Chuck Klosterman On Pop Part 3

Obviously, this is the kind of hyper-democratic statement all bands make, but it seems slightly more genuine with Radio-head. Due to the layered complexity of their soundscapes-almost nothing is verse-chorus-verse, guitar riffba.s.s linedrum beat-collaboration and cross-pollination are unavoidable. It appears that Jonny's musical contribution continues to expand; for example, he wrote all of the song "A Wolf at the Door" (Yorke just added the words). At thirty-one, he's the youngest member of Radiohead, and he also may be the most cognitively musical. He likes to talk about details.

"For every song like 'I Will,' which arrived fully formed and was immediately perfect, there are songs like 'Sail to the Moon,' which weren't great," Jonny says. "I'm not being rude, but 'Sail to the Moon' wasn't very well written, and it had different chords and only half an idea. It only came together after the whole band worked on it and figured out how the structures should be, and [drummer] Phil [Selway] had some insight on how the song could be arranged. And then it became just about the best song on the record."

In a way, it all sounds remarkably simple, but things weren't always this easy. O'Brien says Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief represents "the end of an era" and that they've taken "this kind of music" (however you want to define it) as far as it can go. But that statement seems more reflective of their new outlook on life, which is that being in this band is an exceptional-and relatively painless-experience. They like being Radiohead. represents "the end of an era" and that they've taken "this kind of music" (however you want to define it) as far as it can go. But that statement seems more reflective of their new outlook on life, which is that being in this band is an exceptional-and relatively painless-experience. They like being Radiohead.

Six years ago, they did not.

"The worst point [in our career] was playing shows in the U.K. right after OK Computer OK Computer came out," says ba.s.sist Colin Greenwood, Jonny's older brother. "There is nothing worse than having to play in front of twenty thousand people when someone-when Thom-absolutely does not want to be there, and you can see that hundred-yard stare in his eyes. You hate having to put your friend through that experience. You find yourself wondering how you got there." came out," says ba.s.sist Colin Greenwood, Jonny's older brother. "There is nothing worse than having to play in front of twenty thousand people when someone-when Thom-absolutely does not want to be there, and you can see that hundred-yard stare in his eyes. You hate having to put your friend through that experience. You find yourself wondering how you got there."

Colin is saying this as he eats in the hotel's parlor room. It's the second of four meals he will consume today (he claims nervousness over Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief has raised his metabolism). Colin is both the band's friendliest and goofiest member and just about the most enthusiastic person I have ever met. Sometimes he closes his eyes for twenty seconds at a time, almost as if the world is too brilliant to look at; there appears to be no subject he is not obsessed with. He tells me I must visit the Oxford University Museum of Natural History to see the stuffed dodo birds (which I do) and insists I check out a cartography exhibit at the Bodleian Library (which I do not). He gleefully mentions having seen a baby deer while driving to the has raised his metabolism). Colin is both the band's friendliest and goofiest member and just about the most enthusiastic person I have ever met. Sometimes he closes his eyes for twenty seconds at a time, almost as if the world is too brilliant to look at; there appears to be no subject he is not obsessed with. He tells me I must visit the Oxford University Museum of Natural History to see the stuffed dodo birds (which I do) and insists I check out a cartography exhibit at the Bodleian Library (which I do not). He gleefully mentions having seen a baby deer while driving to the SPIN SPIN photo shoot, as if it had been some rare sighting of the Loch Ness monster. He mentions about fifteen different books during our interview and even gives me one as a present (Brian Thompson's photo shoot, as if it had been some rare sighting of the Loch Ness monster. He mentions about fifteen different books during our interview and even gives me one as a present (Brian Thompson's Imperial Vanities Imperial Vanities). Everyone in this band probably reads more than you do; hanging out with Radio-head is kind of like getting high with a bunch of librarians. At one point, I ask Colin (who is married to American writer and literary critic Molly McGrann) a theoretical question: If the music of Radiohead were a work of literature, would it be fiction or nonfiction?

"I think it would be nonfiction," he says. "Thom's lyrics are sort of like a running commentary on what's happening in the world, almost like you're looking out of the window of a j.a.panese bullet train and things are sort of flying by. It's like a shutter snapping in succession."

That's an apt description of the lyrics on Hail to the Thief, Hail to the Thief, particularly on less abstract tracks like "A Punch-up at a Wedding" (a narrative about the cliched reactions to a social faux pas), "We Suck Young Blood" (which examines the vapidity of celebrity), and "Myxomatosis," perhaps the most interesting entry on particularly on less abstract tracks like "A Punch-up at a Wedding" (a narrative about the cliched reactions to a social faux pas), "We Suck Young Blood" (which examines the vapidity of celebrity), and "Myxomatosis," perhaps the most interesting entry on Hail to the Thief. Hail to the Thief. Myxomatosis is a virus that inadvertently devastated the British rabbit population after it was introduced in the 1950s, covering the countryside with bunny carca.s.ses. The disease is not what the song is literally about, Myxomatosis is a virus that inadvertently devastated the British rabbit population after it was introduced in the 1950s, covering the countryside with bunny carca.s.ses. The disease is not what the song is literally about,3 but hearing Yorke's explanation ill.u.s.trates why trying to dissect the metaphors in Radiohead's music is virtually impossible. The dots do not connect. but hearing Yorke's explanation ill.u.s.trates why trying to dissect the metaphors in Radiohead's music is virtually impossible. The dots do not connect.

"I remember my parents pointing out all these dead rabbits on the road when I was a kid," Yorke says. "I didn't know that much about the virus, or even how to spell it. But I loved the word. I loved the way it sounded. The song is actually about mind control. I'm sure you've experienced situations where you've had your ideas edited or rewritten when they didn't conveniently fit into somebody else's agenda. And then-when someone asks you about those ideas later-you can't even argue with them, because now your idea exists in that edited form.

"It's hard to remember how things actually happen anymore, because there's so much mind control and so many media agendas," he continues. "There's a line in that song that goes, 'My thoughts are misguided and a little naive.' That's the snarly look you get from an expert when they accuse you of being a conspiracy theorist. In America, they still use the 'conspiracy theorist' accusation as the ultimate condemnation. I've been reading this Gore Vidal book [Dreaming War], and I know Vidal is always accused of being a conspiracy theorist. But the evidence he uses is very similar to the evidence used by a lot of well-respected British historians. Yet they still call him crazy. To me, that's part of what 'Myxomatosis' is about-it's about wishing that all the people who tell you that you're crazy were actually right. That would make life so much easier."

