Within seconds of entering the venue, I spotted my first assembly of Wilco dads. This is a good denomination— something to embrace and embody whole heartedly, perhaps even an aesthetic to aspire to, regardless of age. Scruffy, a little off beat, and always eager to enjoy a hazy IPA and a good, true, rock show. These are the folk who would openly try out a facebook recipe for your vegan friend that’s coming over for dinner for the first time. It’s always endearing to see men enjoy something rather pure so earnestly, and shamelessly. Wilco’s music has drawn me in, enticed me, and comforted me from the moment I first heard it. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot in particular completely engulfed me, and continues to do so every time I complete a top to bottom listen. Last night in Vancouver at the Pacific Coliseum, thousands of people got the absolute privilege of watching Jeff Tweedy, John Stirratt, Nels Cline, Glenn Kotche, Mikael Jorgensen, and Pat Sansone absolutely rock the house.

With a discography as vast as Wilco’s—sprawling across three decades and about thirteen studio records—you never know if you’ll land on that sweet spot of a universally pleasing setlist. Thankfully, to be a Wilco song is to be pleasant and charming; easily digested and then subsequently rewarding for both the active and the passive listener.

A parent excitedly sharing the joys of their youth with their children is adorable in almost any context. But there was something about watching those darn Wilco dads watching their kids scream every word of Impossible Germany that possessed a particular sweetness. It was so special to be surrounded by adults who soundtracked their teenagehood and early twenties to the magic of records like Mermaid Avenue and Summerteeth in real time.

The show was relatively straight cut, in the best way possible. The boys were punctual, the mix was perfectly balanced, and the minimal banter was superbly dry and witty. “This is an evening with Wilco show,” Tweedy proclaimed, “we aren’t gonna do a whole lot of talking, we have a lot of songs and we want to play all of them for you.” Tweedy’s voice has somehow evaded any sign of aging, ringing strong and clear for the entire set apart from It’s Just That Simple, where Stirratt took the reins for lead vocal, just as he did in the 1995 recording.

There’s an immediate, inescapable euphoric rush that accompanies the commencement of Jesus, Etc. live. Not exclusively of course— I’m familiar with this rush as I experience it to a similar degree nearly every time I listen to the recording in the comfort of my own home. It’s a song that has stayed cemented on my ever shifting ‘10 best songs ever’ list, and until something otherworldly comes along to give it a run for its money, it will remain anchored there.

Jeff Tweedy’s energy is humble, singular, and radiates with a magnetic warmth. Through seeing the band play live, it has become even clearer to me why I can trace back so many of my favourite songwriters to the spirit of Wilco, and the plain, hearty genius of Tweedy. I left feeling so grateful for the pinnacle that is this band, guiding and informing good writing— not to mention being one of the tightest groups of musicians I’ve ever seen rock. Watching Tweedy perform makes me feel like songwriting is an untouchable gift, and somehow at the same time, a universally rewarding vocation that maybe we all have a shot at.

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