The show for people who miss everything
My viewing tastes have changed in the last few weeks. I don’t binge whole seasons of high TV or catch up on the classic films I’ve never sat down for. In our house, we only watch what is of this moment. Most of it on social media. Mostly music-adjacent, maybe because music is, even in normal circumstances, a balm or a buoy for the present moment, while traditional TV is leisure and leisure isn’t sitting right these days. Josh Ritter playing requests from his NYC living room; Ben Gibbard doing the same from Seattle. And the Tweedy family...
"I miss...everything," said Susan Tweedy a few nights ago from behind the camera of her nightly The Tweedy Show, broadcast on Instagram live most nights at 9 p.m. CST from her account. She spoke for us all, from her living room, talking to her kids and her husband and her phone.
Filmed before a live Tweedy family from the Tweedy home in Chicago, it's all very Tweedy, with Susan and Jeff, the latter the lead singer of Take Note-obsession Wilco, coming through straight outta quarantine. Each episode starts with a spin from their home jukebox before the camera turns to Jeff. He's most often seated on the couch dressed in a vintage house robe and watch cap, draped in a guitar, looking lovingly at his wife as she emcees the proceedings from behind the camera, her phone. Jeff has called the format wildly innovative, given that we never actually get to see the show’s main character.
Through salty banter and affectionate recaps they check in with the audience. Jeff plays songs. His sons Spencer and Sammy sing songs and futz around on the couch and float in an out.
At 6 every evening, I get an itch for the show, when bedtime is on the visible horizon bringing its promise of behaving like a grownup for a few hours. To settle in with a pocket notebook and a decent pen, a Monocle magazine, a bowl of cereal (hardly grownup but a quarantine luxury I afford myself), and my iPhone propped up on the kitchen island. This is a salve.
I think the great folk musicians are deeply empathetic. They are poets. Empathy fuels the Tweedy Show. This thing they don't have to do, but that they do every night because they know that a thing every night means so much now. You can watch the show for the next 24 hours or on YouTube, but it's DNA is as live TV. Jeff likens it to public access. It's more about the moment that we're all in, that we are sharing. We share the anxiety, the weirdness of the moment, but in sharing the pressure is lifted. The Tweedys, like every family, lose themselves in the familiness of family, griping and prodding and joking. Susie swings the camera from one Tweedy to the next, talking smack and making trouble. Jeff breaks out in song frequently, and he's one of the greats. Celebrity friends chime in -- Courtney Barnett, John Hodgman, Nick Offerman, Fred Armisen, Jeff Garlin.
Sammy, the youngest son, offers up some nightly suspense as to whether he'll make an appearance, beckoned by his chiding parents or his brother's texts. He arrives, reserved but with the charm of a teenager who can admit that he loves his parents, and he sings accompanied. They share their concerns, their anxiety. They talk about great music and answer music questions. Requests flow across the chat at the bottom like a river of desire. Susie reads a few and Jeff puzzles over them. I am struck by their attention to their fans, which they call clients, and inside joke that I feel inside of at that makes me smile with every mention.
The music rises arises organically from among the domesticity. Cuts from Wilco, Tweedy's solo work and songs he recorded with Spencer. Covers, covers, covers, most of them rendered beautifully. I'm sure many listeners like me are expanding their catalogue. Covered beautiful on fantastic acoustic guitars. A few days ago, in what was the most dramatic turn of the show, Susie's camera panned to reveal a modest drum kit in the living, where Spencer accompanied his dad. Someone, I'm sure, will make a list, and it will be great.
For those of us (all of us) who miss everything, the show is something that need not be missed. A fresh blossom growing from the slow-moving, quickly hardening lava flow of life on Earth in 2020. My prevailing emotion in watching is not entertainment but gratitude.
Note: the April 7, 2020, episode pays meaningful tribute to John Prine on the day of his death. I can’t imagine a more appropriate way to commiserate.
-Ted Walker
