#dbpm

[hocketing]

do u think trevor and jamie ever watch marty and barks chatting away in the locker room or in warmups or on the bench together and get this like weird nostalgic pain in their chest and maybe their eyes meet and they have to look away bc suddenly it’s all 2much

[insecuregodcomplex]

[lavendergaia]

Do we think Marty can just casually and intimately place his chin on the top of Barkey's head?

You know, like, in a bro way.

[laughter-remembered]

it's fingers in his mouth friday and i didn't do wip wednesday this week so i have a gift for you

[wilcofuturealbums-blog]

Empty Coke Can Featuring Jeff’s Hand

Fan Art imaginings of Wilco Future Albums, as described by frontman Jeff Tweedy on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (September 21, 2016)

(Disclaimer: These are works of purely speculative fiction. It is not intended to infringe on any rights by and of the companies and/or individuals involved in Wilco, dBpm Records, or Tony Margherita Management.)

[insecuregodcomplex]

and Denver first to get to Porter to celebrate

[unfortunatelytheflyers]

all this needs to be shopped, but whatever, i'm getting there. here's a snippet of dialogue draft for the dbpm fic

idiots to idiots with benefits

send help, this is going to end up being at least 5k words, if not closer to 10k, i don't even know

[dustedmagazine]

Jeff Tweedy — Twilight Override (dBpm)

Twilight Override is a triple album and so, inherently, monumental. If you buy the vinyl, you’ll have to get up and change the record six times. If you get a digital copy, it’ll play all by itself for nearly two hours. And yet while this collection is a hefty one — and comes from an artist passing steadily into the icon stage of his career — the effect is low-key and personal, all love of the game and no striving.

“Feel free/Make a record with your friends/Sing a song that never ends/Feel free,” croons Tweedy at the end of “Feel Free,” the final song on disc two. He’s surrounded by close compatriots — his son Spencer on drums, Sima Cunningham and Macie Stewart shading his words gently with gospel harmonies, his own scratchy picking kicking a languid song into gear — and there’s a lovely comfort in it. Here’s a lifetime of writing and playing and connecting with other musicians boiled down into an elemental melody that drifts by on a cloud.  

These songs are quite varied. “Betrayed” is a country roadhouse singalong, given rustic radiance with all-hands harmonies and some sportive mandola from James Elkington. “New Orleans” shimmers and glistens, a cosmic aura parting for quiet contemplation; the way that other voices join into Tweedy’s bare, murmur-y singing sounds utterly organic, like it happened on the fly, as the singers sensed their opening.  “Lou Reed Was My Babysitter” makes plain the connection between Wilco’s alt.Americana and VU-ish drone; there’s a rock ‘n roll spine in Tweedy’s most bucolic musings. And “Parking Lot” dreams and pokes at life’s meaning in elliptical spoken poetry, as Tweedy ponders possible versions of himself. It’s like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, except that, whatever you pick, it will be some facet of Tweedy, his easy skill, his offhand way of delivering a melody, his irony and earnestness twined together like a braid of hair.

I’ve found Wilco records a little dull over the last decade or so, too self-assured and polished to catch my ear (though the live show remains undeniable). But despite the length—and maybe because of it—this one drew me in and kept me there. It’s warm and casual and unstudied, which is not to say that it’s not technically proficient. It’s a campfire where everyone sings and plays preternaturally well, and it’s easy to linger there right through to sunrise.

Jennifer Kelly