Wilco review

02 Kentish Town Forum, LondonJeff Tweedy is initially a little distant with his devoted audience, but the chemistry between the group soon ignites

Wilco, after 29 years, hold a special place in the hearts of the people for whom it’s all about the music, man. The air of veneration in a packed Forum is palpable, even if leader Jeff Tweedy seems not to welcome it. After one fan shouts out his appreciation, Tweedy murmurs into the mic, not aggressively, but not without a degree of sarcasm: “This is the part of the show I enjoy, where I get to speak to each of you individually.”

For the first half of this two-hour gig, it’s a little like watching an expensively assembled football team roll over some lesser opposition: everything is plainly brilliant, everyone knows exactly what they are doing, every element is in its place, but it also feels a little inevitable, and because of that just a little uninvolving. It’s not boring – these are fantastic songs, played fantastically well – more that this is what Wilco do. The band just play; Tweedy makes no effort to communicate.

But then, at the midpoint, something changes, with Bird Without a Tail/Base of My Skull, from last year’s Cruel Country album. What starts as folk rock gradually evolves, and the communication between the sextet starts to spark and burn. The interaction between the three guitarists – Tweedy, the excellent Nels Cline, and Patrick Sansone – dazzles, and the song soars. It’s entrancing – dramatic without being aggressive.

From then on, it’s like watching Brazil in 1970: blimey, this lot are startlingly brilliant. Tweedy relaxes, and the band intensify. When they play Misunderstood, from their breakthrough second album Being There, the crowd take over from Tweedy to roar back the line: “You still love rock’n’roll.” Evicted, from the forthcoming album Cousin, gets a cheer of recognition.

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Support act Courtney Marie Andrews comes on for the encores, but she leaves before the dazzling finale of Spiders (Kidsmoke), its motorik pulse a foundation for screes of noise from Cline and Tweedy that resolve into a crushing riff. Towards the end the band go silent, and Tweedy directs the crowd to keep time by clapping, then to sing that riff. They do so, in unison, before the band come crashing back in to claim their rightful plaudits.