Forty minutes into Wilco’s set, the frontman Jeff Tweedy finally acknowledged the audience with a half-grin and a “hi”. Immediately, a fan at the front broke with the reverential ranks and called out for him to “play the hits”. “Where have you been?” retorted Tweedy in a flash. “These are the hits.”

Fifteen years into their career, Wilco remain caught between cult acclaim and mainstream commercial success. The Chicago-based band’s best-known album, the 2002 release Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, went gold; the follow-up, A Ghost is Born, was a double Grammy winner; and this year’s Wilco (the album) reached the top five Stateside. At the sold-out London date of their European tour, touts were doing brisk business, selling tickets for three times their face price.

Yet ask a non-devotee to hum one Wilco song and he or she would almost certainly be stuck.

Formed from the ashes of alt.country act Uncle Tupelo, Wilco began as adventurous folk-rockers, veered in to complex, experimental rock and, of late, have almost returned to their roots with simpler, shorter, more soulful songs — a result, claims leader Tweedy, of overcoming his well-documented drug addictions. At Forum, in a set that stretched over two hours, watched mainly by men approaching middle age (or there already), there was plenty for fans of all eras of Wilco to admire.

Dressed in workman gear teamed with pointy, polished, smart shoes, Tweedy trod the stage gingerly during opener Ashes of American Flags, like a beginner at ballroom dancing, practising without a partner. By new song Black Bull Nova — which began like Big Star before swerving in to squally, Television territory that required four guitarists — he moved as though trudging through a muddy field.

Adopting different personas is part of Tweedy’s appeal and his delivery changed to suit the mood of the songs. He sounded soft and sweet on the decade-old Shot in the Arm, at least until the song was scuffed with feedback and the sound of a keyboard being attacked with what looked like a large leather chamois. Elsewhere, he opted for an angsty yelp or a late Lennon-like warble.

However many styles the sextet threw into their pot, their old-fashioned care for their craft on often meticulously structured songs stood out. Or it did until a power failure scuppered their second encore. To the crowd’s delight, an unruffled Tweedy simply completed the set solo and unplugged. Hits? Wilco don’t even require electricity to start a singalong.

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