Let's Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc.

by Jeff Tweedy

His handwriting has been eradicated by the power of sad mid-tempo rock. I know that’s not a satisfactory explanation, but that’s the best I can do.

But it certainly seems like magical realism to me, as it’s something that really happened, and it’s fucking magical.

It was my dad who had no chance. She wasn’t going to trust a man with her happiness.

Whoa

I guess technically “Turn! Turn! Turn!” has verses and a chorus, but it always hit me more like a living organism than the sturdily crafted repetition typical of hit singles. More like a tree than a table.

Still, it resonated with me, maybe because it had nothing to do with my small and uneventful world. Maybe it was so foreign it allowed me to fantasize about a world I would want to be a part of.

I have sort of a survivor’s guilt about it that makes me want it for everyone.

On the other hand, it’s also pretty “me” to trace the contours of a broken heart with a heart that’s yet to be broken.

I need strings that are weighted down by history, inhibited by their own filthy past. I need a guitar that isn’t a soaring instrument, because my voice can’t compete. It’s just not going to rise to that occasion. I need the strings to come down to my level.

Anyone who makes stuff lucked out that they found an outlet for what most of the world has as a condition.

It was realizing that I’m okay being vulnerable. I don’t care. My comfort level with being vulnerable is probably my superpower.

I had a bone-crushing earnestness, a weaponized sincerity, and I was learning how to put all of those feelings into songs.

After a song is created I’m really kind of done with it. I can enjoy the process of writing and recording it, but after that, it’s not something that helps me disappear anymore.

People look for inspiration and hope, and if you have it you share it. Not for your own glory, but because it’s the best thing you can do. It doesn’t belong to just you.

There’s so much power in that silence, just imagining what could happen but hasn’t happened yet.

“Listen to me, motherfucker, listen.” Getting right up in my face. “Mine ain’t about yours. And yours ain’t about mine. We all suffer the same. You don’t get to decide what hurts you. You just hurt. Let me say my shit, and you say your shit, and I’ll be there for you. Okay?”

To be a good writer, to make your own music, you have to be a great listener. To make interesting stuff, you have to be an insightful listener,

One time I had Rick Danko from the Band tell me that I sound desperate when I sing, and that I should never allow myself to not sound desperate.

I play the song one more time, and I’m always glad I did.