He fills the cooler with drinks and eats. Bacon, his favorite campsite treat, is tucked beneath a bag of ice next to a half-rack of cheap beer. He checks the car, remembering he had the oil changed a week ago, and the inept traveler gases up the little red Subaru called Alberta (sweet baby ain’t never let him down) and sets his sights on the desert solitude of Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, in eastern Oregon, where pronghorn antelope, bighorn sheep, and mule deer roam.
Highway 66 winds up out of Ashland and then traverses over forests of pine and fir until it falls down and runs into U.S. 140, which cuts through prairies of hay disrupted by lakes and irrigation ditches and grazing cattle, overshadowed by mountains in every direction. Onward to Lakeview, a quiet village where people talk straight and look you in the eye. And from there, the path cuts north on U.S. 195, then another turn north and by this time, the greenery and water fully gives way to sage and the high desert. And about this time, the traveler is feeling like the last man on earth. Massive brown chunks of earth tower over the desert and one can’t help but reach for his camera to take pictures of these amazing monuments.
And then the traveler hears a pop and a clank and looks up to see smoke swirling in the rearview mirror and every horror story of breakdown floods his head. Quickly, the car—sweet Alberta—is stopped and a quick check under shows oil pouring out and collecting in a pool on the white and tan and brown desert rocks that line that lost highway.
The weary traveler—the change from amazed to weary took less than a minute—begins to contemplate life. He paces the length of the car and wonders what would happen if he fired it up. A foolish idea. He changes tactics and reaches for reliable cell phone. No service in this remote area. He stands out in the middle of the road. He checks how much water he brought. He looks up, then sees no shade trees anywhere, and thinks, ‘You, sun, are my enemy.’ He dreams of a tiny apartment with stained, worn brown carpet he calls home and he loves that apartment. He dreams of overcrowded cities. He listens to the wind whistle through the sage brush and damns the romance he saw in this beautiful desolation. He is anxious and jittery.
Then he thinks of those people in stories he’s read. Edward Abbey used to hike miles through deserts just for the fun of it. The men who escaped Siberian work camp in The Long Walk trudged thousands of miles south to freedom, much of it through the Gobi Desert. He feels like the character in the brilliant Tobias Wolff short story, “Desert Breakdown, 1968,” whose car broke down in the middle of the Arizona desert, except that character had a wife and child with him. And he thinks, ‘You, inept traveler, are a wuss, softened by a life of air conditioning, running water, and sewage systems.’ He says to himself, “You’re not tough.”
And he ponders the idea of filling a backpack with jugs of water and how long he should wait before he starts out when a white mini-van appears and the driver stops and offers a ride to the store in the town of Plush a few miles down the road.
“I was wondering who’d be broken down. All the oil I saw on the road,” the driver says.
“People break down all the time out here?” the traveler asks.
“Oh, yeah. Happens all the time,” says the thirty-something mother. “You’re lucky you’re not one of these who’ve hit cows the last couple weeks.” In the backseat, a baby is slumped, peacefully asleep in his carseat.
He is dropped off at the Plush store, where he calls a tow truck from Lakeview and waits, watching cable news with the store employee, who is quiet, like the traveler, yet nice enough. The inept traveler is silently embarrassed about his jitters. He was not near death; he only had an inconvenience that will cost him close to $300 in towing fees and an unhealthy blood pressure surge.
A few hours later in Lakeview, he is told it was only an oil pan plug that had fallen out, and the mechanic finds a plug, fills the car’s oil reserves, and after looking and listening to the engine, determines that it is sound.
The traveler ponders another attempt at the refuge, but he decides that the lost highway is cursed for the day, and he puts his tail between his legs and drives home, cursing the shop who last changed his oil before the trip.
It is dark as he drives home, a crescent moon lighting his way through the forests cut by Highway 66. Late in the night, he pulls up in front of his residence, unloads and trudges into the apartment, where he lights a fire under his cast iron skillet and cooks up a mess of bacon, pops a beer, and reads a brochure and flyer about the refuge. He again plans a trip, one day, to Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
More Jeffers
A short rant: Too many people are overly concerned with happiness. Are you happy? Have you found your bliss? Bullshit. Happiness is just one piece of life, no more important than any other. Beauty encompasses all of the slivers of life, including happiness.
Let me ask you this: Have you found your frustration? your joy? your depression? anticipation? sadness? guilt? hope? faith? redemption? peace? rage? Throw it all into one big bowl, mix it up, and call yourself a human.