This self-a.n.a.lysis is noteworthy, because it speaks to where Yorke is coming from intellectually. However, it avoids one trenchant question: What does mind control have to do with a virus that kills rabbits?

The answer is "nothing."

Yorke named the track "Myxomatosis" for the same reason he repeats the phrase "the rain drops" forty-six times during the song "Sit Down. Stand Up." He simply liked the way it sounded on tape. The syllables fall like dominoes, and the consonance collapses like a house of cards. Sometimes you can't find the meaning behind a metaphor because there is no metaphor. there is no metaphor.

Yorke's preoccupation with picking words for how they sound (as opposed to what they mean) is part of why Radiohead's cultic following cuts such a wide swath (every alb.u.m except 2001's Amnesiac Amnesiac has gone platinum): if phrases have no clarity and no hard reality, people can turn them into whatever they need. If you need the words on has gone platinum): if phrases have no clarity and no hard reality, people can turn them into whatever they need. If you need the words on Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief to be political, they certainly have that potential; if you need to be political, they certainly have that potential; if you need Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief to explain why your girlfriend doesn't love you, it can do that, too. It's a songwriting style Yorke borrowed from Michael Stipe; not coincidentally, Stipe's R.E.M. were the last rock intellectuals taken as seriously as Radiohead are taken today. to explain why your girlfriend doesn't love you, it can do that, too. It's a songwriting style Yorke borrowed from Michael Stipe; not coincidentally, Stipe's R.E.M. were the last rock intellectuals taken as seriously as Radiohead are taken today.

"What I love about them," says Stipe, calling from a recording studio in Vancouver, "is that Radiohead's music allows me to craft my own film inside my head. That's what I like about all music."

Stipe4 and Yorke's relationship is hard to quantify, as it's always difficult for and Yorke's relationship is hard to quantify, as it's always difficult for uber uber-famous rock musicians on different continents to have any kind of conventional friendship (since traveling together on R.E.M.'s 1995 Monster Monster tour, they've maintained a sporadic phone and e-mail dialogue). However, this much is clear: the guidance Stipe provided Yorke at the height of Radiohead's fame almost certainly kept the band from breaking up. To hear Stipe explain it, their interaction was almost academic-he talks about the complexity of "dealing with words" and how all performers "are missing something in their DNA" and that it's almost impossible for artists to balance their inherent insecurity with the ego required to display oneself in public. tour, they've maintained a sporadic phone and e-mail dialogue). However, this much is clear: the guidance Stipe provided Yorke at the height of Radiohead's fame almost certainly kept the band from breaking up. To hear Stipe explain it, their interaction was almost academic-he talks about the complexity of "dealing with words" and how all performers "are missing something in their DNA" and that it's almost impossible for artists to balance their inherent insecurity with the ego required to display oneself in public.

Yorke's description is considerably simpler.

"The nicest thing Michael did for me was pull me out of a hole I would have never escaped from otherwise," Yorke says. "This was right after OK Computer OK Computer came out. All he really did was listen to me talk about the experience I was going through, but there's not a whole lot of people who can relate to that kind of situation, you know? That was very nice of him. I would like to pull a few other people out of holes at some point." came out. All he really did was listen to me talk about the experience I was going through, but there's not a whole lot of people who can relate to that kind of situation, you know? That was very nice of him. I would like to pull a few other people out of holes at some point."

I tell Yorke he should consider contacting White Stripes frontman Jack White about this, but he says, "I don't think he needs my help." This is another of Yorke's quirks: he tends to a.s.sume that everybody on earth has their life more together than he does. Sometimes he puts his hands on the sides of his skull and inadvertently replicates the figure in Edvard Munch's painting The Scream. The Scream. Conversationally, he seems completely rational and calm, but he's convinced he's losing his mind, and that this is probably Bill O'Reilly's fault. Conversationally, he seems completely rational and calm, but he's convinced he's losing his mind, and that this is probably Bill O'Reilly's fault.

"I absolutely feel crazy at times," he says. "Anybody who turns on the TV and actually thinks about what they're watching has to believe they're going insane or that they're missing something everyone else is seeing. When I watch the Fox News channel, I can't believe how much nerve those people have and how they a.s.sume that people are just going to swallow that s.h.i.t. And I find myself thinking that I must be missing something I must be missing something."

This is who Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief is ultimately for, I think-people who look for order in the world and simply don't see it. Colin thinks much of the alb.u.m is about the destruction of human s.p.a.ce by corporate forces (he draws thematic comparisons between is ultimately for, I think-people who look for order in the world and simply don't see it. Colin thinks much of the alb.u.m is about the destruction of human s.p.a.ce by corporate forces (he draws thematic comparisons between Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief and Jonathan Franzen's essay collection and Jonathan Franzen's essay collection How to Be Alone How to Be Alone); Jonny thinks it might be about accepting the condition of the world and concentrating on one's own family; Selway talks of "dark forces" that drove the record's creation; O'Brien casually wonders if "it might be too late for this planet." (Part of Radiohead's enduring mystery might be that even the other guys in the band don't fully understand what Yorke's lyrics are trying to convey.) Yet the songs are all about the same thing, really: learning how to understand a new kind of world. And while this isn't always simple, it's not necessarily depressing. In fact, it might be why Yorke still claims that Hail to the Thief Hail to the Thief is a record "for s.h.a.gging," which is what he told the press months before the record was released. Apparently, we're all supposed to listen to "Myxomatosis" and get laid. is a record "for s.h.a.gging," which is what he told the press months before the record was released. Apparently, we're all supposed to listen to "Myxomatosis" and get laid.

"I think this is a s.e.xy record," Yorke says, and there is at least a 50 percent chance that he's serious. "The rhythms are very s.e.xy. It's where the beats fall. It has its own s.e.xy pulse."

Hoping for clarification, I ask him to name the s.e.xiest record he owns.

"That's a good question," he says. "Public Enemy was pretty s.e.xy. '911 Is a Joke' was a s.e.xy song."

And I find myself thinking, I must be missing something. I must be missing something.

1. O'Brien apparently doesn't like 1978's Some Girls, Some Girls, which is crazy. which is crazy.

2. This would be 2006's Eraser Eraser. It's interesting to note that even though the other members of Radiohead don't necessarily understand Yorke, they're remarkably good at speculating about his behavior.

