#uncle tupelo
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Dollar Bin # 13:
The Mountain Goats' Sweden
Here's a (Mostly) True story:
In the fall of 1995, John Darnielle, the founder, songwriter, frontman (and, occasionally, the sole member) of The Mountain Goats taught me how to cook.
As a second year student at Pomona College I took the one on-campus job no one else wanted: fast food line cook. No one wanted the job because it required actual labor; every other on-campus job involved sitting at a desk in a library, museum, gym or office while doing your homework. But I was ready to heat oil, and labor. I was ready to eat as much free ice cream as I could in-between orders.
The job was an odd choice for a vegetarian like me at the time: I spent the first hour of every shift slicing enough partially thawed, homogenized meat for the full day of orders ahead; once both of my hands were entirely numb from the meat's cold it was time to drink a giant vat of free Sprite and then move on to other prep tasks. Slice the tomatoes. Fire up the grill. Then, once the place opened, I'd spend the rest of my shift burning all that sliced meat to a crisp for altered and/or indifferent fellow college students.
John Darnielle trained me. He'd already released two records at that point, but I had no idea who the hell he was. My ignorance drove him nuts.
By the time he arrived each day my hands were already numb and my personally selected music was already on the stereo system. In the fall of 95 that meant a heavy rotation of Guided By Voices' Alien Lanes, Uncle Tupelo records and Yo La Tengo's Electr-O-Pura. I'd put on Tom Waits' The Black Rider at closing time so everyone would go the hell home; that always cleared the room.
But I never played The Mountain Goats; I'd never even heard of them. Throughout that fall I worked alongside a blossoming rock star. And I had no clue whatsoever.
John was the first and only friend I've ever had who wore a leather jacket. He was also ridiculously old for an undergraduate; we're talking mid-to-late-twenties. Every day he'd arrive, compliment my taste in music, trade his jacket for a weathered apron and then look at me earnestly. It was weird. I saw that he wanted me to say something, that he wanted me to know something. Desperately. But I had no idea what the hell it was.
After a bit he'd sigh and begin the day's training. Here's how to flip 'em kid; here's how to fire up that grill.
Then, at some point, he just broke down and told me: he knew James McNew; he had a record deal; he was just back from a tour of Germany, where people were crazy for any kind of American music; he was starting to make some real money (hence the leather jacket). He thought I'd like his music.
At that point I'm afraid I made the situation much, much worse. I laughed at John Darnielle and accused him of lying.
"Yeah right, dude. You're a rock star. And I'm the queen of England."
He listened. He paused. Then he shut down the register and said we needed to go outside. And so we went. College kids stood about, confused. Who was gonna get them their curly fries if the kid in The Dead t-shirt and the weird old guy took a break?
I remember, like yesterday, standing next to him in the sun. He'd taken off his apron and put his leather jacket back on. The vibe was very weird.
"Look, I'm not joking," he said. "My band used to play shows here on campus, but we're just too big for that now. Go to Rhino records; you're a vinyl guy, right? They've got my latest album on vinyl for like 7 bucks."
(Remember: this was the secret golden age of vinyl: CDs cost $12-15 and records of the same thing cost $7-12. And we all thought we needed to spend more for the CDs! If I had a time machine, I would not go back and see who killed JFK; rather, I'd spend a sweet summer with Jane Austen and then propose marriage to her, then I'd travel to 1969 to see Neil and Crazy Horse live, THEN I'd go back to 95 and buy everything I could grab on vinyl CHEAP.)
Okay, back to John Darnielle in 95: "Look: my new record is called Sweden," he said. "Only it has absolutely nothing to do with Sweden. That's the joke. Listen to it; you'll know it's me right away. I sing like I talk. People think we have like 25 members in the band, but it's really just me and this girl who plays bass. I lie in my songs, all the time. But I'm not lying to you."
And then he just walked off. In the middle of his shift! I was left to man the counter on my own. Fries were ordered; burgers were burned to a fabulous crisp. And The Black Rider came on way early. I had something I needed to do.
As soon as the quitting bell rang I hopped on my bike and road straight to the record store. As usual, the counter was manned by the angriest guy in the whole world. His name was probably Haemon, and he always sneered at whatever I was buying. This was years before High Fidelity, but he was already auditioning for Jack Black's part. The dude just hated me. I remember buying a Sonic Youth Tee in there one time. He ripped me apart while ringing me up. Is it any wonder that a few years later we all decided to shop on Amazon?
Anyway, by the time I got to the store, I'd pretty much decided John Darnielle was for real. And quite quickly I found his record, walked it to the counter, handed it over guiltily (Rhino Records had their workers stand behind a counter that was a full two feet higher than the sales floor so as to allow Jack Black Sr. behind the counter, who was tall to begin with, maximum superiority over his pathetic customers), and then, for the first and only time, the guy did not give me a hard time.
"Well, well, well," he said. "You're finally buying something of value. Poser."
(Remember when we all called each other "poser"? Now we all call each other unprintable things. Ah, the 90's...)
Well, you can see where this is going. The Mountain Goats were indeed that guy John from my day job. His singing was ridiculous, like Lou Reed if he was a passionate player of Magic, The Gathering. His melodies were infectious, like Bob Pollard if he was earnest, not drunk. His lyrics were cute and bizarre, like Dylan if he actually attended college, then managed to double major in Classics and English. The recording process was infantile, like me in the kitchen. Or rather, like me in life.
