Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense 9781501360688, 9781501360671, 9781501360718, 9781501360701

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Not for You Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

Also by the Author 24 Hour Revenge Therapy (or, The Strange Death of Selling Out)

Not for You Pearl Jam and the Present Tense Ronen Givony

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Inc 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in the United States of America 2021 Copyright © Ronen Givony, 2021 Cover image: © Lance Mercer Cover design: Zan Emerson For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on p. 405 constitute an extension of this copyright page. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Inc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. Whilst every effort has been made to locate copyright holders the publishers would be grateful to hear from any person(s) not here acknowledged. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data  Names: Givony, Ronen, author. Title: Not for you : Pearl Jam and the present tense / Ronen Givony. Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “The first critical and comprehensive overview of Pearl Jam from 1990 to the present”– Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2020028388 (print) | LCCN 2020028389 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501360688 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501360671 (paperback) | ISBN 9781501360695 (epub) | ISBN 9781501360701 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Pearl Jam (Musical group) | Grunge music–United States–History and criticism. Classification: LCC ML421.P43 G5 2020 (print) | LCC ML421.P43  (ebook) | DDC 782.42166092/2–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020028388 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020028389 ISBN:

HB: 978-1-5013-6068-8 PB: 978-1-5013-6067-1 ePDF: 978-1-5013-6070-1 eBook: 978-1-5013-6069-5

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The art of music is undeniably the one of all others which gives rise to the strangest passions, the absurdest ambitions. I will even say, to the most peculiar fixation. Of the unfortunates who are locked up in mental hospitals, those who think themselves Neptune or Jupiter are easily recognized as lunatics; but there are many others who enjoy complete freedom, whose parents have never considered resorting to psychiatric treatment, but whose madness is evident. Music has unsettled their brain. Hector Berlioz, The Musical Madhouse (1859)

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place. It has to face the men of the time and to meet The women of the time. It has to think about war And it has to find what will suffice. It has To construct a new stage. Wallace Stevens, “Of Modern Poetry” (1942)

That song is about getting hit in the face, turning your cheek, and getting hit again. [Applause.] Come to think of it: all the songs are about that. Moore Theatre, Seattle (1995)

vi

Contents List of Illustrations

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Introduction: A Personal Preface 1 The Cast 2 A Dozen Moments in the Prehistory of Pearl Jam 3 The Bacchanal, San Diego (November 21, 1989) 4 The Off Ramp, Seattle (October 22, 1990) 5 “Jeremy,” “Garden,” “Yellow Ledbetter” (1991) 6 J.C. Dobbs, Philadelphia (July 12, 1991) 7 The Palladium, Hollywood (October 6, 1991) 8 Cow Palace, San Francisco (December 31, 1991) 9 MTV Unplugged (March 16, 1992) 10 Pinkpop Festival, Holland (June 8, 1992) 11 The Singles Soundtrack (1992) 12 Stadio Flaminio, Rome (July 7, 1993) 13 Lakefront Arena, New Orleans (November 16, 1993) 14 Hints, Allegations, and Things Left Unsaid (1993–94) 15 Civic Center, Pensacola (March 9, 1994) 16 Bayfront Amphitheater, Miami (March 28, 1994) 17 Patriot Center, Fairfax, Virginia (April 8, 1994) 18 Rayburn House Office Building, Washington, DC (June 30, 1994) 19 Dave (1994) 20 Self-Pollution Radio, Seattle (January 8, 1995) 21 Soldier Field, Chicago (July 11, 1995) 22 38th Annual Grammy Awards (February 28, 1996) 23 Cox Arena, San Diego (July 10, 1998) 24 Binaural and the Battle of Seattle (1999) 25 Roskilde Festival, Denmark (June 30, 2000) 26 Madison Square Garden, New York (October 13, 2000) 27 Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum, Uniondale (April 30, 2003) 28 Thin Air (2006–13)

1 13 31 39 57 67 79 87 97 105 113 123 133 153 169 177 195 213 225 241 249 261 277 285 297 309 319 331 351

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Contents

29 Tomas Young and Body of War (2007–16) 30 Altice Arena, Lisbon (June 20, 2019)

361 379

Afterword397 Acknowledgments 405 In Memoriam 405 Notes 406 Bibliography 410 About the Author 412 Index413

Illustrations 0.1 5.1 5.2 9.1 15.1 17.1 18.1 18.2 22.1 24.1 24.2 25.1 27.1 27.2 29.1 30.1 30.2

“He won the lottery …” “Try to forget this …” Trevor Wilson, 2016 “Porch” on MTV Unplugged, 1992 David Gunn, 1993 Adam Sandler as Opera Man, 1994 Oval Office, 1994 Testifying in Congress, 1994 “I don’t know what this means …” Seattle, 1999 Tess at WTO Anniversary, 2000 Royal Albert Hall, London, 2000 Neil, Ed, and Mike play “Long Road,” 2001 Uniondale, Long Island, 2003 Claudia Cuellar and Tomas Young, 2014 Kim from St. Louis, 2000 Joshua Swanson in Philadelphia, 2016

3 71 74 109 187 222 227 234 278 300 301 314 333 345 374 388 390

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Introduction: A Personal Preface

First, a confession, and a caveat: I’ve only seen them fifty-seven times. A confession, because to most well-adjusted people, this number will seem— depending on your taste in music—alternately obsessive, excruciating, or absurd, and rightly so. After all: to see an artist five times in concert suggests loyalty. To see an artist ten times, implies dedication—not to mention, disposable income. But once you’re north of—say—twenty-five shows, it’s safe to say you’re out of sync with most responsible adults—not that that’s always a bad thing. And yet, a caveat. As far as Pearl Jam people go, I’m fairly middle of the road— more journeyman than master—compared to the people way up front, or on the rail. Among this group, it’s almost common: meeting otherwise sensible people, who have seen 100 Pearl Jam shows; who take entire months off work, to catch every show, anywhere in the world; who can tell you what the band performed, and where, on any given day in the last three decades. In other words: there are people who would scoff at you for presuming to write a book after fifty-seven shows, and I don’t disagree; I’m embarrassed to be such a dilettante, myself. *** By most measures, I am your typical Pearl Jam fan. To quote a favorite song: I am speaking as a child of the ’90s: born in 1978, and about to turn thirteen, when the video for “Alive” debuted, in 1991. Two years later, I was one of the 950,000 who bought their second album, Vs., the week it came out. With my friends in the ninth grade, we debated Nirvana, Weezer, and Nine Inch Nails— who was authentic, and who had “sold out”—and understood or suspected that something unusual was happening in music, and youth culture at large. I finished high school in 1997; saw my first show—inexcusably late—on the Yield tour; graduated college, in 2001; and started seeing them in earnest, only in 2003. Most of all—to quote them once again—I am, for better and worse,

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

W.M.A.: white, male, American. (Jewish, secular, and left of Bernie Sanders; but W.M.A. all the same.) And yet, by other measures—to flatter myself, perhaps—I am also your less typical fan. For most of my life, my career has been in music, but not, shall we say, the kind that Pearl Jam plays. I work in classical music—the orchestra world—or what some would call modern classical: not exactly ground zero for Pearl Jam fanatics. At home, I’m likelier to listen to Bach, Beethoven, or Boards of Canada, than I am to rock music. I studied English and American literature, and wrote a thesis on the contemporary novel, at a college that rhymes with jail. Given one recording, to take to an island, it wouldn’t be Pearl Jam, or Radiohead—the band I’ve seen the second-most—but the Ukrainian pianist Sviatoslav Richter, in Bach and Schubert. I say this not to praise myself, but to mention a thought that occurs to me, every so often, at a Pearl Jam show: what am I still doing here? *** The idea for this book arrived at Wrigley Field, Chicago, on August 22, 2016. It was the fourth and final show of a leisurely, late-summer tour, starting at Fenway, in Boston. The sun was setting. The crowd was settling in. I had flown to Chicago two days prior, to see the first Wrigley show, which was lackluster: far too many covers; a vaguely humdrum setlist. (I had seen them on this tour in Miami, Fort Lauderdale, New York, Philly, and the second—alas, inferior—night at Fenway.) Everyone, it seemed, was aware of what transpired at the first Wrigley show, in 2013—an epic, thirty-three-song blowout, which was halted by rain, and ended at three in the morning—and the question on everyone’s mind was whether tonight would be one for the ages. I was sitting by myself, halfway back on the field—my friend had scored a bracelet, and was way up front—when a pair of towering, Teutonic-looking alpha males, already hammered, sat or squatted nearby. From the way they walked to the center, and the best possible view, without stopping to check any of the seat numbers, it was obvious they were upgrading to seats that weren’t theirs: a minor fraud, and one I’d performed at every opportunity. From the way they established their domain, and started a chant—the cherished, time-honored “ED-DY! ED-DY!,” alternating with “SHOW ME YOUR TITS!”—it was equally obvious what sort of company I could expect for the next two and a half hours. After a minute, they introduced themselves: gleaming teeth; crushing handshakes—one in tech, one in finance—both in town from “the valley,” by which they meant Silicon. They were the textbook definition of what people like me would dismiss as meatheads: big, brawny white guys in khakis, baseball caps,

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and flip-flops; guys who weren’t unfamiliar with lacrosse, beer pong, and Dave Matthews. That is to say: the guys you see in abundant numbers, at every Pearl Jam show. (When the election happened, ten weeks later, the news photos— white men, pumped for Trump—resembled nothing so much as this contingent.) The guys asked me where I was from, then addressed me by borough (“Fuck yeah, Brooklyn!”); but not before punching me in the shoulder and urging me to “have a good Pearl Jam.” It’s easy to make fun of such people: they’re not around to explain themselves, and no one is going to defend a bro from Silicon Valley. All the same, it got me to wondering. How did it happen that—for all our divergence, in politics, profession, and background—for the next two and a half hours, we would be standing side by side, singing off-key, and believing, against all evidence, that things were going to be okay in the world? How did it happen that—for all our differences on anything beyond Pearl Jam—everyone knew we were in for a classic, when they opened with “Oceans,” into “Footsteps,” into “Off He Goes”? The moment the show ended, we would resume having nothing in common;* but for now—on this field, and aided only by song, and maybe the IPA—we were allied through music. The answer is obvious: that’s what happens at Pearl Jam. (And, for me at least, nowhere else.)

“He won the lottery …” (Photograph by Chip Somodevilla.)

