By Jeremy Essig
By Jason Robinson
By Hans Morgenstern
By Joseph Hess
By Peter Gilstrap
By Julia Burch
By Jeremy Essig
By Nathan Smith
"It's my impression that most folks want to do good things anyway," says Big Wu bass player Andy Miller. "If you make it easy for them, they'll just do it, because it's too easy not to do." Making food donations easy was the theme of this year's annual Big Wu Family Reunion, held Memorial Day weekend in Black River Falls, Wis. In addition to camping gear, tanning lotion and plenty of water, the Wu asked fans to bring nonperishable food donations for local charity. The response was overwhelming. "We just called the county food shelf and told them that we were gathering food for them at the festival," Miller remarks. "It was great; they sent two old ladies and a minivan, and we ended up with over 4,000 pounds of food being donated! They had so much that they had to send off some of the leftovers to the next county."
In addition to food donations that wound up on the dinner tables of 300 families, the Wu raised more than $9,000 to benefit the local chamber of commerce. Both were record amounts, yet neither was a fluke. Community kindness is as important to the Wu's buzz as the music itself. "What I'm really after, and I think we're pretty successful at it, is for people to walk out of our shows feeling better than they did when they came in," Miller explains. "I think people tend to find when they come to a Big Wu show for the first time that a lot of folks who like the band are really are a notch happier than at your average rock show. People really go out of their way to have a good time and to help other people have a good time. I don't want to sound cheesy, but people really go in with the best intentions."
Miller's been in the band long enough to know, dating back to '95, when the Wu wasn't quite so big, playing cover tunes at local bars in Minneapolis. Together with founders Terry VanDeWalker on drums and guitarists Jason Fladager and Chris Castino, Miller helped shift the Wu's focus toward original material. "There was a different keyboard player, who wound up leaving, and we went as a four-piece for a while and we started writing songs," Miller recalls. "There really wasn't any original music in the Big Wu before that. Adding Al [Oikari] on keyboards in '96 was a huge bonus for the band. He's a talented guy."
Musically, the Big Wu's sound is a red-eyed, smiling brand of psychedelic Americana. Think Grateful Dead-meets-Willie Nelson, dosed up with a healthy shot of roadhouse boogie and rockin' bluegrass. Take into account the band's road-warrior tours, in which they crisscross the country to play more than 200 shows a year, as well as a fondness for onstage improvisation, and it's easy to see why the Big Wu is among the jam-band scene's elite -- even if they don't like the label. "I didn't know I was joining a jam band; I thought I was just joining a band that likes to jam!" Miller roars. "Nobody wants to be labeled a jam band. I mean, reporters like it because it conveys a simple, glib idea in a newspaper, and then people do have some idea of what to expect, but they also call the Disco Biscuits a jam band, and Lake Trout a jam band, and String Cheese Incident a jam band, and none of us sound alike at all."
Philosophically, the Wu's new-millennium, post-hippie vibe reflects a self- sufficiency that carries over into their business and always seems to work out for the best. In fact, the only time things turn ugly is when the Wu rely on someone else to handle their affairs. After independently releasing their well-crafted studio debut, Tracking Buffalo Through the Bathtub, in '97, the Wu signed a record deal with the Phoenix Media Group and released Live at the Fitzgerald Theatre, a loosey-goosey hometown performance that strikes a perfect balance between solid songwriting and improvisational jamming. Folktales, another critically acclaimed studio album, was next. Unfortunately, the label folded shortly after the CD was released. "Folktales was due to come out about a month-and-a-half from when I first heard Phoenix was going out of business," Miller says with a laugh. "As soon as I heard about it, the first thing I thought was, 'We're making an album that nobody is ever going to hear.' There's not a lot of hard feelings or anything, but they just sort of fell apart, and so it's just trying to get back what belongs to you."