3. Unfortunately.

4. Here's a detail about Michael Stipe I couldn't jam into the article, mostly because I thought the sentiment would be distracting: when we spoke on the phone, my first question was directly about Yorke's cultural position, and Stipe said, "Well, Thom has entered that rarefied cla.s.s of songwriter-these are people like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitch.e.l.l, and myself. The things he says now take on a different kind of significance." This, I suppose, is completely true-but what a f.u.c.ked-up thing to say about oneself! Were those the only three people he could think of?

THE AMERICAN RADIOHEAD This story created an interesting problem, and I don't think I ever truly resolved it. I interviewed Wilco's Jeff tweedy on a Friday afternoon, and it went extraordinarily well. I went back to New York the following week and wrote the piece for SPIN. SPIN. And then-a few days after I gave the story to my editor-we found out that tweedy had entered rehab the day after I spoke with him. Obviously, that complicated things, because I wasn't sure how much this revelation impacted the story. You could argue that it changed absolutely everything, or you could argue that it changed nothing. I ultimately reinterviewed Tweedy over the phone and added about four hundred words for contextual purposes, but I still wonder if I should have traveled back to Chicago and rereported the entire thing. And then-a few days after I gave the story to my editor-we found out that tweedy had entered rehab the day after I spoke with him. Obviously, that complicated things, because I wasn't sure how much this revelation impacted the story. You could argue that it changed absolutely everything, or you could argue that it changed nothing. I ultimately reinterviewed Tweedy over the phone and added about four hundred words for contextual purposes, but I still wonder if I should have traveled back to Chicago and rereported the entire thing.

There were two things that didn't make the story (and which I later wrote about in an essay for Minneapolis City Pages Minneapolis City Pages). At one point, Tweedy and I were standing in the pantry of his home in northwest Chicago (he was looking for his stocking cap), and he started talking about how his eight-year-old son was the drummer in a grade-school rock band that played Jet songs. Now, nearly everybody I know thinks Jet is ridiculous; they've become the band hipsters are legally required to hate. So I made some joke (and I have no idea why) about how Jet was terrible and that it was somehow predictable that the only people who would want to cover Jet songs would be second graders. Tweedy didn't understand why I would say something like that. He looked at me like I had just made fun of a quadriplegic and asked, "Well, don't you like rock music?" And then I felt stupid, because I realized that (a) Jet plays rock music, and that (b) I like rock music, and that (c) I actually liked Jet, I actually liked Jet, both tangibly and intangibly. So that was something I realized about Jeff Tweedy: musically, he remembers what is obvious. both tangibly and intangibly. So that was something I realized about Jeff Tweedy: musically, he remembers what is obvious.

After about five minutes, Jeff Tweedy found his stocking cap. We got into his car and started driving to the studio where Wilco makes music (we were listening to demos of the song "Humming-bird," as I recall, and the demos were-oddly-on ca.s.sette). We were waiting at a red light, and I asked him if there would ever be an Uncle Tupelo reunion with Jay Farrar. Surprisingly (and without much hesitation), he said, "Maybe." This shocked me, because Tweedy hasn't really spoken with Farrar in roughly ten years. I asked him what would be the biggest hurdle in making this reunion a reality. He said something I could never have antic.i.p.ated: "I don't know if I could play those songs anymore," Tweedy said. "The ba.s.s parts on some of those songs are really fast. I don't think I can play ba.s.s that fast anymore." This, obviously, is crazy; this is like saying you're considering reuniting with your estranged wife after a ten-year separation, and you're mostly nervous that she might have rearranged the living room furniture. Yet-somehow-this sentiment struck me as remarkably insightful; it was the kind of highly important detail that normal people never consider when they expect artists to unconditionally satisfy their dreams. So this was the other thing I realized about Jeff Tweedy: musically, he notices what is not so obvious.

GHOST STORY (JULY 2004) Jeff Tweedy didn't vomit today. He vomited yesterday, but not today.

We are on the second floor of Tweedy's home in northwest Chicago, a pale green residence that could just as easily be owned by an employee for the Illinois Highway Department. There is a sign in the bathroom that reminds me to brush my teeth. Tweedy is lying on a bed designed for a child, thinking about smoking an American Spirit cigarette and quite possibly having a panic attack. His four-year-old son Sam is running around the house completely naked, incessantly repeating the phrase "Thank you!" while he sprints from room to room. Tweedy's eight-year-old son Spencer is playing drums in the bas.e.m.e.nt, and he's remarkably advanced; he's already in a band called the Blisters, fronted by a fifth-grade vocalist (they cover Jet songs). Tweedy's wife Sue keeps apologizing because the house is overrun with teacups and plastic soldiers; Tweedy can't remember if his wife's name is spelled "Suzy" or "Susie," so he begs me to refer to her simply as "Sue" if I mention her in this article (apparently, he's gotten in trouble for this before). At the moment, I can't tell if Jeff Tweedy is completely relaxed or desperately nervous, because he always seems to act exactly the same; it's just that he tends to puke more than most frontmen.

"Here's the scoop-I'm nuts," Tweedy says. He smiles, but he does not laugh. "I need to get on the first floor, I think, or maybe we should go outside. Have you ever swam out into the ocean and suddenly realized you've gone too far out? Sometimes being outside feels like the sh.o.r.e to me. It's hard to explain. It's sort of like getting so high that you're afraid you'll never be able to get back inside your body and you'll never be normal again, except I'm obviously not high right now."

Retrospectively, Tweedy's last statement might raise a few eyebrows. This conversation is happening on Friday afternoon, March 26. Tomorrow night, Jeff Tweedy will have a major panic attack that will necessitate a trip to the emergency room, and then he'll have another major attack on Sunday. He will subsequently check into a dual-diagnosis rehabilitation clinic that will simultaneously treat him for an addiction to painkillers and a mental illness that causes monolithic migraine headaches and uncontrollable nervousness. It's all a bit confusing, because Tweedy isn't lying when he says he's not high; in fact, he hasn't taken any painkillers in the five weeks prior to this interview, even though he's still addicted to Vicodin. That's part of the reason he'll end up in the hospital tomorrow night.

But these are all things I won't learn for a month.