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

*** It’s a hobby, I suppose, or a habit; and like certain habits, there are times when it feels like a sickness. There’s a clear-cut set of symptoms—nausea, chest pain, and a feeling of continuous panic—the day of any tour announcement. That’s when it awakens, from hibernation, and rears its ugly head. It’s unmistakable—like the opening of “Long Road”: the queasy, nervous sensation; the sweaty palms and armpits; the distant fear, so far pacified, that there might be shows you can’t get into. And then, the questions: How many shows can I see, and with whom? Where am I going to stay? How am I going to get there? And, for fuck’s sake, what is the ticket situation? The addiction exists in multiple stages. It does not discriminate—white- and blue-collar; red states and blue—although, to look at their audience, you might assume that it did. It creeps up on you: one day, you’re a casual fan, happy to take in a show every once in a while. All of a sudden, you are a sociopath with opinions on the definitive version of “Daughter.” One day, you are pleased to see that the band is offering bootlegs from the most recent tour, and decide to seek out a few. Before you know it, you are ashamed to find yourself with 585 versions of “Even Flow.” Mentally, intellectually, I can tell myself that one show—or two, or three— should really be enough. I can remind myself that most people don’t get to see three concerts all year, let alone in one week. I can recall the number of flagrantly disappointing shows I’ve seen, as a means of enforcing moderation. But then they’ll go and play Vs. or Yield, start to finish—and, needless to say, unannounced—in South Carolina, or Wisconsin, and I’ll resolve never to miss a show, ever again, if I can help it. *** It’s not a fear of missing out, exactly—but a fear of missing the extraordinary— which, with Pearl Jam, is pretty much always a possibility. Because, as any partisan will tell you—whether you’ve seen two or twenty shows—every single time is different. You would think that after thirty years, we would have their number, but no: if anything, the band is more unpredictable in concert—as opposed to the studio—than ever. The shows are different in ways that are obvious (the setlist), and subtle (the occasion). Night after night, each show is one of a kind—down to whether a song has been played in that city or not. Every show opens and closes differently. True, a lot of shows will end with “Yellow Ledbetter,” and true, there are statistical patterns. You’re guaranteed a stretch of exuberant numbers (“Hail, Hail,” “Why Go,” “Last Exit”) during the

Introduction: A Personal Preface

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first hour, or songs they like to open with (“Release,” “Corduroy,” “Long Road”). For better or worse, they’ll probably play “Given to Fly,” “Even Flow,” and “Small Town.” But then they’ll open a show with “Present Tense” (London, Ontario, 2013), or “Crazy Mary” (Madison Square Garden, 2003), or “Rain,” by The Beatles (Belo Horizo, Brazil, 2015), or “Hard to Imagine” (various, summer 2008), and you think: That must have been glorious. Or, why wasn’t I there for that? From start to finish, the band might play a set of quieter songs (“Of the Girl,” “Low Light”), or knock us off balance with a run of barn-burners (“Brain of J,” “Spin the Black Circle”), or veer off into psychedelia (“Rearviewmirror,” “Porch”), multipart suites (“Present Tense,” “Immortality”), rhythmic workouts (“Rats,” “In My Tree”), bluesy jams (“Smile,” “1/2 Full”), campfire sing-alongs (“Better Man,” “Black”), or instant roof-raisers (“Breath,” “Go”). They may choose to play most of their latest album (1998, 2006, 2013), or they may indulge us by ignoring the recent stuff completely (2005, 2008, 2016). They may suffocate us with pointless covers (“Driven to Tears,” indeed); play it relatively safe—often, for a festival— with the classics; or bestow the superfans a set of jaw-dropping rarities. At any moment, you’re as likely to hear a song they play once or twice a tour, as you are to hear one they play a bit too often. Of how many artists can this be said? In the variety, discipline, and delight with which Pearl Jam reinvents itself in concert—with the entirety of their output at their fingers, and much more—they have no real equal among bands of their stature. Playing different sets every night is something Fugazi used to do, which is partly why Pearl Jam followed suit. It’s also, of course, something that Phish, the Dead, and any number of jam bands do—but none at the level of a global phenomenon. You can see U2, almost anywhere, and be certain that the show will resemble the one before, and the one after that—less spontaneous than stage-managed. On the other hand, you can see Pearl Jam, and be bored, or slack-jawed by brilliance, then come back to the same venue a day later and see a show that’s rewritten in spirit—or, oddly, a bit of a letdown. Meaning: you never know, with Pearl Jam, if you’re in for something special, or merely average. In this respect—it seems to me—they suggest something useful about life, and how to live it. For most of us, the days of the week are not all that different; if anything, most days are insultingly repetitive and routine. But a day that brings Pearl Jam to town, by definition, is promising: at eight o’clock, or thereabouts, our odds of partaking in greatness—of transcendent beauty, community, and joy—are always above-average. How often do I say this about the other days of the year? What does their example say about the art of improvising and spontaneity in everyday life? And how is it something the rest of us can use, to live more fully, more in the moment—to live, in the present tense?

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

*** Every time I travel to see them, I find myself writing the same email to friends: “Coming to town (don’t laugh) for Pearl Jam.” The “(don’t laugh)” is my little armor—but for what, I’m not exactly sure. Because it is something to laugh at: something I normally keep to myself; something my dearest friends are confused by; something frankly embarrassing about all of it. Traveling, for nothing more edifying than a rock band—and one you’ve seen fifty-seven times. Aging women and men—mainly men, and mainly white men with bellies—boozily belting the anthems of youth, and badly, at that. Bands who play arenas, and encourage their fans in spectacular, unsettling unison. Rock music, in general. Why does Pearl Jam feel like a guilty pleasure? Like something I should be keeping a secret? Why am I happy to tell everyone I know about seeing Radiohead two nights in a row, but not Pearl Jam? What is it about their songs, and about them? Why do they seem—despite, or because of, their millions of fans—tacky, kitsch, uncool? Does it matter that they haven’t made a great album in something like two decades? Is Pearl Jam even any good? Or is this all ’90s nostalgia? And if so—“if so-whoa”—then why can’t I quit? I decided to write this, to figure that out. *** It’s only fair for me to say up front, what this is—or aspires to be—and is not. First, and foremost: this is not an authorized biography, or even a biography, as such; not a book that anyone in Pearl Jam was involved with; not a book that claims any special access, or expertise; and not a source of breaking news, beyond what’s already out there. What this is, rather—to borrow the name of a novel—is a fan’s notes. I am not a journalist, a musician, or a friend of the group, but a fan: someone who has never met them, or gone backstage, or seen them from anywhere but my own seat. Translation: someone with no more credentials than you. *** In a book about the poet Etheridge Knight, Terrance Hayes writes: When I began collecting interviews and stories about Etheridge Knight more than a decade ago, I said, mostly to the few people I cornered for interviews, that I’d never write a biography because it would take more than a decade to do it. This is not a biography. But perhaps it will encourage a future Knight biographer. Consider this a collection of essays as speculative, motley, and adrift as Knight himself.

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It would be presumptuous to call a band with eighty-five million in sales either motley, or adrift—but speculative works. With a nod to Mr. Hayes, then, consider this an extended speculation: a collection of essays, arguments, anecdotes, and conjecture; a not-quite biography, or encouragement, to a future one. Most of all, it’s a fan’s book—impassioned, opinionated, and occasionally perverse—but not overly reverent, accounting for the good and the bad. As with any such approach: you’ll find statements you think suspect; opinions you consider contrarian— probably about Ten; and at least one idea, I hope, that changes your mind, or encourages you to listen. Hayes believed it would take a decade, at least, to write a biography of Etheridge Knight. I can sympathize. Not counting the solo projects, the soundtracks, the seven or eight official DVDs, the Christmas singles, the Singles soundtrack— oh, and the eleven studio albums—there are at least 1,100 Pearl Jam bootlegs in circulation—official, unofficial, and in-between; at least 382 full-length concert captures—amateur, professional, and unwatchable—on YouTube; ten thousand reviews, interviews, and profiles; and more results on Google Books than you would have thought possible. To be honest: I can’t tell you I went through all of it. But I went through the majority—and frankly, still too much. Explanations aside, I’m suggesting we take seriously, for once, a community, a career, and a catalog—or at least, take it at face value. *** To most people, everything about Pearl Jam—or a band like Pearl Jam—is ridiculous, and I can see their point. The sing-alongs; the guitar solos; the seeming absence of humor, or embarrassment; the cult of personality; the buffoonish bros. (Believe me: I get it.) Among a certain set—critics, musicians, associated snobs—Pearl Jam is a group you should not mention in public—like Poison—unless it’s in the service of irony: a functioning antique. Even a band like Journey will earn you less mockery; you might as well be defending Def Leppard. In an age ruled by pop, hip-hop, and dance music, it is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone still taking rock music seriously must, in some sense, be kidding. I will concede all of this, without argument, and still find myself perspiring at the prospect of an arena tour. Which is a long way of saying: I understand why some people hate Pearl Jam. What I don’t understand is why they still mean so much to me—and why I’m not always proud, or public, as a fan. Can you love an artist intensely, and still feel embarrassed, ambivalent, or just a bit guilty? Can I attempt to be objective about the music I grew up with?

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

Are we perpetually prisoner to the artists we loved in our youth, even if they turn out to be—well, not very good? “I do not claim they were the best, but the New York Dolls are still my favorite rock ‘n’ roll group,” wrote the critic Paul Nelson, “although I will understand if you do not like them. I will understand, but deep down I will not want to know you.” *** I will see Paul Nelson’s hand, and raise. It needs to be said—and, for various reasons, we’ve all been reluctant to say it. It’s not an assertion that Pearl Jam would make about themselves—unlike, say, their fellow dinosaurs, U2—nor one that would find favor with most music writers. All the same, it’s time to admit something that no one has wanted to say: by a wide margin, they were the finest American group of the ’90s—if not the definitive band of an absurdly rich decade. More than Nirvana; more than Rage Against the Machine; more than Fugazi, Sleater-Kinney, or Pavement—to keep it strictly on one side of the Atlantic, for now—it was Pearl Jam’s decade, and then some. If they never made an album as radical as Exile in Guyville; as influential as The Chronic; as infectious as Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain; or as hypnotic as In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, we can also say that no one had a decade to match Ten, Vs., Vitalogy, No Code, and Yield—not to mention, Temple of the Dog, the Singles soundtrack, Mad Season, and a dozen classic B-sides. That they made five almost-perfect records in seven years is one thing. That they did so while ascending to comical and uncomfortable extremes of fame; while playing hundreds of legendary shows; while going famously out of their way for their fans; while setting an unrivaled example, of success without compromise—all with charisma, character, and conscience, if not always finesse—is another matter entirely. And if their output fell off, after the underrated Binaural and Riot Act—well, nobody’s perfect, or perfect forever. *** This is a book about Pearl Jam: how a group of itinerant musicians came to find  each other; how they wrote a bizarre amount of music—almost all exceptional—in under a decade; and how they managed to stay together, for thirty years and counting. But it’s also the story of a culture, a community, an ethos, and an era: when everything was not at our fingers. An attitude: political, and progressive;

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conscious, yet commercial; independent, yet engaged. When it was utterly unremarkable for a band to testify, in Congress, on the issue of corporate monopoly; when a mode of discovery—tactile, time-intensive, and interactive— was not only possible, but imperative; when the most successful artists saw their role as a public service, and squarely on the side of justice; when the Avengers: Endgame of its era was—inexplicably—Vitalogy and Vs. *** A book about Pearl Jam is a book about Nirvana, and Seattle, and the astonishing resurgence of American music in the early ’90s: In Utero, Enter the Wu-Tang, Midnight Marauders, Siamese Dream, Ready to Die, The Downward Spiral, What’s the 411?, Live Through This, Illmatic, The Blue Album, Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, Automatic for the People, and Superunknown, to name a few. Unfortunately, it’s also a book about Silverchair, Candlebox, and Collective Soul; Newt Gingrich, Bill Clinton, and Ralph Nader; Ticketmaster, telecom, and the W.T.O.; and ultimately, how we ended up here today. Almost alone, of American bands, Pearl Jam has a twenty-first-century story. Unlike Nirvana, or Pavement—their only real peers in terms of influence—the road from “Alive,” to “Off He Goes”; from “Black,” to “Bugs”; from “Indifference,” to “Arc”; and from Ten, to Let’s Play Two, is part of an oddly symmetrical tale—from Desert Storm, to the Dixie Chicks; from Anita Hill, to Christine Ford; from Malice Green, to Michael Brown, to George Floyd; from “Jeremy,” to Columbine, to Parkland; from Andy Wood, to Kurt Cobain, to Chris Cornell. It would be a stretch to say you need to know any of this, to love the band that wrote “Yellow Ledbetter.” But Ed himself will tell you it was written about a soldier, back from the Persian Gulf—only one of the themes the band will return to, repeatedly, in its thirty-year career. *** Pearl Jam was the most popular, influential, and openly imitated band of the ’90s. Almost no one disputes that. But they were also the most bitterly criticized—in a way that was different from, say, Stone Temple Pilots. The schism began as early as 1989—before they were even called Pearl Jam—and it was triggered by their willingness to go out of their way to succeed. They were anointed as spokesmen; denounced as opportunists; applauded for integrity; and berated for earnestness. They were accused of being careerists—and then of sabotaging their career. They were selling too many records—and then they were selling too few. And when they wondered aloud if it was all worth it, the resentment grew further.

