Despite the nominal suggestion of sunshine, Sky Blue Sky still plays like rainy-day music – the pitter-patter of drip-drops on rooftops switched out for callused fingers on guitar strings strumming to the same effect: a soppy, sappy sadness. Jeff Tweedy hovers above it all, his voice so sickly strained that we can almost see the red welts on the walls of his Dylan-trained karaoke-quality throat, still closing stanzas with that stymieing, signature sob. In defiance of a hopeful ambivalence of morning argued by reiterated “”maybes”” in opener “”Either Way,”” the band books a marine layer well into the album’s afternoon.
Each of Wilco’s five studio albums since 1995 have preluded this lull, and each contributes a trace of its character to their sleepy sixth effort, puddling into a muddied gray. There is no discernable breeze of political statements this time around, no laudable Yankee Hotel Foxtrot types like “”War on War”” or “”Jesus, etc.”” to liven things up as the clouds roll by, nothing to stimulate the connection between ear and mind. So it lulls, less compelling than the dreams that are sure to follow and consequently not quite enough to drag the average fellow out of bed.