![]() There’s that slight “wah-wah” tone-bending to let you know not to take this too seriously. It’s like a trombone player with a plunger head. There’ll be slightly elongated syllables or a pitch that’s just a little off. Even if the hostility isn’t overt, you can read the signs. Everywhere else in the world, you can identify sarcasm if you’re paying attention. “Now, isn’t that neat.” Midwestern sarcasm, when it’s done correctly, can be a thing of rare beauty. Let's Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc. I can guarantee you that in the final moments of his life, he wasn’t kicking himself for all those times when he dared to make a fool of himself by singing too loud.” I’m writing this just weeks after returning from Belleville, where I sat next to my dad’s bed in my childhood house and watched him die. ![]() Thank god I avoided the embarrassment of putting a bad poem into the world.” Nobody reaches the end of their life and regrets even a single moment of creating something, no matter how shitty or unappreciated that something might have been. Thank god I didn’t make that piece of art. ![]() No one has ever laid on their deathbed thinking, “Thank god I didn’t make that song. Music, my writing, is something special, not sacred.” If the songs Bob Dylan wrote aren’t sacred, then nobody’s songs are sacred. “I just want to find another place to pound a nail . . . “I’m content with the same old piece of wood,” he said. “The Chicago historian Studs Terkel asked Bob Dylan in the sixties about how he went about writing a song and trying to outdo himself, or at least being as good as the last song he wrote, and his response was pretty damn perfect. ![]()
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