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

The story that emerged and hardened into conventional wisdom is known to every student of the era, and it goes a little something like this. In the early ’90s, Pearl Jam made three blockbuster classics—Ten, Vs., and Vitalogy—at which point, they retreated, Garbo-like, from the masses. In these albums, Pearl Jam brought together the arena rock of the ’70s with a ’90s authenticity complex. They expressed no allegiance to any particular movement, musical or otherwise, but played by their own rules, and pursued an agenda that was inclusive, unorthodox, and all-welcoming—up to a point. Along the way, they changed a generation’s assumptions of what a band with integrity could achieve. Their success was an outlier—a phenomenon—and frankly, an unusual story. *** It’s no coincidence that the golden age of grunge corresponds—exactly—with the ascendancy, initial optimism, and disenchantment of the Clinton era. In this respect, Pearl Jam was the quintessential Clinton-era band. Of all the musicians who came to prominence in the early ’90s—rock, hip-hop, and otherwise— Pearl Jam made the most significant albums, and were involved with more decisive moments—MTV Unplugged, Lollapalooza, the Singles soundtrack, Kurt Cobain, and Ticketmaster, among them—than any other. The demos for Ten are recorded in the summer of August 1990—only days after Saddam Hussein invades Kuwait—while the album itself is released as the Soviet Union begins to collapse. The recording of Vs. begins a week after Clinton’s inauguration— and continues while the government confronts religious extremists in Waco, Texas, and abortion clinics in the south. Vitalogy is released only days after the Republicans, led by Newt Gingrich, come to power in Congress; No Code, in the year of welfare reform, Whitewater, and the Telecommunications Act; Yield, during the Monica Lewinsky scandal; and Binaural, in between the so-called Battle of Seattle and the 2000 election. In 1991, rock and roll was a decadent, establishment, and depleted art form. The LA music scene was still producing metal bands beholden to decade-old clichés of misogyny and machismo. The country was emerging from the age of Reagan. Only sixteen years—less than the war in Afghanistan—had transpired since Vietnam. In its annual poll of high school students, The World Almanac and Book of Facts awarded Norman Schwarzkopf, commander of US forces in the Persian Gulf, the title of most admired individual in public life. (Second place was Julia Roberts, star of Pretty Woman; third was President Bush.) The students chose “More Than Words” by Extreme and “I Wanna Sex You Up” by Color Me Badd as their favorite songs of the year. Their favorite TV shows were

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Beverly Hills 90210, followed by The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. The time was ripe to reboot the character of rock and roll. “The old order passeth, a new generation riseth,” Reagan speechwriter Peggy Noonan announced in a New York Times column, two days after Clinton’s win. “They want a new story, a new headline, new news.” And Pearl Jam, converging with the mood of the times, had arrived to bring a new narrative. Whereas previously the voices of younger and working class people had been, at best, a curiosity, the achievement of grunge gave an entire generation a forum in which to share an authentic, oppositional, aggressively popular art form. In so doing, the bands and their music helped to create, temporarily, a new youth culture— populist, progressive, conscious, and committed—for a distinctly new decade. *** Writing after Chris Cornell’s death, the musician Hank Shteamer observed: It seems to me that the rock music of my youth is now generally appraised in a mocking way: all that ’90s flannel and angst is often condescended to retroactively in much the same way the output and milieu of the ’80s “hair” bands are … But make no mistake: This rock was classic. Have you listened, really listened, to a song like “Would?” lately, or one like “State of Love and Trust”—I guess it’s no coincidence that my go-to examples for many of these bands all appear on the Singles soundtrack, which was such a treasured object to me at a young age, maybe even my favorite multi-artist compilation of all time—or “Limo Wreck”? This was intensely high-stakes music, virtuosically composed and performed. Music that, as much as I love contemporary quasi-mainstream rock bands from Queens of the Stone Age to the Mars Volta to Mastodon, attains a grandeur and sturdiness and scope that really hasn’t been heard in this medium since.

Thirty years later, it’s fair to ask if the regime that was allegedly overthrown by Pearl Jam and their peers hasn’t been restored—and so fully as to make what little remains of the grunge era obsolete. Back then, it was Michael Jackson, Garth Brooks, Michael Bolton, Mariah Carey, and Billy Ray Cyrus. Today, it’s Kanye, Drake, Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift, and—er—Billy Ray Cyrus. If Pearl Jam had never made an album, can anyone say that the landscape of music would look different? Can anyone say that Seattle—the city whose culture bracketed the ’90s, only to give way to Amazon, Microsoft, and Starbucks—is a better place for their contribution? What’s still open for debate, then, is whether the music of the early ’90s moved the culture in a positive direction, or whether the moment amounted to anything at all.

Susan Sontag: He was the phenomenon of the ’20s. When you think that at that time he was as well-known as Lindbergh, it’s really quite astonishing. Irving Howe: His story reflected the nature of our civilization, the character of our times—yet it was also one man’s story—and, um, all the themes of our culture were there: heroism, will, things like that. But when you look back on it, it was very strange. Saul Bellow: Well, it is ironic—to see how quickly he has faded from memory, considering what an astounding record he made. He was of course fairly amusing, but at the same time touched a nerve in people. Perhaps in a way which they would prefer not to be touched. It certainly is a very bizarre story. Zelig

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The Cast Pearl Jam: formed in Seattle, 1990. Best songs: “Tremor Christ,” “In My Tree,” “Hard to Imagine,” “Go,” “Release,” “Hail, Hail,” “Parting Ways,” “Insignificance,” “Come Back,” “Unthought Known,” “Save You,” “Grievance,” “Down,” “Blood,” “Leash.” Worst song: “Can’t Deny Me.” Eddie Vedder: the front man. Born in 1964. Raised in Chicago and San Diego. Best songs: “Off He Goes,” “Long Road,” “Better Man,” “Corduroy,” “Rearviewmirror,” “Immortality,” “Lukin,” “Porch,” “Around the Bend,” “Green Disease,” “Sleeping by Myself.” Worst song: “World Wide Suicide.” Typical quote: “If you’ve ever tried to order a pizza with five people, it’s difficult.” Stone Gossard: the founder. Born in 1966. Raised in Seattle. Best songs: “Breath,” “Daughter,” “Black,” “Even Flow,” “All Those Yesterdays,” “Of the Girl,” “Parachutes,” “Rival,” “No Way,” “Alive.” Worst song: “Thin Air.” Typical quote: “We’ve got a great drummer and a great singer. Those are the key positions. Mike and I, we’re not terrible. But within a mile of here, there are probably a hundred great guitar players.” Mike McCready: the flash. Born in 1966, in Pensacola. Raised in Seattle. Best songs: “Faithfull,” “Brain of J,” “Present Tense,” “Let Me Sleep (It’s Christmastime),” “Yellow Ledbetter.” Worst song: “Marker in the Sand.” Typical quote: “What [song of ours] do I not like? Maybe some odd song that we don’t ever play called ‘Bugs.’ I get a little tired of playing ‘Corduroy,’ but don’t tell Eddie that because he’ll get pissed.” Jeff Ament: the foundation. Born in 1963. Raised in Big Sandy, Montana. Best songs: “Why Go,” “Pilate,” “Low Light,” “Smile,” “Jeremy,” “Rats.” Worst song: “Sweet Lew.” Typical quote: “There’s actually a lot of similarities [with basketball]. You’re playing with four other guys. When things are working really well, it’s like a team with good chemistry. With Pearl Jam, it’s like playing with the ’88 Lakers.” Matt Cameron: the virtuoso. Born in 1962. Raised in San Diego. Best songs: “The Fixer,” “You Are.” Worst song: “Evacuation.” Typical quote: “‘Limo Wreck’ [Soundgarden] is just your average 15/8 dirge.”

Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

14 June 1987

The next few years will see the ultra-heavy rock of Seattle rival the Motor City scene of the early ’70s. I believe that bands like Green River and Soundgarden are every bit as great as the Stooges and the MC5. To prove my point, I’ve borrowed $2,000 from my Dad to help Green River put out their latest EP, Dry as a Bone (Sub Pop). For me, songs like “This Town” and “PCC” are as hard and heavy as anything I’ve ever heard. Please buy this record so I can pay my Dad back!* April 1989 The post-Guns N’ Roses era is upon us. In the wake of the astounding success the group has had with its brutal, take-no-prisoners rock, others are choosing to follow the same path. Case in point: Mother Love Bone. There are similarities between the bands, but the main difference is the one that separates the innovator from the imitator. There are a few decent ideas scattered about the LP, and lead singer Andrew Wood is certainly rough enough. But this is mostly filled with the kind of angry lyrics and jagged-edge guitars on which the Gunners hold the current patent. GRADE: C. December 1990 Heavy metal, the past decade, has become a genre of music given over to spandex-clad clowns spewing forth mile-a-minute guitar solos … Seattle’s Alice in Chains, at a homecoming concert Saturday night at the Moore Theater, look to be one of several eye-catching exceptions to the conventions of wretched excess. Although they share some elements with established hard-rock acts, the group has more in common with Seattle’s alternative rock “grunge” movement than it does with conventional heavy metal. Ironically enough, Alice in Chains gave a better representation of the Seattle Sound than those that should have: opening band Mookie Blaylock. It features Stone Gossard and Jeff Ament, who were in another seminal grunge band, Green River … However, the music leaned more toward bad ’70s country rock (Bad Company comes to mind) than the punk-metal angst of Green River or the flamboyant grooves of Mother Love Bone. Not even a cameo appearance by Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell and Matt Cameron made Blaylock interesting.

