Heard Here

Wilco
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

The boys are back in town, and in a major way. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Wilco’s latest masterpiece, moves a bit away from what another reviewer described as “Brian Wilson tendencies,” the perfect little three-minute song nuggets found on their previous album, Summerteeth. Now, I don’t know if that’s supposed to sound like an insult or not. Comparisons to Brian Wilson are high praise, if you ask me. But if we’re going to go along with that, then let’s call their new album Pet Sounds.
Not to be overly dramatic, but this is a wonderful album. The sound is thicker than your standard track on Summerteeth or on the utterly genius double-CD Being There. There’s a lot of noise here and more distorted, out-there sounds, all of which goes perfectly with my “boyfriend” Jeff Tweedy’s vocals.
As per the lyrics, the lovely and extremely sexy Tweedy is producing tunes as gorgeous as ever. There are a lot of love songs, as usual, which is never a bad thing. The best tracks are “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart,” “I’m the Man Who Loves You,” “Reservations” and inexplicably, “Heavy Metal Drummer.”
“Reservations” is a song I’ve been waiting for all my life, a perfect explanation of the phrase, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Sometimes it’s true, you know, and I think Jeff Tweedy just proved it. He’s in love, he’s out of love, he’s got no love, he’s only got love — it’s all fair game. And how fair it is.
Speaking of fair, let’s talk about Wilco’s show at the Agora last week. I got there a few minutes late and quickly shimmied up to the very front so I could let Jeff know I was there. He very sweetly acknowledged my presence right away, and then proceeded to play for nearly two more hours, which I’m pretty sure he did just for me.
Now, what I didn’t know was that Wilco has recently been told that they were number 13 on the Billboard charts. I know; it’s shocking. But what made it a little less shocking were the people peppering my section: a boy wearing a white baseball hat and a T-shirt that said “farfrompukin,” a group of about seven ladies wearing very form-fitting black pants and matching halter-tops and several men with hemp necklaces peeking out from their Jimmy Buffet shirts. I think you know what I’m saying. Perhaps this has been the case all along and I was simply choosing to ignore my brethren. But I was surprised, nonetheless. In any case, everyone knew all the words, and everyone was friendly, and the Wilco boys played two encores. Everyone went home happy — just like you will after you buy this album.

–Emma Straub

Heavens to Betsy
Calculated

When I was just a lass way back in the day, I had a “Dismember the Patriarchy” T-shirt. It was hot. It attracted men as efficiently as girl-on-girl sex as it echoed the sentiments of many a band that played the Riot Grrrl convention from which it was procured. Those were the days of trading ’zines and using fake IDs to get into 16-and-over shows. In such golden hours of my youth, Heavens to Betsy was at the top of my list of (I hate to say it but it’s apt here) “raw” femme punk.
Yes, long before Sleater-Kinney even dreamed of attending posh soirees on West College (as opposed to East Lorain), Corin Tucker was one half of Heavens to Betsy. She wailed, voice quavering as always, and played guitar on 1994s self-produced album, Calculated, their only full-length. Tracy Sawyer, also of Motel NoTell and The Lies, played drums and bass, occasionally backing up Tucker’s vocals.
Think of Calculated as a period piece and you’ll have no trouble appreciating its lo-fi scratchy sound, replete with feedback of all kinds and plenty of full-out screams. The album dropped a year or so before Tucker discovered the beauty of the multi-layered vocals that she and Carrie Brownstein have polished in Sleater-Kinney. Sleater-Kinney’s self-titled debut retains much of the Heavens to Betsy grit and “unharnessed emotion” or what have you, but Tucker’s voice in Heavens to Betsy is so much more fresh and so clean clean.
Calculated remains a showcase for Tucker’s ferocious vocal stylings. When the mood is right, I still love to sneer along with her, “Do you think that this is for you / Do you think that I’d do anything for you / Do you think that I adore you,” building up to the bloodcurdling chorus of Stay Away. The album has more tender moments, such as in “Complicated.” “You’re too close and you know it’s true / I’m just fucked up but so are you....Hardly anyone is sincere / all I know is anger that is real.” Obvious, and yet, so true if you want to embrace what’s left of your 15-year-old heart.
Like much early Sleater-Kinney, Calculated is laden with pro-femme rants and commentary on “the punk white privileged scene.” The subject matter is of course valid, but at times the album fails to address these topics with novel lyrics. Listen to “Axemen” to vomit with Tucker over the ultra-white pep-rally you never went to, but skip “White Girl.” Stick with the X song of the same name unless you want to hear a two-and-a-half minute sociology paper.
Regardless, Heavens to Betsy never fails when the angst is running high and you want to scream at all the nasty heads at the Feve who try to weasel their way up to the bar in front of you. Even if some of their lyrics are as played out as legwarmers, Heavens to Betsy gets to the heart of the matter. Turn it up, savor the crescendos and the gift from our great mother that is Corin Tucker’s voice, and have yourself a good hissy fit.

For all who hold Heavens to Betsy near and dear, Kill Rock Stars is scheduled to release a rarities album at an “undetermined future date.” Send one dollar and two stamps.

–Rebecca Keith