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228 reviews for:
Let's Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc.
Jeff Tweedy
4.38 AVERAGE
228 reviews for:
Let's Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc.
Jeff Tweedy
4.38 AVERAGE
I put off reading this because I thought (from my knowledge of the wilco band breakups, record label issues and drug issues) that it might be really heavy. But despite not shying away from all the rough stuff, it was really joyous and humorous. A great insight into a lifetime of creativity and demons and love.
emotional
funny
hopeful
inspiring
lighthearted
reflective
fast-paced
I've been a fan of Wilco and by extension, Jeff Tweedy, for almost 20 years now and have seen the band live at least four times and Tweedy solo twice. I have always felt a certain kinship with him because he's from Belleville, IL which is just across the river from my hometown of St. Louis.
Reading about his life was a little bit of a stroll down memory lane because there were several regional touchstones that hit home for me. Vintage Vinyl, Cicero's, Wash U... I listened to the audio version and hearing Tweedy recall his life through that humble yet at times bitingly sarcastic voice of his was pitch perfect. It was also a wonderful addition that on two different occasions, his wife and elder son weighed in to offer their viewpoint on certain aspects of his life.
This is by no means a perfect account, especially towards the end, where things speed up and the more recent events in his life seem to get shorter shrift. However, it is the rare memoir that not only gave me a clearer perspective on art but life itself. Tweedy's outlook isn't necessarily inspirational...that would be too simplistic and even corny...but instead is clear eyed and provides an insightful viewpoint on life, particularity when it comes to his struggles with addiction.
It's the second musician memoir in a row (after Springsteen on Broadway, which isn't a memoir but certainly feels like one) that nearly brought me to tears at several points. Nick Offerman may very well be right when he said that Tweedy is the finest songwriter of his generation.
Reading about his life was a little bit of a stroll down memory lane because there were several regional touchstones that hit home for me. Vintage Vinyl, Cicero's, Wash U... I listened to the audio version and hearing Tweedy recall his life through that humble yet at times bitingly sarcastic voice of his was pitch perfect. It was also a wonderful addition that on two different occasions, his wife and elder son weighed in to offer their viewpoint on certain aspects of his life.
This is by no means a perfect account, especially towards the end, where things speed up and the more recent events in his life seem to get shorter shrift. However, it is the rare memoir that not only gave me a clearer perspective on art but life itself. Tweedy's outlook isn't necessarily inspirational...that would be too simplistic and even corny...but instead is clear eyed and provides an insightful viewpoint on life, particularity when it comes to his struggles with addiction.
It's the second musician memoir in a row (after Springsteen on Broadway, which isn't a memoir but certainly feels like one) that nearly brought me to tears at several points. Nick Offerman may very well be right when he said that Tweedy is the finest songwriter of his generation.
“That’s what made me feel like I could be a songwriter. It’s not about being able to write the perfect lyrics or a melody that will crawl up inside a listener’s head and never leave. It was realizing that I’m okay being vulnerable. I don’t care. My comfort level with being vulnerable is probably my superpower. I wasn’t the cool kid. I wasn’t the strongest. I wasn’t the one you could depend on if things went wrong. I wasn’t the smartest person. I wasn’t the one you could turn to if you had a question. I wasn’t ruggedly handsome or boyishly charming. I wasn’t the captain of the football team, or the kind everybody in school voted was the most likely to succeed. I was the guy who could burst into tears in front of his peers and not care what they thought. I had a bone-crushing earnestness, a weaponized sincerity, and I was learning how to put all of those feelings into songs. That may not sound like a superpowr, but when I discovered it, it was not any less remarkable than Peter Parker realizing he could walk on walls. That was the moment of reckoning. I was different. I had something to offer. I was impervious to my peers’ shame. They couldn’t make me recoil with their snickering or judgmental sneers. I’d sung these same songs to my mother, in the quiet of our kitchen, and if I could open up to her and not be destroyed by a disapproving arch of an eyebrow, what could a crowd of strangers possibly do?
I became a songwriter not when I composed that perfect couplet, or when I experienced the right amount of pain. It’s when I realized that whatever I wrote, even if it meant gutting myself in front of strangers, letting all those raw emotions come flooding out, making a fool of myself with my own words, was exactly what I always wanted to do with my life.”
---
“Peter asked us to meet him after the show at a place called the Grit, a nearby vegetarian restaurant. When we walked in, there was no sign of him, but I saw Michael Stipe sitting alone at the bar, so I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mr. Stipe, do you know if Peter is here?” He turned to me and replied, with no facial expression or emotion, “I’m not Peter’s keeper.” Ah, okay, noted. We eventually found Peter, and we hung out deep into the night, bonding over records and books and southern diner food. At some point he offered to help us make a record. We’d only made one record, so we weren’t quite aware how generous and sweet an offer that was.”
