As a California native, I've often heard that the East Coast is more uptight than the West. Perhaps in turn this makes Easterners seek a totally cathartic, unrestrained, devil-horns concert experience, which would explain the unexpected stadium-rock vibe of Wilco's show at the Schubert on Sunday night. The band played tracks mostly from early 90s rootsy rock albums A.M. and Mermaid Hotel to compliment songs off of their like-sounding latest effort Sky Blue Sky.

Certainly, Wilco gave the tightest live performance a girl could ask for. Guitarist Nels Cline demonstrated his maniacal brilliance as he shredded along in memorable solos, kicking his feet for emphasis and sometimes hoisting guitars above his head in primal reverence for his instrument.

And that's what the show was all about – jubilant worship of our savior Rock and Roll, hallowed be thy name. Exhilarating and wonderful as it was to see Wilco and the audience having a hell of a time, I missed that gorgeous, artful, subtly life-shattering side that I most closely associate with the band. I love the Wilco of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost Is Born days, the Wilco of "Hummingbird" and "Poor Places." "Jesus, Etc" was played, but it felt almost forced as a hush fell over the crowd, with the whoops of "I'm Always In Love" replaced by requisite coos and sighs.

Jeff Tweedy's voice is as perfect and gorgeously tainted as ever, but where was the exquisite pain I felt in their messy 2005 performance at LA's Greek Theatre? Okay, maybe I love the Wilco of Tweedy's darkest days in drug addiction. But surely there is some happy medium between those despondent times in California and this ultra bright performance in Connecticut. Maybe Wilco's native Midwest is where it's at. Let's see a show... via Chicago, anyone?