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A few months ago, I only knew Wilco by name, a name that carries a lot of musical weightiness. When I stumbled across a cheap, used copy of _a ghost is born_ in a secondhand shop one night, I snatched it up without a second thought. On the drive home, I plugged the CD into my car stereo, fully expecting greatness to emanate from my speakers. The disc delivered, but it was until recently that I could say that with any certainty. You see, I just saw Wilco in concert where they proved their mettle beyond reproach and earned the critical stripes with which they’ve been adorned for so long.

The evening started slowly and with much uncertainty—where to park; exactly where the DECC auditorium was once inside; which line on the floor (red, yellow, blue) led through the winding, underground path to the nearest bathroom; which Wilco tour shirt to buy (I chose the slate “Kicking Television Tour” T, by the way, as the Canadians bought up all the way-cool blue radiator shirts, except for the 2XL’s); where my seat was in relation to my two friends who had reconsidered my initial invitation and bought
tickets a day after I did; and just who were the Black Eyed Snakes? I eventually found my seat next to a father and son who had traveled about four hours north from Minneapolis, MN, for the show. The two had seen Wilco before and assured me it would be an amazing show…that is if the opening band didn’t suck and go on and on like the last time they saw Jeff Tweedy and company.

Luckily for the three of us, and the hundreds of twenty-something’s surrounding us, the Black Eyed Snakes—a beautifully dirty, messy, bluesy Minnesota-based band (www.theblackeyedsnakes.com)—shook things up immediately upon taking the stage. Though the four-piece sat through their entire half-hour set, they generated an incredible amount of energy. Lead singer Alan Sparhawk (a.k.a. “Chicken Bone George”) thrashed on the edge of is seat and sang his raspy vocals through a vintage mike, creating the illusion he was quite literally singing into a tin can. The distorted double-barreled guitars and dual-percussion assault were the soundtrack of a high-speed cruise in a muscle car, half-empty flask of whiskey under seat, smoldering Marlboro dangling from lip. With lyrical sputterings such as “The devil’s in the corn pen,” “If she can’t do it, no woman can,” and “Don’t go cryin’ if your daddy don’t treat ya no good,” it was difficult not to love the fuzz-rockabilly sound.

During the changeover, stagehands cleared the haphazard pyramid that was the Black Eyed Snakes’ stack of retro amps to reveal even more vintage gear awaiting Wilco’s breath of life. The 2,400-seat auditorium, very nearly sold out according to a DECC spokeswoman, quickly filled as the intermission drew to a close. The lights dimmed, and six figures—John Stirratt, Glenn Kotche, Mikael Jorgensen, Nels Cline, Pat Sansone, and Tweedy himself (limping from a walking cast on his right leg)—slung on guitars, snatched up sticks and lifted hands to keys.

“You’re back in your old neighborhood / The cigarettes taste so good / But you’re so misunderstood,” Tweedy began, with much back-up from eager Wilco fans throwing return vocals toward the stage. Vibes, acoustic guitar, bass, mild electric guitar overtones: the tightness and quality of the mix was as if lifted straight off the band’s jaw-dropping, double-disc live release, _Kicking Television_.  “Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!…” accentuated by blinding white lights aimed at the audience. Marvelous.

The band provided a double dose of _being there_ by sliding into “Far, Far Away” before an epic, Velvet Undergroundish version of “Handshake Drugs.” Bringing their studio brilliance directly to the stage, Wilco ripped through an inspired rendition of “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart,” complete with miscellaneous noises (delicately-dropped tambourines, chiming triangles, fluttering maracas, splattered piano interludes) leading to a chaotic, sonic storm conclusion reminiscent of a jet landing.

The shock of a fully Technicolor Wilco was a pleasant surprise. My only previous vision of Wilco live was the collection of short snippets in Sam Jones’ terrific (but black and white) documentary _I Am Trying To Break Your Heart_. I found myself astounded by the vibrant color of the lights and intensity of movement on stage. A wonderfully capricious lighting trick was the intermittent beaming reflection from Cline’s metallic pick guard cutting through the darkness like some Ace Frehley stage effect. You just can’t program something like that.

Throughout the 21-song set, which drew mainly from _a ghost is born_, _Yankee Hotel Foxtrot_, and _being there_, and included two well-deserved encores (complete with synchronized foot stomping by those seated on the chairs above the covered orchestra pit), the adoring crowd was unashamed of its desire for more: more of Cline’s feedback-inducing amp acrobatics; more of Jorgensen’s stunning, melodic piano; more of Kotche’s muppetesque drum kit antics; more of Stirratt’s “I’m enjoying this as much as you are” bass vibe; more of Sansone’s impressive instrument hopping; more of Tweedy’s choir-directing during crowd favorites.

“This has got to be our favorite state,” Tweedy oozed at one point, “and you ’ve met all our Minnesota expectations!”