An excerpt from "Invasion" by Robinson Jeffers (with apologies because the full lines don't fit on the little blogger screen):
… I believe that the beauty and nothing else is what
things are formed for. Certainly the world
Was not constructed for happiness nor love nor wisdom. No, nor for pain,
hatred and folly. All these
Have their seasons; and in the long year they balance each other, they
cancel out. But the beauty stands.
Let me ask you this: Have you found your frustration? your joy? your depression? anticipation? sadness? guilt? hope? faith? redemption? peace? rage? Throw it all into one big bowl, mix it up, and call yourself a human.
An excerpt from "Invasion" by Robinson Jeffers (with apologies because the full lines don't fit on the little blogger screen):
… I believe that the beauty and nothing else is what
things are formed for. Certainly the world
Was not constructed for happiness nor love nor wisdom. No, nor for pain,
hatred and folly. All these
Have their seasons; and in the long year they balance each other, they
cancel out. But the beauty stands.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Robinson Jeffers
Natural Music
By Robinson Jeffers
The old voice of the oceans, the bird-chatter of little rivers
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their banks)
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of sick nations, the rage of the hunger-smitten cities,
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child's; or like some girl's breathing who dances alone
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.
By Robinson Jeffers
The old voice of the oceans, the bird-chatter of little rivers
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their banks)
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of sick nations, the rage of the hunger-smitten cities,
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child's; or like some girl's breathing who dances alone
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
An interview with Jay Farrar
The following article first appeared in the July 2009 issue of the Medford Sneak Preview.
Back to the basics: An interview with Son Volt’s Jay Farrar
By Vince Tweddell
Son Volt lead singer Jay Farrar says he tried to get back to the fundamentals on the band’s new record, American Central Dust, a very literate, sometimes introspective, other times rocking, twelve songs.
Indeed, this new album—which will be released July 7—signals a return, or at least a nod to, the band’s early releases, most notably the mid-1990s album Trace, which has to be listed in the top ten of any alternative country music junky.
Pedal steel, lap steel, pianos and violins all inhabit and enrich much of this powerful new album, something that Farrar said in a phone interview with The Sneak Preview was very different than the last album. He said while recording the last album, The Search, the band attempted to stretch out with their instrumentation, including the use of horns and backward guitar loops.
The new album is stripped down, bared for the world to see. Provocative lyrics, acoustic guitars, simple melodies and Farrar’s signature low drone of a voice leave a listener with no choice but to push repeat again and again, trying to understand how this band makes music that’s as much of an art as it is a commentary celebrating the daily lives of working men and women, past and present.
The haunting, piano-led “Sultana” tells the story of the steamboat Sultana, which on April 27, 1865, tragically sunk in the Mississippi River after one of its boilers blew. Some counts estimated the death total at 1,800, about three-quarters of the total passengers. The boat was overloaded six times its legal limit.
Farrar, who lives in St. Louis, said his interest was piqued in this tragedy by the sight of the “debris and carcasses of old ships when the river gets low.” When he heard the story of the Sultana, he was struck and motivated by the name Sultana, “a sadly, powerful name.”
The song “Cocaine and Ashes” is a tribute to Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards. Richards once said he snorted his father’s ashes mixed with cocaine. While many were outraged with that story (Richards later recanted, saying it was a joke), Farrar was struck by the “idiosyncratic demonstration for the love of his deceased father”—as if Richards knows drugs and he was paying tribute in his own way.
Another piano-led song, it starts off, “I’ve had strychnine/I thought I was dead/I snorted my father and I’m still alive.” The sad violin that accompanies the piano reinforces Farrar’s intention that this is an empathetic look at an often outrageous man. “Body and soul/Cocaine and ashes/We’ll get to that place in time/Tears and blow on my mind.”
Other highlights include a pedal steel solo in the song “Dust of Daylight” that will bring a smile to anyone’s face who happens to believe that any song is improved with the addition of a pedal steel (as I am). In this song, Farrar sings of the confusion of love—an old standby that can’t be sung about enough. “The dust of daylight pulls you down and you must wait/Love is a fog and you stumble every step you make.”
Farrar said he was thinking about young bands just starting out on tour that had gas expenses greater than their pay per gig when writing “When the Wheels Don’t Move.” He wrote the guitar heavy song during the summer of 2008 when gas prices reached the $4 a gallon mark. “Who makes the decision/To feed the tanks and not the mouths/When the wheels don’t move.”
Farrar, who has recorded three solo albums sandwiched between six Son Volt offerings, said he’s satisfied now working within the structure of a band. “The band concept seems to be winning out,” he said. “There’s always a collective goal in mind that everyone feeds off.”
He said he learned much from his solo work, specifically what his limitations are.
Asked what those limitations are, he chuckled. “There’s many,” he said, adding that he dabbles with many instruments, but is not an expert with them.