The Cast February 1991 Mookie Blaylock has a concert tonight in Los Angeles. Huh? Mookie Blaylock’s sound is often compared to the rock band, U2. Double huh? The Nets’ unassuming point guard is a rock star? Not quite. Believe it or not, there are two Mookie Blaylocks. One plays for New Jersey and the other is the name of a new Seattle band. But why did they choose Mookie Blaylock? “We needed a name to tour and it sounded cool,” said Jeff Ament, the bassist for Mookie Blaylock and a former all-state point guard in high school. “We tried being different by going for the underdog. If we were Magic Johnson, it would be too typical.” Bad news. Mookie Blaylock is an interim name. The band has an album due out in June and is deciding on a new name. Ament said it won’t be Daron O’Shea Blaylock. That’s Mookie’s real name and it’s not cool enough. December 1991 It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the most-awaited show this week is a threetiered offering that brings the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana, and Pearl Jam to the Del Mar Fairgrounds on Saturday. Keyed by the manic mayhem of bassist Flea, the Peppers do not so much perform as assault. The band’s indelicate balance of visual and musical outrageousness sometimes threatens to teetertotter out of control, but skill and sincerity lend purpose to what otherwise is the sensual equivalent of a curbside mugging. Meanwhile, Nirvana’s punky riff-rocking has made it a rave of the alternative netherworld, and Pearl Jam—one of the most hyped bands of the year—has a local connection in vocalist Eddie Vedder, a former San Diegan. The fun starts at 7 p.m. February 1992 It can be mind-boggling to try to put into words how you suddenly feel about a band who you know are going to have a radical effect on your life, or at least alter your perception of the power of music. If music is a big part of your life, it’s the same difference. It’s Big and Important, and both your head and your heart want each other to sort it out. But watching Vedder sing those songs, the way his eyeballs roll back into his skull, his lips stretched across his face in a rictus grin, his teeth clenched like they’re going to shatter … how can he feel such hurt

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and hate, and still make such soulful, uplifting music? There’s the mystery. That’s Pearl Jam. Love this band. April 1992 His favorite target is Pearl Jam, also from Seattle, which he accused of “corporate, alternative and cock-rock fusion” in a recent Musician magazine interview. “Every article I see written about them, they mention us, and they’re baiting that fact,” says Cobain, sitting up cross-legged on the bed. “I would love to be erased from my association with that band and other corporate bands like the Nymphs and a few other felons. I do feel a duty to warn the kids of false music that’s claiming to be underground or alternative. They’re jumping on the alternative bandwagon.” May 1993 From Marc Jacobs’ laughable “something grungy, something new” vibe … to J. Crew’s mail-order weekend grunge uniform, what these pretenders don’t get is that the most uncool thing in rock right now is Pearl Jam. Now that the mall rats have been invited in, there’s a huge grunge backlash brewing; and for those  caught in the crossfire, it’ll be harsher than a stage-diving combat boot to the head. October 1993 They haven’t built that Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, yet, but when they do, they’d better save a room for Vedder. He’s got all the rock-idol moves down. Does he have a painful, shadowy past? Check. Does he have an air of danger and sensuality reminiscent of Jim Morrison? You bet. Does he refuse to adopt the trappings of a rock star, thus demonstrating that he’s such a genuine article he doesn’t need stardom? Absolutely. Is he happy to be on the cover of TIME? No way. February 1994 Eddie Vedder, yep, he’s Mr. Torture, Mr. Misery; he’s so corny you want to put butter and salt on him. But you know what? He’s new not because he’s doing something that’s never been done before, but because it’s so absolutely clear to so many people that he’s doing something he’s never done before. And he doesn’t know how it’s going to turn out—he doesn’t know how the song

The Cast is going to end. And do you know how that translates? This way: he’s new because people recognize he’s someone they haven’t seen before and might not see again. It’s a little scary, you understand? Liz Phair you’ve seen all your life, in every commercial on TV. She leaves, she’ll still be there. But you get the feeling Eddie Vedder could disappear at any time, and if he did, he’d just be really gone. June 1994 A Ticketmaster spokesman dismisses Pearl Jam’s move as a “brilliant marketing ploy” to sell records and says the firm “operates fully within the parameters of all applicable laws.” Ticketmaster’s practices were reviewed in 1991 when the Justice Department’s antitrust division allowed the firm to buy certain assets from a competitor. “The White House is impressed by Pearl Jam’s commitment to its fans,” says George Stephanopoulos, senior adviser to the President for policy and strategy. “We want to make it very clear that we can’t judge the merits of the band’s allegations against Ticketmaster or prejudge the Justice Department’s action in any way. But that said, we think the goal of making concert ticket prices affordable is a laudable one. It’s something we believe in.” November 1994 Vedder has tried to be that good guy to his fans—sometimes spending hours after a show talking to them or even giving out his home phone number on a radio call-in show so that they can reach him. But some of the fans are unrelenting. They write him or try to catch up to him on the road, asking for money or help with their problems. “There’ll be fans standing outside the arena screaming and he’s nice to 95 people, but he finally has to leave and the 96th person says, ‘You’re an asshole.’ It bothers him. He feels he has let someone down.” February 1995 Eddie Vedder’s home was recently broken into by a crazed Pearl Jam fan— according to Mike Watt, whose Ball-Hog or Tugboat? album features a guest appearance from Vedder among many other celebrities. During his [Melody] Maker interview last week, Watt claimed: “Eddie told me that a lady broke into his house a few days ago—burned the front door,

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raided the refrigerator and wouldn’t get out. He had to call the police. Most punk rockers don’t have to deal with that! But Eddie got on the phone with her psychiatrist before he called the police. That’s the kind of guy Eddie is, but people aren’t going to know that unless they meet him. He’s really a down-toearth guy who kind of won the lottery. His band got all big, but I think he’d still be the same kind of guy if his band hadn’t gotten big.” However, spokesmen for both Seattle police and Pearl Jam’s label, Epic, denied all knowledge of the incident last week. June 1995 Neil Young went from guest to fill-in at a Pearl Jam concert when singer Eddie Vedder walked off with the flu. Vedder called it quits after six songs Saturday night at Golden Gate Park. He had been treated at a hospital emergency room a few hours before the show. “I just went through the worst 24 hours of my life,” he told the crowd of about 50,000. Young played for one-and-a-half hours, mixing classics with new songs. There was no mistaking the crowd’s disappointment. “We want to know where the hell Eddie is,” said Lissa Harrison of Dublin, California. “We don’t care if he’s puking. I didn’t go to Neil Young. I came to Pearl Jam.” Bass player Jeff Ament was booed at the end of the two-hour set when he tried to apologize. January 1996 “If This is Seattle Then Where’s Eddie’s House” is available by writing to: Ann Druffner, 2300 Lincoln Park West, No. 812, Chicago, Illinois 60614, USA ($4 each, $6 for two). Whether the various band members whose past steps are retraced will receive the fanzine quite as warmly is unlikely—but (with the exception of Courtney Love) no present addresses are included for any of them. But this has already caused Pearl Jam guitarist Mike McCready to comment: “It’s a terrible idea. Do you realize how many psychopaths and deviant, destructive people there are out there? This has to stop for all of our collective existences. Our band will not exist if things like this continue.”

The Cast November 1996 Vedder seemed to be a ready-made poster boy for the disaffected grunge generation: a disgruntled rebel whose agonized lyrics and raw-throated, rageful singing sprang from an unhappy childhood and an alienated and lonely adolescence … But according to those who knew Vedder before his fame, the singer’s rise was hardly the result of happenstance. “He knows what this whole biz is all about,” says a friend from Vedder’s days before he joined Pearl Jam. “He’s not some kind of little, lost soul who writes great songs.” By many accounts, Vedder’s rise was a concerted effort that was propelled by his flair for self-invention and self-dramatization, his relentless drive to be heard and a steely determination to control his public image. “He is a master manipulator of the people and situations around him,” says a source at Epic. “And he’s a master manipulator of his own image.” December 1997 Pearl Jam fans won’t be able to buy the rock group’s new Epic Records album until February 3, but all they needed to sample nearly half the album’s songs for free this month was a little computer savvy. The development—reportedly the first time such a large portion of an unreleased album by a superstar act has been “pirated” on the internet—raises major questions about how record companies will be able to combat bootlegging in the Computer Age. “There are a lot of implications here as to what’s going to happen in the future,” said [Michael] Goldberg. “Once a large number of people have cable modems, there’s going to come a point where people could be passing around very high-quality versions of songs in e-mail. I’m sure record companies are pulling their hair out about this.” September 1998 When Pearl Jam began the current leg of its tour on a fateful Monday last month, the day President Clinton testified before a grand jury, the band altered the lyrics to perhaps its best-known song, “Jeremy.” “The president spoke in court today,” Eddie Vedder sang. At the same show, Pearl Jam played a clip of Clinton’s speech on national television not long after

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it was broadcast live. Vedder read other excerpts from the speech and added his own editorial remark. “I have one word to say,” he said: “Consensual.” But he also dedicated “Better Man” in the encore to Bill and Hillary Clinton. His parting advice to the audience: “Behave like rock stars, not like the president.” A night later, in East Lansing, Michigan, Vedder dedicated “Dissident” “to a girl named Monica.” The following night, in Montreal, he echoed Pink Floyd in adding a verse to his song “Daughter”: “President, leave those kids alone.” December 1999 When the glass started breaking and the crowd turned on Niketown, one of Seattle’s most enduring and powerful bands were hunkered down in the studio. On November 30 the W.T.O. met in the city. So too did a massive coalition of liberals, anti-corporate activists, trade unionists, eco-terrorists, and radical shitstirrers: a demonstration that, with a certain beautiful inevitability, escalated into a riot. “I was really proud of our town,” recalls Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder. “I mean, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but it turned out to be a real positive thing. It’s so important that people were motivated to cause such a ruckus, because it starts to make you feel crazy if you’re thinking about things it seems like nobody else is.” Mike McCready calls Seattle “a weird city. They pay lip service to being creative and artistic, but there’s also a huge conservative element. It’s all that Microsoft money. It’s just sick. There’s this new money that tries to think they’re kinda old money and it’s just like, ‘Give me a fucking break! You’re not!’” “We went from what seemed fairly bohemian ten years ago, there was a real nice energy about it,” reminisces Vedder. “It’s funny if you’re in a travelling band or out of town for two months. You come back and whole streets have changed.” June 2000 It had rained all day on the 50,000 mostly young people who gathered Friday on this farm about 25 miles west of the Danish capital Copenhagen, on the second day of the four-day Roskilde music festival. But the rain only added to the festive atmosphere at one of Europe’s longest-running and biggest music

The Cast shows, which drew 170 performers including Willie Nelson, Lou Reed, and Iron Maiden. Just before midnight, the carnival atmosphere turned to horror after the Seattle band Pearl Jam took the stage. Thousands of fans surged forward. Eddie Vedder, the band’s charismatic lead singer, recognized the danger and urged the crowd to back off. Police said the crush of bodies left nine young men dead, three fans seriously injured and 26 more requiring hospital treatment. Among the dead were Danish, German, Swedish and Dutch victims, police said. They were all in their teens or twenties. August 2000 The members of rock band Pearl Jam, in self-imposed seclusion since nine fans were killed during their June 30 performance in Denmark, have broken their silence to defend their actions at the show and demand that authorities investigate the tragedy more closely. In response to reports that a preliminary Danish police investigation had found Pearl Jam “morally responsible” for the tragedy, Pearl Jam said: “We feel we are morally responsible to bring out the truth with regard to what happened that night.” November 2000 A coalition of distinguished American citizens has come together to fight the growing Nader menace … Don Henley probably spoke for all of them when he said he was particularly incensed upon learning that “grunge” rocker Eddie Vedder was supporting the Nader candidacy. “When I heard he was singing ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’,’ well, that just did it for me. It’s time to speak out. Tipper’s the Grateful Dead’s number-one fan. She’s even a rocking drummer herself.” Another rocker said: “It just steams me when I see him strumming a guitar. That’s the instrument we used to end the war in Vietnam, to end segregation, to save the environment, and now he’s using it to wreck the Democratic Party.” Vedder, who became something of a cult figure as a member of the band Pearl Jam, a band noted for its dark and depressing lyrics and loud, dissonant guitars, was unavailable for comment. But there was plenty of comment on the street after a modest Nader rally attracting an estimated 10,000 people. Young twenty-somethings with every hair color this reporter has ever seen were all too eager to share their beliefs.