Amidst the chill of early spring, things still seem normal. Tweedy is wearing an unwashed G.o.dzilla T-shirt and sarcastically compares himself to Dave Pirner. We go into his backyard, and it's a Tonka Toy graveyard. Our ostensible intention is to discuss the new Wilco alb.u.m A Ghost Is Born, A Ghost Is Born, which we did do ... but only for twenty minutes. The other two hours of the conversation mostly dwell on "the nature of art," which undoubtedly sounds like pretentious bulls.h.i.t. And I'm sure it would have been were it not for the fact that Tweedy is probably the least pretentious semi-genius I've ever interviewed. which we did do ... but only for twenty minutes. The other two hours of the conversation mostly dwell on "the nature of art," which undoubtedly sounds like pretentious bulls.h.i.t. And I'm sure it would have been were it not for the fact that Tweedy is probably the least pretentious semi-genius I've ever interviewed.

"It's just that I'm uncool," Tweedy says when asked about the overt normalcy of his middle-cla.s.s life. "I have a great life, but it's an uncool life. It was a wonderful revelation to move to Chicago and make music and just be normal. So many artists reach a certain level of success, and then they cross over; they surrender everything to the service of their persona. Take somebody like Madonna, for example: you could never get to be that huge unless you surrendered every other impulse in your body to the service of your persona. Even with Bob Dylan, there was clearly a point early in his career where he was completely able to immerse himself inside that persona. And I think it's disastrous that so many people destroy themselves because they can't do it. They don't have the intestinal fort.i.tude. I mean, how many f.u.c.king people has Keith Richards killed? How many countless people has Sid Vicious killed? How many young girls has Madonna made insane?"

This probably sounds like the kind of sentiment you'd hear from a graying thirty-six-year-old father who hasn't had a drink in thirteen years, drives a minivan, and exists in a state of omnipresent nervousness. And it should, because that's who Tweedy is.

The story of Wilco-and the arc of Tweedy's career-is ultimately a story of sonic expansion, a fact that's too often lost on people; almost every Wilco alb.u.m arrives with a minicontroversy that overshadows everything else (and obviously, that's going to happen with this alb.u.m, too). It began with the breakup of Uncle Tupelo, the St. Louis band Tweedy formed with lifelong friend Jay Farrar in 1987. Though Tupelo did not invent alternative country, they legitimized it as a culturally consequential genre. When Uncle Tupelo ended acrimoniously in '93, Farrar formed Son Volt while Tweedy absorbed the other members of Tupelo and started Wilco, a band whose first record (A.M.) sounded similar to their previous work. In 1996, Wilco released Being There, Being There, a double alb.u.m that opened the band's sonic parameters; 1999's a double alb.u.m that opened the band's sonic parameters; 1999's Summerteeth Summerteeth was essentially a pop alb.u.m that had almost no connection to alt country whatsoever. was essentially a pop alb.u.m that had almost no connection to alt country whatsoever.

It was 2002's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, however, that radically changed the public perception of Wilco and turned them into the Midwestern equivalent of Radiohead. The story of however, that radically changed the public perception of Wilco and turned them into the Midwestern equivalent of Radiohead. The story of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Yankee Hotel Foxtrot has been told so many times (and in so many publications) that it hardly seems worth covering again, but here's the short version: upon their delivery of has been told so many times (and in so many publications) that it hardly seems worth covering again, but here's the short version: upon their delivery of YHF, YHF, Wilco was dropped from Reprise Records (an imprint owned by Warner Bros.) for making an alb.u.m that was too "inaccessible," only to resell the same material to Nonesuch Records (an imprint Wilco was dropped from Reprise Records (an imprint owned by Warner Bros.) for making an alb.u.m that was too "inaccessible," only to resell the same material to Nonesuch Records (an imprint also also owned by Warner Bros.). The record eventually sold 400,000 copies and turned Wilco into critically adored iconoclasts with enough integrity to flatten a Clydesdale. This paradox was ill.u.s.trated in the doc.u.mentary film owned by Warner Bros.). The record eventually sold 400,000 copies and turned Wilco into critically adored iconoclasts with enough integrity to flatten a Clydesdale. This paradox was ill.u.s.trated in the doc.u.mentary film I Am Trying to Break Your Heart. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart. However, that movie also unveiled the rift that prompted guitarist Jay Bennett to exit Wilco upon However, that movie also unveiled the rift that prompted guitarist Jay Bennett to exit Wilco upon YHF YHF's completion, and certain scenes implied that his departure was due to a power struggle with Tweedy. This is a perception Tweedy still finds irritating, since it seems to keep happening to him: in Uncle Tupelo, everyone thought Farrar was the dour John Lennon character and Tweedy was the less substantial Paul McCartney; in Wilco, Tweedy was cast into the exact opposite relationship with Bennett.

"That is not something I haven't noticed," Tweedy says. "Every time I make a record that goes in a different direction, people seem to a.s.sume that whatever was good about the previous record must have been the work of The Other Guy. This happens on every record I make, and it's not something that's directed at Wilco as a band-it seems specific to me. In Uncle Tupelo, I was supposedly the pop lightweight. But then in Wilco, everyone seemed to think that somebody else must have brought the pop sensibility in."

According to every member of the band, A Ghost Is Born A Ghost Is Born was a collaborative effort that reflects a growing interest in explorative music, heavily influenced by the kraut rock sensibilities of drummer Glenn Kotche and new keyboardist/technophile Mikael Jorgensen. "Less Than You Think" is a fifteen-minute track with twelve minutes of nonmelodic drone. The guitar sound on "At Least That's What You Said" is strikingly similar to Neil Young and Crazy Horse. There's also a ten-minute song called "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" that sounds like the fusion of two songs, and it's preceded by a track called "h.e.l.l Is Chrome" that appears to address the existential issue of being trapped by perfection. was a collaborative effort that reflects a growing interest in explorative music, heavily influenced by the kraut rock sensibilities of drummer Glenn Kotche and new keyboardist/technophile Mikael Jorgensen. "Less Than You Think" is a fifteen-minute track with twelve minutes of nonmelodic drone. The guitar sound on "At Least That's What You Said" is strikingly similar to Neil Young and Crazy Horse. There's also a ten-minute song called "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" that sounds like the fusion of two songs, and it's preceded by a track called "h.e.l.l Is Chrome" that appears to address the existential issue of being trapped by perfection.

Then again, I might be totally wrong about this.

CK: This might seem like a weird question, but do you like Bob Seger? This might seem like a weird question, but do you like Bob Seger?

Jeff Tweedy: What? What?

