Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)

And yet Tweedy ultimately writes his own epitaph, or maybe it's just a footnote: "I've got reservations." Hey, me too. I like his album even though it reminds me too much of being stuck in Michigan, doing my best to keep the real world at bay. Yankee Hotel Foxtrotthe title refers to some kind of shortwave radio cum interpersonal disconnection metaphor, but metaphor or no, there's no point in parsing hokum like "I am an American aquarium drinker/I assassin down the avenue/I'm running out in the big city blinking/What was I thinking when I let go of you?" If Tweedy were a painter this'd be as close to surrealism as he gets. But he's a would-be miniaturist too preoccupied with pretending everyday melancholia is more meaningful than it is. And so he fills his canvases with swaths of heartfelt pre-punk green, big patches of confessional folkie crimson, and deep pools of dark blue stoned male pathos. If you know the hues, you know the tunes. For Jeff Tweedy these abstractions are borne back ceaselessly into his own past, and his great trick is making you give a shit, if only a little.


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Wilco
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
Nonesuch

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