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

22 June 2001

Grunge survivors Pearl Jam are in the middle of releasing official bootlegs of every show of their 2000 tour, 72 in all. Already the avalanche of albums has made some chart history. When the first 25 albums were released, last fall, five entered the Billboard 200 simultaneously. Not only was it the first time any act had more than one live album on the chart at the same time, it was the first time five titles from one artist made their debuts on the Billboard chart the same week (leading in sales were concerts in Katowice, Poland; Milan; Verona; London; and Hamburg). Two more titles missed the chart by fewer than 1,000 copies: Manchester, England, and Cardiff, Wales. Pearl Jam broke its own record when 23 live albums from the first leg of the US tour were released in February. That time, seven of the titles hit the charts simultaneously. The release has been problematic for retailers, many of whom haven’t been able to find space for all 72 titles. September 2001 The star-studded telethon Friday to raise funds for victims of the September 11 terrorist attacks prompted more than $150 million in pledges, organizers said last night. The telecast, titled “America: A Tribute to Heroes,” drew an average audience of 59 million. Stripped of celebrity vanity and typical Hollywood pomposity, the two-hour telecast was an eloquent expression of sorrow that presenter Tom Hanks called “a simple show of unity.” Among the most affecting moments were an emotional Neil Young performing John Lennon’s “Imagine,” and Paul Simon singing “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” his song that only last week was taken off the airwaves for fear it might cause additional distress to listeners. Also taking part were Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam, who performed “The Long Road,” a song he recorded with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the late Pakistani singer who helped lead a surge of US interest in Middle Eastern music. March 2002 Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder put everyone in the punk frame of mind at Monday night’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductions when he came out on stage to introduce Dee Dee, Tommy, Johnny, and Marky Ramone, while sporting a mohawk and drinking a bottle of wine.

The Cast “Yeah, I do have a mohawk, and no, I didn’t get it for this exalted event. It stemmed from my frustration with bombings and world events and I took it out on my own hair,” Vedder said before introducing the Ramones. “Something very unusual is happening here tonight, and that is this industry is paying some respect to the Ramones,” said Vedder in a long, rambling speech, which he interrupted twice to swill on a bottle of wine. April 2003 Incensed fans walked out of Pearl Jam’s concert after lead singer Eddie Vedder impaled a mask of President Bush on a microphone stand and then slammed it to the stage. Most of Vedder’s anti-war remarks earlier in the Pepsi Center show were greeted with mixed cheers and scattered boos. But dozens of angry fans walked out during the encore because of the macabre display with the Bush mask, which he wore for the song “Bushleaguer,” a Bush-taunting song from the band’s latest album, Riot Act. “When he was sharing his political views in a fairly benign matter, supporting our troops, opposing policy, that’s okay,” said Keith Zimmerman of Denver. “When he takes what looks like the head of George Bush on a stick, then throws it to the stage and stomps on it, that’s just unacceptable. I love Pearl Jam, but that was just way over the edge. We literally got up and left.” November 2004 So much for rockin’ the vote. Democratic presidential hopeful John Kerry, backed by such rock heavyweights as Bruce Springsteen, R.E.M., Pearl Jam, John Mellencamp, and Green Day had celebrity firmly on his side entering Tuesday’s election. And, it was presumed, he would have the considerable and heavily sought fanbase of those acts in his corner. US voters, however, failed to “vote for change,” as Springsteen and friends had implored, and all the endorsements failed to boost the elusive youth vote. Had rock’s political clout been overestimated, or did Kerry’s much-publicized alliance with the rock camp actually backfire on the Democrats, leading to a second term for George W. Bush? September 2005 A crowded two days of televised fundraising for Hurricane Katrina relief concluded Saturday with a surprisingly low-key, four-hour-plus telethon

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by MTV and its sister channels VH1 and CMT. “ReAct Now: Music & Relief ” proceeded in a generally muted manner, as performers such as Neil Young,  Alicia Keys,  the  Red  Hot Chili Peppers and Alan Jackson played in front  of small,  subdued audiences on stages in New York, Los Angeles and Nashville. Nearly all the performances were offered with little comment on the government’s response to the flood victims. Rapper Kanye West, whose criticism of President Bush and the media during NBC’s telethon September 2 sparked widespread controversy, performed an apolitical song Saturday, the inspirational “Touch the Sky,” and made no remarks. But Pearl Jam’s singer Eddie Vedder, long a critic of the Bush administration, prefaced the band’s taped performance by saying, “Personally we feel that our government should be the ones that are able to take care of the situation. But sometimes you find that it’s the people of our own nation that have to rise and take care of one another.” May 2006 Every few years or so, as Pearl Jam prepare for the grand unveiling of their latest  opus, everyone gets re-inundated with PR promises of the old grunge gods  breaking free from their self-imposed confines for a grand “return to form,”  and told that, “No, really, this time they’ve proven themselves as something  more than just the band that launched a thousand Candleboxes.” Yet while Pearl Jam have outlasted virtually all of their grunge contemporaries, they’ve hardly ever strayed from the classicist approach that brought them into the rock world back in ’91. August 2007 A live internet broadcast of Pearl Jam’s performance at Chicago’s Lollapalooza music festival Sunday went off without a hitch—until singer Eddie Vedder criticized President Bush. Lyrics critical of the president didn’t make it past editors of the show’s webcast. The performance, sponsored by AT&T Inc., and carried on AT&T’s “Blue Room” site, omitted the lyrics, “George Bush, leave this world alone,” and “George Bush, find yourself another home” as part of a version of the song “Daughter.” An AT&T spokeswoman confirmed the omission Wednesday, saying that it had been a mistake made by someone working for an agency hired by AT&T.

The Cast June 2009 When rumors about Pearl Jam filming a Target commercial directed by Cameron Crowe started swirling around the web yesterday, it seemed like a troubling possibility. Would the same independent-minded band that challenged Ticketmaster back in the day go with an exclusive Target deal for the release of their next album now that they’re no longer signed to Sony? Well, yes and no. According to a Billboard report, Target and Pearl Jam have a deal to sell the group’s new album—tentatively titled Backspacer and due in the fall—but that’s not the only place you will find the record. Apparently, the label-less LP will be distributed by an assortment of partners, including “an online retailer, a mobile partner, a gaming company and a network or possibly networks of indie retail stores.” New model alert! August 2011 After nearly two decades in prison for the murder of three young boys, Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin, and Jessie Misskelley Jr., commonly known as the West Memphis Three, stood up in a courtroom here on Friday, proclaimed their innocence even as they pleaded guilty, and, minutes later, walked out as free men. The freeing of Mr. Echols, 36, was the highest-profile release of a death row inmate in recent memory. Mr. Baldwin, 34, and Mr. Misskelley, 36, had been serving life sentences. At a news conference afterward, surrounded by lawyers and treated as celebrities by their army of supporters, including the singer Eddie Vedder and members of the Dixie Chicks, the men seemed, above all, exhausted. “I’m just tired,” Mr. Echols said. “This has been going on for 18 years.” September 2012 Eddie Vedder rejected Mitt Romney’s recent characterization of 47 percent of Americans as people who see themselves as victims who don’t pay income taxes. “It’s very upsetting to hear a presidential candidate be so easily dismissive of such a ginormous amount of the population,” Vedder said yesterday at a fundraiser for President Obama in Tampa, Florida. Vedder, who played a short set for Obama at the home of singer-songwriter Don Miggs and Lisa DeBartolo, shared his own story of how government programs helped him.

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“I’m an example of someone who never made it to university,” Vedder told the small crowd. “I did have this dream to be a musician. I felt that this dream had an expiration date.” He went on to recall signing up for a government security guard training program, which led to a midnight shift and position as security supervisor at a petroleum company. October 2013 Pearl Jam ceased long ago to be a band that makes records with any sense of occasion to them. So if you’ve been paying any attention to their activities over the past decade, you already know what to expect from Lightning Bolt. Like 2009’s Backspacer before it (and 2006’s Pearl Jam before it, and 2002’s Riot Act before it), it begins with a spirited sprint before sputtering out and winding up in dullsville. The feeling of déjà vu is compounded by the strip-mined subject matter, as Eddie Vedder explores familiar themes of family strife and domestic unrest while once again celebrating the therapeutic powers of surfing and listening to music on vinyl. The Pearl Jam mythos as it exists today is undeniably wrapped up in their notoriously epic live shows, wherein the band is famous for loosening up and stretching out, but for whatever reason, that adventurous ethos rarely translates to their increasingly mannered albums. Pearl Jam on record have essentially been reduced to the rock and roll version of wearing sweatpants: they’ve given up trying to impress anyone, so they may as well be comfortable. July 2014 Eddie Vedder has brushed aside the controversy over his recent comments said to be regarding the conflict in Israel and Gaza. “Imagine that—I’m still anti-war,” the Pearl Jam singer wrote in a statement. “[War] hurts no matter which sides the bombs are falling on.” Vedder was apparently surprised by the furor over his remarks at a July 11 concert in Milton Keynes. “I swear to fucking God, there are people out there who are looking for a reason to kill,” he said that night, midway through a performance of the song “Daughter.” “They’re looking for a reason to go across borders and take over land that doesn’t belong to them. They should get the fuck out and mind their own fucking business … We don’t want to give them our taxes to drop bombs on children.”

The Cast Although Vedder and Pearl Jam never overtly referenced Israel, Gaza, or even the Middle East, the Jerusalem Post branded his monologue a “harsh anti-Israel diatribe.” Pro-Israeli fans flooded Pearl Jam’s Facebook page, criticizing the speech, while Israeli rock DJ Ben Red published an open letter telling Vedder to stay away from Israel now that his “true face has finally been revealed.” November 2014 Paralyzed from the chest down, the Iraq War veteran is seen in a 2007 documentary film taking dozens of pills for spasms, pain, and depression. He speaks agonizingly about his sexual problems. Viewers watch him marry and, eight months later, divorce. In the film, Body of War, Tomas Young is the body. Co-directed by the television personality Phil Donahue, the film sought to show, through Mr. Young, the devastating human cost of a war that the filmmakers argued should have never been fought. Eddie Vedder of the rock group Pearl Jam volunteered to write and perform two songs for the film. Mr. Young died at 34 on November 10 at his home in Seattle. When asked the cause, his mother, Cathy Smith, said, “His body just wore out.” While Mr. Young was in a rehab center in Chicago, he met Claudia Cuellar, who had volunteered to visit hospitalized veterans to cheer them up. Though his condition had deteriorated, they wed on April 20, 2012. He decided against suicide. The couple moved to Portland, Oregon, because medical marijuana was available there. They then moved to Seattle, partly because Mr. Young had come to regard Mr. Vedder, who lives there, as a friend. January 2017 While millions of Americans watched Barack Obama’s farewell address on screens, an estimated 18,000 went in person to McCormick Place, in Chicago, to see the president’s last speech. Opening for POTUS was none other than Pearl Jam front man and Illinois native, Eddie Vedder. During the set, Vedder performed with the help of the Chicago Children’s Choir. He and the ensemble offered renditions of Vedder’s “Rise” from the Into The Wild soundtrack, “People Have the Power” by Patti Smith, “Something Inside So Strong” by Labi Siffre, and “Rockin’ in the Free World” by Neil Young.