CK: I think "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" sounds like a Kraftwerk song that evolves into a Bob Seger song. I think "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" sounds like a Kraftwerk song that evolves into a Bob Seger song.1 Jeff Tweedy: Well, I'm not a big Bob Seger fan. I don't hate him. He's written some amazing songs, and he's written some amazingly terrible songs. I mean, who would admit they like Bob Seger now that "Like a Rock" is in your face every f.u.c.king second of the day? But stuff like "Turn the Page" and "Mainstreet" were great. And you know, now that I think about it, the guitar sound on "Mainstreet" is actually pretty close to the guitar sound on "h.e.l.l Is Chrome." So maybe you've uncovered something. Maybe I actually love Bob Seger. Well, I'm not a big Bob Seger fan. I don't hate him. He's written some amazing songs, and he's written some amazingly terrible songs. I mean, who would admit they like Bob Seger now that "Like a Rock" is in your face every f.u.c.king second of the day? But stuff like "Turn the Page" and "Mainstreet" were great. And you know, now that I think about it, the guitar sound on "Mainstreet" is actually pretty close to the guitar sound on "h.e.l.l Is Chrome." So maybe you've uncovered something. Maybe I actually love Bob Seger.

CK: Is "h.e.l.l Is Chrome" about the value of disorder? Is "h.e.l.l Is Chrome" about the value of disorder?

Jeff Tweedy: I think so. I think so.

CK: Are you just trying to be agreeable right now? Are you just trying to be agreeable right now?

Jeff Tweedy: I don't know. Maybe "h.e.l.l Is Chrome" is about wanting the inverse. It's h.e.l.lish for me to so badly want order in a world where you can't have it. My impulse when I write is an almost obsessive-compulsive desire for order. It almost hurts. I don't know. Maybe "h.e.l.l Is Chrome" is about wanting the inverse. It's h.e.l.lish for me to so badly want order in a world where you can't have it. My impulse when I write is an almost obsessive-compulsive desire for order. It almost hurts.

Here again, Tweedy describes himself with words that don't fit his behavior; he portrays himself as a man who is losing his mind, but he seems completely calm and rational as he does so. Apparently, this comes from years of practice.

"I really don't know how bad his panic attacks are," says ba.s.sist John Stirratt, one of the original members of Uncle Tupelo and the only current member of Wilco who knew Tweedy before he quit drinking at the age of twenty-three. "It's varied over the years that I've known him, but the migraines have definitely gotten worse in the latter years. I mean, he was always wound up in a way, but I can't say I really understand it."

It's possible that Stirratt doesn't understand it because Tweedy is reticent to explain anything that suggests he is struggling. It seems like he wants wants to talk about these things, but he usually stops himself; he's afraid it will make him seem like a cliched rock narcissist. to talk about these things, but he usually stops himself; he's afraid it will make him seem like a cliched rock narcissist.

"I have always been rigid in my hatred of the stereotype of the debauched, tortured artist," Tweedy says. "In fact, I might have actively tried to subvert that idea [in the past], because it turned me off so many times when I was young. And it's not like I'm saying everyone should live a clean life, because I've done drugs and all that. I have no problem with those things. It's just that I felt-like most teenagers-that I had real pain in my life, and I kept reading interviews from artists I loved who proceeded to say things that simultaneously diminished what they did and how I felt. I hate the idea that artists suffer more than anyone else. They're just in a different position."

People who like Wilco tend to be interested in musical details, and these are the key details for A Ghost Is Born A Ghost Is Born: it was produced by the mercurial Jim O'Rourke, who also contributed some instrumental parts. When Wilco plays live, many of those guitar parts will be played by jazz-o-centric Nels Cline (best known for his work with the group Quartet Music), who will tour as a fifth member of Wilco. Several songs on A Ghost Is Born A Ghost Is Born were created through a process the band called "fundamentals," where Tweedy autonomously played an acoustic guitar and sang random lyrics while the other members listened to him in a different room; the other band members would then perform along with Tweedy for thirty straight minutes (in other words, the band could hear Tweedy, but Tweedy couldn't hear them). These half-hour sessions were all burned onto CDs, and Tweedy would listen to the discs at home and mine individual songs from the jam session. were created through a process the band called "fundamentals," where Tweedy autonomously played an acoustic guitar and sang random lyrics while the other members listened to him in a different room; the other band members would then perform along with Tweedy for thirty straight minutes (in other words, the band could hear Tweedy, but Tweedy couldn't hear them). These half-hour sessions were all burned onto CDs, and Tweedy would listen to the discs at home and mine individual songs from the jam session.

The rest of my April interview with Tweedy was, for lack of a better term, affable. He doesn't seem seem addicted to anything except nicotine. His day-to-day life sounds ideal: he wakes up late, reads for a few hours, picks up his kids from school and plays with them for a few hours, takes a late nap, and then drives to the Wilco band loft and works on music deep into the night. There is always a sense of longing in Wilco's music, and that same feeling resonates in Tweedy's dialogue; he will admit that it makes him sad that Farrar claims to not even listen to the music he makes. "I found an interview with Jay where he said he's never heard any Wilco, and I was really disappointed. I always check out his stuff. There might have even been a time after Uncle Tupelo broke up-when I was making addicted to anything except nicotine. His day-to-day life sounds ideal: he wakes up late, reads for a few hours, picks up his kids from school and plays with them for a few hours, takes a late nap, and then drives to the Wilco band loft and works on music deep into the night. There is always a sense of longing in Wilco's music, and that same feeling resonates in Tweedy's dialogue; he will admit that it makes him sad that Farrar claims to not even listen to the music he makes. "I found an interview with Jay where he said he's never heard any Wilco, and I was really disappointed. I always check out his stuff. There might have even been a time after Uncle Tupelo broke up-when I was making Being There, Being There, definitely-when I was still thinking about [Farrar] in the process of making the alb.u.m. I mean, when I was in Uncle Tupelo, I wanted to write songs that knocked Jay out. And I wanted him to think Wilco was f.u.c.king rocking, you know?" definitely-when I was still thinking about [Farrar] in the process of making the alb.u.m. I mean, when I was in Uncle Tupelo, I wanted to write songs that knocked Jay out. And I wanted him to think Wilco was f.u.c.king rocking, you know?"

We talk about G.o.d for a bit, partially because there's a track on the new record called "Theologians" that outlines Tweedy's disdain for dogmatic religion. We also talk about politics, mostly because Tweedy has never felt more political than he does right now. ("I'm almost scared to say this," he says at one point, "but I'm really starting to believe George W. Bush wants to experience the Rapture in his lifetime.") However, the most telling thing Tweedy says probably comes when I ask him a few minor details about the lyrics to "Heavy Metal Drummer," the second-best song off Yankee Hotel Fox-trot. Yankee Hotel Fox-trot. What he tells me ill.u.s.trates more about his personality than anything someone else could deduce from his songs. What he tells me ill.u.s.trates more about his personality than anything someone else could deduce from his songs.

