Lexington, KY
1991
Dave and I were driving down Broadway away from campus. He was prematurely bald, and, at six-five, neatly folded behind the wheel of his Honda. I was a freshman so I admired him for being one year older than me, plus he was funny. He asked if I had heard of Uncle Tupelo. They’re a punk-rock bluegrass band he said. They’re loud and really good he said. Some people might mistake them for country, but they’re not. Not really he said. He plugged in “Still Feel Gone” and we went wherever we were going.
I picked up “March 16-20, 1992” a few months after it came out, then quickly gathered the other two discs. My roommate, a devoted country music fan, was into it so he offered me the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and some Dukes era Steve Earle. Yer Tupelo Whatever is good, he said, but THIS is country music. I was glad he left Garth Brooks and Tim McGraw out of the conversation
1995
I was driving alone one afternoon feeling both free and responsible. I had a decent summer job and was on my way to pick up a friend at a place I wasn’t sure how to find. I would be 22 soon, an adult by some accounts and a college graduate to boot, so I felt qualified to drive around until I found it. The brand new Wilco “AM” was playing in the car and I was determined to learn the words to “Box Full of Letters” by the end of the day. It was the first time I anticipated the release of an album and picked up my copy the day it became available. I was not disappointed.
I knew all about Uncle Tupelo’s break-up. I even thought I had heard the rift begin on “Anodyne.” I had read about the new projects too. Both seemed like stupid names but I had decided to hear them out. I would see Wilco and the Jayhawks at the Kentucky Theater in Lexington and I would pick up copies of Golden Smog discs as they appeared. I would catch Son Volt on the H.O.R.D.E. tour’s small stage. Yup, I was a bona fide, ground-floor level fan of the new alternative country music scene.
San Francisco, CA
1996
My room on Hyde Street seemed too big with the lights on so I rarely used them. I didn’t know my roommates. I set my second-hand stereo on a wooden vegetable crate. I suppose it goes without saying that my mattress was on the floor. On foggy Sunday afternoons I could walk to the corner for Korean bbq and a six-pack of Budweiser, bring it home, don headphones and wrap myself in “Being There.” I could leave my studio at the Art Institute late, wear myself out walking up Clay Street and fall asleep to “What’s the World Got in Store.”
I would meet a girl named Amy who had never heard of Jeff Tweedy but she loved the Pixies and drove an old Volvo just like my first car only brick red instead of pickle green. Soon we’d be sitting in her room on Sunday afternoons listening to Hank Williams.
1999
Things had been going pretty well. I moved in with Amy. Her friends were becoming my friends. Everything seemed new and yet familiar, and very bright. It was a different life than the one I imagined, but it was a life of my own choosing and it suited me.
We liked to drive down to her family’s cabin in Santa Cruz on weekends. We’d sit on the porch with the doors open and “Summerteeth” playing inside. Soon we’d move out of the city to save money and get a fresh start. We’d get married the next summer. In lieu of cutting a cake Amy opened a piñata with a broom handle while Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” played over the PA.
Davis, CA
2002
Three years can bring a lot of change. Amy and I were expecting a child. We bought a station wagon in anticipation of the happy day. We knew we couldn’t afford all the extras but made sure to spring for the premium sound package. “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” was the disc I took to test the speakers, and it was what we listened to on the ride home, car-loan approved and a little ashamed of how nice it felt to drive a brand new car.
I had seen the album criticized as dad-rock, but as a dad-to-be and someone doing his best to embrace the introspective moments and predictable comfort suburban life has to offer I couldn’t see that particular label as the evil it was meant to be. Besides, there was nothing predictable about “Ashes of American Flags.”
2004
Dylan greeted me from behind the counter with a sly smile, saying “Gee, I wonder what you’re here for?” and produced a sealed copy of “A Ghost is Born” like he was laying down a winning hand. I’m pretty sure he was wearing a blue Uncle Tupelo t-shirt. I was flattered and a little embarrassed. I’d been coming into Armadillo Records almost weekly for five years so I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I had downloaded the "Australian EP" and picked up the Loose Fur record while anticipating "Ghost" and whatever changes it might soundtrack in my life. I’d kept up with line-up shifts and tracklist changes on-line and heard a few of the new songs on Soundstage with Sonic Youth. They played "Hummingbird" on Letterman, just days after Tweedy finished rehab. He bobbed at the waste and sounded like Paul Westerberg.
It would be easy to feel disappointed upon discovering something languid and reminiscent in the new songs, especially since I had already come to enjoy the version of “Handshake Drugs” on the EP, which does out shuffle and shine the same number on the LP. Then again, there can be genuine happiness in finding something familiar and a little soft, something that doesn’t feel the need to overly impress or experiment. In art these same qualities are often deemed lazy, as if any effort which fails to challenge an artist’s range or audience’s understanding is inherently devoid of value. Filler. Noise. But sometimes, if things are going all right or, more often, if things aren’t going that well after all, it can be good to revisit old themes and stick to whatever groove suits you just then. If Tweedy and company feel cozy with Jim O’Rourke and the stoned fuzziness he brought to the Loose Fur project then maybe they should roll with it. Maybe now isn’t the time to step yet again into uncharted territory. Is non-experimentation always resting on your laurels or could it be enjoying the moment, celebrating it quietly once having recognized it for what it is. What is “it”, you ask? Is it a feeling? A sense? A brief encounter? A ghost - ?
Okay, I started this knowing full well it would be a total cop out of a review, non-committal and probably uninteresting. The fact is, I guessed this album wouldn’t measure up to the exponentially mounting expectations established by the almost universally acknowledged critical leaps made on "Summerteeth” and “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.” Our daughter is a year old and we’ve all settled into a pretty nice rhythm together. Some things are new, some things are just like before, and some things are, well, just things. After almost 15 years with the core members of Wilco playing in my car or bedroom or front porch it’s hard for me to imagine a new album not figuring into my life somehow. Sometimes there’s just not as much going on as others. Today that is a welcome treat.
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