late 2001, Jeff Tweedy is thinking of his forthcoming album...
'What should it be called?', he asks himself over and over.
'Rubber Soul? maybe not'
He glances down at a promo shot from Mermaid Avenue. Billy Bragg's head has been severed with scissors. Snow is falling outside.
'Astral Weeks, that's what I'll call it'.
A voice comes from across the room, an English accent, 'call it Jeff Tweedy Plays His J-160 On Every Song or I Want To Be John Lennon'.
Jeff turns to see the ghost of David Niven sitting on his bed.
'Tony Randall!', he shouts.
'No, no Mr.Tweedy, that's someone else'
'Well I played electric guitar on track 8!'
Niven is packing a pipe. 'Well you should call it Exile On Main Street then', he replies.
'There are horns on one song too', says Tweedy.
'So call it The Village Green Preservation Society...'
The sound of chains rattling outside causes Jeff to run to the window. He sees Dave Pirner floating around wearing that same black and white striped tee-shirt. 'Jeff', he moans, 'I'm the ghost of critical acclaim past. Put your money into precious metals or a Roth IRA. Don't end up like me...'
'Hey Dave Pirner! I'm Jeff Tweedy. I slept with Winona Ryder! I'm here to stay.'
Dave Pirner starts to fade away. As he disappears into the ether he cries out, 'I too slept with Winona'.
'So did I', snorts David Niven, 'So what are you going to call this bloody thing Uncle Tupelo?'
'How about 16 Lover's Lane?'
Niven glances at his watch, thinking out loud 'I wonder if there's anyone cool at the club....'. He disappears, leaving behing a faint scent of pipe tobacco and brimstone.
Still no album title decided upon, Tweedy sits before the fireplace. He thinks of Thom Yorke, Ryan Adams, and Robbie Fulks. He falls asleep.
Natalie Merchant comes to him in a vision. She whispers to him, 'call it Yankee Hotel Foxtrot ....and let me sing on the next Wilco album'. He wakens in a sweat. fini
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I listened to it all the way through today. About half the songs are really good. The other half are quite ordinary. The overall feel is pleasant. Sounds like a Jeff Tweedy solo album. He told the bass player to 'play like McCartney' and told the drummer to 'play like Ringo circa '65 '66'. He told the other guitarist to 'play Hammond -on every song'.
I can't help a bit of cynicism. I admire the achievements Wilco have made, but there are other artists who are equally or more deserving of the accolades. Grant McLennan anyone?
Cheers, Noel
no method, no guru, no teacher