Turning My Orbit Around

On Wilco and moving on. 5/9/25.

Voices Escape, Singing Sad Sad Songs

The first Wilco song I ever listened to was “Jesus, Etc.”¹ It was a weekend in November of 2022, and I didn’t think much of it at the time, simply remarking that I liked the strings. Besides, I only listened at the incessant behest of someone whom I can only categorize as an ex-lover/friend, who had tried in vain for months to make me tune into Wilco. Until then, I had actively avoided the band, viewing them as the sort of jam-band my parents so vehemently detested, a cheap one-trick pony in the same vein as Phish. When I liked “Jesus, Etc.” well enough— no “jamming” to be found!— I was a little miffed that my parents, whose music judgment I had complete trust in, had been wrong, but I chalked it up to a fluke. I did not listen to the song again or seek out any other Wilco. My friend, who felt he had finally succeeded, relented for a bit, letting me suggest Samia or Japanese Breakfast until he broke down and pressed play.

The second time I listened to Wilco was on April 3, 2023. I can recall this date with ease because the night before this same man told me he loved me for the first time. I did not say it back— could not— so I showed it the only way I knew how: I put on Sky Blue Sky immediately after he recommended it. He knew what I meant when I texted him reactions to each song; I was pleased when he seconded my comparison of “Hate It Here” to the Abbey Road-era Beatles (a comparison I did not know Richard Linklater also made in Boyhood until afterward). I sent him my favorite lyrics, teased him by complaining that he hadn’t tried to get me to listen to Wilco sooner. I listened to that album two or three or even four times that day, each time adding a new track to my playlist of favorites. This is all easy to remember, because ten days later, on my eighteenth birthday, he broke my heart.

Bitter Melodies

I’ll spare you the gory details, but the gist is this: he did not, in fact, love me, and was just confused the whole time. We were better off best friends. I told him I could not talk to him anymore, and I folded three days later, breaking our silence to talk about music. I was still hurting, but my thinking at the time was that I would rather have him in my life as just-a-friend than not have him in my life at all. So this is how it went on, me convincing myself I did not love him, him pretending he did not know how I felt, us sharing our love for music, movies, philosophy as we always had. As time passed, I added more and more Wilco into my catalog, which meant that every day my playlist grew with songs whose meanings I attached entirely to him. At one point, I had to stop listening to “Hate It Here,” my favorite Sky Blue Sky track, in the car because I would start crying over it, over him, over my patheticness.² But he kept it impossible to not have faith that one day I would not relate to it— every few weeks, when I finally felt I was making some progress, he would say to me he was sorry and it was me all along. We were meant for each other! Come over so I can hold you, kiss you, love you. So on and so forth. I cannot say I didn’t fall for it two or three or even four times, only to end up hurt again. But eventually, I stopped responding to him and his manipulation. We haven’t talked in almost a year.

It was incredibly easy to love Wilco when I was still in love with him. I remember, when I finally made the decision to carve him out from my life, preemptively mourning Wilco, thinking I would never be able to listen to them again without feeling sad, angry, or like I wanted to reach out to him. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make, knowing I still had all of my music to myself, at least. (He had never really listened to any of my recommendations.) I planned to skip Wilco if they were to come on shuffle, to find new artists he never had a chance of coming across. I wanted him and everything he had ever given to me (which includes The Strokes, the Velvet Underground, the Talking Heads, and Vampire Weekend) as far from me as possible. I did not follow my own plans. In fact, I listened to Wilco more than ever.

Our Love Is All of God’s Money

Wilco is now my favorite band, surpassing The Beatles, Radiohead, and The Strokes with ease. When we were still talking, with this same man’s help, I branched out into the rest of their discography, which introduced me to my favorite album of all time, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.³ Summerteeth and Mermaid Avenue follow closely behind. I still listen to the Wilco mix he made me over a year and a half ago, only thinking of him when I read his name as the playlist creator. Wilco has become my summer and winter soundtrack and my lullaby. I listen constantly, no matter the mood I’m in. I want a Wilco tattoo; I wouldn’t mind two or three or even four. I share Wilco with others, attempting to convert them to Wilco super-fandom, just like someone I used to know. More often than not, it works,⁴ and now I have many loved and once-loved ones sitting under my ever-growing Wilco tower. Of course, my adoration of the band is only helped by a whole army of Wilco-loving Smith College lesbians,⁵ whose friendships, however close, help to drown out the past’s heartbreak. I think of them when I listen. But mostly, I associate Wilco with myself— and for better or worse, I will always have me. There are a number of trite lessons to be learned from this: no love is ever a waste, you can forgive without forgetting, you must love yourself in order to love anyone else, etc etc. All true. None are as important as the music.

When I cannot sleep, I put Yankee Hotel Foxtrot on loop. Even its motifs of distortion and feedback whine do not hinder the feeling of comfort and safety that crescendos by the middle of the album: “Jesus, Etc.” Even still, it’s the light-as-air orchestration that does it for me. Jeff Tweedy’s voice, as sweetly stringy as the violins themselves, invites me to float above the instrumentation with him, into a sea of setting, burning suns. I count them instead of sheep. From there, it’s smooth sailing. By the time “Reservations” fades into resonant chords and beeps, I am deep in R.E.M. sleep, only stirring ever so slightly when the album begins again. This is how I spend the best nights of my life.

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1. As I imagine is the case for many Wilco fans.

2. Slightly unrelated— I’ve been pulled over for speeding while listening to “Impossible Germany.” Wilco and cars is dangerous for me.

3. I never said I was original….

4. Except in the case of my parents, who I have not broken. Yet.

5. Like almost everyone I know at Smith.