Jeff Tweedy changed my life. Ever since 2002, when I fell hard for Yankee Hotel Foxtrot after reading all those rave reviews, Wilco have been one of the mainstays of my music fandom. I’ve probably seen them live more than any other band, always hoping to hear “Misunderstood.” I return to their canonical classics frequently, sometimes for comfort and sometimes to be thrilled by “Via Chicago” or “The Late Greats” all over again. I never miss a new Wilco or Tweedy release, nor do I miss a chance to argue about them online. (My “Ode To Joy is better than Sky Blue Sky” take will never die. Cruel Country: also better than Sky Blue Sky.) Wilco is always one of the names in rotation when people ask me about my favorite band. I’ve been in the tank for them for so long that, in a parasocial way, they feel like family.
