Jukebox: Please Mr. Please; Don’t Rock the Jukebox; Bubba Shot the Jukebox

Olivia Newton-John: Please Mr. Please

Alan Jackson: Don’t Rock the Jukebox

Mark Chesnutt: Bubba Shot the Jukebox

[purchase]
[purchase]
[purchase]

Ever wonder about what NOT to play on the jukebox? That’s assuming all you button-pushing country music loving cowboys can even find a jukebox in some out-of-the-way diner or laundromat in a turnout off America’s loneliest highway.

In “Please Mr. Please,” Olivia Newton-John beseeches us to “Please, Mr., please don't play B-17, it was our song, it was his song, but it's over.” She put that song out back in 1975 when “you can hear your five selections for a quarter.”

In “Don’t Rock the Jukebox,” Alan Jackson's heart ain't ready for the Rolling Stones. He wants to hear some Jones, as in George Jones, but the heartbroke hillbilly would settle for any good ol’ slow country song with some wailing pedal steel guitar. It’s better that he’s using music to “drown a memory" than the typical whiskey of choice mentioned in most country songs with the same sorrowful theme.

“Bubba Shot the Jukebox” is another one that a friend on social media brought to my attention. She stated, “It was a very funny song, and I loved singing along to it.” As told by Mark Chesnutt, the song does have quite a story. Isn’t it so true about how a sad song can make you cry? Or nostalgically bring back a memory of an old flame?  Or, as in this song’s case, inflict pain?

So what’s one to do if you’re in Margie’s Bar and hear that mournful song that makes you break out in a cold sweat and sends a teardrop down your nose? I wouldn’t recommend doing what Bubba did … jumped to his feet, went to his truck and got a Colt .45. The song’s plot only thickens when the sheriff arrives with his bathrobe on. I’m not going to give away the punch line (the “hook” as they call it in the music business).  You’re just going to have to listen to the song to find out what Bubba Boy is charged with, and what his response is.   

Jukebox: Jukebox Jive

  In late '74, you could get away with wearing leisure suits, open collared shirts and cloth caps onstage if, and only if, you were one of the five members of The Rubettes, the 50's nostalgia obsessed contemporaries of UK Glam rock acts like Mud, Slade and Sweet. Sure it's lightweight fluff, but the band hit #3 with this single (and #1 with their debut single "Sugar Baby Love"). So doff your cap to the lads!

JUKEBOX: TRUCK DRIVIN' MAN

Jukeboxes and country music seem to fit together like hats 'n' boots, cowboy that is, and the repertoire is full of odes to the loose change plunged into every truck stop Rock-ola. On my side of the sea, there has been a slightly perverse relation with this genre generally, there always being a hardcore of, usually, elderly line-dancers, dressing for Texas whilst dancing in Teeside. These are the fans of what I call "and western" and are probably best avoided. However, there has always been a healthy appetite for a more straight ahead country. Or country rock, if you will, and I was drawn into this brotherhood in my mid-teens. This is decades before alt.country or americana and within this fiercely partisan crowd, Sweetheart era Byrds were the Beatles, with the Flying Burrito Brothers being, clearly, with the Keef'n'Gram bond, the Stones. (Think of Gram being in both bands as like the Stones first UK hit being by Lennon-McCartney, as it was! OK, and Hillman, and Clarke, but you get my point.) New Riders of the Purple Sage, I suppose, fitted those outre types maybe drawn to the Kinks, whilst the out and out weirdos gravitated to Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen. I loved 'em all, and still do, but my heart was with the last, my affection for whom I have previously drawn in these pages. And, boy, did they know truckstops!

         "Well I stopped at a road house in Texas a little place called Hamburger Dan's
         Heard that old jukebox start playing tune called the Truck Drivin' Man
         The waitress then brought me up some coffee
         I thanked her then called her back again
         I said that old song sure does fit me cause I'm a truck drivin' man
         Pour me another cup of coffee for it is the best in the land
         I put a nickel in the jukebox and play the Truck Drivin' Man"

This is the song, and it's an old one, written by a Terry Fell in 1954, though it was the 1965 version by Fells then band member, Buck Owens, that first hit a wider audience, albeit with a quarter than a nickel. But it was on the Airmen's 2nd, the fabulously entitled "Hot Licks, Cold Steel and Truckers Favourites" that I first came across it, it being my highlight of the disc, with the later pleasure of seeing them performing live in London cementing my eternal allegiance. What, of course, I had never earlier realised was that Billy C. Farlowe, guitar toting front man, wasn't actually plugged in for anything beyond his top-notch vocals, his red guitar being merely a prop. Mind you, with Bill Kirchen twanging ferociously behind, who could ever be disappointed? It's a straight ahead vers chorus vers chorus song, nothing fancy, but with the astonishing instrumental breaks between each and every refrain, with especial mention, always, to Bobby "Blue" Black on consummate pedal steel. Here it is, from, whisper, near 43 years ago. Gulp.

