Now I know how Kim Jong Il feels...

Ah yes, the proverbial "morning after" post...

Some thoughts on Wilco's show at the 9:30 Club last night:

1) There are some bands that are just so consistently solid that there's really no point in trying to review them. Peal Jam is one of these bands, and yes, Wilco is another. I'm not trying to say that these two bands are similar in any way; what I'm trying to say is that you're rarely let down when you buy a ticket to one of their shows, because the odds are very good that your high expectations will be met. And anyone who would be taking the time to read a review of one of their performances is probably a big enough fan that they've seen them in person themselves, so they already know what a Wilco or a Pearl Jam show sounds like. In short, I'm not going to waste my time and your time doing a song-for-song overview of the show, because you already know that it was very good, and that it was exactly what a Wilco show should be.

2) I made it through the show alive, and intact. I know some were concerned for my safety, what with Tweedy getting all Hulk on us, but the concert went off without incident. It's pretty S.O.P. for concerts in DC, but he did go through the typical "fuck the government" routine during one of his banter sessions, mentioning that we have the best and the worst in this town: beautiful buildings with terrible people working in them, etc. But no angry republicans/hill staffers stormed the stage, and the riot gear could remain in the closet for one more night.

3) Big, sweaty, hunch-backed guy with the GIGANTIC head wearing the khaki shorts and the Nike Dry-Fit long-sleeve t-shirt? Yeah, I'm looking at you. I know you're drunk, and I know you're buying those two lesbians a ton of drinks, and they're being nice to you, but let me save you some time and money: it ain't happening, brah. You might be too wasted to realize this, but somebody had to break the news to you.

4) Also, big, sweaty, hunch-backed guy with the GIGANTIC head in the work-out clothing, can you tell your friends to shut up? I really, really hate being that guy that gets all pissy about loud concert attendees, but there are a lot of people who spent a lot of money to be here ($80 - $160 per ticket on Craig! You've gotta be shitting me!), and most of them didn't realize that "Radio Cure" had backing vocals with the slurred lyrics, "DUDE! This shot fucking sucks, bro! Red Headed Sluts, dude. That's a fucking shot," and "Hey pussy, drink up! Put it back! PUSSY!" You and your obnoxious posse have spent the entire show over by the snack bar where you can't even see the stage, taking shots, ordering drinks, and macking on lesbians. There's a little place in Arlington called Whitlow's where this is acceptable behavior. I know they might sound similar, but the 9:30 Club with Wilco performing is not Whitlow's.

5) Was anyone else struck by how many tall dudes there were at the show last night? I don't think any studies have been done, but Wilco might have the tallest average fan of any band in America.

Wilco Update: No I Will Not Make Out With You Edition

ohmygodohmygodohmygod

Pitchfork, you bastard! You've done it again! As if I couldn't be any more STYCHED for this show tonight, you've gone and cranked that mutha up to eleven! And the best part? This all took place during "Airline to Heaven," which, my friends, is so much more ba-dass live than it is on Mermaid Avenue Vol. II.

Check the videos:

Pucker up, Buttercup

Oh, brother. The countdown to Wilco's show tomorrow night at 9:30 has begun, and it looks like my new goalie pads arrived in the mail just in time. Remind me to lay off the champagne and oysters before the show, because I don't need any aphrodisiacs getting me into trouble with Tweedy when he starts playing "Monday." At least we know the man is true to his wife (when others are watching). Now Nels Cline, on the other hand... the Duke here is pretty sure he has a hard time resisting nobility of questionable Eastern European origin.

Aquarium Drinking

Admit it. It’s been lingering in the back of your head ever since you first heard it in 2002 and the confusion isn’t necessarily undesirable, it’s more of a welcome frustration. Nonsensical lyrics are all over the place and just about every artist is guilty. You can make anything you want out of a Dylan song, but at the heart, even he admits he doesn’t know what some of them are about. Jeff Tweedy, the slacker rock god who occasionally likes painting faces on his beer gut and smoking cigarettes through his navel, is no exception.

So, what the fuck is an American Aquarium Drinker? Frankly, I have a couple of leads and they have taken me nowhere. Sure, the line “The Subway is a porno” from “NYC” is questionable, but it just doesn’t quite provoke the same inquisition as “I am an American Aquarium Drinker.” American is easy. Any Colbert fan can tell you exactly what an American is (check out this site for details). So the real question lies in the last two words; aquarium obviously describing the kind of drinker he is.

First impression: our narrator is a boozehound. Considering he’s a damn rock star, this is no surprise. So is that quantity? Does he drink aquariums full of booze? I sure as hell hope so. There’s nothing more clear about the American dream than the absolute concrete fact that everyone wants to swim around in their own aquarium of liquor. If you disagree, you are a terrorist--I can tell.

But maybe that is a stretch. I always thought it a little funny that maybe the guy who wrote this was on too much vicodin and actually did this once. Every drunk must admit to coming home loaded and plowing through the refrigerator—it’s just a fact of life. So maybe you took too many pills and you’re getting dry mouth. Hi Nemo! You’re such a good fish. Water is great huh. You live in water. Mmmmmmmm. Then you stick your head in the tank and start guzzling. Aside from all the bacteria and paramecia (What’s a paramecium brain Peter?) you just inhaled, you have just been awarded a very prestigious title: you are officially an aquarium drinker. Congrats.

We should all endeavor to drink more aquarium water. Maybe not literally, but if we are all fish swimming around in this sea of shit, why not? We already smell like it anyway. Even with a mouth full of aquarium algae, for some reason I trust this guy singing to me. I’m not really sure what the fuck he’s talking about, but it sounds nice. It really makes me want to take off my band aid because of my belief that there are no such things as touchdowns. Sure I’ve seen them on TV, but all these pills and aquarium water have my head a bit skewed. That wasn’t a touchdown, it was a damned football game.

Somewhere between Dylan’s eleven-dollar-bill cynicism and Jeff Tweedy’s ramblings my life has found a happy place. Sure, I smell like a fish tank, am not allowed into "classy places," , sleep on newspapers, and read mattresses, but damnit I’m an American. Excuse me while I assassin to the bathroom.