--Last week I was perusing the massive Surf Report music library,
in search of something I hadn’t played in a while.I finally settled on Wilco’s second album, Being There.And it sounded amazing.
The thing was in heavy rotation when it was originally released, and
is one of my favorite Wilco albums, but I probably hadn’t heard it
in a year.I’ve been
preoccupied with their latest release, which is also great.
I was caught off-guard by the impact of hearing Being
There last week.I mean, it’s not as if it’s unfamiliar to me.But I couldn’t stop listening to it, and talking about it to
the family.Who, you know,
couldn’t give even half
a shit.
This event touched off a full-on frenzy.On Saturday I removed all music from my iPod, and replaced it
with the entire Wilco catalog, including the live album and a bunch of
bootlegged demos.Heck, I
even included the freaky radio broadcast that inspired the title of Yankee
Hotel Foxtrot.
So, at this point, my nano contains everything Wilco ever released
(and more), about fifteen episodes of the old Groucho Marx radio show You
Bet Your Life, some Phil
Hendrie (from June 2000), and ten or so installments of the Jean
Shepherd radio show (from 1966).And
this seems to be an effective work-survival kit.
I’m preparing (fixin’) to tell you folks a Wilco-related story,
from 1995.But before I
get into it…I was
listening to an episode of You
Bet Your Life last night, and
the announcer introduced two new contestants as, “A medical supply
salesmen from San Diego, and a spinster from
Dallas!”
Spinster!?Isn’t that
kind of offensive?I
almost choked on my loaded baked potato chip.But nobody seemed to have a problem with it, not even the
woman.Was that a
commonly-used descriptor in the 1950s?I was expecting the next two contestants to be “A cripple
from Cincinnati,
and a hopeless virgin from the Chicagoarea!”
Anyway, back to Wilco…
Shortly after their first album was released, Toney and I were
supposed to see them perform at the 40 Watt Club in Athens, GA.
On the day of the show (Brad did some internet detective work, and
tells me it was July 27, 1995, and even provided the set list!), we
were preoccupied with something completely unrelated to music.We went to dinner after work and talked about it, and my
sphincter was about to turn to glass.
I couldn’t believe what was apparently happening.
So, we decided we couldn’t handle not knowing for sure, swung by a
Kroger store on the way home, and bought an early pregnancy test.And it, combined with a little fresh-squeezed urine, confirmed
our suspicions:Secret
Number One was in the oven.
Oh, man…I guess I was
32 at the time, but had the approximate maturity of a 15 year old.This news, while exciting, scared the ever-lovin’ ice water
out of me.Me, a dad?It was one of most ludicrous things I’d ever heard.
I asked Toney if she wanted to tell anyone, and we decided to tell my
parents, and nobody else (always a Secret).It was still very early in the process, and we thought we’d
be jinxing ourselves if we blabbedto the world.Plus,
we didn’t need to be subjected to the kookery of Toney’s family
yet.
So I called my Mom, and she almost dropped the phone. I
have no doubt she was thinking:Jeff
a dad??Why, that’s the
most ludicrous, terrifying
thing I’ve ever heard.
And then we went to the show.
There was a guy from Wilco’s record label there, who worked in the
same building Toney and I did.He
offered to keep us in beer for the evening, and I eagerly accepted.But, of course, Toney had had her last beer for the next eight
or nine months.
The guy was hanging around trying to have a conversation with me, but
I don’t think I had much to say.I was just staring straight ahead, blinking real fast, and
thinking HOOOO-LY
SHIT!Eventually he excused himself, taking his conduit of hops and
barley with him.
We watched the show, and it was good.The band was playing songs from their first album, and the
final Uncle Tupelo record.But,
to be quite truthful, most of it’s a blur.I can remember Jeff Tweedy singing “Acuff-Rose,” and
that’s about it.I was a
tad preoccupied.
Over the next few months we created a nursery in our house, went on a
tour of the hospital, and took “birthing” classes with a gang of
other equally nervous couples.
That same record label guy from the 40 Watt Club gave me an advance
cassette (I mean, really
advance, like six months) of Paul Westerberg’s second solo album, Eventually.And that’s what was playing in the background during the
entire period.
Now it’s 2008, and the “news” we found out about on the day of
that Wilco show is now playing bass guitar in our living room,
text-messaging girls on the sly, and dousing himself in Axe body
spray, making our place smell like a goddamn whorehouse.
And every time I hear the first Wilco album, or the second Westerberg,
it feels like somebody’s wringing out my intestines.
However, the lessons learned during the past thirteen years, have
advanced my maturity level to at
least seventeen years old.Possibly even eighteen.
So there you go; that’s my Wilco story.If you have any similar tales to tell, use the comments link
below.You know, finding
out you’re going to be a parent… music that formed an indelible
soundtrack to some monumental event... that kinda stuff.
And I’m gonna turn it over to Buck now, and drag my sorry ass to
work.