His songs have at times reported on the ills that can plague this nation. That’s something he learned from listening to the greats who have come before him, a la Bob Dylan and Neil Young. “If there is any element in being a reporter, I learned it from them,” he said.
His style is a mixture, the fusion if you will, of rock, folk, and country elements picked up from the aforementioned artists and the old honky-tonk type music he still listens to. It’s something sadly unrepresented in today’s Nashville, something he has mentioned in past interviews that irks him. “They (Nashville) produce what sells. They’re going to continue to do it.”
Is that a commentary on us the consumers? “To some degree,” he answered.
We don’t know what Nashville or other musical pretenders will produce. What we know is that Farrar will continue to write the songs that mean something to him, searching, haunting songs that speak to the whole of the American landscape and we the people who live, work and move through it.
*
Son Volt plays the Britt Festival July 18 with The Cowboy Junkies.
For more information: www.sonvolt.net and www.shorefire.com/clients/sonvolt
Back to the basics: An interview with Son Volt’s Jay Farrar
By Vince Tweddell
Son Volt lead singer Jay Farrar says he tried to get back to the fundamentals on the band’s new record, American Central Dust, a very literate, sometimes introspective, other times rocking, twelve songs.
Indeed, this new album—which will be released July 7—signals a return, or at least a nod to, the band’s early releases, most notably the mid-1990s album Trace, which has to be listed in the top ten of any alternative country music junky.
Pedal steel, lap steel, pianos and violins all inhabit and enrich much of this powerful new album, something that Farrar said in a phone interview with The Sneak Preview was very different than the last album. He said while recording the last album, The Search, the band attempted to stretch out with their instrumentation, including the use of horns and backward guitar loops.
The new album is stripped down, bared for the world to see. Provocative lyrics, acoustic guitars, simple melodies and Farrar’s signature low drone of a voice leave a listener with no choice but to push repeat again and again, trying to understand how this band makes music that’s as much of an art as it is a commentary celebrating the daily lives of working men and women, past and present.
The haunting, piano-led “Sultana” tells the story of the steamboat Sultana, which on April 27, 1865, tragically sunk in the Mississippi River after one of its boilers blew. Some counts estimated the death total at 1,800, about three-quarters of the total passengers. The boat was overloaded six times its legal limit.
Farrar, who lives in St. Louis, said his interest was piqued in this tragedy by the sight of the “debris and carcasses of old ships when the river gets low.” When he heard the story of the Sultana, he was struck and motivated by the name Sultana, “a sadly, powerful name.”
The song “Cocaine and Ashes” is a tribute to Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards. Richards once said he snorted his father’s ashes mixed with cocaine. While many were outraged with that story (Richards later recanted, saying it was a joke), Farrar was struck by the “idiosyncratic demonstration for the love of his deceased father”—as if Richards knows drugs and he was paying tribute in his own way.
Another piano-led song, it starts off, “I’ve had strychnine/I thought I was dead/I snorted my father and I’m still alive.” The sad violin that accompanies the piano reinforces Farrar’s intention that this is an empathetic look at an often outrageous man. “Body and soul/Cocaine and ashes/We’ll get to that place in time/Tears and blow on my mind.”
Other highlights include a pedal steel solo in the song “Dust of Daylight” that will bring a smile to anyone’s face who happens to believe that any song is improved with the addition of a pedal steel (as I am). In this song, Farrar sings of the confusion of love—an old standby that can’t be sung about enough. “The dust of daylight pulls you down and you must wait/Love is a fog and you stumble every step you make.”
Farrar said he was thinking about young bands just starting out on tour that had gas expenses greater than their pay per gig when writing “When the Wheels Don’t Move.” He wrote the guitar heavy song during the summer of 2008 when gas prices reached the $4 a gallon mark. “Who makes the decision/To feed the tanks and not the mouths/When the wheels don’t move.”
Farrar, who has recorded three solo albums sandwiched between six Son Volt offerings, said he’s satisfied now working within the structure of a band. “The band concept seems to be winning out,” he said. “There’s always a collective goal in mind that everyone feeds off.”
He said he learned much from his solo work, specifically what his limitations are.
Asked what those limitations are, he chuckled. “There’s many,” he said, adding that he dabbles with many instruments, but is not an expert with them.
His songs have at times reported on the ills that can plague this nation. That’s something he learned from listening to the greats who have come before him, a la Bob Dylan and Neil Young. “If there is any element in being a reporter, I learned it from them,” he said.