"People always get confused about 'Heavy Metal Drummer,' because they think I was the drummer in a band that covered KISS songs. That's not what it's about. I can tell you what it's about. Hopefully, it won't ruin it for you." For the first time, Tweedy becomes almost goofy, gesturing with a cigarette lodged in his right paw; this is clearly a story he enjoys telling. "That song is really just another reminder about not being judgmental and reductive. There were many, many nights in St. Louis where me and my friends would go see some punk band at the cool punk club, and then we'd all go to the landing on the Mississippi River, because the bars on the landing had a four A.M. liquor license. And all us punk guys would sit there and scoff and feel superior to all the heavy-metal bar bands with the big hair and the spandex, most of whom were having the f.u.c.king time of their f.u.c.king life. So who was losing? Me. I was. Those guys were getting laid, they were deluding themselves into thinking they were gonna be huge stars, and they were living. And I was dead. I was staring into my drink."

He laughs.

"I don't think we'll play that song anymore."

A few hours later, we said good-bye, and I went home.

Exactly one month later, Tweedy calls me on the telephone. He has just spent two twelve-day stints in an unnamed Chicago clinic (after the first twelve days he still felt twinges of panic, so he readmitted himself for another twelve). I ask him how he is doing, and I mention that many of the things he said to me thirty-one days ago have now taken on a different context. He is not surprised.

"I'm doing better," he says. "Considering the whole rock-star cliche of going into rehab, I can see how my actions might seem contradictory to how I presented myself when we last spoke. But the fact of the matter is that I really didn't represent myself in any way that wasn't true."

In short, this is what happened: Tweedy was prescribed Vicodin for his migraines. The pills helped; in fact, they helped too much. Sometimes he would swallow ten in one day. In February, he decided to stop taking them, because he felt they were becoming a problem. But he also decided to stop taking all all his medication, including the pills that are supposed to control his panic episodes. This is a drug called benzodiazepine. his medication, including the pills that are supposed to control his panic episodes. This is a drug called benzodiazepine.2 After a few weeks, he went back on the benzodiazepine, but now it was too late; it no longer stopped him from having attacks. This is when everything escalated. After a few weeks, he went back on the benzodiazepine, but now it was too late; it no longer stopped him from having attacks. This is when everything escalated.

"I stopped taking everything else when I stopped taking the painkiller," he says. "I just became phobic about all medicine. But when I went back on the panic medication, it was too late. I was actually detoxing off the panic medication in rehab, because it's really dangerous to detox off benzodiazepine too quickly; you can have seizures. When I went into the emergency room on that Sat.u.r.day, I thought I was dying. But I needed to go to rehab for the Vicodin, too. I needed to understand how addiction and mental illness were interrelated, because I had never really put those two things together."

That might be the strangest aspect of Tweedy's time in rehab: at least from his own description of the events, it sounds like he was dealing with mental illness more than he was dealing with a drug problem. He now calls rehab "the greatest experience of [his] life" and wishes he had heard about dual-diagnosis facilities years ago.

"I always thought I was different," Tweedy says, which is the kind of thing people who get out of rehab always seem to say. "I could always quit other things I had experimented with, and I wasn't pursuing oblivion. I never wanted to get f.u.c.ked up, and I don't like being f.u.c.ked up. It wasn't like I was taking Vicodin to party."

That's the kind of rock star Tweedy is, I guess: he takes drugs, but not to party; he vomits, but not from drinking; he goes to rehab, but he ends up liking it. If every band was like Wilco, rock music would be a whole lot stranger.

1. This was not actually my my thought; my editor at thought; my editor at SPIN, SPIN, Jon Dolan, mentioned this connection to me the very first time we heard Jon Dolan, mentioned this connection to me the very first time we heard A Ghost Is Born. A Ghost Is Born. I thought, I thought, You know, that's completely accurate. You know, that's completely accurate. Two weeks later, I brought it up during my interview with Tweedy, but I didn't explain that it wasn't my original idea (it didn't seem worth the trouble, particularly since I didn't think Tweedy would give a f.u.c.k who came up with a theory he doesn't even agree with). When I eventually turned this story in, Dolan was mildly nonplussed that I had hijacked his insights, which I can wholly understand (particularly since I prefaced the sentiment by saying, " Two weeks later, I brought it up during my interview with Tweedy, but I didn't explain that it wasn't my original idea (it didn't seem worth the trouble, particularly since I didn't think Tweedy would give a f.u.c.k who came up with a theory he doesn't even agree with). When I eventually turned this story in, Dolan was mildly nonplussed that I had hijacked his insights, which I can wholly understand (particularly since I prefaced the sentiment by saying, "I think ..."). As such, I cut it out of the original story. This sort of thing happens sometimes. For example, in 1997 my friend (and then coworker) Ross Raihala was interviewing Art Linkletter, and Linkletter became upset when Ross used the terms hobo hobo and and b.u.m b.u.m interchangeably (apparently, Linkletter had worked as a hobo in his twenties and found the word interchangeably (apparently, Linkletter had worked as a hobo in his twenties and found the word b.u.m b.u.m to be mildly offensive). Whenever I tell this anecdote to strangers (which happens quite often, for some reason), I sometimes imply that Linkletter told this to me directly, simply because it's too complicated to explain who Ross is and how I know the details of this dialogue. I concede this is lying, but it's lying for the sake of simplicity. to be mildly offensive). Whenever I tell this anecdote to strangers (which happens quite often, for some reason), I sometimes imply that Linkletter told this to me directly, simply because it's too complicated to explain who Ross is and how I know the details of this dialogue. I concede this is lying, but it's lying for the sake of simplicity.

2. Benzodiazepine is the generic of Valium.

TAKING THE STREETS TO THE MUSIC I blew this one. The New York Times Magazine The New York Times Magazine sent me to London to do a profile on Mike Skinner, a young, white semi-rapper who performs under the name The Streets. He had just put out an alb.u.m I loved, so I was pretty jacked about doing this. I'd also never been to London, so that seemed intriguing. Unfortunately, I choked during the interview. sent me to London to do a profile on Mike Skinner, a young, white semi-rapper who performs under the name The Streets. He had just put out an alb.u.m I loved, so I was pretty jacked about doing this. I'd also never been to London, so that seemed intriguing. Unfortunately, I choked during the interview.