Buy the LP!

And, by way of a special treat, here is a version by the New Riders, a live on from, gulp again, 1972. At the time of writing both bands, or versions thereof, are still on the road.

Download the track!

Jukebox: Jukebox On My Grave

Ellis Paul: Jukebox On My Grave

[purchase]

From the stock of Maine potato farmers, Ellis Paul moved to Boston, studied music, connected with the folk genre, then developed a signature singer/songwriter sound incorporating pop, rock and contemporary stylings. Ellis Paul's wise perceptiveness and charisma have built him a strong fan base. He's also a hardworking, resilient touring artist who has garnered numerous awards for at least a dozen album releases and music, some featured in soundtracks for the films, Shallow Hal and Me, Myself, & Irene.

In 2005, "American Jukebox Fables" was Ellis' first solo CD since 2002's "The Speed of Trees." His voice has character, and his songs understand the bond between land, life, heart and soul. I think he chose that as the title for his CD because it has considerable variety much like a jukebox would, and Paul is definitely a storyteller. 

The CD begins on an up-tempo note, but Ellis can also create an intimate and familiar feeling with songs like "Time" and "Goodbye Hollywood." Keyboards and percussion provide the primary instrumental excitement that serve to increase the emotional impact of his material. Ellis possesses all the fundamental elements for success as a singer/songwriter. His messages are profound, and they make us think. 

"Jukebox On My Grave" leaves us with his simple wish to mark the music man's final resting place. His jukebox songs also reference some of his influences - Robert Johnson, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Marvin Gaye, Johnny Cash, George Jones, Rolling Stones, Hank Williams, Buddy Holly, and others. It takes a lot of imagination and skill to be both polished and fanciful all in one. Ellis Paul shows us how to do it in a distinctive, masterful fashion. 

I notice that the album’s cut of this song mentioned Johnny Cash “singing Ring of Fire upon my grave,” but the video linked above references the song “Boy Named Sue” instead. Perhaps Ellis Paul had second thoughts about Johnny singing “I went down, down, down as the flames went higher” upon his grave. 

In any case, it‘s a noble, auspicious thought to want a jukebox on one’s grave after you’re gone. I wouldn’t mind having a music machine six feet above me, and I'd even bequeath each of my friends a few rolls of quarters to keep the music coming. We don’t need tears or headstones, but music will keep memories vivid.  As Ellis Paul sings,

And all my friends, when they drop by,
can drop a quarter down,
and hear Robert Johnson's cry.
A flood of memories,
come wave by wave,
carried by the voice,
inside the jukebox,
on my grave.

You can hear Hank Williams,

and some George Jones,
some Beatles songs,
a little Dylan,
some Rolling Stones,
Joni Mitchell and Marvin Gaye,
and Johnny Cash he’s risen,
from the ashes on my grave, my grave.
That's Johnny Cash there,
singing "Boy Named Sue" upon my grave.

Jukebox: I Knew the Bride (When She Used to Rock 'n' Roll)

Nick Lowe: I Knew the Bride (When She Used to Rock 'n' Roll)
[purchase]

I’m pretty sure that Elvis Costello was my gateway drug to Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds and Rockpile. I suspect that I started exploring Lowe’s music very early into my WPRB career as a result of seeing that he had produced Costello’s (and Graham Parker’s) early albums. Of course, Pure Pop for Now People was genius. I can’t recall exactly when I connected up Dave Edmunds, or where I found out that essentially all of the Lowe and Edmunds albums were really just releases by a band called Rockpile that couldn’t record under that name for some contractual reason. But I do remember playing their music over and over. Ask my roommates. At that time, it did seem a bit odd—Lowe was considered part of the new wave movement, although his records in those days were more power pop, and Edmunds sounded like a throwback to Sun Records and rockabilly. In retrospect, all of this was part of an attempt by musicians to get back to their roots, simplify things and strip down the sound, as a reaction to what was seen as the excesses of the Classic Rock Age of the Dinosaurs. At times in their careers, though, both Lowe and Edmunds fell prey to the apparent requirement that musicians who start simple, but record for a long time, have to experiment with adding layers of instruments, effects and sound.

