A flawless Wilco, with little surprise

On Saturday night at the Tower Theater, Wilco was merely great. The qualifying "merely" is hard to explain, because, on its face, the show had all the makings of a bragging-rights concert experience. Totally jazzed, way-sold-out crowd? Check. Storied, acoustically friendly venue? Check. Legendary opening act, one John Doe, tragically ignored by most in favor of the beer line? Check. Must-see headliners with a live rep for fireworks ready to throw down? Check.

Perhaps the only thing missing was the element of surprise. From beginning (the folksy dirge of "Sunken Treasure" recast into an elastic, vowel-stretching talking blues) to end (the obligatory rock-out on "Outtasite (Outta Mind)"), everything went as expected.

Which is both a blessing and a curse for an important, world-class rock band like Wilco, which constantly challenges its fans and itself by doggedly refusing to repeat itself. Despite that - or because of it - the band has earned critical praise and a mass audience spanning those young enough to want to stand at a seated show and those who like to sit at rock shows and get upset at anyone who does otherwise.

The last three or four times through town, Wilco seemed to be evolving right before our very ears, not just flawlessly executing the songbook but trying out still-embryonic new material and iconoclastic reimaginings of older works long since set in stone.

On Saturday, Wilco seemed a little, well, predictable.

The raw white lights and stripped-bare stage were a marked contrast to the moody mirror-ball atmospherics and kooky-but-compelling art films projected on large rear screens of recent tours. Message: We are here to play music, not put on a human be-ins. Still, even in this plainly naked setting, songs like "You Are My Face" and "Shot in the Arm" were as arresting and cinematic as those stop-motion film clips of flowers blooming and dying they used to show in science class.

This was due in no small part to the avant-pyrotechnics and jazz-like precision of guitarist Nels Cline. For much of the night, Cline's guitar work was as charismatic and scenery-chewing as Jeff Tweedy's emotive lead vocal, which, let the record show, was in fine achy-breaky form.

And the whole ensemble was a seamless mesh of nuance, warmth and rich tone colors. No wonder "Hummingbird" turned the Tower into a campfire sing-along.