“I faked my way through that whole set, trying to guess what syllable I could logically mouth next.”
When the first boy musician ever to look my way told me he liked Wilco, my automatic 19-year-old response was, “Oh, yeah. Me, too.”
I had never heard of Wilco.
He enthusiastically asked if I loved A Ghost Is Born, and I was like, “HELL YEAH I DO, THAT SHIT IS MY JAM,” and my Catholic guilt rushed into his fancy (framed posters) downtown (Helena, Montana) apartment and filled up my lungs with a millennium of unsaid Hail Marys.