“I Knew the Bride (When She Used to Rock 'n' Roll)” is a fun song, in which the singer, somewhat wistfully, discusses how he remembers when the bride at issue, who is now all posh and proper, and marrying a rich stuffed shirt, used to hang out in her jeans at the bar, drinking and flirting and dancing and having fun. And, because our theme is Jukebox, it is important that she was always “Pumping all her money in the record machine.”

The first version of the song was released in 1977 by Edmunds on his Get It album, and it is a typically rootsy rocker. (Edmunds’ next disc, Tracks on Wax 4 featured a song called “A.1. on the Jukebox,” by the way.)


But my favorite version is the one downloadable above which came out a year later, on the Live Stiffs album, from a Stiff Records European tour that also featured Elvis Costello, Ian Dury, Wreckless Eric, and Larry Wallis. Billed to “Nick Lowe's Last Chicken in the Shop” (although introduced at the show as “Nick Lowe’s Led Zeppelin”), which included Edmunds on guitar and Rockpile’s drummer Terry Williams, drummer Pete Thomas from the Attractions and others, they rip through the song in a messy, 70’s punk way.

It appears that when Rockpile appeared live, though, they kind of split the difference in versions—there’s both punk and twang in this version from 1980:



I remember reading once that Lowe said that he was going to keep releasing this song until it became a hit, and in 1985 he tried again, with very dated sounding production by Huey Lewis, who also plays the harmonica and sings background. (Lewis’ early band, Clover, was brought to England by Lowe, and achieved little success there, although its members, minus Lewis, but including future Doobie Brother John McFee, were the backup band on Elvis Costello’s Lowe-produced debut, My Aim is True).



I’ve kind of lost track of Edmunds’ career over the past few years, but Lowe had reinvented himself again as sort of a crooner. And yes, he still drags out this old tune to play, despite the fact that (or maybe because) it is hard to find a “record machine” anywhere. Although he now plays it with more of Edmunds’ rockabilly tinged sound than his Stiffs Live energy.



It’s still not a hit, but it was covered by The Knack.

Self-Reflection: Longer Than You’ve Been Alive

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Here’s a bit of Star Maker Machine behind the scenes info—recently, in an email discussion among our writers about the frequency of posting, one veteran member of the group reminded us that posts don’t always have to be long.

He’s right, and I’m going to go against my usual inclination to ramble on to simply draw attention to this song and album by the Old 97’s, who I have written about in much greater detail already.

Last year’s excellent Most Messed Up is, for the most part, a self-reflective album, looking back on the highlights and lowlights of the band’s 20 plus year career. Specifically, the opening track, “Longer Than You’ve Been Alive,” discusses the life of a veteran touring rocker. It discusses the problems of finding love on the road, the risk of jumping off of risers, the smell of dressing rooms, the quantity of booze they have drunk, and even their drug preferences. But it is also about how much they love doing what they do. And, to make it even easier to follow, the video embedded above has all of the lyrics right there on the screen.

I mean, how could we do this theme and leave out a great song with the lyric:

I'm not crazy about songs that get self-referential 
And most of this stuff should be kept confidential 
But who even gives half a fuck anymore 
You should know the truth, it's both a blast and a bore

Self-Reflection: Bo Diddley

Hell, less self-reflection or even self-reference, more self-reverence, this was a man of, um, unconventional looks, with such exquisite self-belief that he managed to introduce himself into near all his output, entitling LPs and individual songs with tales of his derring-do. So he was, variously, a gunslinger, a lover, a twister, 500% more man, a black gladiator, you name it, he was that man. And all with the same tune and the same rhythm. (Well, almost.)

Born Ellas Otha Bates in 1928, Bo Diddley, ironically, was slang for absolutely nothing, considering he aspired to absolutely everything. But, trivia merchants, he was actually and nominally capable of being a gun-slinger, at least for a while, as he served 2 1/2 years as Deputy Sheriff in Valencia County. (It was the Citizens' Patrol.......)

