Twilight Override is a megalith. Jeff Tweedy’s thirty-song opus, divvied into a triptych and clocking in at a reviewer-daunting one-hundred-and-eleven minutes, charts themes held dear by dad rockers everywhere: mortality, selfhood, the unbearable confusion of the modern world, and the fervent desire to live well in it. Its tracks, though occasionally self-indulgent, are lovingly constructed with the practiced hand of one of the great progenitors of White Guy Whimsy. Some of these songs are reminiscent of the ones on Cousin, Wilco’s 2023, Cate Le Bon-produced meditation on the chore of existing through middle age in the post-capitalist West. Many of them carry the same world-weariness, a band staple of recent years that harbors a dissonance against the comparative buoyancy of Tweedy’s typical solo ventures.
That said, Twilight Override is a record with a distinct internal levity (a blessing, given its runtime), one perhaps brought to the fore by the accompaniment provided by Tweedy’s two sons, Spencer and Sammy. This cautious forward thrust is much enabled by the instrumental experimentation Tweedy has allowed himself on the record: the usual acoustic thrums and light percussive taps are complemented, with great success, by a rich array of synths, folky violins, and string-tweaking gadgets with names like “Gizmotron.” On “Blank Baby,” one of the album’s centerpieces, Sammy’s Gizmotrons, Dolceolas, and Korg Delta synths create a richly-textured sonic backdrop for his father’s pensive croon. And not just his: Tweedy makes real use of Macie Stewart and Sima Cunningham’s voices on the album, a left turn for an artist so defined by his own wistful alto. On “Ain’t It a Shame,” a Callahanian tangle on aging, Tweedy’s wavering twang is filled out by Stewart and Cunningham’s harmonies, affording the track a richness of sound it would otherwise lack.
Though not overtly political, Twilight Override comes at a point in Tweedy’s career much defined by his dissatisfaction with the system (This is no surprise; Tweedy’s been an outspoken leftwinger since the A.M. days.) His new album’s tonal shifts—between brash and cowed, hopeful and dejected—represent a crisis of faith directed both at the artist and the system within which he operates. Still, the album’s intergenerationalism functions as a sort of thrust against the void: though frustrated, the Tweedy of Twilight Override is not yet defeated. The salve for his metaphysical wounds is a classic one: love. And the album is, in truth, obsessed with it: on “Secret Door,” a mischievous, sunny track, Tweedy teases, “Do you know why I love you? Do you know what you’ve done?” over twinkling pianos and dissonant guitars; on “Sign of Life,” a churning, Ghost is Born-style track, Tweedy opines, “I waited until I was 17 / To get born / But I still love you”; on the slow-burn brooder “Western Clear Skies,” he promises, “I love you / Written in ink and seen through / I don’t need proof / I need some demonstration.” Perhaps this is that demonstration, Tweedy having finally decided to actualize it himself.
The album, though, is not without its sharp edges—on “Lou Reed Was My Babysitter,” a tribute to the late Velvet frontman and provocateur, Tweedy snarls and whoops over a propulsive electric thrum, declaring that “Rock and roll is dead / But the dead don’t die!” in a statement that reads more like a personal manifesto than a promise to Reed. With Twilight Override, Tweedy seems to be leaning with more and more comfort, as the years go by, into what’s his; the sheer expanse of an album like this functions sort of like a dog peeing on a genre-specific stump, insofar as these things go. Sonically, it’s self-assured and curious; thematically, it’s thoughtful and expansive. Tweedy, at the end of the day, is nothing if not a man who loves to sing what he’s feeling. He’s been feeling for a long time now, and we’re all the better for it. To wit: Twilight Override is comprised exclusively of songs that are, for better or for worse, immediately recognizable as Tweedy’s. His kind of solo song is, as its best, intentionally sparse and stubbornly full of sound. No piece is unintentional, no second gets forgotten. It is, perhaps, a bit longwinded—but hasn’t Jeff Tweedy earned the right to be? Besides, it is a wondrous thing to hear someone in their element so completely.
Miranda Wollen is a former Paste Music intern. She lives in New York and attends school in Connecticut, but you can find her online @mirandakwollen.
