World Within a Song: Music That Changed My Life and Life That Changed My Music

by Jeff Tweedy

I love that what’s mine can’t be yours and we still get to call it ours.

I know it has something to do with Frank Zappa and some semiautobiographical band exploit, but to me, even if I HAD paid more attention to the words, this riff is so dunderheaded and massive it blots out the sun—hippie mumbo jumbo lyrics don’t stand a chance)

Noticing that my loud, drunk friend had gone uncharacteristically silent while cutting my hair, after I’d been talked into a rattail at his insistence. My eyes focusing on a bedroom dresser mirror one room across from the kitchen table where I sat, as it slowly dawned on me that his mute status was due to a violent laughing fit that had bent him over against the wall, gasping for air, as he surveyed his handiwork. He had unilaterally decided my hair wasn’t quite long enough for a satisfying rattail, so he had elected to shave upward toward the tops of my ears on either side of my scalp. Giving me what looked like the haircut equivalent of a coonskin cap. Summer school began the following day. . . . I’ve always been a hat-wearing kind of guy.

I remember thinking to myself, “If Jesus is so great, why are you (a person who I used to really like) such a pain in the ass to be around?”

Another takeaway—a realization that must have been subliminally received at my mother’s side in the eighties, a bit of wisdom about how the world operates that has slowly been working its way toward the front of my brain for decades now until this very moment—is how invulnerable all the musicians were. They dressed how they pleased and poured their hearts out in the public square. Where I grew up, both of those traits could get you a solid beating, or at the very least a healthy dose of merciless ridicule. It wouldn’t have mattered how good you were at your flute, jackass. How were they unafraid and safe from that ugliness? I wanted to feel like that. Where does one sign up for that kind of moxie, I wondered. The answer is the city. The city has the power to inoculate one against judgment. The bigger the better. Everyone’s busy. Everyone has seen it all. The more people there are, the less power any one group has to shame people into the shadows.

When I was growing up, each member of my family absolutely detested their counterpart in our next-door neighbors’ family. The Winkers. My mom avoided the mom. Dad thought the dad was a phony. My brothers had a beef with the son. And the daughter was my nemesis. No idea what happened to make it so. It just was, and everyone accepted that we hated each other. Every once in a while there would be some thawing of relations. A detente. Christmastime seemed to put everyone on their best behavior, for example. Never lasted long. One day, shortly after Christmas 1978, Rufus, the oldest son, whom my parents only ever referred to as “Dufus” (us being a unified front when it came to talking shit about the Winkers), was pacing around in their backyard talking into some kind of walkie-talkie, looking up at the sky. My dad pulls up in the driveway that divided our two backyards. Home from work, gets out of his “company” car. Sees Rufus acting weird and shouts over at him, “Whatcha up to, Ruf?” “I got this for Christmas. Trying to talk to an airplane,” he replies, still staring at the clouds. “Ah. That’s neat. Good luck!” Dad comes in the back door and heads straight downstairs to his TV workshop in the corner of the basement (he taught himself TV repair as a side hustle in the early sixties). Which just happens to have a ham radio and a small window with a good, slightly hidden view of the Winkers’ backyard. And Rufus. After cracking open a fresh beer, Dad calls me downstairs. And after...

Leaves no doubt. Is this song for everybody? No. It’s not a song I would throw on at a BBQ. But it is special to me. Which is the point of this book. Sharing how songs big and small, funny and dark, consoling AND upsetting, all end up rattling around in the same head is, to me, fascinating beyond compare and worthy of some book-length introspection.

It’s important in life to admit when you were wrong about something. And although I bristle at the notion that there could ever be such a thing as a “wrong” musical opinion, I was relieved when I finally was able to admit I was colossally wrong about this song (and ABBA in general). I’m happy I can admit it. Maybe even a touch proud of myself for not digging my heels in and hating this song for even a second longer than I had to, unlike some friends I know who are still holding out. To me the weird part is ever feeling like I had to hate something so clearly irresistible.

I wish I could say that looking back on that time from 2023 makes it hard to believe people were ever so small-minded and bigoted. But of course it’s entirely believable because *I’m waving my arms around*.

It feels good to stop hating something. Music is a good place to start if you’re interested in forgiveness. For yourself, mostly, I assume. Because records can’t really change much over time, but we sure can, and do. Better late than never.

Driving into Nevada for the first time ever. Twenty extra dollars is agreed upon as a supplement to our per diem for our first foray into legal gambling. Topping a hill on a dark highway, bright lights on the horizon. Reno! We stop, gamble, lose. Back in the van in under twenty minutes. Pass sign on highway—“Reno 8 miles.” A $120 rapid injection into the Sparks, Nevada, economy.

So, just to be clear, I LOVE Dolly Parton! She’s the best. Person, songwriter, singer. You name it, she’s the best. All I’m saying is that “Jolene” was enough work for one day. Geez . . . why are you looking at me like that?

I reflexively reject everything Bon Jovi does. In fact, I hate it so much I’d like to retract my previous words advocating for allowing space for everyone to like what they like and despise what they despise. I was wrong. This song sucks and you should not like it. I guess I hadn’t really contemplated this song thoroughly enough before I got all altruistic back there in that “I Will Always Love You” chapter.

Everything from white canvas sneakers and leather jackets to how a song gets counted in onstage is, ostensibly, a fully considered addition to the big picture. All contours clearly defined—and yet, artistic choices seemingly spontaneous and blind, i.e., not “choices” at all. Which also makes plain some unmistakable genius at work—sharp, deliberate, and permanent. All of this is to say I ADORE the Ramones. If I haven’t heard them for a while, tears of joy shoot out of my eyes like windshield wiper fluid when we’re reunited.