---
“I used to assume that the people who were great at writing songs were just more talented than everybody else, and that they always had a very clear understanding of what they were trying to accomplish and the intent behind it. As I’ve gotten older I’ve concluded that this is rarely the case. The people who seem the most like geniuses are not geniuses. They’re just more comfortable with failing. They try more and they try harder than most people, and so they stumble onto more songs. It’s pretty simple. People who don’t pick up a pencil never write a poem. People who don’t pick up a guitar and try every day don’t write a whole lot of great songs."
---
“But if Kermit the Frog and Pepe the King Prawn want to interview us and coax us into singing “Rainbow Connection,” were probably going to sing along, because not singing "Rainbow Connection" with Kermit means you're garbage.”
---
"Her death was unexpected. She didn't take great care of her health, but she was happy and vibrant. She had a heart attack while playing cards with friends-the same social circle of women she played cards with once a month for more than forty years. One of them told me, "She went down like a ballerina and she was gone." So I guess it was the kind of death we'd all sign up for. A good death, if there is such a thing. There were no bedroom vigils, no praying for a recovery, no whispered conversations with doctors. Just a bunch of "old broads" (in their words) sitting around card tables, slapping down cards, and eating gooey butter cake, until one of them decided to cut the game short."
---
"It's hard to drive a car safely when you're crying harder than you've ever cried. I was so proud of Sammy. I don't know where he gained the emotional insight that the dying might not want to let go because they're worried about the living, but it was poignant and beautiful. In the end, we were able to make it to his side. Sammy and Spencer and I sang "I Shall Be Released" together, and I tried to sing "Hummingbird," my dad's favorite Wilco song, but I don't think I got very far. My dad died about a half hour after we'd made it back from Chicago, with his girlfriend, Melba, holding his right hand and me and Sammy and Spencer holding his left; family at his side, and a stereo we hadn't even noticed was on, playing Wilco softly in the strange new silence."
I became a songwriter not when I composed that perfect couplet, or when I experienced the right amount of pain. It’s when I realized that whatever I wrote, even if it meant gutting myself in front of strangers, letting all those raw emotions come flooding out, making a fool of myself with my own words, was exactly what I always wanted to do with my life.”
---
“Peter asked us to meet him after the show at a place called the Grit, a nearby vegetarian restaurant. When we walked in, there was no sign of him, but I saw Michael Stipe sitting alone at the bar, so I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mr. Stipe, do you know if Peter is here?” He turned to me and replied, with no facial expression or emotion, “I’m not Peter’s keeper.” Ah, okay, noted. We eventually found Peter, and we hung out deep into the night, bonding over records and books and southern diner food. At some point he offered to help us make a record. We’d only made one record, so we weren’t quite aware how generous and sweet an offer that was.”
---
“I used to assume that the people who were great at writing songs were just more talented than everybody else, and that they always had a very clear understanding of what they were trying to accomplish and the intent behind it. As I’ve gotten older I’ve concluded that this is rarely the case. The people who seem the most like geniuses are not geniuses. They’re just more comfortable with failing. They try more and they try harder than most people, and so they stumble onto more songs. It’s pretty simple. People who don’t pick up a pencil never write a poem. People who don’t pick up a guitar and try every day don’t write a whole lot of great songs."
---
“But if Kermit the Frog and Pepe the King Prawn want to interview us and coax us into singing “Rainbow Connection,” were probably going to sing along, because not singing "Rainbow Connection" with Kermit means you're garbage.”
---
"Her death was unexpected. She didn't take great care of her health, but she was happy and vibrant. She had a heart attack while playing cards with friends-the same social circle of women she played cards with once a month for more than forty years. One of them told me, "She went down like a ballerina and she was gone." So I guess it was the kind of death we'd all sign up for. A good death, if there is such a thing. There were no bedroom vigils, no praying for a recovery, no whispered conversations with doctors. Just a bunch of "old broads" (in their words) sitting around card tables, slapping down cards, and eating gooey butter cake, until one of them decided to cut the game short."
