INTRODUCTION
NOBODY WANTS TO eat the cat’s eyes.
I’m not an especially superstitious person by nature, but I get it. If a red velvet cake with a cat’s portrait in icing just mysteriously shows up backstage during a tour, and then it inexplicably reappears the next night, and five days and two cities later the cake is still there, with a slice or two cut out but the cat’s face and the eyes are mostly unscathed, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be cautious. What if it’s a demon cat cake? It probably isn’t, but nobody in the band is taking responsibility for the cake, or has any explanation for how it’s followed us this far, so I can’t automatically discount the possibility that it’s some sort of supernatural sweet.
I’m in the dressing room of Kings Theatre in Brooklyn, sitting on a couch and mindlessly strumming my guitar and trying to avoid eye contact with the cat cake. Nels Cline, the guitarist for my band Wilco, has boldly volunteered to be the first among us to try a bite.
“It tastes nothing like the record,” he announces.
I find this reassuring.
The cat on the cake is the same white Persian cat featured on the cover of our 2015 album, Star Wars. Or maybe it’s a British longhair. I don’t know nearly enough about cats. It’s also the same cat from a painting that hangs in the kitchen at the Loft, the Chicago studio that’s been our second home since 2000. It’s a pretty fascinating painting. The cat is sitting on a black velvet cushion, in front of a vase filled with pale roses. Who poses a cat like that? It’s ridiculous. The cat’s expression isn’t the usual feline sneer of bored indifference. This cat has an expression that’s more like “I am Coconut. I am your new god.” All cats are arrogant, but I find this one to be exceptionally so.
Since releasing the album, we’ve come to discover that there are reproductions of this exact painting hung on the walls in some of our followers’ parents’ and grandparents’ homes. So that was an unintentional though satisfying freak-out we were able to deliver as a bonus for a few lucky fans. We’ve tried tracking down the artist (and by “we” I mean Mark, my close friend and studio manager, who also did the initial mock-up of the cover). It’s signed by somebody named Tamara Barett, but nobody by that name claims responsibility for the cat portrait. We reached out to a half dozen Tamara Baretts, hoping one of them would take credit, but they’ve all claimed ignorance. We even exchanged emails with Tamara Burnett, a pet portraitist whose style is almost identical to Tamara Barett. Burnett told us we had the wrong Tamara, but admitted, “It looks like something I would have done.”
I guess we were hoping that putting the painting on a record cover would get her attention—the real Tamara—at least enough for her to call a lawyer and threaten us with a lawsuit for using her art without permission. So we could pay her. But it didn’t work. We heard nothing, not even a peep. (We didn’t even hear from George Lucas, and I was sure we’d at least get a cease-and-desist letter for naming our album Star Wars. We even had backup artwork done so we could change the name of the record to Cease and Desist in the event he went after us. Nope. No such luck.)
At this point you’re probably wondering, “Is this whole book going to be like this? Is he going to spend almost three hundred pages overexplaining kitschy cat art?” Maybe. It’s too soon to say, really. Sorry if that isn’t what you were expecting. (If that is what you were expecting, well . . . kudos, that’s impressive.)
You might also be thinking, “Speaking of cats, I bet there is a really elaborate and interesting explanation for why Wilco put a Persian or possibly British longhair cat on an album cover.” First of all, thank you for assuming that. Let me answer your question by not really answering it. The cat painting, as I mentioned, is on display at the Loft, where I and the other Wilco members go to play and sometimes record music, so it’s something we see every, or almost every, day.
But the Loft is a big space with a lot of art. The cat painting is in the kitchen, so we only see it during lunch and snack breaks, in between jamming. (Yes, that is how professional musicians talk. “Would anyone care to do some jamming?” “Why, yes, let’s jam.” “Then jam we shall!”) In the recording space, mounted on the console, are framed and signed black-and-white photographs of Bob Newhart and Don Rickles. They’re the centerpieces of the room. Both of them are signed To Wilco, but only Don’s signature is still visible. Newhart’s signature has disappeared. I don’t mean faded. It’s gone. Vanished. His handwriting has been eradicated by the power of sad mid-tempo rock. I know that’s not a satisfactory explanation, but that’s the best I can do.
