It’s the heart of the pandemic. Infection rates skyrocketing. Groceries left in bags outside our garage door. Masks. Hand sanitizer. Every cough and sneeze or asthma flare up a sure sign that it will strike. I am considered high risk given age, asthma, though I’m healthy, in good shape, and I spend a good number of hours on my bike each week, even riding in my cold, damp basement watching my Zwift avatar move faster on an old television screen as I move my own legs faster, bike snapped into place on my turbo trainer. Much of my life passes on screens. Teaching on Zoom is sucking the life out of me. I try to do engaging things, send students into breakout groups, give them creative tasks, utilize the whiteboard, collaborative writing, jeopardy games, videos…anything to bridge to them somehow, despite the small, Hollywood Square-like cubicles of their pained faces—or just a black screen and me saying, “Jack, are you with us still? Hello, Jill, can you please turn on your camera?” (so I can see just how painfully bored you are and too terrified about the deadly pathogens hovering in the air all about you and too lonely and disconnected to have any interest in Nathaniel Hawthorne).
In the midst of all this angst, fear, dread—feeling utterly shut off from friends, casual encounters with colleagues, any real, live, three-dimensional human interaction, I thankfully found The Tweedy Show on Instagram Live. Every night. Yes every single night (for hundreds of nights) at 10PM EST., Susie Tweedy would boot up her iPhone and point it toward the juke box that presides over their humble, early 20th century Chicago living room—at first pushing some buttons, having the jukebox play a favorite tune, until a friend recorded Tweedy Show opening music for them—which was then added to the jukebox….. A few minutes before 10, I’d grab a beer and a guitar, prop my phone up in front of me on the coffee table, cozy back into my own couch in my own living room and wait for the theme song to begin—“It’s the Tweedy Show!….”
After the intro music abated, Susie would swing her phone couch-ward where Jeff would be waiting, one of his lovely old guitars in hand, more often than not in PJs and bathrobe, scruffy beard, unkempt hair, one or both of his 20-something year old sons alongside, frequently his son, Spencer’s girlfriend there always with her dog, a chihuahua named Basil. Jeff would start to play, maybe an old, familiar song, “Via Chicago,” “I’m Trying to Break Your Heart.” Sometimes it was a song I didn’t recognize—a cover of a little known (to me) band or even a brand new song in-process, Jeff staring down at his phone screen or scattered sheets of paper for the lyrics.
Whenever Jeff played, I pulled my own guitar up tight to my chest, found the key he was in, and quietly noodled along with him. Jeff’s voice broadcast via my cellphone, un-miked but for the small cellphone mic. on Susie’s phone, always felt so immediate and intimate as he sang in an understated whisper, letting each word just fall out into the still, comforting air of his living room, near-magically on into the quiet, dimly lit air of my own living room, both our guitars sometimes aligning well for a few bars, me finding a nice fill or flourish, Jeff’s chubby, Segovia-like fingers moving with such ease from chord to chord, Susie often pointing the camera there, and if Jeff played a lick or two between chords, she’d whisper “Shredding…” and Jeff would chuckle, smile at the camera, at her, at me.
And for long periods of time, there would be no singing or playing, just Jeff in his bathrobe, arm draped over the body of a 1940s Martin, or a beloved, 30s Kel Kroyden guitar with its hand-painted parrots adorning the soundboard—talking to us, to Susie, to one of his boys, Spencer or Sammy, talking about anything and everything—politics and the news, good and bad, laughing, or talking directly to Susie’s father, who listened always via an Alexa, mid coffee-table, and they’d frequently bring him into the discussion, eventually referring to him as “Pedro-bot”—his name is Peter, but he loves to demonstrate his mastery of Spanish. They’d tell family stories about that one time such and such happened, Susie looking at the comments streaming across her phone screen, calling them out from time to time, especially those of friends and family, her brother a regular viewer and commentator on the show.
