And so, our next exhibit in the “Live In Chicago” collection (see here for this week’s other offering) pips ahead as favourite, purely by being an absolute bloody revelation. As Wilco are every single time they come along in fact. They are consistently adventurous, or at the very least curious, purveyors of alternative readings of traditional Americana, yet somehow manage to be consigned to the memory as trustworthy, which is never exciting. And in addition, Crud remembers being charmed into a pleasant cross-eyed stupor by their last instinctively bold long player, ‘A Ghost Is Born’, yet bored onto our backs by it at Glastonbury one short week later (to be fair we had, minutes earlier, been bewitched by a Nick Zinner assisted Bright Eyes). Making it even more remarkable that it is a live Wilco album which reignites our passion so feverishly.
From the hypnotisingly tight, steady, repetitive pedalling of a fuzzy ‘Misunderstood’ through to the confessional sounding Lennon-esque bar-room whimsy of ‘Comment’ they are remarkably assured without ever being forceful. The laid-back ease with which they spiral through their stark experimentalism, always somehow evident, is admirable. They have a very becoming leader in Jeff Tweedy, solid and capable, but also welcoming through his poetry, like a pavement artist who has no qualms about you pacing over his work. For a live performance there is not the slightest hint that these songs are not open houses, not defended even with a little insecurity.
Like stylistic peers Spoon, Wilco are not obviously disobedient. Even less so in fact. ‘Handshake Drugs’ sounds like it fell into noisy discord entirely by accident in fact. The Ben Folds foundation which bubbles naively underneath shows no sign of cruel intentions at all. The title track ‘Kicking Television’ is The Stooges via a rowdy Spiritualized and conversely has bad intentions all the way. The wonderful ‘Muzzle Of Bees’ is as dainty as Elliott Smith and as raw as a grizzly Neil Young solo, and hops across notes like clouds of varying density and intention. And the 11 minute ‘Spiders (Kidsmoke)’ surfs through a shallow feedback and unfolds like a 70s glam Sonic Youth snowball with just enough momentum behind it that eventually eats Mercury Rev’s wood shack whole. For future reference, it can only be our hope that Chicago, as their home town, didn’t get special treatment.