Who is this Tweedy and why is he following me?

I have a malady. A sickness. I suffer.



I am simply unable to resist seeing Jeff Tweedy in concert.

In my defense, the guy doesn't make it easy on me. Since last summer he's been following me wherever I go. Cross the county twice, up and down both coasts, the dude always manages to keep within a short drive of where I'm at. Just close enough to bring my sickness out of remission and create whatever justifications are necessary to travel whatever distance necessary, sometimes alone, to go see him perform.

Dude even timed the New York dates of his solo acoustic tour to to accomodate my campaign schedule: four shows in NYS, all the week after Election Day. And now I decide to head back out to Portland and blam, west coast tour dates announced, starting in the Pacific NW. Fair enough right? He's gonna be in Portland, I'm gonna be in Portland, what's the big deal? Well, it's not a big deal except that I didn't just buy tickets for Portland, I bought them for Portland, OR, Eugene, OR and Vancouver, BC. British Columbia! Canada! I'm crossing the border!



And I would have bought tickets for Seattle but they had sold-out already. I also had to pull myself off the ledge of buying tix for the California run. I can't miss those: Arcata (redwoods), San Fran (Fillmore!), and LA (i've been meaning to hang with my sis in LA for awhile now, as good a time as any right?).


The Mayor of Arcata

Both of San Fran's finest

I think it would be good to mention that this sickness existed long before I ever heard of Wilco. There were always other bands. Since I was a kid, music was always the artistic medium that hit me hardest. There may be some environmental factors to consider there but I think it's easiest to just say I get it. Or it gets me, whichever you please.

Either way, I have always been and still remain a sheep in the flock of the Shephard of Rock. I believe (I believe!) in the awesome redeeming power of rock n roll and that, yes, music can save your mortal soul. When Rock and Roll is at its best it speaks the truth, and when you put it on top of a good beat and some nice harmonies you've got yourself something powerful enough to conquer entire nations.

Sometimes, though, music is just for dancing. Sometimes it's for quiet reflection. And sometimes its about truth, the high white note and the giant flaming wheel in the sky. It's all in there. The rock ethos is pure, but it's inhabitants aren't; and it's Jeff Tweedy's simultaneous understanding and embodiment of that dichotomy that makes him so appealing.

Some journalist from some mag recently said something really well also:

Jeff Tweedy Is Trying to Break Your Heart

What more can I tell you about Jeff Tweedy that he hasn't already told you himself? He's an American aquarium drinker. He doesn't believe in touchdowns. His mind is full of radio cures. He shakes like a toothache when he hears himself sing. He spends a lot more than three dollars and 63 cents on Diet Coca Cola and unlit cigarettes. He doesn't so much walk or swagger down the avenue--he assassins. He's the man that loves you and, yes, he's trying to break your heart. So what was I thinking when I said hello? I know what I was thinking when I said good-bye: You should never try to write a magazine profile about a band you really love. It's too humbling. I followed Wilco to New York, Chicago and the All Tomorrow's Parties festival in Los Angeles like a dog fetching a stick. I asked too many questions and learned more than I wanted to know. And now Tweedy has asked me to stop calling him. That's OK, I understand. I would've told me to fuck off a long time ago if I were him. But I'm not. Because even though he's the last person who would ever admit it--even to himself--Jeff Tweedy is special. Special like Dylan. Special like Guthrie. Special like Thom Yorke.

People talk about Wilco the way they talk about Radiohead, the way they used to talk about R.E.M. Wilco is a band that people listen to in their bedrooms and talk about at parties. Wilco can sell out a national tour in support of a record that didn't even come out. Wilco is a band that people make movies about. Wilco sings softly and cuddles a big stick. Wilco is standing on the shoulders of giants.

Tweedy has been to what Greil Marcus calls "the old, weird America," and he's seen the future age. And he's come back here to tell us that, well, he's come back here to tell us writer types that we're making asses of ourselves when we say that kind of stuff about him.

"I just talked to this journalist from Germany who told me our record had a distinct advantage because it was written by a prophet," says Tweedy, shaking his head in disbelief. "Hilarious."

Prophet? Probably not. The cat's ass? Hell yes.