His style is a mixture, the fusion if you will, of rock, folk, and country elements picked up from the aforementioned artists and the old honky-tonk type music he still listens to. It’s something sadly unrepresented in today’s Nashville, something he has mentioned in past interviews that irks him. “They (Nashville) produce what sells. They’re going to continue to do it.”
Is that a commentary on us the consumers? “To some degree,” he answered.
We don’t know what Nashville or other musical pretenders will produce. What we know is that Farrar will continue to write the songs that mean something to him, searching, haunting songs that speak to the whole of the American landscape and we the people who live, work and move through it.
*
Son Volt plays the Britt Festival July 18 with The Cowboy Junkies.
For more information: www.sonvolt.net and www.shorefire.com/clients/sonvolt
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Ashes of Uncle Tupelo
This essay first appeared in the June issue of the Medford Sneak Preview.
The Ashes of Uncle Tupelo: A personal essay
Son Volt and Wilco both to headline at Britt this summer
By Vince Tweddell
“Mister tell me, fifty years in this town’s done for you
except to earn your name and place on a bar stool?
Spent your whole life in this county, you never been out of state,
You say you’re gonna make it out before it’s too late.”
--“Looking for a Way Out” by Uncle Tupelo
The first time I heard of the band Wilco I was agonizing through college, in the latter part of last decade, when I attended the band’s concert in Lexington, Ky. Wilco, still a young band, was touring in support of its double-length album, Being There, now a classic. I don’t remember much from the night, for I was still more worried about getting really drunk before a show than actually going solely to hear the music. But what I do remember is lead singer Jeff Tweedy’s scratchy voice as he poured out the final lines of the song “Misunderstood.” Part of an artist’s job is to make the simple seem profound, to turn a past moment of ugliness or frustration into something that is beautiful. Much of that can be produced through the delivery, and there, that night in central Kentucky, beer swilling through my head, I heard and saw Tweedy on stage singing these words:
“I’d like to thank you all for nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all.”
Tweedy wasn’t singing about anything new—rock ‘n roll and country music were formed from the stories of loss and frustration, emotions his pained expression and intensity clearly showed me. Loss and frustration were things I was just beginning to recognize in myself, and Tweedy sang in a way that meant something to a drunk twenty-one-year old, with little clue as to where his life would go and only a hint of where he had been and from what he had come.
Soon after discovering Wilco, I found Son Volt—a band that has released at least two of my favorite albums, Trace and Straightways, headed by Jay Farrar. And soon after, I found the CDs of the defunct Uncle Tupelo, a band that included both Tweedy and Farrar. All three bands have been with me since.
With them, I struggled through my twenties. But I learned I wasn’t alone in this frustration, this sense of loss, this seemingly unending search for something better.
“There was a time when nothing seemed to make much sense/That's turned more intense/And all the crutches you've kept around, now are nowhere to be found.” –“Looking for a Way Out” by Uncle Tupelo
*
There was a time when I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter and I had no friends in the small Western Kentucky town where I lived. Nights, I spent mostly alone in my shag-carpeted, brown-paneled apartment, a bottle of whisky opened some of the time, twelve packs of beer pounded the others, only to wake mid-morning and head out the door to report the cops and crime—meth and crack heads and those trying to arrest them—in Madisonville, Ky., a place that bills itself as the Best Town on Earth. Hardly, I thought then.
“A long way from happiness/In a three-hour-away town/Whiskey bottle over Jesus/Not forever, just for now/Not forever, just for now” –“Whiskey Bottle” by Uncle Tupelo
*
Maybe those of us who’ve moved from the middle part of America will always have a small chip on his shoulder, as if always trying to prove that something great can come from the farmlands and humidity we know. Both Farrar and Tweedy grew up in Belleville, Ill., a post-industrial town on the Mississippi River twenty-five miles from St. Louis. It was a town trying to keep afloat in a changing economy, more churches than bars, but barely, with not much to do but drink. It’s in the same corner of the world as my own hometown of Henderson, Ky., and though its economy may be stronger—and I’m not sure—it is similar. Tucked away on the Ohio River, my Henderson has limited opportunities for recreation: a bar called Rookies, boating on the river in the summer, fishing in its sloughs, a few nice restaurants, church on Sundays, if that’s your care. And work is not always easy to find, but there are numerous factories a person can jump to right from high school.
So much of what Uncle Tupelo was seems to have come from the place of their raising, a place that helped to form both Farrar and Tweedy and a place they seemed to have both loved and reviled at the same time. And from my own youth, I remember those nights in the Best Town on Earth and in Henderson, dreaming of the places I was yet to see, when loneliness and desperation would be gone forever.
