Pitchfork

With the release of each new Wilco album comes the niggling disappointment that it's not going to be another Summerteeth-- still the band's most successful attempt at casting their country-rock rusticity in a gilded, big-production glow. That it's Wilco's second lowest-selling record (after debut AM) may put me in the minority, but after spending a few lazy Sundays with the debut EP by Illinois, I'm pretty sure these guys can relate. They may hail from small-town Pennsylvania and have a banjo player as a frontman, but Illinois' stock trade is roots-rock uprooted: Dust Bowl balladry that's been yanked out of the soil and set free to float away.

If Illinois don't add anything new to the indie rock conversation, they are clearly well-versed in the proper lingo: this seven-song EP hurtles skyward on a billowy bed of "ba da ba ba bas," those onomonopoetic endearments that softened up a million Pavement and Yo La Tengo songs. Illinois are decidedly less obtuse in their emotional expressions: That the chorus to opener "Alone Again" repeats the phrase "I'm alone again" pretty much sums it up. But even Illinois' most downcast songs possess a heady grandeur that serves to leaven their simplistic, sad-sack sentiments, particularly on splendorous piano-pop serenade "What Can I Do For You", whose dejected disposition ("So this is goodbye/ I miss that look in your eye") is remedied by a swooning chorus and a tasteful banjo break that's more affective than decorative in function.

What's most impressive about Illinois at this early stage is their ability to indulge in lovelorn lyricism and cosmic-cowboy reveries while honoring pop music's premium on levity and brevity (the longest song here clocks in at 3:14). And besides, it's not all tears-in-beers here: "Screendoor" is 128 seconds of acoustic-strummed rolling rock and call-and-response "ooh ooh ooh" elation, and the uncharacteristic hayseed funk of "Nosebleed" offers a quaint reminder of that fleeting period in the mid-90s when anyone associated with Beck got an instant deal with DGC and the Flaming Lips hit the top 40. The latter song's quirks-- distorted megaphoned vocals, compressed drum beats-- reappear in much less satisfying form on the concluding spoken-word ramble "Bad Day", which feels more like a B-side toss off than a closing statement, and suggests Illinois will need more than just a few banjo plucks to establish their own singular personality. Still, amid the grand lineage of bands named after states, I'll take 'em over Texas or Kansas.