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When I was 15, I came to the sobering
realization that my tastes were not, in fact, altogether in step with
those of the other kids. I had discovered the band that would save my life
and effectively provide the soundtrack to much of my adult life and was
quite excited to spread the good news of what I had heard. It was a
gut-check to hear in reply:
"Who the hell is Wilco?"
I had picked up the sophomore effort by Jeff Tweedy's crew, a sprawling,
challenging, engaging meditation on rock and roll itself spread out over
two discs and labeled Being There.
Bear in mind that a double disc set was a major purchase for an
allowance-dependent ninth grader, even if it were something that I had
already determined that I would like- like, say, the live album the Eagles
released in the early 80's- let alone by a band that had virtually no name
recognition in Choctaw, Oklahoma. Something had drawn me to that album,
and that something had rewarded me with an experience that I treasure to
this day and wanted to pass along. My classmates were having none of it,
however.
Since the other kids were less than interested, Tweedy's songs became my
own private music. I absorbed every note, every creak, from the palpable
dissonance opening the album (remember, in ninth grade I hadn't heard
Sonic Youth) down to the smoker's cough unleashed as Jay Bennett proclaims
"That's it" at the close of disc two. These were my songs. These were
songs about being being hopelessly in love, whether it be with a person or
with rock and roll itself (or any mix of the two). I longed to hold her in
my arms and sway, kissing, riding on the CTA. I knew where I'd be tonight
(all right!) There was, in fact, a dreamer in my dreams, swinging from the
beams of light. Why would I want to live? Because I'd been maimed by rock
and roll.
When I finally saw Wilco live- my first concert that I attended in a
"club" setting, I brought my dad and my friend Alan along. Both Dad and
Alan were more or less along for the ride, whereas I was getting to
actually see the people responsible for my Favorite Album of All Time. Jay
Bennett walked past us on the way in. Ken Coomer stood with us during the
opening act. My dad bumped into Jeff Tweedy en route to the men's room. My
heroes had become tangible.
The set was a blitz of material from
Being There, with hints of what was to come: Dock Boggs' "Sugar
Baby" was covered beautifully mid-set, alluding to the band's folk ties
which would be more fully explored in their Woody Guthrie recordings; the
explosive, thrumming cover of The Buzzcocks' "Ever Fallen In Love?" is
still echoed in my head when I hear a song like "I'm a Wheel" or "Kicking
Television."
The clincher, however, was in the evening's most graceful moment as Tweedy
took the stage armed with an acoustic guitar and played his hymn to the
audience, "The Lonely 1." The song is a love letter to anyone who still
loves rock and roll, a song written and performed by a boy who did the
same things I did: growing up in a decidedly un-rocking suburb, buying
albums only read about in indie magazines, writing fan letters to artists
who didn't respond, and finding his voice sitting on the end of a twin
bed, strumming a guitar clumsily.
"He's singing about us," Alan said to me during the hush. I shrugged him
off, but he was right. He was singing to me, about me. I'll never forget
that moment.
I ran into Alan the day after I'd bought three copies of
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, in the
spring of 2002. One was mine, of course, one went to a friend of mine, and
the other was to give out. We hadn't seen each other in some months, but
the second I saw him, I reached into my bag and produced the spare copy.
"Here," I said, handing him the CD. "Play this for someone."
In the late 90's, as I finished high school, I watched as everyone I know
snapped up horrible albums by worse acts. In 1999, anything related to
Creed would've landed them on the cover of every mainstream music magazine
in the US, while Wilco would pick up four-star (and better!) reviews
buried in the back. Puff Daddy thought Jeff Tweedy was an usher at the
Grammy Awards. They were nobodies to the MTV audience (their last video,
for "Outtasite," was aired a grand total of once, although Beavis and
Butthead liked the video for "Box Full of Letters.")
This month, both Spin and
Rolling Stone are running splashy,
multi-page stories heralding the band's new album, while the recent demise
of Creed barely merits a blurb in the RS "Random Notes" section. This is
not lost on me. (For the record, the Spin
story, written by Chuck Klosterman, is better, although the RS coverage
has better pictures.)
Jeff Tweedy isn't a superman, and he isn't a rock star in the traditional
sense. As I've followed his work and his band, I've seen that he is as
human as anyone I know, and I celebrate that. Suburban home, wife, kids,
minivan, Diet Cokes, health problems. He is responsible for changing my
life for the better, for opening me up to the world of music and
possibility beyond anything I knew before- he has shown me that people
from humdrum towns in the midwest with minivans and three-bedroom houses
can produce stunning, beautiful, engrossing music that actually speaks to
someone else. For this, I am eternally grateful.
Thank you, Jeff.
(The new album, A Ghost Is Born
(Nonesuch), hits on Tuesday.) |
