The Bamboo Review

Or, Becky goes out and rogers Wilco:
I'm trying to write about the wilco shows but my thoughts and phrases keep scattering when I remember the joy of the audience and both bands all singing along during 'california sky' while the disco ball threw constellations of glittering light all over the room and I felt my chest almost bursting open from the sheer perfection of that moment.
I need some distance.
but distance brings the dry facts and these shows weren't about facts. they weren't about set lists or instrumentation or the musicians. they were about the moments... the blue maracas in ken stringfellow's back pocket.. the computer guy from wilco sitting in a spotlight next to the drumset and getting a haircut while the minus 5 rocked out without acknowleging the gag.. wilco brilliantly reinventing old favorites by seeing them through a new yankee hotel foxtrot lens.. anne counting 44 "nothings" and me counting 38 the next night during 'misunderstood'... that word over and over again until that was all there was - tweedy and his microphone and that word echoing in your head, his worn-out, lived-in voice wrapping around you like a favorite scratchy blanket you'll never get tired of.. it was about scott mccaughey's gold brocade jacket with the black velvet lapels and ken singing 'holocaust' in a voice so lost that I wanted to cry.
I have notes. pages and pages of little things that struck me as memorable or funny or noteworthy. and I wish I was a talented enough writer to accurately convey to you all the atmosphere of beauty and happiness and companionship that I was a part of for those two nights.
this wasn't about lust (although I'm now officially admitting my crush on ken stringfellow) and it wasn't about being cool or hip or indie. YHF may top the year end polls, it may not. but what wilco did was make music so good that I forgot my feet hurt and I forgot I needed sleep or food or air. I think that's enough.