One time, for a special episode on Dylan’s birthday, they did an all-Dylan cover night, Spencer, who is a drummer (and has recorded with Jeff, as has his other son, Sammy, a singer) tapping on a muted snare. On this night they started taking requests via Instagram comments, which digressed into viewers suggesting silly, bastardized Dylan titles—often profane (“Blood on the Penis”). I rarely comment, but couldn’t resist, typing “Schvitz Lady Schvitz,” since Susie frequently refers to how much she is schvitzing—(sweating)—“my boobs are schvitzing right now like crazy” a common reference…. Then something magical happened. Susie read my comment aloud, and Jeff and Spencer started laughing, then Jeff pulled up his guitar and started singing (to the tune of “Lay Lady Lay,” of course)…”Schvitz Lady Schvitz,” Spencer accompanying him on the snare drum, all of them laughing, and me laughing and tears coming now, as somehow, magically, it was as if not only were they here with me, but I was there with them.
HERE is the episode—my comment at 39:26 (screenshot above), Jeff singing his rendition at 40:01
Let the episode play for a few minutes longer, and you’ll come to Jeff’s famous confusion of the yoga term “kundalini” for “cunnilingi.” It’s both hilarious and so very human to see his son and wife teasing him about it and all three of them laughing together—and I love that Jeff allows himself to be so vulnerable in the public sphere.
Throughout the darkest days of the pandemic the Tweedy family was there for me, every night, singing to me, talking to me, letting me listen in on them talk with each other, tease each other, laugh, rant, me jamming along with Jeff, finding the empty spaces between chords and lyrics to add in my own, expressive gestures. Just as I had never encountered anything like the pandemic, neither had I ever encountered anything quite like this, which seemed right—that the one should somehow serve to off-set the other. Other artists were certainly doing similar things. Every so often, Neil Young would walk about his ranch, stand over a smoldering fire, look our toward a deep-red setting sun and sing sad renditions of his classic songs, breathing out the mournful notes from his harmonica, strumming softly on a guitar, the familiar twang of his inimitable voice, the lyrics we know so well. Adrianne Lenker, Nora Jones, the PBS tiny desktop series gone remote….There were so many necessary and powerful things coming to us via the Internet as the pandemic raged on, but there was nothing quite like The Tweedy Show.
As the pandemic slowly began to lessen, they brought on guests—other Wilco band members, Susie’s father in the flesh, close friends, other musicians…and throughout they found still more direct ways to help: a t-shirt drive raised funds for “Be Alright,” Susie’s famous Ikea curtain pattern was made into masks to benefit Recipes for Change, and they even took the show on the road when Jeff started doing live shows again, Susie taking us backstage to see the band warm up, to listen in on the banter. During a lull in the pandemic, I saw Jeff perform at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (MassMOCA). My eldest son and I showed our vaccination cards and got in mask-free. We (both avid guitarists) watched Nels Cline’s remarkable solo set, awed at his virtuosic abilities and stunning creativity. Then Jeff came out, and there was Spencer on the drums, and there was Susie standing in the front row where I could almost reach out and touch her, and it was both wonderful and strange to see them in this way again, the way I’d only known them pre-pandemic, as performers on a stage, not as fellow pandemic shut-ins doing their best to fall back into the healing arms of family, music, to survive the quiet and isolation.
HERE is a clip of “Love is the King” from the MassMOCA show, Wilco guitarist, Nels Cline, joining Jeff and Spencer (on drums) with a stunning solo.
I saw Wilco not long after that (again with my son) in nearby New Haven, and once again, there just off stage was the rest of the family—Susie, Spencer, Sammy. I resisted a temptation to wave at them. It seemed that if I did, they might well recognize me, wave back, like old, familiar friends, or even family.
The Tweedy Show stands as a poignant example of the power of human generosity. It reminds me how easy it is as well—just open your doors, invite others in, pick up a guitar maybe, play a song, talk, listen, connect. The Tweedys reminded me of the real power of human connection, communion. At a time when a terrible terrible man sat in the oval office finding ways to stoke his own ego and further divide a frightened and isolated country, the Tweedys welcomed us into their home, day after day, uniting us in song, in laughter, in simple, open-armed compassion. I’m sure I speak for the several thousand of us who listened to them night after night through the long, dark days of the pandemic in expressing my deep gratitude for all of the lovely music, all the kibbitzing (and even the schvitzing).
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