"Sunken Treasure" (Wilco)

I was not a huge Wilco fan when the band first came on the scene.  Back in high school, a friend had played me a tape of Uncle Tupelo, frontman Jeff Tweedy’s old band with Jay Farrar, and I liked it well enough; it had a definite “punks playing country” feel to it.  But I felt like Wilco’s debut A.M. (1995) was a bit faceless.  There were hints of Exile on Main St. and Flying Burrito Brothers, and the songs were decent.  But Wilco sounded like the type of band you'd hear at a dive bar, half-drunk on PBR.  Really, nothing about the album signaled that Tweedy was some kind of alt-country Thom Yorke. 
Then in college, I was talking music with this kid from my psych class.  (Actually, we were waiting to participate in a mandatory study about anxiety and social behavior.  It was some deal where the researchers came in every few minutes and told us, “We’re delayed; it may be 5 more minutes before we begin,” and then after 30 minutes, they finally clued us in that it was all part of the study.  The fact that the two of us struck up a conversation while we were "delayed" proved their hypothesis, I guess.)  Anyway, he ended up lending me the second disc of Being There (1996).  Actually, he kind of forced it on me like the overzealous Hare Krishnas on Franklin Street who would shove flowers in your hand as you walked to class, whether you wanted withered a daisy or not. (“Visualize world peace, MOFO!”)
I reluctantly took it and gave him the copy of The Best of Booker T. & The M.G.’s that was in my Discman (yeah, it was the 90s), just to show him that I wouldn’t flake and hock it at one of the gajillion used CD shops that were in downtown Chapel Hill in those days.
Sitting in a study carrel in the library later that evening, I decided to give the CD a spin, because I knew I’d run into him in lecture the next day.
When the first few chords of “Sunken Treasure” washed through my headphones, my very first thought was, “This is Wilco?” 
It was quirky and gorgeous, and Tweedy sounded like George Harrison on quaaludes—but in a good way.  And just about the time I was getting cozy in the jangly etherealness, suddenly there was this burst of noise-rock guitar that absolutely exploded the melody wide open and left me struggling to find its shards among the wreckage.  The moment everything felt like it was going to dissolve into nothingness, the storm retreated as fast as it had erupted, and the song was back, floating on serene waters. 
I had chills.
By the time Tweedy sang the closing lines (I was maimed by rock and roll / I was tamed by rock and roll / I got my name from rock and roll), my opinion of what this band was/is had totally changed.  This wasn’t some one-note outfit, destined to play shoebox-sized venues; this was a band that had an opportunity to push the boundaries of alt-country and drag rock out of the dustbin.
I’ve been a fan ever since.