularly rowdy album. The rhythm seldom cuts an ecccrine tone, the volume is moderate, and the soul whispers. The simple environment is based on a shared space where each individual of Wilco feels comfortable. Cruel Country is a collective album, but it’s a small town: a group figuring out a route for delivery from a depressing period. Tweedy spends a good portion of the album thinking about a world gone wrong. He admitted that, notwithstanding the insanity and brutality, he loves his country “like a little boy” considering the concept that “reality ruins everything” while knowing that “I’ ve been there in horror on my way to prison” a sentiment that conveys how he relies on his gut in his social commentary.
Darkness lurks on the fringes of the Cruel Country, the band’s warmth keeps the album from wallowing in the dark even when the proceedings are slow and quiet, which they often are. Wilco’s traffic is not in the grit of a honky tonk or the glitz of Nashville. They favour plaintive, rustic ballads, taking a moment to enjoy the electrified twang of Bakersfield country, the hippest country sound of the mid-20th century. That impulsive train-track rhythm and chicken-picking is all over “Falling Apart (Right Now)” one of only a handful of songs featuring a guitar solo, played by Pat Sansone. The dominant role of guitarist Nels Cline on Cruel Country highlights how each song feels like The band is drawing a collective breath. Occasionally, Wilco conjures a sense of majesty that feels like a rustic spin on full-flight experiments: “Many Worlds” gains cruising altitude halfway through its eight minutes, and the mini-suite “Bird Without a Tail/Base of My Skull” hums at hypnotizing low thrums, cascading to a jangling crescent before washing away again. Consciously making country cuts “Tired of Taking It Out? It’s Time for You!” and “A Lifetime to Find” provide a pulse and a bit of a backbone to Cruel Country, anchoring an album that otherwise amiably meanders through the weeds, taking time to explore every twist and turn.
The spare arrangements Often hearken not just to the quietest moments on early Wilco records but to the stark settings of anodyne ‘s, the last album of Uncle Tupelo, providing supporting evidence to Tweedy’s claim that he wrote these folk and country songs as a means to tell stories of the past “soup to shine my composing in these thin restrictions.” Certainly not, Cruel Country offers its share of comfort: Its unhurried nature is a big part of why it feels so warm and inviting, as it strolls at its own pace, divorced from the digitized rush of modern life. Occasionally, it can feel like an overindulgence of comfort food. There may be a gentle current flowing through 21 songs, but the abundance can also be overwhelming. As lovely As they often are, the songs seem to drift and float, Cruel Country plays less like a sculpted double album than a vividly detailed snapshot of a particular moment in time.