Many reporters try to "save" questions for the end of interviews, because they don't want to make the subject upset. I rarely do this; I occasionally ask the toughest, most uncomfortable questions at the front end of an interview. The best interviews always involve a certain degree of creative tension. However, I should not have tried this with Skinner. Because his lyrics were so smart and sophisticated, I overlooked the fact that he was still a young guy who wasn't political or aggressive or interested in verbal sparring; he just wanted to hang out, talk about bulls.h.i.t, and get this interview out of the way.

Still, I wrote the story and turned it in to the magazine. This initiated a new problem, because my editor and I suddenly recognized something about Mike Skinner that we both should have recognized before I ever left the U.S.: the Streets isn't famous here. For most people who read The New York Times, The New York Times, this would be the first time they'd ever heard of him. As such, it wasn't clear why we were even doing the story; it wasn't like American culture was on the precipice of being overrun by boyish British rappers. I rewrote the story completely, this time basing the narrative around a Streets show in a Brooklyn club that happened a few months after I had gone to England. This gave the article more context, but not much. The new draft was also more confusing, because almost everyone at the show in Brooklyn was white; it suddenly seemed like this story was about race (although in no specific way). A few months pa.s.sed; I a.s.sumed my editor would just kill the story entirely. But then-almost a full year after the original interview-Skinner released a few random songs over the Internet, so the this would be the first time they'd ever heard of him. As such, it wasn't clear why we were even doing the story; it wasn't like American culture was on the precipice of being overrun by boyish British rappers. I rewrote the story completely, this time basing the narrative around a Streets show in a Brooklyn club that happened a few months after I had gone to England. This gave the article more context, but not much. The new draft was also more confusing, because almost everyone at the show in Brooklyn was white; it suddenly seemed like this story was about race (although in no specific way). A few months pa.s.sed; I a.s.sumed my editor would just kill the story entirely. But then-almost a full year after the original interview-Skinner released a few random songs over the Internet, so the Times Times mag cut down the second draft of the story from 3,000 words to 1,200 words and ran it as a two-page "Perspectives" piece. mag cut down the second draft of the story from 3,000 words to 1,200 words and ran it as a two-page "Perspectives" piece.1 So ANYWAY, what follows is the original draft of the story that never ran, an artifact that has probably grown more dated and pedantic within the time it took you to read this introduction.

UNt.i.tLED GEEZER PROFILE (SPRING 2003-ISH) It has been brought to my attention that geezers need excitement.

Supposedly, this reality is self-evident. And it seems that if these geezers do not find that excitement within the context of their own lives, they have a propensity to incite violence. This revelation is, apparently, common sense. Simple common sense. And I have no idea what any of this is supposed to mean, and I am waiting for Mike Skinner to explain it to me.

Providing that explanation is what he does for a living.

Walking among the unwashed, unhip ma.s.ses of the world at large, Skinner is merely another kid from Britain, a twenty-four-year-old who looks like he just turned fifteen. Do not feel depressed if you've never heard of him, as he is not famous. Except that he is, if you happen to be the kind of person who actively searches for pop geniuses. In certain circles, in certain clubs, and pretty much anywhere in London, Skinner is one of those "voice of a generation" types: as the writer-rapper-producer for a one-man hip-hop ent.i.ty known as The Streets, Skinner has experienced the kind of meteoric ascension (at least among critics) that changes a messenger into his own self-styled medium. His debut record, Original Pirate Material, Original Pirate Material, has been dubbed the first transcendent hip-hop alb.u.m to emerge from England ... which is kind of like being dubbed the s.e.xiest female at a gnome convention. But Skinner's t.i.tle might eventually mean more. At least for the moment, Skinner incarnates a British youth movement everyone else has ignored. His lyrics are defined by their lack of action: The Streets speaks of "The Geezer Lifestyle"-the mundane, day-to-day pursuits of ant.i.trendy, blue-collar white males in England's lower-middle cla.s.s. It's a lifestyle that Skinner depicts in almost all his songs (most notably on a track called "Geezers Need Excitement," the philosophy of which I paraphrased in the opening paragraph of this story). has been dubbed the first transcendent hip-hop alb.u.m to emerge from England ... which is kind of like being dubbed the s.e.xiest female at a gnome convention. But Skinner's t.i.tle might eventually mean more. At least for the moment, Skinner incarnates a British youth movement everyone else has ignored. His lyrics are defined by their lack of action: The Streets speaks of "The Geezer Lifestyle"-the mundane, day-to-day pursuits of ant.i.trendy, blue-collar white males in England's lower-middle cla.s.s. It's a lifestyle that Skinner depicts in almost all his songs (most notably on a track called "Geezers Need Excitement," the philosophy of which I paraphrased in the opening paragraph of this story).

However, the more I ask Skinner who and what a geezer truly is, the more I suspect that the motivation behind my question is more complex than the reality of his answer. In fact, that's the point, and that's what I don't understand.

"I guess geezer geezer is just like if you were to say is just like if you were to say man man or or dude dude or something like that," he says with his left hand shoved halfway into his pants and his British accent leaning to the right like verbalized italics. "Like, I could have just as easily said ' or something like that," he says with his left hand shoved halfway into his pants and his British accent leaning to the right like verbalized italics. "Like, I could have just as easily said 'Dudes need excitement,' and it would mean pretty much the same thing."

Really? That's all there is to this? Geezer Geezer is just a word? is just a word?

"Well, no. I guess not," he responds. "I guess maybe there is a roughneck quality to geezer. geezer. But it mostly just means a guy I would consider cool. D'know what I mean?" But it mostly just means a guy I would consider cool. D'know what I mean?"

Well, no. Not quite. But maybe.

The narratives on Original Pirate Material Original Pirate Material are almost like little episodes of are almost like little episodes of East Enders, East Enders, filtered through the slang and sensibilities of filtered through the slang and sensibilities of Trainspotting. Trainspotting. Skinner and his geezer posse drink beer and brandy and eat fish and chips, and they discuss bong technology and Carl Jung and a future that seems vaguely dystrophic. They appear to play a lot of video games. Skinner and his geezer posse drink beer and brandy and eat fish and chips, and they discuss bong technology and Carl Jung and a future that seems vaguely dystrophic. They appear to play a lot of video games.

