How I’m Finding Musical Comfort in Quarantine
The solace of Jeff Tweedy’s nightly livestream.
By now, we’re all familiar with pandemic acts of solidarity.
Chinese people cheer “jiayou,” a message of encouragement and support which means, “hang in there, don’t give up.” Italians serenade each other from their balconies.
But I’m an American who’s averse to flash mobs. I can’t sing well.
So I join others in a distinctly Coloradoan ritual of solidarity that originated in my home of Denver. I howl at the moon from my balcony, then plunk my pajama-d butt into the couch to listen to other people sing.
I’ve watched some beloved indie artists’ live streams: Angel Olsen, Waxahatchee, and Bully. But my favorite live stream is Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy’s family.
I’ve been a Wilco fan since 2004. It happened when I discovered their groundbreaking album Yankee Hotel Foxtrot in the used section of a Cheapo Discs store in Minnesota. I immediately loved Wilco’s genre-bending blend of alt-country, indie, psychedelic rock, and melodic pop, along with Tweedy’s poetic lyrics. “I am an American aquarium drinker/ I assassin down the avenue,” became one of my favorite lyrics of all time.
Their music has been my companion through road trips, relationships, breakups, black-outs, cross-country moves, and rehabs.
So when my friend and fellow Wilco devotee Kate told me about Tweedy’s livestream, I eagerly tuned in, expecting a warm, rousing performance of their extensive catalogues.
Jeff, his wife Susie, and their sons Spencer and Sammy deliver. They take requests, playing both the hits and deep cuts, the nostalgic and new. They also feature guest appearances including actors Nick Offerman and Megan Mullally, actor and author John Hodgman, musician Courtney Barnett, comedians Jeff Garlin, Fred Armisen, among others.
But the celebrity guests aren’t the main reason why I love the show.
I love the show because it’s the closest thing we have to the magic and kinetic energy of a live concert right now. Sadly, I’m not sure the next time I’ll see a live show. The upcoming shows I planned on seeing — including The Meat Puppets, Mudhoney, Gogol Bordello, and Man Man — are all presumably postponed or cancelled.
But The Tweedy Show is much more intimate, funny, irreverent, and dynamic than a typical livestream concert. There are no filters, no special lighting, wardrobe, or cinematography. Susie is the witty, warm force behind the camera, calling herself,“the cinnamontographer.”
Rotating between a wardrobe of a red bathrobe, Costco pajamas adorned with pizza slices and hot dogs, Jeff quips the show should be called Starship Casual. Jeff says we should imagine this as a long space exploration rather than a quarantine. I feel gleeful seeing the Bob Dylan of our time, who writer George Saunders calls “our great, wry, American consolation poet,” playing guitar and bantering with his family in his bathrobe.
The Tweedy’s makes me feel better about wearing my grimy plaid boxers and Dinosaur Jr. shirt for what feels like the thirtieth day in a row. Hell, watching the Tweedy’s makes me feel better. Period.
The night legendary John Prine died of COVID-19, the Tweedy’s covered his tune Please Don’t Bury Me. Other nights they covered Prine classics Spanish Pipedream and Summer’s End. They also paid homage to Bill Withers with a moving cover of, Lean on Me. Jeff said thus far, the family had been fortunate to be healthy, “But if you’ve lost someone, we hope this brings you some peace and comfort.”
Viewers, who the Tweedy’s jokingly refer to as the clients, flooded the stream thanking the family. An average of 1,500 clients tune in each night.
One night, a client requested What Light in honor of her mother who died. Jeff immediately played the song and Susie said, “this song makes me cry my ball sack off.” Another night a client commented, “Hard times. Lost my brother. This is medicine.”
I too have been fortunate to be healthy, but still feel the collective grief of this pandemic.
The Tweedy show has been a steady companion through cleaning, feeble attempts at baking, trying to order soap and toilet paper, picking at my newly sprouted pimples, and staring at the ceiling in existential dread.
I’ve integrated The Tweedy Show into my new quarantine routine. Even though I’ve spent most of my adult life being sleep deprived and rebelling against the boring conventions of a routine, I now find it a key to my sanity and stability.
The show is a welcome, entertaining departure from work, recovery meetings, obsessively checking my mailbox for my mood stabilizers, and fretting over the Worldometer COVID-19 Pandemic stats.
Jeff says a pandemic reminds him of dealing with Susie’s cancer.
Cancer can either tear families apart or bring families together, like the Tweedy’s. Jeff directly addresses us clients:
“How is everyone, is everyone freaking out? Doing ok? I’m sure most are doing a bit of both. I hope there’s a bit of ok amidst the freaking out. It’s a pretty crazy time for a pandemic to happen. But I don’t think any other pandemic allowed this much connection.”
We viewers connect with the music, yes. But we also become intimately acquainted with the Tweedy’s family dynamics.
Sammy and Spencer enlighten Susie about hotboxing, which she thought was farting in a car and the infamous let me speak to your manager Karen haircut. Susie remarks, “how do I not know this? I must be elderly!”
Watching The Tweedy’s makes me nostalgic for my family, who live 700 miles away in North Dakota. I’m homesick. My upcoming flight to see them and meet my new baby niece was cancelled. I FaceTime with my family, but it definitely doesn’t replace the warmth and familiarity of sitting on the couch together, shooting the shit, teasing each other.
Susie lovingly chides Jeff for picking at his ears or laying “flat like he’s on a gurney,” Spencer for his newly grown beard, and Sammy about girls dropping their panties for him.
She also gives us a partial tour of their home. She begins each episode with a song from their Seeburg Jukebox.
Another night she shows us her impressive Pez collection and kitschy art collection. She even shows us the bullet hole she calls the “b hole,” from a random gun attack on their home in November of 2019, which Jeff says they have been too lazy to fix.
It’s clear the Tweedy’s handle hardship with humor, which I’ve also found comforting. Jeff shares a story about how he butt dialed Susie from his psychiatrist’s office when he was fresh out of rehab, then jokes about how he has needed a psychiatrist for sixteen years.
This strikes a nerve.
Clients comment that they too have seen psychiatrists and therapists for many years. One feels offended, feeling that he shamed getting help. Jeff apologizes, saying, “I 100% have a deep conviction that mental health is under-represented in our culture and it’s shameful that it’s stigmatized in any way.”
Jeff has been open about his struggles with depression, anxiety, and addiction to opioids in his excellent 2018 memoir, Let’s Go (So We can Get Back). He writes:
“Not everyone has this reaction, but opiates energized me. The warm maternal sense of well-being that every opiate addict loves was there, too, of course, but for me at least, it was like waking up from the perfect night’s sleep. I was alert, motivated, and clear headed. I felt normal.”
When I was heavy using opiates, I listened to the song Shot in the Arm on repeat.
I related to it for obvious reasons.
“Maybe all I need is a shot in the arm/ Maybe all I need is a shot in the arm. Something in my veins/ bloodier than blood.”
Then I quit opiates. Listening to Wilco was too painfully nostalgic.
But years into recovery, I read Jeff’s memoir and started listening again. Recovery has been especially hard during this pandemic. I’ve been ruminating again about my past, opening up old wounds. Turning to books, writing, music, and The Tweedy Show has been a salve for these wounds.
Tweedy says it’s his job to help ease people’s pain and be part of the healing. It’s safe to say his mission is accomplished.
Listening to Wilco will always be a portal to a dark time in my life. But The Tweedy Show has helped my relationship with their music come full circle.
