Anybody who knows me knows I’m a big Wilco fan. I’ve either forced you to listen to Wilco or I’ve gushed about Wilco or called you nasty names because you’re not a fan or you’ve never heard of them, or I’ve blown you off to go to a concert. Before Wilco, there was Uncle Tupelo. And when Uncle Tupelo split into pieces, there was Wilco (and Son Volt, and I liked them too, but Wilco had Jeff Tweedy).

That’s the common denominator here–Jeff Tweedy. I’m not going to sit here and write some lame-ass fan-girl history of Jeff Tweedy. I’m just here to talk about last Saturday night.

When I found out that I was going to be able to see Jeff Tweedy in what’s called a Living Room Show, I threw up on myself. I’m not making that up. I literally threw up on myself. The Living Room Shows are fundraisers. A bunch of people get together, pool their cash, and bid on a LRS. Then weeks and months of wrangling and figuring and schedule checking and all kinds of other bullshit happen. And then you find out that on July 24th, 2010, you’re going to be sitting in someone’s house on a folding chair, just a few feet away from Tweedy, listening to him play.

Plus, you get to request a song.

It took me forever to figure it out. My top pick was an Uncle Tupelo song called Flatness, off of No Depression. When I listen to that song now, it makes me kind of wistful and teary-eyed because I recall my youth, which happened sometime in the sixteenth century.

Flatness, Uncle Tupelo, Jeff Tweedy

Beer makes you weary
But you need something to get along
You stare at the flatness
Beside the dark home
They’ll not hear you whisper
This isn’t where it ends
Your hand holds the bottle
That has become your last and only friend
I’ve lost all hope
There’s hope for you
If not just in the possibility
Of a better next day
If not just in the simple fact
There’s no other way
You lie on that couch
And try to dream once more
But your only goal is to sleep
Until the news is over
And outside the leaves are all changing
But you drink to forget
Someone you once met
Stands blocking the bright orange sunset
I’ve lost all hope
There’s hope for you
If not just in the possibility
Of a better next day
If not just in the simple fact
There’s no other way
So open up those curtains
And drink up the daylight
Just by the brightness
Open your doors wide
‘Cause things don’t get better
But some people do
There’s darkness in this life
But the brighter side we also may view
There’s darkness in this life
But the brighter side we also may view

Hmm. No wonder I got all verklempt while he was playing it. It has even more resonance for me now than it did when I was young. Cripes.

I need a drink.

I didn’t really expect him to play it. It was a shot in the dark, throwing shit at the wall to see what sticks, wishful thinking. Which he also played. But he did. And when he was done he looked at me and said something about it being much faster on the record than he played it (much faster) and that he hadn’t played it in 16 years, 20 years.

Thanks, Jeff. Way to make me feel really fucking old.

Anyway. So, he plays for a few hours. Some guy asks that his request be dedicated to his girlfriend, and when the song was over, he got down on one knee and proposed to her. What? Yep. Great memory for them, and my sister-and-law and I were all wiping tears and shit (the couple was sitting right in front of us) but once it was over, it was like it never happened. Very strange.

What did he play? I knew you were going to ask that. A huge variety. I’ll update with the playlist once I have it. But that’s not really the important thing here. I mean, no. Of course that’s important. But I’m really just trying to tell you all about the experience of it. Plus, I kinda like keeping that to myself.

When you think about how you become a fan of a particular band or musician, or a style of music, it’s not really something you can put words to. Well, maybe you can. But I can’t. It’s a feeling, a sense you get from the music that it feels right and it sounds good, and the lyrics resonate with you on some level–the music and the words combine and it’s like whoever wrote them and whoever is singing them and playing the music knows just exactly how you feel and they went ahead and made it into a song for you because you yourself didn’t know otherwise how to express it.

I read in an interview with Tweedy once that the song from A Ghost is Born called At Least That’s What You Said is hard for him to play because once the singing part is over, the rest of the song builds into this crazy crescendo that reminds him of a panic attack.

And that’s weird, because I feel the same way about that song. It makes me feel, internally, exactly the way I feel when a panic attack hits (or hit, because I don’t have them much anymore, thank goodness). The way it builds and builds and my mind gets more crowded and my heart starts pumping.

But I used that song as a way of training myself down out of a panic attack. Because it ends, and so do panic attacks (though it’s hard to remember that when you’re in the midst of one).

I wish I’d mentioned all that to him when I sat next to him and told him how I got the big vinyl poster of the cover of last July’s Spin that featured him on the cover. But I babbled about that and there were 30 other people who wanted a turn and he had this look on his face like “Get this crazy bitch off this couch!”

So, it’s not just that I get the music. It’s that the music gets me.

In the Spin interview that is behind the cover of which I have a 3′x4′ vinyl replica of, which now bears his signature, Tweedy says, about Wilco (the song) from last years Wilco (the album):

“I always think of the song as meaning not just Wilco,” Tweedy tells me [not ME, the guy writing the story] at the band’s rehearsal space, the Loft. “I always think that song is saying, ‘Your records will love you, baby.’ The overall message is to find consolation through music. I think it’s sincere, but at the same time, it’s meant to be a little bit funny.”

And yes, it’s funny. But yeah, my records love me. If they didn’t, I’d have to rely solely on books. Jesus. What a life that would be.

So thank you, Jeff Tweedy, for giving me and the other people in that basement last Saturday an amazing experience, and for sharing your time and energy with us. And for signing my poster and for listening to me babble about whatever it was I babbled about and for taking a picture with me.