I have spent more time than I should admit dealing with fresh flare-ups of jealousy. Thanks to the punishing wonders of social media, I was privy to the delight a select few of my friends felt when they recently attended shows that were a part of Wilco’s regular winter residency and discovered, to their evident surprise, that Robyn Hitchcock was booked to be the opener. I believe the youths refer to the feeling that washed over me as FOMO.
Now, I have no real cause to cry about misfortune when it comes to seeing live performances by my favorite artist in recent years. I’ve been gifted with fabulous Robyn Hitchcock shows in small, sterling venues, including a couple in a place that teen-aged me never would have expected. But the Chicago show is also the second time this I’ve pined from afar while reading overjoyed digital dispatches of people who are dear to me watching Hitchcock winningly ply his trade.
But, look, I’ve never been in the room when Hitchcock joins Wilco for a cover of a Beatles song that perfectly suits the iconoclastic performer’s swirling, soaring musical sensibility. In the spirit of the holidays, I’m mostly glad for my friends who were there. Really, I am. The sulky expression I wear as I watch the video embedded below should be disregarded.