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A review by toddlleopold
Let's Go by Jeff Tweedy
5.0
I want to be Jeff Tweedy when I grow up.
I like Wilco, but I love this book. Tweedy comes across as refreshingly down to earth, willing to admit when he is wrong and even how he's struggled to live up to the expectations of being a "rock star." (Which, frankly, he doesn't.) He's worked hard on his marriage, dotes on his two sons, and really works at being a professional musician, whether it's writing a song every day or simply trying to express in music what's going on in his brain.
He freely admits his struggles, including a mental health crisis that put him in a facility for months (and not one of the high-priced ones you read about; this was a run-of-the-mill place in Chicago where his housemates were felons and the fallen). He agonizes over his wife's cancer, laments the way he left relationships with people he no longer plays with, and simply puts one foot in front of the other.
(Also, he converted to Judaism for his wife and sons. A fellow landsman! I never would have expected that. Too bad he only hints at the story of his adult bris.)
He finds things to admire in all kinds of music and doesn't put down the stuff he doesn't like. Even the story of Uncle Tupelo's tour bus -- provided by the record label and formerly used by Kiss, with the attendant decor -- comes through with a gentle smirk.
He sounds like a good guy to hang around with -- and he's a great, and honest, storyteller. After all the predictable rock memoirs I've read, it was nice to be continually surprised by one that was willing to burrow deep inside.
I like Wilco, but I love this book. Tweedy comes across as refreshingly down to earth, willing to admit when he is wrong and even how he's struggled to live up to the expectations of being a "rock star." (Which, frankly, he doesn't.) He's worked hard on his marriage, dotes on his two sons, and really works at being a professional musician, whether it's writing a song every day or simply trying to express in music what's going on in his brain.
He freely admits his struggles, including a mental health crisis that put him in a facility for months (and not one of the high-priced ones you read about; this was a run-of-the-mill place in Chicago where his housemates were felons and the fallen). He agonizes over his wife's cancer, laments the way he left relationships with people he no longer plays with, and simply puts one foot in front of the other.
(Also, he converted to Judaism for his wife and sons. A fellow landsman! I never would have expected that. Too bad he only hints at the story of his adult bris.)
He finds things to admire in all kinds of music and doesn't put down the stuff he doesn't like. Even the story of Uncle Tupelo's tour bus -- provided by the record label and formerly used by Kiss, with the attendant decor -- comes through with a gentle smirk.
He sounds like a good guy to hang around with -- and he's a great, and honest, storyteller. After all the predictable rock memoirs I've read, it was nice to be continually surprised by one that was willing to burrow deep inside.