It may not be entirely accurate to state Uncle Tupelo invented alternative country music, but it is very close to the truth to say that by incorporating influences as disparate as The Stooges and the Carter Family, they defined the diversity integrated within this style of music as it evolved in the late Eighties and early Nineties. As the thirtieth anniversary of their debut approaches arrives June 21st, No Depression (the title of which became a regular publication covering roots music) deserves a thorough revisitation, retrospective in itself that follows the earlier and equally well-deserved two rounds of archiving devoted to the title.
At this early juncture of their career represented by this Rockville Record produced by Paul Q. Kolderie and Sean Slade, Uncle Tupelo was largely a self- sufficient collective. Virtually all the songs on the first record, like “Graveyard Shift,” were collaborations between Jay Farrar, Jeff Tweedy and Mike Heidorn, singing and playing a variety of instruments. Certainly and forthrightly setting both the tone and pace of the record, coarse electric guitars, jabbing bass and fairly furious percussion also form the bedrock of the title track: a modern form of an ancient holler transmuted to quasi-gospel that predates its aforementioned iconic country authors, the succor it offers can and will touch anyone who needs support.
But the uplifting dynamics downshift with “Whiskey Bottle” where sweet pedal steel intertwines with sparkling acoustic guitars that, on the refrain, give way to quasi-metal hammering. The wholly unself-conscious incorporation of genres at the foundation of Uncle Tupelo’s music is, in its simplest terms, a combination of hoedown and heavy metal linked by a literate knowledge of folk: as such it represents a consummate act of bravery on the part of the band (no doubt a major source of the admiration they were afforded), but, particularly in retrospect, sounds like the logical extension of the rediscovery of country music in the late Sixties and Seventies as it morphed into ‘cowpunk.’
It is well-nigh impossible not to hear this mottled mix as the aural equivalent of the culture clash(es) echoing around America right now. Disenfranchised as the players here might have felt (like their neighbors and perhaps their audience too), these musicians were creating their own self-worth through the songs they wrote, discovered and shared, in so doing, whether intentionally or not, becoming role models. Little wonder Uncle Tupelo so deeply struck a chord while they were together and continue to over a quarter of a century after their final album Anodyne: it’s not necessary to be a music-loving economist, politician, unemployed soul or victim of COVID-19 to hear this record and think it was honed over the course of this past late winter and spring. “That Year” indeed!
None of which analysis would matter much if Uncle Tupelo weren’t tight as a band and sang so naturally and forcefully together. Their collective expression of emotion is resonant on “Outdone” and “Life Worth Livin’,” while “So Called Friend” and especially “Screen Door” shatter any illusions about an elevated status in life. Nevertheless, in the course of the nineteen tracks on the double CD Legacy Edition, a cover of the Flying Burrito Brothers’ “Sin City,” sounds comparably close to the heart as it pertains to the insularity of the hometown environs: urban metropolis may in fact be no more or less bleak than the hills of Appalachia to these guys and the hierarchy of class so prevalent in our country circa 2020. Why else end the baker’s dozen cuts with a number written by Leadbelly, “John Hardy,” that tells a story eerily echoing that sequence of events leading to the death of Rayshard Brooks?
Working on instincts and intuition as these three men were, it is nevertheless remarkable to hear the fruits of their imagination(s). Despite two appearances in demo form and live cuts, “Blues Die Hard.” probably didn’t make the cut on the official release of No Depression because it was simply too literal-minded for its own good. “Before I Break,” on the contrary, was no doubt an indispensable inclusion as its implicit recognition of frustration is actually an undercurrent that pervades the whole album (not to mention those genres at the source of the Uncle Tupelo sound). The relatively limited scope of selections included in the reissues only reaffirms how the trio so finely-honed the contents of their debut three decades ago: it’s the proverbial diamond, nota gem in-the-rough, but one highly polished.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to recall a more groundbreaking American band of recent years than Uncle Tupelo especially considering how distinctly relevant the group’s remained beyond those times in which they existed. And think what we might about the subsequent efforts of Tweedy and Farrar, in leading their respective bands Wilco and Son Volt as well as going solo, if that work ends up being mere footnotes in the history of contemporary music, that placement only speaks to the courageous and visionary nature of their partnership in Uncle Tupelo.