“Now and then it keeps you running/never seems to die/The trail's spent with fear/Not enough living on the outside/Never seem to get far enough/Staying in between the lines/Hold on to what you can/Waiting for the end/Not knowing when
May the wind take your troubles away/May the wind take your troubles away/Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel/May the wind take your troubles away” –“Windfall” by Son Volt
*
Uncle Tupelo fused punk and country into a blend of rock ‘n roll almost untried by most others in the band’s lifespan—the late eighties and early nineties. One song they’re rollicking through riffs that can rock your ass off, the next they’re picking through the sad story of a broken man. It’s a kind of music that harkens back to old country—the stuff Hank and Johnny sang about: heartache, drunkenness, loss, redemption. And hope—lots of hope.
One of their early songs—the Carter family cover “No Depression”—came to be used widely as the nomenclature for this genre of bottle-breaking music. The No Depression movement included the likes of The Jayhawks, Whiskeytown, Ryan Adams, Alejandro Escovedo. A magazine that covered the scene even took the name No Depression.
The movement is mostly gone now. The magazine has folded. Uncle Tupelo broke up in the mid-nineties. Tweedy formed Wilco, and Farrar formed Son Volt, each taking their music in different directions from Uncle Tupelo. Wilco has moved into almost an experimental pop rock, with a large cast of musicians and arrangements far from your classic intro-verse-refrain-bridge-refrain. Son Volt and Farrar have also done some experimentation in new styles, but have tended to stay closer to the tendencies of the No Depression era.
But I am no critic. I am just a fan. I look forward to each new record, especially what will be released this summer. Wilco (the album) is set to be released on June 30, the day of their show at the Britt. Son Volt’s American Central Dust is scheduled to be released a week later. Like the others, I’ll buy it, stick into my CD player, and push repeat.
*
While living in the Best Town on Earth, I fell for a girl, and the Best Town on Earth wasn’t so bad anymore. Wilco:
“All I can see/is black and white/and white and pink/with blades of blue/that lay between/the words I think/on a page/I was meaning/to send to you/I couldn’t tell/if it would/bring my heart/the way I wanted/when I started/writing this letter to you/but if I could/you know I would/just hold your hand/and you’d understand/I’m the man who loves you.” –"I’m the Man Who Loves You"
Then I moved to Alaska one summer. Wilco:
“Picking apples for the kings and queens of things/I’ve never seen/ distance has no way of making love/understandable/distance has no way of making love/understandable.” –“Radio Cure”
She came to visit me in Alaska. Son Volt:
“Walking down Main Street/Getting to know the concrete/Looking for a purpose from a neon sign/I would meet you anywhere the western sun meets the air/We'll hit the road, never looking behind/Can you deny, there's nothing greater/Nothing more than the traveling hands of time?”--"Tear Stained Eye”
She went back home and soon we broke up. Son Volt:
“Living for the moment/Flashes and fades and takes you down/familiar deserted byways/Shelf-stored memories/Lead you where you been/and no longer go/But guess who’s guessing now?
Let me back into your world/Blink of an eye/No uncertain terms/Let me back into your world.” –“Back Into Your World”
I moved back to Kentucky and tried to make things right. Son Volt:
“After all this confusion is put aside/After all, we’re finally gonna make it right” —Picking Up the Signal
And so, a pattern was established in life then that still seems to be holding: Work low-wage jobs, struggle to pay rent, find a woman to help shake the frustration, break up with woman, fall apart with anguish, put myself back together again, and move on—while always dreaming of something better.
*
There’s a clip of Uncle Tupelo’s first television appearance on youtube.com that shows a young band, sounding a bit off and looking a bit awkward on stage. The clip has all the under-production of a local TV station—grainy picture, choppy fades, piercing sound. It is the direct opposite from all the slickly produced bands with marshmallow lyrics and white bread sounds that have moved through our airwaves. And in that clip, there’s Uncle Tupelo on stage, singing stuff that means something. Young and dreaming, they couldn’t have had any idea what was in store for their band and life then: the break-ups, rehab, Grammy awards, sell-out concerts and world-wide tours that lay in store. They didn’t know they’d find a way out.
But what I want to believe is that when they got out and moved on with separate bands, a little of Uncle Tupelo stayed within. The lyrics and heart are still with Wilco and Son Volt. Tweedy and Farrar still speak to me. Getting out of Belleville may have been the goal, but Belleville will always remain inside the heart, as does my Henderson. People are a sum total of their struggles, and too often we try to forget just what it was that helped to mold us. Oh how I sometimes dream of those long gone days in the Best Town on Earth when I learned to live on hope. I want to hold them.