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

28 March 2018

Pearl Jam dedicated the debut performance of their new song “Can’t Deny Me” to the survivors of the Parkland, Florida, school shooting and the students taking part in today’s National School Walkout. Performing at Movistar Arena on Tuesday, Eddie Vedder addressed the crowd in Spanish. “This is dedicated to the incredible students in Florida, and the United States, who survived a terrible tragedy. We will all be protesting tomorrow throughout the United States,” Vedder said before honoring one of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School’s most vocal students. “We support you all, and Emma Gonzalez, we love you. We’d like to play this for them, and us.” On Tuesday, students across America exited their respective schools at 10 a.m. local time for seventeen minutes to show solidarity with the seventeen victims of the Stoneman Douglas shooting as well as protest the government’s inaction to curb gun violence and prevent future school shootings. June 2018 This week, First Lady Melania Trump caused a stir when she wore a jacket saying, “I Really Don’t Care. Do U?” while visiting children separated from their parents at the US-Mexico border. A representative for the first lady initially contended that it was “just a jacket. There was no hidden message.” Her husband said otherwise. Whatever the case, opponents of Trump and his no-tolerance immigration policy have begun to repurpose the jacket in a form of protest. Last night, during Pearl Jam’s concert in Milan, Italy, Eddie Vedder’s wife, Jill, modeled a jacket saying, “Yes We All Care. Y Don’t U?” Eddie Vedder dedicated a song to Donald Trump at the band’s London show earlier this week. Before playing “Love Boat Captain,” the front man said: “I would like him to hear it but he doesn’t listen to music or read books.” August 2018 In their bid to unseat Senator Jon Tester, Democrat of Montana, Republicans have seized on a new controversy: an apocalyptic poster depicting a dead President Trump that promoted a Pearl Jam concert raising money for Tester’s campaign. While there has been no suggestion that Tester had input on the poster’s design, Republicans are criticizing the red-state Democrat for failing

The Cast to condemn its content. “In a state Trump won by 20 points, Senator Tester’s silence … is quickly showing Montanans there’s no stoop too low for him when it comes to attacking President Trump and his supporters,” Calvin Moore, a spokesman for the National Republican Senate Committee, said in a statement Wednesday, two days after the concert. According to local accounts, Pearl Jam front man Eddie Vedder paused halfway through Monday’s concert on the University of Montana campus to tout Tester’s candidacy and urge fans to vote. “There is one crowd size that we would be proud of, and that we would brag about,” Vedder said, taking a dig at Trump’s claims about the crowd size at his inauguration. “And that is if the state of Montana had the largest youth vote, the largest crowd, that came together in this upcoming election. That I would brag about all [expletive] day.” March 2020 Pearl Jam have postponed all their upcoming Gigaton US tour dates because of the ongoing spread of the coronavirus. The tour was supposed to kick off March 18 at the Scotiabank Arena in Toronto and wrap up April 19 at the Oakland Arena in Oakland, California, but it will now take place at some indeterminate point in the future. “We’ve worked hard with all our management and business associates to find other solutions or options but the levels of risk to our audience and their communities is simply too high for our comfort level,” they wrote in a statement. “Add to that we also have a unique group of passionate fans who travel far and wide. We’ve always been humbled by this and respect their energies and devotion. However in this case, travel is something to avoid.” “It certainly hasn’t helped that there’s been no clear messages from our government regarding people’s safety and our ability to go to work,” they continued. “Having no examples of our national health department’s ability to get ahead of this, we have no reason to believe that it will be under control in the coming weeks ahead.”

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A Dozen Moments in the Prehistory of Pearl Jam*

1964. On Friday, August 21, The Beatles gave their first concert in Washington state. They played to 14,000 fans at the Seattle Center Coliseum, where Pearl Jam would play two classic shows, in November 2000. In the days before the band’s arrival, Woolworth’s was offering Beatle wigs, bobbleheads, trading cards, and LPs, announcing, “It’s a mad fad, dad,” in the local paper. Scalpers were commanding $30 for the $5 tickets. That evening, the band took the stage at 9:25. They played for twenty-nine minutes, including twelve songs, and ending with “Long Tall Sally.” During the concert, hundreds of teenage girls rushed the stage, only to be intercepted by a barrier of security and police. A girl who had managed to climb up above the stage fell and landed in front of Ringo’s drum riser. Thirty-five people would require medical treatment. After the concert, The Beatles were taken to the Edgewater Inn Hotel in the rear of an ambulance. A 350-foot plywood fence covered in barbed wire had been built around the hotel, and arrangements were made for the harbor patrol to prevent seaworthy Beatle fans from approaching the building by boat. (In later years, the Edgewater became the lodging of choice for touring bands, as immortalized in Frank Zappa’s “Mudshark,” and its account of a Led Zeppelin groupie.) MacDougall’s department store bought up the carpet from the rooms the Beatles had stayed in, and sold it in little pieces to fans. Thirty years later—during the tour that his band, King’s X, would open for Pearl Jam—guitarist Ty Tabor would remember: It was like absolute Beatlemania. Like nothing I’d ever seen before. When they would leave the gig, there would be cops lined up—like with The Beatles—on both sides of the walkway, holding people back with all their might, and Eddie would run to the open door of the van, while people would try to pull his hair out and his clothes off. That was his existence. He’d spend time hanging out with

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense Jerry [Gaskill]’s son, Jerrimy, who was on tour with us at the time, roadie-ing. They would skateboard around the venue, hanging out. And I think that was like a real relief for Eddie—to have a second of normality. Because, I’m telling you, what was surrounding those guys was complete Beatlemania—just like the movies. Out-of-control insanity. So they lived and hibernated in the venues in the little world they created for themselves. And we were there for a little bit.

*** 1969. Seattle’s largest employer, Boeing, has a drastic decline in business. Commercial airplane orders had plummeted. Oil prices and a global recession prompt the company to shed more than half of its workforce. In three years, the company lays off 60,000 people. Homes in neighborhoods such as Capitol Hill sit empty and abandoned. So many people leave the city that a billboard near the airport asks: “Will the last person leaving Seattle—turn out the lights?” The sign appears in April 1971, the same month a new company, Starbucks, opens its first store downtown. *** 1974. Gilbert Youth Research, a Madison Avenue marketing firm, surveys 2,500 young people, finding that “a surprising number—15.4%—are smuggling their tape recorders into concerts to get their own live performances on tape.” *** 1977. Eddie Vedder, twelve years old, sees his first concert, in Chicago: Bruce Springsteen, at the Auditorium Theatre. He sits in the uppermost balcony, in the very last row. Next time, he thinks, he’s going to be closer to the stage—as he tells the audience, at the very same theater, in 2008. My uncle took me: Springsteen at the Auditorium Theatre, in the last row. It was a vinyl seat with hay coming out of it. I thought it was the greatest thing of my life. It was a really long show, but I didn’t want to leave. When all the lights came up, some people were still there, and I thought, “He might still come out, right? How cool would that be if he played for just the fifteen people here?” I sat there for a half hour, waiting.

The concert instills a lifelong practice. At almost every Pearl Jam show, there’s invariably a moment when Ed will acknowledge the people in the cheap seats: play for them; and make certain they know they’re being seen. Four songs in, at the Auditorium Theatre, Springsteen delivers a monologue. “I grew up in this small town, was about 10,000 people. Was about twenty miles,

A Dozen Moments in the Prehistory of Pearl Jam

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twenty miles in from the shore.” He tells the audience about his family: his mother, a secretary who worked for a lawyer downtown; and his father, a figure who looms larger in his psyche than any other. Springsteen: My pop he used to, as long as I can remember he used to sit in the kitchen with all the lights out. He’d turn out all the lights in the house except for the TV—my mother would sit in the living room with the TV on—and he’d sit in the kitchen and he’d drink a six-pack of beer and smoke cigarettes in the dark. Just sit there thinking all night. He’d lock up the front door so that when me and my sister came in, we’d have to come in around the back door. I remember I’d come in off that bus and I’d walk through town, and I’d walk through town again, and I’d walk through town, keep walking around until I finally found myself in my driveway. I’d stand there, and he’d have the door open and through the screen, just through the darkness I could see the light of his cigarette. And I’d stand there and I’d slick my hair back real tight so he couldn’t tell how long it was, and I finally step up to the porch and try to make it through the kitchen before he caught me. If we came home early it wasn’t too bad, but if we stayed out … if we stayed out real late and came in late in the morning, he’d still be sitting there, waiting for us, and he’d wait just ’til I got to the end of the stairs and he’d call my name and I’d come back and sit down with him at that table. I remember we’d sit there in the dark, sit there in the dark and I could always hear his voice, but I could never see his face.

At that moment, Clarence Clemons interrupts with a burst of saxophone. Bruce continues, recounting his own self-creation: “Telling ’em, telling ’em, telling ’em, it was my life and I was going to do what I wanted to do.” Then, he begins to sing the opening of “It’s My Life,” by The Animals—interpreting the song in a way you hadn’t considered. The first-person confession; the family drama; the wellchosen cover—it’s almost like Ed is taking notes. The following year, Springsteen tells Rolling Stone: “There’s no halfway in most of the songs because I don’t approach what I do in that way. There’s just no room to compromise. I think, for most musicians, it has to be like life or death or else it’s not worth it. That’s why every night we play a real long time, and we play real hard. I want to be able to go home and say I went all the way tonight—and then I went a little further.” *** 1980. The Who kicks off a month-long tour of North America—their second, without Keith Moon—at the San Diego Sports Arena. That week, a new Pete Townshend single, “Let My Love Open the Door,” will enter the US charts, going

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

on to become his biggest hit. According to a fan site: “Trouble starts after the first show at the San Diego Sports Arena as Pete punches a wall and breaks several bones in his right hand. He has to wear a cast for the rest of the tour.” Ed is fifteen years old, and sitting somewhere in the arena, where Pearl Jam will play in 1995, 2000, and 2003. In 2006, he tells The Telegraph: “My adolescent heart couldn’t comprehend that that was Pete Townshend and Daltrey and Entwistle. They could’ve played like crap, and I’m sure I would’ve loved it … They weren’t just enigmatic; there was this energy that they put out. I listen back to bootlegs from around then, and I think it was a powerful time for them. After Keith’s passing, I think they came out with something to prove.” *** 1981. Fresh off the bestselling Damn the Torpedoes, Tom Petty is due to release a new album, when his label, MCA, announces a new policy: “superstar pricing,” adding a dollar to the regular price of $8.98. Petty would have none of it. He takes the issue into his own hands, and urges his fans to write letters; talks it up in the press; and at one point, threatens to call the album $8.98. Petty says he bears no ill will to MCA, but that the issue was symbolic of changes at large, telling The New York Times: “A lot of our fans have been with us for a long time, and I think they trust us. MCA has done a great job selling our records, but they couldn’t see the reality of what it’s like on the street—they couldn’t see that raising the album’s price wouldn’t be fair.” The label holds firm, pointing out that the hike had worked for Olivia NewtonJohn. Petty waits them out for months—saying, at one point: “If we don’t take a stand, one of these days, records are going to be $20.” To everyone’s surprise, it works, and MCA backs down. That summer, Rolling Stone puts Petty on the cover, wearing a suit, and tearing a dollar in half, next to the headline: “ONE MAN’S WAR AGAINST HIGH RECORD PRICES.” The following year, a young attorney, Fred Rosen, goes to work for a new company, by the name of Ticketmaster. *** 1982. Working with promoter Bill Graham, Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak presents the inaugural Us Festival: a three-day gathering in the mountains of San Bernardino, California, billed as the largest festival since Woodstock. Wozniak—then thirty-two, and on leave from the young company—meant for it to be a celebration of technology and music, and a response to the “Me Decade”: a utopian project, embodied in its name, and broadcast via satellite to the Soviet