His life makes for an entertaining read, and I'm not going to play it here, but go search out this, his biography, which makes for an entertaining read. Or this interview.

Here's his catalogue

Self-Reflection: Pete Townshend, "I Am an Animal"

Click and listen: I Am An Animal

[Purchase "Empty Glass"]

When I first started thinking about this theme, the second song that popped into my head was “I Am an Animal,” by Pete Townshend, from his 1980 album, Empty Glass. (The first one was “I Am a Scientist,” by Guided by Voices, in case you were curious.) Odd that this song should pop into my head that quickly, since I think it has been a number of years since I listened to that album all the way through and heard the song, but it now seems like an apropos choice: of the 47 lines in the song (as counted from the song's page on a song lyric website), 40 of those lines contain the words “I,” “me,” or “my.” Now THAT is introspection. Or narcissism.

Musically, the song feels to me like it could have been an outtake from Quadrophenia — although “outtake” implies that it didn’t make the cut, and the melody of “I Am an Animal” is equal in caliber to many of the quieter, more introspective songs on Quadrophenia (I think I’m making a connection to “Dr. Jimmy”: “Is it me, for a moment?”).

Lyrically, the song deals with . . . well, it’s about . . . um . . . uh . . . hm. You know, I don’t really know — not exactly. But Pete is searching. He seems uncertain of the future, unsure of his memories of the past, and speculates a bit about what his current state is: animal? vegetable? angel? king? queen ("of the fucking universe,” no less)? It’s all going by in a blur, that’s for sure.

I'm looking back

 And I can't see the past anymore, so hazy


 I'm on a track and I'm traveling so fast

 
Oh, for sure I'm crazy


I am a human being


 And I don't believe all the things I'm seeing

 
I got nowhere to hide anymore

 
I'm losing my way

Ultimately, Pete settles on “animal,” and who can argue with that? Aren’t we all, after all?

Self-Reflection: We

The Roches: We
[purchase]
As the Roche sisters tell us in this song, they were known in New York City, and had done shows in England before the release of their first album in 1979. For the rest of us, "We," which led off the album, was our introduction to their amazing harmonies and their unusual outlook on life. They already knew at least one famous, if unlikely, person. The album was immediately hailed by folk-oriented audiences, but it was produced by art-rock legend Robert Fripp. The rest of the album showed us the emotional depth of their songwriting, and their skill and story tellers.

The Roches: The Death of Suzzy Roche
[purchase]
The sisters’ second album was another matter. Robert Fripp was not on board for this one, and this time the sisters wanted to show their range by rocking out. It was, for the most part, a mistake. I saw them live during the tour for this one, and they were very loud, but this approach showed off their songs poorly. Nevertheless, the album did include "The Death of Suzzy Roche." This song may not be for everyone, but I love the savage self-deprecating humor of it, as well as the fact that the sisters were not letting their initial burst of fame go to their heads. Later in their careers, the Roche sisters would find better ways to plug in without losing what is so special about their music, but Nurds stands as a document of a group still finding its way.

Self Reflection: Back Door Man, Mannish Boy

Purchase: Howlin' Wolf--Back Door Man


Purchase: Muddy Waters--Mannish Boy

I read an interesting article that talked about how it was possible to trace the rise in narcissism over the generations through popular music.

It actually works, especially when you use love songs as your filter.

In the 1950s, pop songs were all about how much the singer loved the subject. Lots of adoration and pleading. The 60s--all about loving everybody, as was the fashion. “Come on people now, smile on your brother…” and such…

The 70s brought on a bit of a change, and love songs took on a bit more strut, a little look at me kind of vibe.  Disco will do that for you—not much more to say than “Boogie Oogie Oogie” and the less said about the 70s, the better, at least when it comes to Disco.

The 80s and the 90s-- a pretty soft decade, but pop songs saw a turn toward the more sensually charged and carried an overt sense of sexuality--what I'm gonna’ to do, and you to me. But, still, there was more adore you rather than look at me happening in the music. Whitney Houston taught us a lot, especially about always loving...someone.

Get to the 2000s, if you can still stand to listen to pop music, and it gets pretty ugly. Pop music is a preponderance of bragging rights, showing off, getting off on the image of the self, and love songs are pretty much,I'ma gonna...you know....'cause nothing looks as good as this (self-referential expletive deleted...In an age where Paris Hilton can release an album, and Rhianna can get on stage, bend over and become a multi-billionaire, and there’s an industry dedicated to solely to making it easier to take a selfie with your camera, one should be surprised that we haven’t all fallen into the water and drowned while loving ourselves.