“Remember when you didn’t have to look ahead or behind you/There was always something right there to do/But now it’s life in some kind of trap looking for a way out/We keep moving on, that’s what it’s all about” –Looking for a Way Out by Uncle Tupelo
*
Wilco plays the Britt Festival on June 30. Son Volt plays the Britt Festival on July 18.
The Ashes of Uncle Tupelo: A personal essay
Son Volt and Wilco both to headline at Britt this summer
By Vince Tweddell
“Mister tell me, fifty years in this town’s done for you
except to earn your name and place on a bar stool?
Spent your whole life in this county, you never been out of state,
You say you’re gonna make it out before it’s too late.”
--“Looking for a Way Out” by Uncle Tupelo
The first time I heard of the band Wilco I was agonizing through college, in the latter part of last decade, when I attended the band’s concert in Lexington, Ky. Wilco, still a young band, was touring in support of its double-length album, Being There, now a classic. I don’t remember much from the night, for I was still more worried about getting really drunk before a show than actually going solely to hear the music. But what I do remember is lead singer Jeff Tweedy’s scratchy voice as he poured out the final lines of the song “Misunderstood.” Part of an artist’s job is to make the simple seem profound, to turn a past moment of ugliness or frustration into something that is beautiful. Much of that can be produced through the delivery, and there, that night in central Kentucky, beer swilling through my head, I heard and saw Tweedy on stage singing these words:
“I’d like to thank you all for nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all.”
Tweedy wasn’t singing about anything new—rock ‘n roll and country music were formed from the stories of loss and frustration, emotions his pained expression and intensity clearly showed me. Loss and frustration were things I was just beginning to recognize in myself, and Tweedy sang in a way that meant something to a drunk twenty-one-year old, with little clue as to where his life would go and only a hint of where he had been and from what he had come.
Soon after discovering Wilco, I found Son Volt—a band that has released at least two of my favorite albums, Trace and Straightways, headed by Jay Farrar. And soon after, I found the CDs of the defunct Uncle Tupelo, a band that included both Tweedy and Farrar. All three bands have been with me since.
With them, I struggled through my twenties. But I learned I wasn’t alone in this frustration, this sense of loss, this seemingly unending search for something better.
“There was a time when nothing seemed to make much sense/That's turned more intense/And all the crutches you've kept around, now are nowhere to be found.” –“Looking for a Way Out” by Uncle Tupelo
*
There was a time when I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter and I had no friends in the small Western Kentucky town where I lived. Nights, I spent mostly alone in my shag-carpeted, brown-paneled apartment, a bottle of whisky opened some of the time, twelve packs of beer pounded the others, only to wake mid-morning and head out the door to report the cops and crime—meth and crack heads and those trying to arrest them—in Madisonville, Ky., a place that bills itself as the Best Town on Earth. Hardly, I thought then.
“A long way from happiness/In a three-hour-away town/Whiskey bottle over Jesus/Not forever, just for now/Not forever, just for now” –“Whiskey Bottle” by Uncle Tupelo
*
Maybe those of us who’ve moved from the middle part of America will always have a small chip on his shoulder, as if always trying to prove that something great can come from the farmlands and humidity we know. Both Farrar and Tweedy grew up in Belleville, Ill., a post-industrial town on the Mississippi River twenty-five miles from St. Louis. It was a town trying to keep afloat in a changing economy, more churches than bars, but barely, with not much to do but drink. It’s in the same corner of the world as my own hometown of Henderson, Ky., and though its economy may be stronger—and I’m not sure—it is similar. Tucked away on the Ohio River, my Henderson has limited opportunities for recreation: a bar called Rookies, boating on the river in the summer, fishing in its sloughs, a few nice restaurants, church on Sundays, if that’s your care. And work is not always easy to find, but there are numerous factories a person can jump to right from high school.
So much of what Uncle Tupelo was seems to have come from the place of their raising, a place that helped to form both Farrar and Tweedy and a place they seemed to have both loved and reviled at the same time. And from my own youth, I remember those nights in the Best Town on Earth and in Henderson, dreaming of the places I was yet to see, when loneliness and desperation would be gone forever.
“Now and then it keeps you running/never seems to die/The trail's spent with fear/Not enough living on the outside/Never seem to get far enough/Staying in between the lines/Hold on to what you can/Waiting for the end/Not knowing when
May the wind take your troubles away/May the wind take your troubles away/Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel/May the wind take your troubles away” –“Windfall” by Son Volt
*
Uncle Tupelo fused punk and country into a blend of rock ‘n roll almost untried by most others in the band’s lifespan—the late eighties and early nineties. One song they’re rollicking through riffs that can rock your ass off, the next they’re picking through the sad story of a broken man. It’s a kind of music that harkens back to old country—the stuff Hank and Johnny sang about: heartache, drunkenness, loss, redemption. And hope—lots of hope.