Between the Newhart and Rickles portraits is an equally amazing photo (also signed) of Rich Kelly & Friendship. If you’re unfamiliar with this New Jersey ensemble, I want you to do something for me. Put down this book, go to the nearest device with Internet connectivity, direct your browser to YouTube, and search for “Rich Kelly & Friendship” and “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.” Then watch it. In its entirety. But if you’re in a hurry, fast-forward to the 1:35 mark, when the bassist breaks into a happy foot solo. Everything about this video, but especially the dancing, makes me happy. I love how the guitarist moves his microphone stand out of the way, suggesting that the bassist’s happy-feet freak-out is entirely expected. I love how they shout his name after it’s over—“Tom Sullivan!”—confirming yet again that, yes, this was a “solo,” and not just the exact moment when Tom Sullivan’s diet pills kicked in. This isn’t just a grainy video of the best lounge act you never knew existed until right now. It’s nothing short of magical realism. I never studied art theory, so I don’t know if this is technically accurate. But it certainly seems like magical realism to me, as it’s something that really happened, and it’s fucking magical.
That framed photo of Rich Kelly & Friendship in matching tuxedos, along with the portraits of Don Rickles and Bob Newhart it’s sandwiched between, is a defining tableaux at the Loft. You might even call it the holy trinity of our recording space. You can’t ignore it or pretend it isn’t there, not with all those sets of eyes following you. It’d be like walking into Italy’s Basilica of St. Clare church and not noticing the San Damiano Cross. Of course you notice it. It’s a huge, historically significant crucifix on the wall! That’s the same feeling we want people to have when they enter the Loft. You stare at Bob, Don, and Rich like you might gaze up at the San Damiano Cross, with hushed reverence and mouth agape in wonderment at the awesome, unknowable infinitude of the universe.
That’s what we were looking at when we made the Star Wars album. Every song, every note, was created under their collective benevolent gaze. I remember singing the lyrics “Orchestrate the shallow pink refrigerator drone” and looking up and thinking Don Rickles was glaring back at me like he was saying, “Pink refrigerator drone? Boy, are you a hockey puck!”
My point is, there isn’t a fascinating or aesthetically complicated reason for why we put a cat on the cover of our album and called it Star Wars. The album needed a name and a cover. The cat painting could just as easily have been Don Rickles. And instead of Star Wars, we could have named it Jerry Maguire or E.T. and it would have made just as much sense. I’m just trying to put it in the right context for you. It’s entirely plausible that Wilco could’ve made a record called Wrath of Khan with an album cover that’s just an old black-and-white head shot of Don Rickles in a tux.
It could still happen.
It’s hard for me to not be self-conscious for lots of reasons I hope to illuminate for you later, but it’s even worse writing a book about yourself. You’re basically the lead character in your own narrative. How do you not constantly worry, “Who do I think I am?” and “Look at you, writing a book, aren’t you special.” It’s nonfiction, so I guess my only obligation is to tell the truth. But I’m also acutely aware that I can’t be entirely objective. It’s not like I can give the main character a fatal flaw that we all know is going to be the source of his undoing in the final chapter. I mean, hopefully, anyway. Maybe there is a fatal flaw and I’m the only one who isn’t seeing it. Maybe I’m writing myself toward an emotional breakdown and I’m the last one to realize it. That actually sounds like a pretty great book.
But if you’re me, which I am, it’s hard not to assume that some of you are just skimming the first few pages, trying to decide if this book is worth your money. Are you sure you want to fork over $28 for a bunch of chapters on “Here’s what was going through my head during the three-and-a-half-minute guitar solo on ‘At Least That’s What You Said’”? Like Tuli Kupferberg from the Fugs said when I met him and told him that he was my hero, “Oy, times are tough all over.” Nobody has the disposable income to splurge on a memoir by a moderately successful indie rock “stalwart” if it’s not going to deliver something pretty entertaining.
Let’s reveal some spoilers right up front before we waste anybody’s time.
1. There are two different guys named Jay covered in this book.
You’re going to need to stay on your toes to keep up. They both get written about pretty extensively and sometimes they even appear in the same section. I’ve done my best to make it clear who I’m talking about when I write “Jay,” but, like I said, heads up. Be alert.
2. There will be no mention of prescription painkillers.
If you picked this book up looking for wild, druggy stories about my addiction to opiates, you’re out of luck. I want to put those years behind me. And frankly, there really isn’t much to tell. When you take a lot of Vicodin, your life is not a nonstop Algonquin Round Table. There’s a lot of being numb, and a lot of being sad that you’re not numb. That’s it.
