Please, Mr. Tweedy give me something to chew on.
By Jim Novak
I share a small desk in the dank T.A. office with one of my very good friends. Both of us are in our third and final year of this lovely M.F.A. program so we are trying to assemble manuscripts, meet with students from the classes we teach, and read for classes we’re taking, all in the same space that’s about as big as a bucket seat in a nice conversion van. Our similarities go beyond books and writing and teaching; we are both a little messy. Some of the stuff on our desk include four dirty coffee mugs, seven AWP magazines, and a box of Kosher instant Mashed Potatoes. I’m not trying to make any enemies here, but once I found a greasy receipt for Chinese food stuck between two books. Despite all of the clutter, I like living with some else’s mess and giving someone my mess back. This by no means is a weird Minnesotan passive aggressive attempt to zing my deskmate. I truly like being in her mess because each day I find something different.
Today, I came across a book by Wilco lead singer Jeff Tweedy. Adult Head is a collection of poems that adds to the canon of poetry books written by aging rock stars. When I lived in Cleveland, Billy Corrigan, singer from the Smashing Pumpkins, came to town to read from his new book. The poems, let me put this nicely, were terrible. So thumbing through Tweedy’s book I didn’t expect much, and I wasn’t given a lot from it. Lines like “an old man who just won’t/ stand out of the way� (from “When I say My Heart� p. 6) do nothing for me. Please, Mr. Tweedy give me something to chew on.
This got me thinking. Why, if I enjoy the lyrics so much, does the poetry fall so short below my expectations? Am I turning into a snob? Maybe. But, the words in Tweedy’s book have no music to support them. Relying on two sensory experiences to help your art for twenty years can get you into some trouble. Without the drums, guitars, and bass, where do these words go? For me they don’t belong in a book.
I’m probably a bit bitter because I have nothing in print, and if I was known for something, let’s say baseball, yeah, if I was a baseball player I would surely try to use my clout to publish my thoughts. So to this I say, keep going rock singers. Keep publishing your books of poetry without a sound track. Keep giving us your lyric notebook in book form so we can buy it and inhale it because we love your, oh that’s right, music.