Which brings us back to “Misunderstood”. If it’s a struggle nowadays for Tweedy to deal with what people might think of him, it’s nevertheless an improvement over the transition days from Uncle Tupelo to Wilco. And though Tweedy still seems to have not quite resolved those past conflicts completely, hindsight has allowed him to see some things more clearly.
“In the back of my mind, I was still wanting Uncle Tupelo fans to like me,” he says of the days that followed the UT split in June 1994. “That wasn’t a thought that I allowed myself to say out loud; I just kind of recognized it later. And that’s not really me. I never dug that whole somber approach to making music. I think it’s bullshit. I think it should be fun. Music is entertainment. It can be serious, it can be sad, but for the most part, I want to feel better, and I want to feel good when I’m doing it.
“As Uncle Tupelo evolved, it became more and more repressed to kind of fit into Jay’s world. Which is a hard world to fit into, for anybody. I felt like I was just trying to be more and more like him for years, and in the end, that’s the thing I blame myself for the most. You know, I think, ‘Why didn’t I just stand up and be myself all along?’ The personality of the band was definitely in debate, whether I knew it or not….The whole approach became way more serious. And at the same time, I understand that it works for Son Volt in a lot of ways, and I know some people really believe it and appreciate the lack of showmanship or whatever, or just the plainspoken nature of the band. But I personally don’t buy it.”
Tweedy also doesn’t buy the notion put forth by factions such as this magazine, whose title is the name of Uncle Tupelo’s first album, that UT was a particularly influential band. “I appreciate the fact that people are remembering the band and are enjoying the music — and more importantly, that they got something out of the songs, that we succeeded in connecting with people,” he says. “But I think as far as it being described as a band that was pioneering a type of music, or claiming that the first two records are great, I think that’s just totally off the mark….I mean, we maybe felt a little bit alienated from the rest of what was going on in the independent music world, but we also felt like there were dozens of bands before us and along with us doing very similar things, or that had similar feelings. The other word I think that’s really funny when it’s attached to Uncle Tupelo is ‘visionary.’ Like, I wish I was that smart! I really do. And I’m sure Jay wishes he was that smart, too.
“But the first couple records, especially, are overrated to me. I think you can really hear a young band trying to decide whether or not it wants to be Dinosaur Jr, or Husker Du, or whatever band you want to think of from the time — deciding whether we wanted to be that, or play this country stuff that we really just discovered on our own and came through us kind of naturally. I don’t know why that happened, but for some reason, folk music and country music really connected with us in a big way, and it felt right to do it.”
Ironically, in his effort to downplay the importance of his former band’s earlier work, Tweedy hits on the reason that has given them the reputation he feels they don’t deserve. Indeed, on No Depression and Still Feel Gone, there is a great conflict going on between a band torn by its loves for two seemingly disparate kinds of music. It is precisely this conflict — and the willingness to ultimately toss the rules out the window by pursuing both avenues simultaneously — that made their fans stop thinking about “alternative” and “country” as a matter of Us vs. Them.
“That’s probably something I can’t hear; I can’t hear it as a beautiful thing,” Tweedy replies, acknowledging that one of the defining principles of art is that it’s open to interpretation beyond the artists’ original intentions. And even if he disagrees with those interpretations, he seems quite willing to accept them.
He’s certainly heard them voiced plenty of times. “I hear everything you guys say about me,” he says, somewhat slyly. “From one source or another, I get it. Like, my mom says, ‘Well, want to hear what’s on the Internet?’ I’m like, ‘No, not really — but, yeah, OK.’ And some people, will come up on tour and go, ‘Hey what’d you say about blah blah blah.’ And I don’t ever want to seem unappreciative about it at all. I just think I have a right to say what I feel about it, honestly. But I definitely don’t want to take away from anyone’s enjoyment of it, or make somebody think that I take it for granted. You know what I mean?”
Yeah, I think so. He’s just a soul whose intentions are good.
These days, there’s really only one fan Jeff Tweedy has to answer to. “Could you hold on a minute? Spencer woke up, so I have to take him to his mom and his grandma,” he says, his voice shuffling off momentarily as he juggles receiver in one hand and baby in the other. “I’m sitting in here and he just popped up while I was talking on the phone. Sorry Spencer, I woke you up.”
Later, Pops Tweedy reflects further on the positive impact his son has had on his ability to rediscover his own love for music. (Being There, it turns out, was a narrow victor as title for the new Wilco album, over Baby.)
“I have a captive audience all the time now,” Tweedy beams. “I can sit and play with Spencer for hours, and play guitar for him, and he’s just totally excited by it. And I can play anything!”
And he probably won’t ask whether or not it’s alternative country.
“Yeah, he’s not gonna say, ‘Dad, is that another No Depression song?’ ”