One of their early songs—the Carter family cover “No Depression”—came to be used widely as the nomenclature for this genre of bottle-breaking music. The No Depression movement included the likes of The Jayhawks, Whiskeytown, Ryan Adams, Alejandro Escovedo. A magazine that covered the scene even took the name No Depression.
The movement is mostly gone now. The magazine has folded. Uncle Tupelo broke up in the mid-nineties. Tweedy formed Wilco, and Farrar formed Son Volt, each taking their music in different directions from Uncle Tupelo. Wilco has moved into almost an experimental pop rock, with a large cast of musicians and arrangements far from your classic intro-verse-refrain-bridge-refrain. Son Volt and Farrar have also done some experimentation in new styles, but have tended to stay closer to the tendencies of the No Depression era.
But I am no critic. I am just a fan. I look forward to each new record, especially what will be released this summer. Wilco (the album) is set to be released on June 30, the day of their show at the Britt. Son Volt’s American Central Dust is scheduled to be released a week later. Like the others, I’ll buy it, stick into my CD player, and push repeat.
*
While living in the Best Town on Earth, I fell for a girl, and the Best Town on Earth wasn’t so bad anymore. Wilco:
“All I can see/is black and white/and white and pink/with blades of blue/that lay between/the words I think/on a page/I was meaning/to send to you/I couldn’t tell/if it would/bring my heart/the way I wanted/when I started/writing this letter to you/but if I could/you know I would/just hold your hand/and you’d understand/I’m the man who loves you.” –"I’m the Man Who Loves You"
Then I moved to Alaska one summer. Wilco:
“Picking apples for the kings and queens of things/I’ve never seen/ distance has no way of making love/understandable/distance has no way of making love/understandable.” –“Radio Cure”
She came to visit me in Alaska. Son Volt:
“Walking down Main Street/Getting to know the concrete/Looking for a purpose from a neon sign/I would meet you anywhere the western sun meets the air/We'll hit the road, never looking behind/Can you deny, there's nothing greater/Nothing more than the traveling hands of time?”--"Tear Stained Eye”
She went back home and soon we broke up. Son Volt:
“Living for the moment/Flashes and fades and takes you down/familiar deserted byways/Shelf-stored memories/Lead you where you been/and no longer go/But guess who’s guessing now?
Let me back into your world/Blink of an eye/No uncertain terms/Let me back into your world.” –“Back Into Your World”
I moved back to Kentucky and tried to make things right. Son Volt:
“After all this confusion is put aside/After all, we’re finally gonna make it right” —Picking Up the Signal
And so, a pattern was established in life then that still seems to be holding: Work low-wage jobs, struggle to pay rent, find a woman to help shake the frustration, break up with woman, fall apart with anguish, put myself back together again, and move on—while always dreaming of something better.
*
There’s a clip of Uncle Tupelo’s first television appearance on youtube.com that shows a young band, sounding a bit off and looking a bit awkward on stage. The clip has all the under-production of a local TV station—grainy picture, choppy fades, piercing sound. It is the direct opposite from all the slickly produced bands with marshmallow lyrics and white bread sounds that have moved through our airwaves. And in that clip, there’s Uncle Tupelo on stage, singing stuff that means something. Young and dreaming, they couldn’t have had any idea what was in store for their band and life then: the break-ups, rehab, Grammy awards, sell-out concerts and world-wide tours that lay in store. They didn’t know they’d find a way out.
But what I want to believe is that when they got out and moved on with separate bands, a little of Uncle Tupelo stayed within. The lyrics and heart are still with Wilco and Son Volt. Tweedy and Farrar still speak to me. Getting out of Belleville may have been the goal, but Belleville will always remain inside the heart, as does my Henderson. People are a sum total of their struggles, and too often we try to forget just what it was that helped to mold us. Oh how I sometimes dream of those long gone days in the Best Town on Earth when I learned to live on hope. I want to hold them.
“Remember when you didn’t have to look ahead or behind you/There was always something right there to do/But now it’s life in some kind of trap looking for a way out/We keep moving on, that’s what it’s all about” –Looking for a Way Out by Uncle Tupelo
*
Wilco plays the Britt Festival on June 30. Son Volt plays the Britt Festival on July 18.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
One definition of grace
"...grace is having a commitment--or at least an acceptance of--being ineffective and foolish."
--Anne Lamott in Traveling Mercies
Laugh at and with yourself. Others, too.
--Anne Lamott in Traveling Mercies
Laugh at and with yourself. Others, too.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Letters
I'm still an old-fashioned lout about some things.