This is by no means a scientific observation--I can't stand to do the research, ie: listening. But, if you listen closely to pop music across a spectrum of the decades, I promise, you will find a disturbing trend toward the very narcissistic and decidedly self-aggrandizing, be it about wealth, swagger, street-cred or carnal prowess. Elvis once pleaded 'let me be your teddy bear', but I think he'd be laughed off the American Idol set nowadays with that kind of sentiment.

Pop music is pretty much a celebration of the booty and the bling, and I guess Niki Minaj is now President? Maybe I'm wrong--I saw her video for "Anaconda" the other day and I realized: Jesus, we're all in big trouble...

So, yeah, I am making a half-hearted attempt at trashing what passes for popular music these days, but, does the argument really deserve that much merit? Most of what 'the kids' listen to these days is so bad, it's kind of a strange exhaustion in itself to even bother talking about it. So...let's move on. And talk about the kind of music that has always been a little narcissistic, and done by guys who make a living off bragging and strutting. The Blues has always been self-referential. The original players were more bad ass than anyone since, but, that's because the Blues was born of circumstance and sociology, or place and economy more than glittery fantasy or poppy imagination.

Promoters didn't need to dress up the blues, or invent the back-story--it was music born of hardship and reflective of the daily lives of the men and ladies who sang it. I can't give the history of the Blues its proper due here--I'm not a scholar, nor am nuanced enough in the research of it to give the history its proper due.

But, I do know what the blues is, and that is....? . I can't define the Blues. It's all in the guts, how you feel and react. One doesn’t need to define the Blues to do what is really needed to love the Blues, or have the Blues—feel it. That’s all. Just feel it…

There are multiple genres within the blues, and lots of ways that it is delivered, making it as nuanced and multi-layered as any other genre of music, But one of my favorite aspects of the blues is the sense of bragging and calling out the bonafides that comes with being a blues man...Being tough, bragging on prowess in all matters--drinking, swinging, picking and....other stuff--that's the DNA of the blues. And calling out rivals, swearing on your toughness and singing proud--that's what the blues is for. If there's a ratio of what kind of brio a blues song calls for to be a real blues song, I'd say it's 1 part badass to 3 parts bragging, mixed in with a whole of lot of strut and swagger and good old fashion shit talking...

The original blues singers were all about survival. Cutting heads is a term that describes the original Delta player’s method of stealing a crowd from a rival. Cutting heads was as bold as one could get, and players engaged in it would set up on an opposite street corner from another player and try to steal their crowd and tips. The Blues was a cutthroat way to make a living in the Jim Crow South, so it only seems fitting that the players would use their music to further their reps and their credibility that had already established scrapping together a living traveling from town to town, playing street corners, juke joints and house parties. If you weren't tough, you weren't going to make it.

So, by definition or by necessity, the Blues is self-referential. And it is populated by some of the most colorful first-person narrators in any kind of music. The personal feel of the Blues comes from the honesty in the voices--or the exact opposite, the lying and the bragging--of the players, and a good blues song, then, is one that...well, it can do whatever it wants. The blues is multifaceted, but it's always at its best when one man (or woman) gets on the mic and howls a little bit of their story at you and makes you feel glad you're not him, or kind of wish you were...

 So, this month, I have chosen two tracks, both of which I think embody the best in Blues strut and bluster, and after I say these are two songs that ought to make the rest of the pretenders shut up and take notice, I'll get out of the way and let the men talk for themselves--because neither one of 'em needs me to do any of the talking--they do just fine on their own.
For your listening pleasure, and a possible path to getting your mojo workin’, I present Howlin Wolf's Back Door Man and Muddy Water's Mannish Boy

 I'll shut up and get out of the way now...

Self Reflection: Wilco (The Song)

Wilco: Wilco (the Song)
[purchase]

One of the best things about writing for this blog is that it has given me an outlet to use music as a way to write about myself, my family, my friends and my opinions—and not only about music.  I get to write about whatever the hell I want, as long as I can tie it to the theme, no matter how tenuously. And I’m glad that today, in addition to a little personal self-reflection, I get to write about one of my favorite bands.