Unlike American rappers, Skinner does not talk of b.i.t.c.hes b.i.t.c.hes and and hos hos; he chases birds. birds. He tells his listeners that they should be happy if they don't relate to his message, because that means they've never really been depressed. Yet the tangible content of He tells his listeners that they should be happy if they don't relate to his message, because that means they've never really been depressed. Yet the tangible content of Original Pirate Material Original Pirate Material is not nearly as compelling as the way it's delivered; Skinner might be the most aggressively British Brit in pop history. Like Thatcher-era dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson, Skinner's vocal style is closer to conversation than rapping; his accent isn't harsh, but it's is not nearly as compelling as the way it's delivered; Skinner might be the most aggressively British Brit in pop history. Like Thatcher-era dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson, Skinner's vocal style is closer to conversation than rapping; his accent isn't harsh, but it's vast. vast. It's relentless. And it's so staunchly Anglo that even the people who love him seem unwilling to cla.s.sify his work as rap music. It's relentless. And it's so staunchly Anglo that even the people who love him seem unwilling to cla.s.sify his work as rap music. Entertainment Weekly Entertainment Weekly proclaimed proclaimed Original Pirate Material Original Pirate Material as the single finest alb.u.m of 2002, but they call it "punk." as the single finest alb.u.m of 2002, but they call it "punk." The Village Voice The Village Voice described it as "England's first great hip-hop record, mostly because it's not a hip-hop record." described it as "England's first great hip-hop record, mostly because it's not a hip-hop record." SPIN SPIN argued that Skinner "doesn't really rap," while argued that Skinner "doesn't really rap," while Rolling Stone Rolling Stone enthusiastically insisted his record was all a "great rap goof." The reasons behind these contradictory accounts are myriad, but the core explanation is that Skinner shares none of the cliches of conventional American hip-hop; he's propulsive, but never bombastic. It's more intellectual than urgent, and it represents a different kind of urbanism: even when Skinner speaks rapidly, he sounds completely and utterly bored. enthusiastically insisted his record was all a "great rap goof." The reasons behind these contradictory accounts are myriad, but the core explanation is that Skinner shares none of the cliches of conventional American hip-hop; he's propulsive, but never bombastic. It's more intellectual than urgent, and it represents a different kind of urbanism: even when Skinner speaks rapidly, he sounds completely and utterly bored.

"My life isn't that interesting, really. I get up at nine, I work on music until around six or seven, maybe I watch the telly for a few hours, and then I go to bed. Sometimes I go out and get [drunk], but not all that often," Skinner says. "Everyone has me down as this crazy, drinking, drug-taking, working-cla.s.s hero. And when I get drunk, I suppose I do get crazy. I suppose everybody does. But what I notice is that I can give a three-hour interview and mention doing drugs once, and that quote always shows up in the article. Sometimes I'll say something to a journalist, and I immediately know they're going to use it to create whoever they need me to be."

This is an interesting twist, because we had been discussing marijuana legalization just twenty minutes before he told me this; I'm pretty sure the memory of that exchange is why he said what he did. He knows what he's doing.

"My day is not as interesting as everyone wants to think," Skinner says again. "Okay, so I eat a bacon sandwich and push the k.n.o.b on a computer for six hours, and then maybe I smoke weed or maybe I don't. That's sort of my job, if you can call it that. I am a workaholic. It's just that I really don't do anything."

At the moment, Skinner is sitting across from me in a 12 x 12 foot room that contains almost nothing: it has a table, two chairs, one pitcher of water, one drinking gla.s.s, and one tape recorder. There is an overhead light, but the bulb is dark; late-afternoon light pours through a window. This is the kind of room that would seem well suited for interrogating potential al Qaeda operatives, except that there's also a poster of the rock band Oasis against the far wall. We're in the back room of a south London management company called Coalition, and the twenty-four-year-old Skinner is looking at me like a six-month-old beagle puppy: huge brown eyes, big ears, paws that seem too big for his body, and a general sense of optimism. He's dressed like a suburban teenager who has put exhaustive effort into appearing as casual as possible-multiple layers of T-shirts and sweatshirts, a silver watch that's too big for his twig-thin wrists, low-slung pants, and a pair of cross-trainers that Nike awarded him for being cool in public. Around his neck he wears a razorblade, a potentially deadly accessory he somehow managed to buy from the Duty Free cart during an airplane flight to j.a.pan. I gather that this is how geezers are supposed to dress, since Skinner has come to define the post-modern definition of what that's supposed to mean.

Those who keep insisting that The Streets isn't actually a rap act could use Skinner's interview posture as proof-he does not talk about the things one has come to expect from hip-hop pract.i.tioners. He hasn't been shot nine times (like 50 Cent), nor does he casually mention murdering people (like Jay-Z). He never praises G.o.d or criticizes his biological parents; when he discusses the complexities of "The Game," he's usually referring to PlayStation 2. And while most rappers use media interviews to validate their "realness" or to self-mythologize their persona, Skinner does neither; he won't even tell me in which part of London his apartment is located, beyond admitting that he arrived at our interview via the subway. He expresses a closeness to his immediate family but gives few details, only disclosing that his father used to repair and sell televisions and his mother worked at a hospital. When he tells me he has a girlfriend, he taps his temples and obliquely says, "And that's good, because that keeps you focused." His responses are closer to what you'd expect from a Ralph J. Gleason interview with Bob Dylan: Skinner says everything he creates is straightforward autobiography, and that he can't describe his lyrics any better than how they already exist on the alb.u.m. There is nothing on Original Pirate Material Original Pirate Material that is not intentional, nor is there any better way to express them. that is not intentional, nor is there any better way to express them.

"Everything I rap about is really just an example of me talking about myself. I mean, I could talk about the tape recorder sitting on this table, but I'd really just be talking about my my perception of what it is. I'd be talking about myself," he says. "I've never been interested in the idea of someone being able to get perception of what it is. I'd be talking about myself," he says. "I've never been interested in the idea of someone being able to get anything anything they want out of a song. My sister, she thinks that you should be able to find your own meanings of things in songs. She likes Radiohead. I'm not like that. All that, 'I'm just a fish in the sea, I'm so lonely'-that's kind of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. There is nothing on my record that you can't understand literally." they want out of a song. My sister, she thinks that you should be able to find your own meanings of things in songs. She likes Radiohead. I'm not like that. All that, 'I'm just a fish in the sea, I'm so lonely'-that's kind of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. There is nothing on my record that you can't understand literally."