Let’s leave it at this: I had some addiction problems, and then I got better. We’re all good now. Thanks for asking! Oh, and the songs I wrote during that time period are just musical explorations of how happy I was at the time. Sorry if there was any misunderstanding.
3. That last part was a joke.
Jesus, of course I’m going to write about the drugs. I’m pulling your leg. Would you have believed Keith Richards if he’d started his memoir with “Listen, guys, the less said about my experiences with heroin, the better. I’d rather just write about what it’s like to be a grandfather”?
4. I wish this book was about the Raccoonists.
If you’re not familiar with the Raccoonists, I’m not sure where you get the nerve calling yourself a fan. How have you not heard of the band I started with my kids, Spencer and Sammy? We have just one officially released song, “Own It.” It was included as the B-side on a Deerhoof split 7-inch. We also recorded a full album’s worth of material, including some of the best covers of George Harrison, Teenage Fanclub, and Skip Spence ever sung by a fifteen-year-old. (I personally feel that a lyric like “A severed eye would gratify my soul, I must confess” sounds more convincing when it’s coming from a guy with unfinished algebra homework.) We haven’t released any of it yet, because the musical mission of the Raccoonists is to be as enigmatic as possible. It’s like those lines from the Wilco song “The Late Greats”: “So good you won’t ever know / You’ll never hear it on the radio.” That could be about the Raccoonists. It isn’t. Not even slightly. But it could be, that’s what I’m saying.
The only reason I wrote this book is because I wanted to finally tell the story of the greatest rock trio, featuring me on guitar with a teenage drummer and a barely teenage lead vocalist, that never officially released an album, or went on tour, or was ever heard outside of a basement and that the world is mostly unaware of. I intended this to be like that Michael Azerrad book Our Band Could Be Your Life, but less about bands like Black Flag and Minutemen, and entirely about the Raccoonists. I would’ve shared all of the scandalous details, like how the band’s original name was the Rockingest, but I misunderstood Spencer and thought he said the Raccoonists, and I said, “That’s the greatest band name I’ve ever heard,” and he didn’t fight me on it, so we went with the Raccoonists, even though the Rockingest is arguably a better name.
I would have liked to be able to share the story about the time we almost broke up because it was a school night, and Susie was like, “You have to stop now. Don’t make me be the dick here. Jeff, tell them to get in their pj’s.” And I intended to tell you all about how the Raccoonists actually broke up, because Spencer told us, “I’m going to college,” and Sammy and I were like, “Seriously? This is how it ends? Et tu, Spencer?” But then the band Tweedy was born from its ashes, like a phoenix rising, and then we went on tour in Japan, and Sammy came along, and we convinced him to sing “Thirteen” during the Tokyo and Osaka shows, and it was like a mini Raccoonists reunion, except nobody knew it was significant, because other than that 7-inch B-side, nobody knew the Raccoonists had ever been a real band. Which just made it more “Late Great”–ish, even though that song (I can’t emphasize this enough) isn’t at all about the Raccoonists.
Anyway, that’s what I wanted to write about. But my publisher kept editing it out and I kept slipping it back in, and then they started using words like “actionable” if I persisted in writing about my band with my kids to the exclusion of the other bands I’m in or was in.
FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE the show at the Kings, the mood backstage is like a summer picnic. All the civilians and guests have been ushered out, and it’s just the guys and me, making small talk, nibbling on snacks, and fiddling with our instruments. I’ve still got David Bowie on my mind, so I see if I can figure how to play “Space Oddity.” Slowly, the other guys start joining in, grabbing their guitars and calling out chord changes to one another, singing harmony, or just drumming along on the nearest flat surface. Anything to contribute. It’s that organic and natural. Nobody says, “Let’s play some Bowie.” It starts with a note, which blindly stumbles into a recognizable melody, and then, piece by piece, it transforms into a song. It’s like the cafeteria scene from Fame. The David Bowie Hot Lunch just kind of happens.
Those are the best moments on the road with Wilco. What we do onstage means a lot to all of us, but when it’s just the band in a room, with no audience besides the six of us, and we rediscover a song together, for no other reason than to see if we can do it, that’s when we’re the most grateful we get to do what we do. Those moments are pure reminders of what made us want to play music in the first place. Music is magic.