---
"It's hard to drive a car safely when you're crying harder than you've ever cried. I was so proud of Sammy. I don't know where he gained the emotional insight that the dying might not want to let go because they're worried about the living, but it was poignant and beautiful. In the end, we were able to make it to his side. Sammy and Spencer and I sang "I Shall Be Released" together, and I tried to sing "Hummingbird," my dad's favorite Wilco song, but I don't think I got very far. My dad died about a half hour after we'd made it back from Chicago, with his girlfriend, Melba, holding his right hand and me and Sammy and Spencer holding his left; family at his side, and a stereo we hadn't even noticed was on, playing Wilco softly in the strange new silence."
Doomed, dabbling, borderline misanthropic nap enthusiast.
This is the only Audible book I have listened at regular speed in order to savor every minute of the story. Having it read by the author is just...perfect. It is definitely a book I will listen through again, and soon.
If you have ever seen Wilco play live you know about Jeff Tweedy's musings and ramblings on stage, affectionately known as 'banter' on live CDs. This is Tweedy banter expanded to 8 hours. He shares intimate detail about his life; his family, growing up in Belleville, losing his virginity, the bike accident that led to his learning to play guitar, the rise and fall of Uncle Tupelo, and the rise of Wilco out of the ashes. Oh and there's some mention about addiction along the way.
His conversations with his wife Susie and son Spencer throughout the book are a welcome surprise. So nice to hear their voices, it feels like we're sitting in their kitchen hearing what an ordinary day would be like for the Tweedy family.
If you are a fan of Wilco and/or Uncle Tupelo this book is a must. If you are a fan of rock biographies, this too is a must, especially hearing it read by the author. If you are new to Tweedy, Wilco, or rock bios, this is a great place to start, as you gain insight on an everyday guy who just so happened to stumble onto something great and front two of the most important and underrated bands in America from the last 2+ decades.
This is the only Audible book I have listened at regular speed in order to savor every minute of the story. Having it read by the author is just...perfect. It is definitely a book I will listen through again, and soon.
If you have ever seen Wilco play live you know about Jeff Tweedy's musings and ramblings on stage, affectionately known as 'banter' on live CDs. This is Tweedy banter expanded to 8 hours. He shares intimate detail about his life; his family, growing up in Belleville, losing his virginity, the bike accident that led to his learning to play guitar, the rise and fall of Uncle Tupelo, and the rise of Wilco out of the ashes. Oh and there's some mention about addiction along the way.
His conversations with his wife Susie and son Spencer throughout the book are a welcome surprise. So nice to hear their voices, it feels like we're sitting in their kitchen hearing what an ordinary day would be like for the Tweedy family.
If you are a fan of Wilco and/or Uncle Tupelo this book is a must. If you are a fan of rock biographies, this too is a must, especially hearing it read by the author. If you are new to Tweedy, Wilco, or rock bios, this is a great place to start, as you gain insight on an everyday guy who just so happened to stumble onto something great and front two of the most important and underrated bands in America from the last 2+ decades.
In retrospect, it shouldn't surprise me that Jeff Tweedy is a grood writer (that's great, with reservations for ya). I've been a fan of Wilco for some time now. Rather, I've been several different Wilco fans. Near the end of the book Tweedy talks about how different fans look for different things in the band. There are the ones who only like a certain album. That's the type of fan I was for a while. I loved Summerteeth and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. But then I kind of fell off the wagon, thinking that their newer sound wasn't as exciting.
But then several years ago, a wiser older me decided to listen to newer Wilco and I fell in love with them all over again. Yes, their newer stuff isn't as knob-twiddly, but I actually like it even more than their early breakout albums. Now I've become the fan that he describes in his book as ones who kind of expect change, and is along for the ride no matter what they do. Part of what's exciting about the band is how they continue writing deeper into their experiences, into who they are. Listening to Wilco is like getting to spend time with a friend. I feel like my relationship with their music has grown along with them, and I appreciate all their artistic decisions as you would appreciate a friendship growing into different phases.
Another thing that surprised me about this book (and that shouldn't have) is how funny Jeff Tweedy is. I already knew he was vulnerable, smart, kind, sensitive. And I thought he was funny too, through his songs... a kind of humor (sometimes lyrically sometimes purely musical) that's just oddball enough to make me chuckle and think "did he mean that to be funny? or is he just weird?" But for some reason I didn't think it would translate into his writing. But it did.
I loved that this book doesn't linger. He starts the book immediately in media res, and often chapters start in the middle of already telling you a story. He hits all the highs and lows that are important without being too self-important as to think you'd be interested in the boring parts of his life as well. It's a book mostly about his life... childhood, growing up, how he got into music, his band, and his family.
