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Trace Jeff Tweedy spun off the more crowd-pleasing half of Uncle Tupelo, churning out Wilco albums that, even at their most experimental, feel like some sort of intellectualís frat party. Nothing wrong with that. But Jay Farrar's simpler, melancholic songs dig their way into my brain in a way Tweedy's don't. Farrar almost seems to moan his way through this disc like an old bluesman, and you can hear in his voice the road miles he put in between New Orleans and the Twin Cities as he conceived these songs. |
