“What you once were isn't what you want to be anymore.”
- Jesus, Etc/Wilco
Well, it's Jeff Tweedy's birthday. He turns 59. I can't believe he's been a part of my life for 35 years now - first in the seminal alt-country outfit, Uncle Tupelo, and then in Wilco. By now Wilco has become somewhat of an institution. They've released 13 studio albums, and they tour relentlessly and have a passionate and loyal following. Tweedy's put out five solo records plus a slew of side projects and he's written three books. I don't know if he sleeps. It's all a pretty good showing for a working class kid from Bellville, Illinois.
Tweedy and Jay Farrar's early band, Uncle Tupelo (1987-1994), are almost deified in some alt-country circles. They cast a long shadow. When they split and Tweedy formed Wilco, some critics complained that his new band and their first couple of albums were just an extension of Tupelo, good but nothing new. Nothing new was fine with me, those are my two favorite Wilco albums. But Tweedy wanted to experiment and break new ground and that's what he and the band have been doing ever since. It is a mixed bag, for sure. One of their albums, the darling of many critics, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, I don't love so much. But that's okay because there's so much diversity in their huge catalogue, I can always find things that please me.
Wilco and Tweedy's music is hard to classify and to me that's why it's remained intriguing. Forgive me for being so unimaginative, but it is like a box of chocolates. You never know what's next. It could be a country twanger or ten-minutes of odd sounds and feedback (Less Than You Think or Spiders (Kidsmoke)). Also, if you're someone who needs lyrics presented in a linear style, Jeff Tweedy's not your guy. You can call Wilco a lot of things but I don't think boring's one of them. I do respect Tweedy's desire to push boundaries and try new things. As I've told many people, of the 150-plus shows and concerts I've gone to in my life, I count Wilco's as the most interesting.
Tweedy's first book was his memoir called, Let's Go (So We Can Get Back). That tells you all you need to know about his sense of humor. It was a great read for me. I loved it. As a fan, having been on the ride of his musical odyssey all these years, I felt personally involved somehow. I'd been paying attention all along the way so the story meant something to me.
Jeff has dealt with some mental health issues, along with an opioid addiction. He entered a 30-day treatment program in 2004. Those things aren't exclusive to rock stars but that lifestyle certainly has a long list of casualties. As far as I'm aware, he has remained clean since leaving treatment.
I'll close this with a story from his book that has stuck with me. He tells of a couple of breakthrough moments he had in treatment. Here's the second one:
The other big moment for me happened in the laundry room of the halfway house I'd gone to live in , on the hospital's recommendation, after rehab. The rest of the band had been getting together without me to rehearse the A Ghost Is Born material in hopes that everything would soon be back to normal and we'd be touring like always. I was sitting by myself in the corner and playing the guitar, just trying to see if I still knew how to do it. I was playing "Muzzle of Bees," softly so I wouldn't disturb anyone. There weren't a lot of private areas in the building, and the laundry room was the least crowded place I could find. A few people wandered in and out, carrying plastic laundry baskets or stuffing bundles of clothes into dryers, but they mostly ignored me. I didn't realize I was being watched until I was finished. He was an older guy, probably around my dad's age, gray-haired, wearing what looked like clothes from a vintage shop, but you could be certain he had bought them when they were new.
“You know what, son?” he said to me. “You've got something special. I don't know what it is, but you've got it, and you need to do something with it.”
I smiled back at him. “Thanks,” I managed.
“The only thing you're lacking is confidence,” he continued. “What you need to do is get out there in front of some people and play your music for them.”
I was really touched by that. He had no idea that this was what I did for a living, that I'd been playing music in front of strangers for practically my entire life, long before I'd learned to drive a car or had a girlfriend or didn't depend on my parents to feed me. Music had always been the only thing in the world I felt qualified to do. But for a random person to say that, completely unsolicited, when he knew nothing about me, made it feel so much more meaningful. It cut closer to the bone. He had no ulterior motive, other than thinking, “Things have been rough for this kid lately, and I bet he could use some encouragement.”
I thanked him and he shuffled off, and I never saw him again. About a month later I was walking downtown and saw my face on the cover of Chicago's weekly paper, the Reader. I'd forgotten I'd even done an interview with them before I'd gone into the hospital. A Ghost Is Born was about to be released and the press was starting to come out. Around Chicago, I was starting to see my face more places than ever before. I couldn't help but wonder if that older gentleman had recognized the kid from the laundry room's face on the side of a CTA bus and shook his head in wonder.
Happy birthday, Jeff.
Feel free to name your Wilco/Tweedy faves.