The rockstar life is also talked about (meeting Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan, playing shows, etc), but it's not the focus here. In fact, the more you get to know Jeff Tweedy, the more he just seems like a normal dude who has his problems, but learned from them and conquered them (and continues to work at them), and values what he now has in life all the more for it. He is down to earth, and constantly works to disabuse the reader of the notion that many have of art... i.e. the myth that you have to suffer to create art. Or the myth that inspiration just comes to artists instead of coming from sustained hard work, etc.
Of course all Wilco fans also want an exclusive look at the inner workings of the songwriting, and Jeff doesn't withhold in that department. I was especially fascinated when he talked about how he came up with his lyrics... being a poet myself and not musical at all, I often wondered if musicians write the music first or the lyrics first. I've heard some say one and others say the other. Apparently Jeff Tweedy writes the music first, with a mumble track. Then he listens to it and lets his subconscious do the work of filling in what he thinks he heard himself singing in those early demo tapes. It makes sense as his lyrics are sometimes nonsensical but also makes a sort of sense. And it is also validating, even in my own artform, because I often try different strategies to catch myself unawares... to get to that subconscious place before my conscious mind muddles it all up into something that makes too much sense.
I think you'd like this book even if you aren't a huge Wilco fan. But then again I'm biased. Also, if you stopped listening to them after YHF, might I suggest listening to Sky Blue Sky. And Sukierae by Tweedy.
But then several years ago, a wiser older me decided to listen to newer Wilco and I fell in love with them all over again. Yes, their newer stuff isn't as knob-twiddly, but I actually like it even more than their early breakout albums. Now I've become the fan that he describes in his book as ones who kind of expect change, and is along for the ride no matter what they do. Part of what's exciting about the band is how they continue writing deeper into their experiences, into who they are. Listening to Wilco is like getting to spend time with a friend. I feel like my relationship with their music has grown along with them, and I appreciate all their artistic decisions as you would appreciate a friendship growing into different phases.
Another thing that surprised me about this book (and that shouldn't have) is how funny Jeff Tweedy is. I already knew he was vulnerable, smart, kind, sensitive. And I thought he was funny too, through his songs... a kind of humor (sometimes lyrically sometimes purely musical) that's just oddball enough to make me chuckle and think "did he mean that to be funny? or is he just weird?" But for some reason I didn't think it would translate into his writing. But it did.
I loved that this book doesn't linger. He starts the book immediately in media res, and often chapters start in the middle of already telling you a story. He hits all the highs and lows that are important without being too self-important as to think you'd be interested in the boring parts of his life as well. It's a book mostly about his life... childhood, growing up, how he got into music, his band, and his family.
The rockstar life is also talked about (meeting Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan, playing shows, etc), but it's not the focus here. In fact, the more you get to know Jeff Tweedy, the more he just seems like a normal dude who has his problems, but learned from them and conquered them (and continues to work at them), and values what he now has in life all the more for it. He is down to earth, and constantly works to disabuse the reader of the notion that many have of art... i.e. the myth that you have to suffer to create art. Or the myth that inspiration just comes to artists instead of coming from sustained hard work, etc.
Of course all Wilco fans also want an exclusive look at the inner workings of the songwriting, and Jeff doesn't withhold in that department. I was especially fascinated when he talked about how he came up with his lyrics... being a poet myself and not musical at all, I often wondered if musicians write the music first or the lyrics first. I've heard some say one and others say the other. Apparently Jeff Tweedy writes the music first, with a mumble track. Then he listens to it and lets his subconscious do the work of filling in what he thinks he heard himself singing in those early demo tapes. It makes sense as his lyrics are sometimes nonsensical but also makes a sort of sense. And it is also validating, even in my own artform, because I often try different strategies to catch myself unawares... to get to that subconscious place before my conscious mind muddles it all up into something that makes too much sense.
I think you'd like this book even if you aren't a huge Wilco fan. But then again I'm biased. Also, if you stopped listening to them after YHF, might I suggest listening to Sky Blue Sky. And Sukierae by Tweedy.
I’m a sucker for musician memoirs, and I love Jeff Tweety’s voice (lyrically, and verbally). I listened to the audio, and it didn’t disappoint. I loved the humor and self-deprecation in this memoir. His wife and eldest son have voice cameos as well. His grit and humility fascinate me. If you love Uncle Tupelo, Wilco, or Tweedy, just do it.
First, I don’t think you have to be a Wilco fan to get something from it. I enjoyed his self-effacing tone and all, but the real prize was the insight on songwriting dotted throughout. Wilco-ologists, of course, will devour every line and fight about who did what to whom on Reddit. (Sounds fun.) For me, I’ll be passing some of Jeff’s wisdom on to my songwriting students. And that’s a huge win.