A Dozen Moments in the Prehistory of Pearl Jam

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Union. In the service of his ideals, he would spend $13 million, and a year-anda-half, on the first year alone—what he would call “the Super Bowl of rock.” The performers for the first edition include the Ramones, Tom Petty, and The Police, who play for over 100,000 people—their biggest show to date. More than 425,000 people attend that weekend, including a young Ed, who buys a ticket, despite his reservations—mainly, to see Talking Heads, whom he watches from up front. After opening with “Psycho Killer,” they play “Love → Building on Fire,” which Ed will cover a few times, minus Pearl Jam. Introducing the band, during “Take Me to the River,” David Byrne says: “This is Dolette McDonald. Maybe you can see her on the TV screen. You sure can’t see her from where you’re standing. This is Bernie Worrell—this is Chris Frantz—[this is] the cameraman—this is Jerry Harrison.” Playing after the Ramones that day is a young British group called The Beat. (In the US, they’re called The English Beat.) Their third album, Special Beat Service, has just been released, along with a hit single: “Save it for Later,” written by the band’s guitarist, Dave Wakeling, when he was still a teenager. (It would soon be covered by his idol, Pete Townshend.) Asked about the song, Wakeling once said: I wrote it before The Beat started. And it was about turning from a teenager to someone in their 20s, and realizing that the effortless promise for your teenage years was not necessarily going to show that life was so simple as you started to grow up. So it was about being lost, about not really knowing your role in the world, trying to find your place in the world. So, you couldn’t find your own way in the world, and you’d have all sorts of people telling you this, that, and the other, and advising you, and it didn’t actually seem like they knew any better. So it was like keep your advice to yourself. Save it—for later.

Right around this time—still a teenager, himself—Ed writes a song with a similar vocal melody, chord progression, and theme. It’s also, in its way, about promise and disappointment—about being lost, and trying to find your place in the world—and will be recorded twelve years later: “Better Man.” *** 1983. Andy Wood’s band, Malfunkshun, is playing with the Circle Jerks and Hüsker Dü—only, at the last minute, the Circle Jerks cancel. A hardcore band from Montana—with a self-released cassette, entitled No Art, No Cowboys, No Rules— will step in. Their name is Deranged Diction. Their bassist, Jeff Ament, performed in eyeliner—and occasionally, a kilt. Their singer, Tom Kipp, remembered: “In Missoula, we wouldn’t have survived the night with any more makeup.”

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

“Deranged Diction were supposed to get $75 for the show,” Jeff recalled, “and when we went to get paid, the promoter looks at me and says, ‘I can’t pay you guys; we didn’t make enough money.’ And the place was packed. So he pays Hüsker Dü $500 and then just walks out. I was just totally bummed. And the guys from Hüsker Dü gave me two joints and $25, then the manager came in and gave us all the tip money for that night. I was just like: ‘We made fifty bucks!’” Ament catches the attention of Mark Arm, who had started Mr. Epp and the Calculations—described, on more than one occasion, as “the worst band in the world.” Mark invites Jeff to join his band—as he said, because Jeff could “jump real high,” and owned a working distortion box; Jeff politely declines. In time, they form Green River—so named, in homage to a local serial killer—playing their first show in 1984. Arm recalled: “Jeff was on a really big KISS kick, so at the first show, Jeff shows up with white makeup. I remember Steve [Turner] and I going, ‘That’s weird—where did that come from?’ I vaguely recalled Jeff talking about the possibility of makeup, but I thought he was joking.” After six months, they add a second guitarist: Stone Gossard, himself a KISS enthusiast, who had fashioned his own KISS platform shoes, complementing his bandmate’s billowing scarves and hair. Green River opens for the Dead Kennedys. Arm remembered: “I didn’t see any evidence of it, but apparently there was a group outside picketing based on our name. Okay, it’s the Dead Kennedys and the Crucifucks, and you’re picketing Green River?” They headline CBGB, to exactly six people: two employees, and four Japanese tourists. A fan site reports: “The venue staff liked Green River and was happy to do about anything for them, save for pay them money, as there was no door revenue.” *** 1984. Ed sees R.E.M. in Chicago, at the Aragon Ballroom. It’s fourteen months after the release of their debut LP, Murmur. The show is recorded by a local radio station, and included on the Reckoning anniversary reissue. “This song is for the guy that broke his leg coming in tonight, and went to the hospital, and came back,” Michael Stipe says, before “7 Chinese Bros.” In his induction of R.E.M. into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007, Ed says of the concert: It changed how I listen to music, and what I listen to—because after that, I just started listening to them exclusively. At that time, they only had oneand-a-half records. And, I’ve done the math, so I didn’t exaggerate, but—this record, Murmur—if I take three months over that summer of ’84, and do the

A Dozen Moments in the Prehistory of Pearl Jam

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math—Murmur runs at about forty-four minutes—I believe I listened to it 1,260 times. And one of the reasons I was listening so incessantly, is—I had to know— what he was saying.

*** 1985. Glenn Danzig’s band, Samhain, is playing in Detroit. Green River is opening. From a review: “This show was a disaster.” Jeff, in a 2000 interview: It’s Halloween, and we’re playing this place called the Graystone … and it’s Green River, and we’re kinda at our most glam, like Mark’s wearing his silver tights, I think wearing like a pink San Francisco T-shirt, and Stone’s got a big scarf wrapped around his neck. And people in the front were spitting at us. Like Mark would get right down at the edge of the stage, and this girl would like spit right in his face. So I put my foot down, kinda in front of her face. And her boyfriend from behind, like, grabbed me, pulled me off the stage, into the crowd, and I got pummeled! I was in the crowd with my bass, and I’m just getting like, beat to death. It was horrible. And then, I went up to get paid. After, you know, probably the most humbling experience ever, and Corey Rusk, who—he was in The Necros at that point, I was really excited to meet him, ’cause I loved The Necros, and runs Touch and Go now. He was the promoter for the show, we were supposed to make like $100, which was a huge payday for us at that point. He’s paying Danzig like $12,000, or whatever he was making that show. And I put my hand out, and he goes, “Man, I thought you guys sucked. I’m only giving you $25.” I just put my head down, and I’m like, I gotta go back and tell the band that we only made $25.

On the entire tour, the budget allowed for one night in a hotel—in Boston, where they were booked to open for the UK Subs. Unable to find a hotel for less than $100, they drove until they found a $60 room in the town of Tewksbury. They drove the twenty miles back to Boston, only to arrive at the club and find a sign on the door: SHOW CANCELED. “We drove out to Boston, called up Gerard Cosloy at Homestead, and he’s like, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, there’s no show in Boston,’” Arm said, laughing. *** 1986. Chris Cornell auditions for Mike McCready’s first band, Shadow. From a benefit concert review, by writer Dave O’Leary, in 2011: Before one song, McCready told the story of how Chris Cornell had once auditioned for Shadow and been rejected. Chris Cornell rejected. Said McCready: “Oops!” My how that might have changed the landscape of things

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense had Cornell joined Shadow. And Cornell remembered it later when Temple of the Dog was recording: “Man, I wasn’t sure what to think about you since you were one of those Shadow guys.” They’re friends now, but I can’t help but wonder what music we might have heard if McCready and Cornell had teamed up, if Pearl Jam and Soundgarden had never been. You never can tell which way things will go, if that person you meet and reject today might someday do something spectacular.

That same year, John Lydon—once of the Sex Pistols—is playing in Seattle with his band Public Image Ltd. Green River opens the show. Backstage, they hear the former Johnny Rotten, complaining, about his La-Z-Boy recliner. Onstage, a microphone is labeled: “J.L.’s mic.” Arm writes in: “M.A.’s mic.” At the end of their set—wearing a black negligee—he says: “Hey, if you ever wanna know what it’s like to become the thing you hated, ask the next band.” Before Lydon goes onstage, Green River lays waste to his dressing room, and absconds with the La-Z-Boy. Wine is poured; a deli tray, defenestrated. In response, Public Image writes a song, called “Seattle.” In 2010, Pearl Jam begins covering the group’s first single: “Public Image.” *** 1991. A young band—still named Mookie Blaylock—is attracting attention. “I just remember hearing about this amazing, intense singer,” said Kim Warnick, lead singer of the Fastbacks. “[The band was] getting lineups around the block.” But Warnick told Rolling Stone that the band was less popular with Seattle’s tastemakers. “From the beginning,” she said, “they were defined by their audience, which wasn’t punk. They were the ‘bogus’ suburban rock kids.” In January, AC/DC plays the Tacoma Dome, south of Seattle. King’s X is opening. Years later, their drummer, Jerry Gaskill, would remember: When we met the guys in Pearl Jam, they were just starting Pearl Jam, and Mother Love Bone was no more. They were not even Pearl Jam, yet. I think we were on tour with AC/DC, and Eddie Vedder came to a show, and he was backstage with us. They were still going by the name Mookie Blaylock. I remember Eddie talking to me, and I wasn’t really sure exactly who he was. I knew that he was playing with Jeff Ament and his band was about to happen. And he was asking me, “How do you do it, man? How do you get out there and make it happen?” He was talking to me like that! I think I said something to him like, “You just got to get out there, you just got to do it. You’ve got to be yourself and do it.” He figured it out, didn’t he?

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The Bacchanal, San Diego (November 21, 1989) There are no new waves, there is only the ocean. Jean-Luc Godard

From “The Rolling Stone Interview: John Lennon,” 1971: What did being from Liverpool have to do with your art? It was a port. That means it was less hick than someone in the English Midlands, like the American Midwest or whatever you call it. We were a port, the second biggest port in England, between Manchester and Liverpool. The North is where the money was made in the 1800s; that was where all the brass and the heavy people were, and that’s where the despised people were. We were the ones that were looked down upon as animals by the southerners, the Londoners. The northerners in the States think that people are pigs down south, and the people in New York think West Coast is hick. So we were hicksville. We were a great amount of Irish descent and blacks and Chinamen, all sorts there … There was nothing big in Liverpool; it wasn’t American. It was going poor, a very poor city, and tough. But people have a sense of humor because they are in so much pain, so they are always cracking jokes. They are very witty, and it’s an Irish place. It is where the Irish came when they ran out of potatoes, and it’s where black people were left or worked as slaves or whatever. It is cosmopolitan, and it’s where the sailors would come home with the blues records from America on the ships … I heard country & western music in Liverpool before I heard rock & roll. The people there—the Irish in Ireland are the same—they take their country & western music very seriously. There’s a big, heavy following of it. There were established folk, blues and country & western clubs in Liverpool before rock & roll, and we were like the new kids coming out.

***

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

“Music was shitty and then Nirvana came along.” This opinion—from the filmmaker Brett Morgen, in 2015—is unusual, only for its brevity. To read the books, or the interviews, or to watch the documentaries—you might conclude, quite reasonably, that Seattle—if not the state of Washington—had yet to see running water, before “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It makes almost no difference where you start: In the far northwest corner of America you’ll find Seattle, sheltered by the Cascade Mountains, cut off from anywhere by 2,000 miles of badlands, cornfields and the Wild West.* I remember the MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour used to always start with a map, with all these little pinpoint stars on it denoting where all the major-network PBS stations were all over the country. It always kind of shocked me to see the entire northwest quadrant … was BLACK except for one little star up there all by itself—and that was Seattle. Seattle isn’t a glamorous town at all. It was pretty pathetic. Very depressing. That’s where this music came out of. Grunge isn’t a music style. It’s complaining set to drop D tuning. Basically, it was geography. In those days, people thought the Northwest still had covered wagons and Indians. So if something was popular in the Northwest, they didn’t look at it the same as if it were number one in New York or Hollywood. It was mainly isolation. But that isolation was the reason why we could come up with such an original sound.

