Wilco Willdo

Poised for disappointment, I couldn't help but be reminded of my own deepest character flaw. I learn from experience. But experience isn't all it's cracked up to be. Mine told me that Wilco would leave me sugared but malnourished. Experience, narcotic and hypnotic, dulls our senses by drawing on the comfortable. The completed. Rarely am I shamed by my tendency to draw on it.

Last night, Jeff Tweedy and his not-quite merry band of elites made me blush and my conscious guilty. Saturated in synergy and punctuated by stagelighting on parade, the boys of Wilco lured me from my skepticism and earned my ear. My circulation soon followed. So did my cynicism. For once, they all agreed on what to order. The daily special. $34.99.

I still hate the Fillmore! Watching a show there is like watching one in a train station at rush hour on a Friday. The people. Suck. The venue is better suited for couples-skate than rock-and-roll. As for Wilco, I'm still not wholly engrossed. They've reached that point in their career where they orchestrate their arrangements to appease fans who know what's coming next rather than experiment with form and fluidity. And despite this, whenever they tried, they seemed to struggle with their transitions from studio takes to freeverse arrangements. But, that said, I'm glad I hit the "purchase" button on Friday morning. It gave me a chance to respectfully exorcise my Wilco demons, each winking kindly as it passed me by, and put them on this list of bands that matter.