Listen to this:
I, like so many, have succumbed to the technology that is Internet. Web sites offer all sorts of information and entertainment, constant updates about everything political and, if you want, personal. You've got e-mail, which is old news by now. You've got, like this here medium, blogs, in which a writer or wannabe writer can basically self-publish for the wide world to read. And then you've got the Great Satan, Facebook. I believe now its intended use is for people to become online friends so that Person A, say a girl named Chelsea, can know every detail about Person B, say a girl named Allison, while someone barely known to either of them but who is an online friend, Person C, say a dude named Bill, can also know what's going on and offer comments meant in some way to form some sort of online spark so one of the girls will realize that this dude named Bill really is a keeper.
6:13 p.m. "I wonder what Chelsea is up to," Allison thinks. "I'll log in to Facebook."
http://www.facebook.com/
6:16 Chelsea is watching Celebrity Rehab and making a cheesecake for Amy's baby shower :>
Allison thinks, "I need to respond to that."
6:19 p.m. LOL, Chels. I hate cheesecake but love Dr. Drew and those B-list celebrities. It only proves my life isn't so bad!!! :~)
6:21 (from west Texas, Bill chimes in) How can anyone hate cheesecake? You hate cheese cake but love Celebrity Rehab. You need rehab.
6:23 (back to Chelsea) I will need rehab after I eat all of this cheesecake. Or maybe I'll go on the Biggest Loser. LOL :~)!!!!!
6:26 (Allison) Well, sometimes I like cheesecake if you put cherries on top. I'll bring the cherries to Amy's shower. LOL :#)!!
Infinity!
I must admit that I subscribe to the Great Satan. An addict, I need rehab.
But here's where the old-fashioned part of me comes in:
There is something much more satisfying than communication consumed on Facebook. Letters. What you do is sit down at your favorite desk and pick up a pen or pencil and write down your thoughts to a friend.
Let me tell you, there's not many feelings (well, some) that are better than when you open up your mailbox and find a letter.
This is why I have been working a plan this year: 52 weeks, 52 letters.
I leave you with this: a challenge to take part. Take back thoughtful communication! Start a letter-writing revolution! Write to me and I'll write back. All four of you who read this blog. Send me your address and I'll write you a letter or a postcard.
This is the end of my rant for now. To see it in its entirety, go to my Facebook page.
Listen to this:
I, like so many, have succumbed to the technology that is Internet. Web sites offer all sorts of information and entertainment, constant updates about everything political and, if you want, personal. You've got e-mail, which is old news by now. You've got, like this here medium, blogs, in which a writer or wannabe writer can basically self-publish for the wide world to read. And then you've got the Great Satan, Facebook. I believe now its intended use is for people to become online friends so that Person A, say a girl named Chelsea, can know every detail about Person B, say a girl named Allison, while someone barely known to either of them but who is an online friend, Person C, say a dude named Bill, can also know what's going on and offer comments meant in some way to form some sort of online spark so one of the girls will realize that this dude named Bill really is a keeper.
6:13 p.m. "I wonder what Chelsea is up to," Allison thinks. "I'll log in to Facebook."
http://www.facebook.com/
6:16 Chelsea is watching Celebrity Rehab and making a cheesecake for Amy's baby shower :>
Allison thinks, "I need to respond to that."
6:19 p.m. LOL, Chels. I hate cheesecake but love Dr. Drew and those B-list celebrities. It only proves my life isn't so bad!!! :~)
6:21 (from west Texas, Bill chimes in) How can anyone hate cheesecake? You hate cheese cake but love Celebrity Rehab. You need rehab.
6:23 (back to Chelsea) I will need rehab after I eat all of this cheesecake. Or maybe I'll go on the Biggest Loser. LOL :~)!!!!!
6:26 (Allison) Well, sometimes I like cheesecake if you put cherries on top. I'll bring the cherries to Amy's shower. LOL :#)!!
Infinity!
I must admit that I subscribe to the Great Satan. An addict, I need rehab.
But here's where the old-fashioned part of me comes in:
There is something much more satisfying than communication consumed on Facebook. Letters. What you do is sit down at your favorite desk and pick up a pen or pencil and write down your thoughts to a friend.
Let me tell you, there's not many feelings (well, some) that are better than when you open up your mailbox and find a letter.
This is why I have been working a plan this year: 52 weeks, 52 letters.
I leave you with this: a challenge to take part. Take back thoughtful communication! Start a letter-writing revolution! Write to me and I'll write back. All four of you who read this blog. Send me your address and I'll write you a letter or a postcard.
This is the end of my rant for now. To see it in its entirety, go to my Facebook page.
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