It was all precious. It was all awesome.
I returned to work a day or six later, eager to see my new friend John and tell him all about it. He was a genius! He was Robyn Hitchcock meets Johnathan Richman; he was Thomas Pynchon with a guitar; he was my new hero.
And then, I never saw him again. That moment in the sun turned out to be the last moment we ever spent together. I guess he went and got a life.
Hello out there, John! It's 28 years later and your recent publicity pics make you look, in the words of one of this blogs' 40+ (wow!) readers, like an alternative high school teacher: he sees you; he respects your pronouns. Guess what, John? That's a better description of me than you these days. You're playing the Belly Up this fall. I'm not even playing Magic, The Gathering.
So go, take a listen to Sweden! It's great. Check out the hilarious T.S. Eliot intro to I Wonder Where Our Love Has Gone. Enjoy the alternative Swedish titles for every song. Be reminded of how Hercules died: consumed by an article of his own clothing. Flip to the B Side and enjoy a nice coconut cream pie.
And while you are listening, picture an earnest and very talented guy in a leather jacket in 1995, patiently teaching a very young and hopeful kid how to flip burgers and fry up the grill. See him. See me. We're both dreaming of incredible futures: incredible futures that came true.
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Happy Friday everyone! And John, while I've got you here: thanks for being patient and nice to me way back then. I'm sorry I needed you to introduce me to your music. Please tell Stephen Stills he sucks.
#the mountain goats#stephen stills still sucks#pomona college#pitzer college#tom waits#Youtube#james mcnew#guided by voices#guided meditation#uncle tupelo#the black rider
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No Depression - Uncle Tupelo
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Jeff Tweedy *August 25, 1967
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12:38 AM EST February 20, 2024:
Uncle Tupelo - "Effigy"
From the album No Alternative
(November 9, 1993)
Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm
If not the best, then at the least the most widely disseminated alternative compilation, from a time when the word "alternative" actually meant something.
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Jeff Tweedy from Wilco
#jeff tweedy#wilco#singer#alternative rock#music#Jesus etc#Impossible Germany#California Stars#evicted#albums#yankee hotel foxtrot#summerteeth#Mermaid Avenue#being there#cousin#uncle tupelo#anodyne#no depression#author
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I'm trying to make WOE.BEGONE character playlists, and ironically I've got an Uncle Tupelo song on there ("So Called Friend", on Hunter's playlist) and a Son Volt song ("Out of the Picture", on Edgar's playlist), but no Wilco so far.
(For those who don't know, Uncle Tupelo basically split into two bands, Son Volt and Wilco, after the two main guys, Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy, had a falling out. Wilco is somewhat better known, but I'm a lot more familiar with the other two.)
Anyway, I will try to get some Wilco on there, as well as some Sufjan Stevens and Arctic Monkeys.
#woe.begone#wilco#uncle tupelo#son volt#and now for something completely different#playlist#that time travel podcast
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Uncle Tupelo - Melkweg, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, December 10, 1992
Just about 30 years ago, Sonic Youth and Pavement were traipsing around Europe and the UK, blowing minds at every stop. But how about this similarly timed Euro double-bill — Sugar and Uncle Tupelo?! Yeahhh.
Here we've got a lovely soundboard of Tupelo's opening acoustic set. Not sure if this is the complete performance — it's just 22 minutes — but it's a total gem, with some sweet tunes from the then-new March 16-22, 1992 and a few other great selections. The band's rendition of Hank Williams' classic heartcrusher "Weary Blues From Waiting" is particularly amazing. Cruel country, baby!
And Sugar? Well, let's just say that they were not doing the "unplugged" thing. I don't have the entire set, but what I do have should suffice: an insane, 25-minute version of "Tilted" that gives MBV's "You Made Me Realise" a run for its money. The band seems to be intent on absolutely laying waste to the audience and venue, pure power, pure destruction. Beautiful.
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the whole world is a bottle
and life is but a dram
when the bottle gets empty
lord, it sure ain't worth a damn
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"Whiskey Bottle", by Uncle Tupelo from No Depression
#music#No Depression#Uncle Tupelo#it's a drinking night#posting from a '3 hour away town'#1990#Jay Farrar#Jeff Tweedy
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Whiskey Bottle - Uncle Tupelo - 1992
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6/11/22.
Grass Jaw (Ithaca, NY) is primarly the work of Brendan Kuntz. He's also played drums in the band Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death. To me this release falls somewhere between the sounds of Monroe Mustang, The Mountain Goats, Uncle Tupelo, The Verlaines, The Worrynauts and Crandle. The last three bands are the outliers - there is a melody and song structure that just isn't very "Uncle Tupelo" like.
There is a decided alt-country feel to this, but there is a solid indie sound as well.
This looks to be self released.
#Grass Jaw#Ithaca#New York#Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death#Monroe Mustang#The Mountain Goats#Uncle Tupelo#The Verlaines#The Worrynauts#Crandle
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1:51 AM EDT March 26, 2024:
Uncle Tupelo - "Effigy"
From the album No Alternative
(November 9, 1993)
Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm
If not the best, then at the least the most widely disseminated alternative compilation, from a time when the word "alternative" actually meant something.
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Uncle Tupelo - Give Back The Key To My Heart (Lyrics On Screen)
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