Hero Worship: Jeff Tweedy

There are many reasons why Jeff Tweedy takes the top spot in ‘My Very Own Book Of Heroes’ (narrowly beating Ted Hughes and Chris Ware). There are the rhinestone ‘nudie’ suits and ten gallon hats he has been known to wear, plumped as he is, but it still comes across as more ‘respectful homage’ than ‘total plum’.

There is the way he plays guitar, ever understated and measured, yet with a dynamite stick of bluegrass runs and Neil Young solos stuffed up his arm, should it be called for. There’s his voice that, though limited in range, is able to conjure decades of American music and decades of his own life in one line. It’s a voice that tends towards the melancholy and often speaks of abject misery (something I am particularly drawn to) without ever sounding bleak. And in others’ music, as on Mavis Staples’ incredible You Are Not Alone, Tweedy has a wonderfully deft and delicate way with production. If you don’t own that album then you’re a tit (see also Mermaid Avenue, Vols. 1 & 2, you tit.). I love that he is able to cut a commanding presence on stage, all the while looking like a brow-beaten, tired geology professor (nudie suit nights excepted).

However, there is really only one reason why Jeff Tweedy has the dubious honour of being the subject of my worship and that is because he wrote (with help from an incredible band and producer) what is probably my favourite record of my life so far: Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I would need at least another page if I were to go into the reasons why I love this album. Needless to say, if you don’t own it… you’re a tit. Cheers Jeff.