Wilco is definitely in my top 5. And yet, I’ve never actually written about a Wilco song on this blog. I’ve mentioned them often, and I’ve written about Golden Smog and former member Jay Bennett, and even a whole piece on Jeff Tweedy’s stage banter. So, when I started to narrow down the possibilities for this piece, upon reflection, I decided to finally discuss this band, and their self-referential song, “Wilco (The Song)” from, yes, Wilco (The Album). I’m heading into a bit of a Wilco period now, because I’ve committed to write a thing or two about them for my other blogging home, but I’m not on deadline there, so this comes first.

I think that any sort of artist has to have enough ego to believe that what he or she produces would be interesting to other people. Sure, there are stories about great artists who were unknown until their hidden work surfaced after death, but I think that it is a fair generalization. The belief that your work would interest others, though, doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to be arrogant. Many great musicians, painters, writers, etc. seem to be relatively humble, and based on what I’ve read about him, Jeff Tweedy appears to be one of those guys. Clearly, he has enough confidence to have gone from the new kid, barely able to play his instrument and booking gigs for his friend’s brothers’ band, to the leader, primary songwriter and front man of one of the most well-respected, analyzed and popular rock bands of its era. And yet, so much of Tweedy’s music, with Wilco and otherwise, is mysterious and to a great degree appears to be distanced from his life. So often in Wilco’s music, even the most emotional songs are not simple confessionals, but seem to be written for a character or filled with odd metaphors. And for the most part, he appears to have kept his personal life relatively simple and private (if you count having footage of your family in a documentary and touring with your son, relatively simple and private). What I’m trying to say, is that he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who wants the spotlight on him, although he does seem, now, comfortable in that spotlight.

There’s a part of me that wishes I was more like that. And not only that I wish that I could write music, play and sing as well as Tweedy, but I can’t, and I’ve accepted that. I’ve always had opinions about music, but except for that brief period from 1979-1982 when I got to opine to a small audience on a college radio station in central New Jersey, my opinions were shared only with friends and family. I’ve also always thought that I was a good writer, but since college, my only writing of note was a law review article and a bunch of legal papers, which only rarely allowed me to show any sort of creativity.

A few years ago, I took some fiction writing classes with an excellent teacher, and he encouraged me to write, which I did, until time, money and a feeling that I was repeating myself ended my participation. But the positive reactions that I got from the other members of my class, the teacher, and my family, made me feel good. And, for a short time, that was it. I didn’t have the confidence that what I was writing was anywhere good enough to try to have published. Then, I started reading music blogs. Some of them are incredible, and others, frankly are dull and poorly written. But I really liked one called Star Maker Machine. Good writers writing about interesting music. One day, I saw that the blog was looking for writers. I inquired, wrote a piece which was published and then became a regular contributor. The positive feedback that I received encouraged me to write more, and to begin writing for Cover Me, where I also have gotten encouragement and praise. So, yeah, I have enough of an ego now, that I think that my writing is worthy of being read by others. But I’m still afraid to try to do anything other than to write for free blogs, in part because I feel that doing more would require more work, research and rigor than I think I’m willing to do, and in part because I’m worried that I will fail. Which is why I give enormous credit to those of my friends who write, perform or make art for all or part of their living.

So, the question at hand, is, why would the popular but unassuming Wilco, led by the popular but unassuming Jeff Tweedy, put out an album called Wilco (the Album) and lead it off with “Wilco (the Song)”? My take on it was that the band was having a little bit of fun with its audience, which takes the band very seriously. It is clearly tongue in cheek, as if it was actually necessary to make it clear that the song was a song, the album was an album, and later, the tour was, yes, Wilco (the Tour) (where I purchased Wilco (the Tote)).

Then there are the lyrics. Essentially, they say that you shouldn’t worry about your problems, because, hey, Wilco will love you, and that will fix everything. I take that to be a mocking of the band’s celebrity and power that fits more into the self-deprecating humor that Tweedy is known for, and to me, explains the title. I found an interview in which he discussed the fact that Wilco (the Album) was meant to be more fun and lighthearted than its immediate predecessors, with the goofy cover of a camel’s birthday party as further evidence, and the song was not only meant as somewhat of a lark, but also as a way of reintroducing the band, after some instability. Ultimately, Tweedy said, “we struggled with a lot of other titles that felt more exemplary of what the music was. But nothing else felt quite so succinct."

So, while the song is self-referential, it may not be completely self-reflective. Unless it is.