Crank call

By Kimberly Chun

› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER

Jeff Tweedy likes to portray himself as your classic cranky, no-guff, gruff Midwestern curmudgeon — an American Gothic Gen X reject with a permanent scowl of wear, tear, and experience affixed to his face, his acoustic guitar and harmonica-holder affixed in place for a ready-made impression of Hibbing, Minn.'s favorite son. It's all good, especially when he also goes through the trouble of turning his grumpiness into a somewhat comic persona. But don't you hate it when a 'tude leak occurs and some persnickety fellow audience-member pulls the same routine — on you.

And it is a routine. On Feb. 9, during his second solo performance at the Fillmore, Tweedy covered a few of the same songs ("The Ruling Class," "Theologians," "Muzzle of Bees") and some of the same jokes and yarns he fired off the previous evening, including one about an Amoeba Music staffer who put him in his place, answering his request to have another employee bring a missing, used CD from the store to his performance with, "Do you know how many people work here? Do you know how long it will take me to find the one or two people who will want to go to your show?" (This from the same self-effacing front person who contributed to the Minus Five's 2003 album, Down with Wilco, as well as their latest, The Gun Album [both Yep Roc].) Of course, the seriocomic harps about crowd chatter during his relatively quiet acoustic set continued — an approach that both confronted the listeners and engaged them in, well, chatter. We were put in the somewhat awkward but not unpleasurable position of placating a performer who came calling in the humble guise of the minstrel — with the affronted mein of a senior woken too soon from his afternoon nap.

That's Tweedy's charmingly cantankerous persona these days. So what's with the perfectly ordinary-looking woman who turned to me as soon as the singer-songwriter left the stage and declared, "You're chewing gum right in my ear, and that's all I can hear." She looked at me as if she expected me to apologize and toss the offending Dentyne.

We were crammed skull to skull at a sold-out show, but excuse me, was I moshing? Was I breaking beer bottles over her head? Was I setting her hair on fire with an upheld lighter? No, I was not. I was chewing gum.

"He's not playing anymore," I said, adding that the next set will probably be louder because Wilco drummer Glenn Kotche, who opened that night, was probably going to join Tweedy.

She continued, "Well, I did wait till he left the stage," as if to apologize. But she was still waiting for me to ditch the gum.

Resisting the temptation to press the wad into her palm, I decided again to just go for the obvious: "You don't get out much, do you?"

I imagined us in a school library: She was the fascist book attendant, and I was the sassy truant snapping Juicy Fruit and spreading spit on the Dick and Janes.

But seriously, I was throwing down for a principle beyond my own selfish chawing, because I can already see the day, coming fast in its four-runner, when the humble concertgoer won't be able to breathe — let alone pant or drool in peace — without raising the neighbors' hackles.

This current breed of entertainment consumer NIMBies (call them Not at My Show, or NAMSies) goes beyond shutting down text-messaging teens in dark movie theaters. Blame it on high ticket and CD prices and the inevitable disappointment that follows when cultural consumers are left high, dry, and dissatisfied by poor pop product, but there's a new and very cranky generation that isn't happy unless their entertainment experience is pristine and glitch-free, as ideal as the ones they can purchase in the comfort of their own soundproofed suburban retreat, in front of their high-definition, surround home entertainment system. And guess who's messing with the experience? You, too-tall Teuton, positioned up front and blocking the view, light, and air. You, too-loud yelling guy, shouting "Free Bird" or "Somebody Told Me" again and again and again. You, too-intoxicated would-be lothario, hitting on everything that moves and then vomiting and/or ODing on the footwear of the unfortunate who doesn't get away fast enough. Yeah, shows can suck. Life can suck. But the beauty of not being at home is that you can fix the situation — and move away. Try it sometime. *

MINUS FIVE WITH ROBYN HITCHCOCK

Mon/27, 8 p.m.

Slim's

333 11th St., SF

$18–$20

(415) 522-0333

MORE, MORE, MORE

CHOCOLATE GENIUS

Marc Anthony Thompson is truly brilliant: Just listen to his unrecognized 2005 album, Black Yankee Rock (Commotion). Wed/22, 8 p.m., Great American Music Hall, 859 O'Farrell, SF. $35. (415) 885-0750.

THE MALL

Whoop it up in honor of their 12-inch "First, Before and Never Again" at this arm-wrestling party. Sat/25, the Knockout, 3223 Mission, SF. Call for time and price. (415) 550-6994.

MOCHIPET

The turntablist otherwise known as David Wang joins Daedelus, Mikah 9, and others at a fete for Daly City Records' Baby Godzilla CD. Sat/25, 7 p.m., 111 Minna Gallery, SF. $10–$15. www.111minnagallery.com.

SUPER XX MAN

Oregon State Hospital maximum security wing's music therapist Scott Garred makes sweet, PG-rated sounds. Sat/25, 9 p.m., Hotel Utah, 500 Fourth St., SF. $7. (415) 546-6300.

PETRACOVICH

SF dream-weaver Jessica Peters's We Are Wyoming LP (Red Buttons) draws beautifully from 4AD songstresses' flights of fantasy. Sun/26, 9:30 p.m., Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, SF. $6. (415) 923-0923. *