“Stupid and cruel.” That’s America, says Jeff Tweedy on “Cruel Country,” the title track for his band Wilco’s 12th album. Born in Belleville, Illinois’s working class and raised making an unlikely marriage of hardcore and country with Uncle Tupelo, Tweedy has long worn left-wing politics on his songwriting sleeve. But here, he sounds bitter, even self-hating. Whatever happened to the patriotic socialism of Woody Guthrie?
If Tweedy sounds childish on “Cruel Country,” it’s because he is. “I love my country / like a little boy,” he says, leveling “stupid and cruel” a moment later. His back-and-forth mimics the puerile politics of the pandemic era, a daily seesaw of stupid and cruel. Still, the descending steel guitar rings with love as Tweedy rests on an image of “Red, white, and blue.” In their country music homecoming, Wilco has created an album true to its home country. It’s sweet and sprawling, bold but internally conflicted, and as for its greatness? Well, depends whom you ask.
Cruel Country is really about “country” in two senses: the nation Wilco calls home and the genre label it has skirted around — until now. “These simpler shapes and forms, that’s really all I’m referring to as ‘country,’” Tweedy tells NPR. Indeed, the album lacks the distortion of 1999’s Summerteeth and the sonic smorgasbord of the band’s 2002 magnum opus, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot — and it’s certainly not the soft rock of 2019’s Ode to Joy. These are plain old songs, 21 of them, written entirely by Tweedy and recorded in a few live takes. And patriotic or not, they are American.
For Wilco, being American is like the unconditional love between a child and an imperfect parent. This is obvious of the America-loving little boy of Cruel Country’s title track, but more developed on the album’s opening track, “I Am My Mother,” in which Tweedy interprets the divergent politics of his parents as a microcosm of the U.S. ideological divide. When he proclaims, “I am still my mother,” he takes ownership of his late mother’s dovish views on “the southern border” and “the idea that money could keep you poor,” as well as the motherland whose contradictions endure in his DNA.
Beyond the inherent critique of American exceptionalism, it’s all rather sentimental. Wilco asks not to reject America but to resolve its tensions through familial or communal love. “All you have to do is sing in the choir,” Tweedy concludes in the chorus of “Cruel Country.” His notion of cruelty lies less with the country at large than with individualism, or at least an extreme sort of individualism that “would rather kill than compromise,” as Tweedy puts it on “Hints.”
Perhaps this is why the album shines brightest when Tweedy the songwriter fades into Wilco the band. “Bird Without a Tail / Base of My Skull” joins an adaptation of an old folk song with a shimmering arrangement of bell-like guitars and percussion that sounds like flying must feel. “Many Worlds” transitions a pensive piano into an ensemble of twanging guitars that sounds spacious and hopeful like America. These performances are what Tweedy means when he says to “kill yourself every once in a while / And sing in the choir.” Though he steers this ship of state, the real beauty of Cruel Country lies in the democracy of the band.
Even the more traditional songs derive much of their charm from instrumental touches. “Cruel Country” reinforces its Americana childishness with a bovine clip-clop in the verses. “All Across the World” supplements its spirit of optimism with an uplifting harmony of piano and slide guitar. And the honky-tonk riffing on “Falling Apart (Right Now)” and “A Lifetime to Find” makes for probably the most foot-stomping stuff Tweedy has put out since the “No Depression” days. All commentary about America aside, the country tradition running throughout this double album allows ample room for Wilco to display its musicianship.
That said, Tweedy takes his moments in the spotlight. “Talk to me,” he says on “The Universe.” “Say it plain / Like how you really speak.” Now, he’s almost a parody of a singer-songwriter, pleading for honesty and directness over some forceful acoustic strumming. And he still harps on compromise in a world that must be shared. “We can all agree,” he says, since after all, “The universe / For better or worse / It’s the only place / To be.” If a bit preachy, it is a memorable olive branch from the irreverent “American aquarium drinker” of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.
More powerful is “Ambulance,” another acoustic number, this one depicting Tweedy’s religious experience while “busy dying” of a drug overdose. Tweedy sees the “lord” not in the “priest” who “pissed his pants,” but in the paramedic, whose act of service embodies Tweedy’s concept of holiness. The song builds on his history, dating as far back as Uncle Tupelo’s “Graveyard Shift,” of centering workers. And the image of human contact — “she was just holding my cold hand” — beautifully counterposes the album’s concept of cruelty.
Wait a minute. Family, community, tradition, faith? Wilco finds the beauty of America in all the things one might expect of the most red-blooded nationalist. If anything, it’s Tweedy’s criticisms of the country that feel underdeveloped. The jab that gives the album its title is not an argument, but an emotion. And the harshest judgments are reserved for Tweedy himself on “Tired of Taking It Out on You” and “Hearts Hard to Find.” Past some vague political commentary on tracks such as “I Am My Mother” and “Hints,” Cruel Country harbors a deep national optimism. It’s a sappy love letter disguised as a diatribe.
Ironically, Tweedy’s flashes of cynicism will turn off many listeners, and his cloying calls for compromise will put off others. Yet the national theme is mostly a vehicle for the country music, and there should be enough artistry here to satisfy longtime Wilco fans and some newcomers. Cruel Country can be uneven — it is a double album — but so can its muse. “I like it here,” Tweedy admits on “The Plains,” his finale and ode to the heartland. Sure, it’s “boring” and everyone “complains,” but in the end, “There’s nowhere else / You’d rather be.”
Jonathan Offenberg is a web producer for the Washington Examiner. You can read more on his blog, Off the Record.
