"Wilco" is a five-letter word for the quiet slaughter of all that is elemental, passionate, and reverentially stupid about rock 'n' roll. Try finding a vein on a Wilco album. Oh, Wilco: middle-aged Midwesterners with stubble and suit jackets. Precise instrumentalists who make mushy, edgeless music. Two healthy guitarists who alternate featherlight solos with the sound of breeze and rustle. (The pussyfooters call this "atmospherics." Whatever it is, it's very tasteful.) Wilco: The Band That Rocks, Within Reason. Their peak party moments sound like a good time as described by someone who hasn't actually had one. "I'm trying to balance fun with crushing depression," frontman Jeff Tweedy once said onstage. "Always a challenge." In this band, that's a punch line. Is there anything dangerous about Jeff Tweedy? Is there anything dangerous about a pale father of two, comfortable in soft denim, mewling his way through a prescription-pill addiction with songs about how dishwashing just isn't the same... More >>>