But Seattle has a history of musical innovation to rival almost anywhere in the United States—and the notion that it started with white people and guitars is ill-informed, at best. As early as 1910, Seattle was home to the largest vaudeville circuit in the country—hosting, among others, W.C. Handy, Bing Crosby, and Jelly Roll Morton, who composed his “Seattle Hunch” to remember the visit. It kept going all through Prohibition, as a lively jazz scene developed on Jackson Street. “Seattle was a music mecca at that time,” Quincy Jones wrote in his memoir: I was ready to explore all that it offered … You could find almost any style of music you wanted: bebop, blues, R&B, even Dixieland. Musicians came from everywhere to hang … Count Basie, Jimmie Lunceford, Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington, Louis Jordan, T-Bone Walker, Bull Moose Jackson, Joe “Honeydripper” Liggins—they roared through town almost every week to play at the Trianon Ballroom, the Civic Center, the Eagle Auditorium, and the Washington Social and Educational Club.

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In the book Jackson Street After Hours: The Roots of Jazz in Seattle, Paul de Barros writes: “Jazz often thrived in Seattle, as elsewhere, in what were perceived as ‘dives,’ in a black ghetto where gambling, prostitution, and illegal drinking were as central to the action as the music itself.” He continues: “The notion that something of cultural importance might be brewing outside the law, on the outskirts of respectability, was virtually inconceivable to the white reporters, editors, and cultural pundits who might have documented what was going on.” In writing about the history of early jazz in Seattle, “it became increasingly clear that a whole era had gone by unnamed, unhailed and unrecorded. Musicians famous and not so famous came and went, put down roots, influenced other musicians, started bands, ended them, had heydays and down days, but no one bothered to take notice or keep track.” Here is the producer Gordon Raphael, in an oral history of Green River: Seattle had a phenomenal underground music scene. In the late ’70s, it had an incredible confrontational scene going on with the Telepaths and the Feelings and all these really weird, obscure bands. Everybody who went to the shows knew each other, and they wore cool clothes and were very intellectual. Sometimes, they would show a Jean Cocteau film, and the band would play. It was super arty and subversive and heavily influenced by punk. The bands would play this one club, the Vogue, and one day a week, they had live bands play and 60 or 100 people at most would go see local bands.

And here is the composer Henry Cowell, writing in “Drums Along the Pacific” (1940): During the last two years an extraordinary interest in percussion music has developed on the Pacific coast. In Seattle, San Francisco, Oakland and Los Angeles, orchestras have been formed to play music for percussion instruments alone. They are directed chiefly by two young Western composers, John Cage and Lou Harrison, who have concocted innumerable creations for these instruments, and have induced others [to write for them].

In between—to name only a few—Quincy Jones, Ray Charles, Ernestine Anderson, Patti Bown, Lester Young, and Charlie Parker play the thirty-four clubs on Jackson Street; Thomas Beecham, the cantankerous conductor, is appointed to the symphony; Seattle Opera presents the first US Ring cycle; The Kingsmen record “Louie, Louie”; Anthony Ray (Sir Mix-a-Lot), Ishmael Butler, Judy Collins, William Bolcom, and—er—Kenny G are born; and a young Jimi Hendrix spends nineteen of his twenty-seven years.

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense

I’m barely skimming the surface. In 1937, the choreographer, Merce Cunningham—born in Centralia, ninety miles south—enrolls at the Cornish School of the Arts. He meets a young instructor, by the name of John Cage. During his two years in Seattle, Cage will invent electronic music; discover Zen Buddhism; and, in his spare time, create a new instrument: the “prepared” piano. It was in 1937 that Cage gave a lecture to the Seattle Sonic Arts Society, with a prediction: “I believe that the use of noise to make music will continue and increase until we reach a music produced through the aid of electrical instruments.” He even writes a piece—“Bacchanale,” for prepared piano—that would have been right at home on Vitalogy. (Maybe toward the end.) *** It is common to date the founding of Pearl Jam, not to their first album, but to the breakup of two bands—Green River (1984–88) and Mother Love Bone (1987–90)—whose lineups both featured Stone Gossard on guitar, and Jeff Ament on bass. In working with (future Mudhoney bandmates) Mark Arm and Steve Turner, in Green River—so the story goes—Stone and Jeff had their first small success, touring the US, and recording a few EPs and singles, before breaking up. Later, working with Bruce Fairweather (also in Green River), Gary Gilmore, and Andy Wood, they would have a second brush with fame, in Mother Love Bone. They signed with PolyGram—in Seattle’s largest-ever deal— and recorded Apple, their major-label debut, before Andy Wood’s death from an overdose on March 19, 1990. For many—as Chris Cornell observed in Pearl Jam Twenty—the defining event of the grunge era is not Kurt Cobain’s death, but Andy Wood’s. After the collapse of Mother Love Bone, Stone and Jeff go their separate ways. For a time, Jeff serves coffee at a Seattle espresso bar, and plays with a band called War Babies. Stone keeps writing. One day, he calls an acquaintance, Mike McCready—whom he had known off and on since the seventh grade—and asks if he wants to play. It was Mike, in turn, who suggested calling Jeff. They play in the attic, at Stone’s house, where they develop the songs for a demo. Green River begat Mother Love Bone, which begat Pearl Jam. This is the official account, as advanced in Cameron Crowe’s Pearl Jam Twenty, and in second-hand sources, like Kim Neely’s Five Against One: The Pearl Jam Story, or Greg Prato’s Grunge is Dead: The Oral History of Seattle Rock Music. This version has the benefit of honoring the departed. It sets up the “lightning strikes twice” motif, which Crowe repeatedly frames the story in: the fortuitous union

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of Mother Love Bone, and then Pearl Jam, in parallel tracks of convergence. But as Cameron Crowe (and the band itself) surely knows, it was a strained metaphor, at best: anyone wondering how Pearl Jam arrived at its sound will listen to Mother Love Bone and Green River in confusion, if not agony. *** It’s not quite fair to call Mother Love Bone and Green River excruciating, or unlistenable. It’s more precise to say they’re bands most people would run from, or avoid, unless they were writing a book about Pearl Jam. By their own account, the making of Rehab Doll, Green River’s debut LP, was derailed by infighting. (At one point, Jeff and Stone proposed Mark Arm take singing lessons—which suggests they were listening.) It was finished in early ’88, two months after most of the band had quit. Sadly, Mother Love Bone’s debut LP was also posthumous—Andy Wood died one month before Apple’s release—and, in sound, a relic of ’80s production. But even if both Rehab Doll and Apple weren’t duds, there’s not much getting around the fact—and it gives me no pleasure to say—that, aside from a song or two, Green River and Mother Love Bone were dismal, dubious, and abysmal bands. An often-unremarked facet of the grunge years is how bad—and frankly, godawful—most of the bands really were. (Sub Pop’s Jonathan Poneman, on Green River: “I thought they sucked … I just didn’t get it.” And that’s the guy who released their album.) Listen for yourself—almost none of it has aged well: The Fluid, The U-Men, The Melvins, Skin Yard, Seaweed, Malfunkshun, Tad, or Mudhoney—take your pick. What’s more, for every Jar of Flies, or Sweet Oblivion, there are twenty Rehab Dolls. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not speaking for anyone but myself—just my own deficiencies of interest. By all accounts, Andy Wood was the most charming of humans. But I still can’t make it through “Come Bite the Apple.” Yes, “Crown of Thorns” is a classic; and yes, the medley of “Chloe Dancer” takes both songs to greatness, especially at the words: Chloe don’t know better Chloe’s just like me, only beautiful

—but once those songs (and maybe “Stargazer”) are done, the catalog is a grim listen. There’s a reason why bands like Green River and Mother Love Bone are described by music writers as “seminal,” instead of “excellent” or “good.” As far as anyone can tell, the word means something like “not always pleasant, but early.”

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*** Where the examples of Mother Love Bone and Green River do bear relevance to the Pearl Jam story, it’s for reasons that are less musical than—let’s call it— philosophical. As early as 1986, the members of Green River were divided over what kind of band they wanted to be—or what kind of band to become. In the usual account, it was Jeff and Stone who wanted a more commercial sound—along the lines of Jane’s Addiction—while Mark Arm subscribed to punk’s disdain of the majorlabel world. Alex Shumway, of Green River: “Mark wanted to keep the band more down to  earth, and the other guys wanted it to become something bigger. There was even talk at one point, ‘Hey, let’s move down to LA and make it down there.’ That was Jeff and Stone’s idea. It was more something that was thrown against the wall to see if it would stick. Mark was like, ‘Hell, no,’ but I was a whore—I’d have gone anywhere.” “Right away I could tell that there was a kind of a controversy inside that band,” said recording engineer Chris Hanzsek. “I even sat there during a couple of arguments between the one side that wanted the band to sound more polished, more commercial, more mainstream … more like an arena-rock band. And then the other side wanted to just be … silly and goofy and unexpected and not at all predictable, and free to screw up anything that they wanted to do … just complete silliness.” “Some of the other members of the band started getting the idea they could be popular, and began to think, ‘Well, I’m getting to be 24, so what am I going to be doing for the rest of my life?’” Arm recalled in 1989. “Green River got into the idea of signing to a major, and Rehab Doll was recorded with that in mind. But for me, too many compromises were made. I was listening to far simpler stuff, like basic Stooges.” There’s some subtle wordplay here: note the logic, linking acclaim to illusion, to security, to calculation, to compromise. Left unsaid are words like ambition, authenticity, and egotism, but they’re lurking all the same. It was a charge that would be leveled repeatedly—by Kurt Cobain, and by critics in the industry and press, of what was then the single most damning transgression in art: careerism. What’s unusual about Pearl Jam, I think, is that this is a claim they have never shied away from: Ed may have expressed ambivalence about playing arenas, but Mike, Jeff, and Stone never did. It will be this very question that guides the majority of their artistic and commercial practice in the years to come.

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“Jeff and Stone want to be rock stars, and I think Bruce does too,” Arm said in 1988. “I think they realized that they could not get as famous as possible with a singer like me. I don’t have a commercial voice.” (That’s one way of putting it.) Kurt Bloch of The Fastbacks: “There was, especially in the case of Green River … definitely a different attitude with a lot of those bands that started around that time. And they definitely had a little bit more drive to be successful.” Stone, in 1991: “I think Eddie really wants to be famous. But he also has a huge moral dilemma with it.” *** Almost everyone who loves Pearl Jam knows something about their origin story. Weirdly, the same is true of those who like them only a little, or not at all. Like the young Paul and John, at a church party, or Keith and Mick, on the train, it’s a good story, and therefore, one that was told frequently. Yet Pearl Jam’s founding has uniquely morphed into myth: how a demo—made in Seattle, with the band’s future drummer—made its way to San Diego, through another eventual drummer; and how a self-described “glorified gas-pumper” wrote three classic songs, after an early-morning surf. It has the makings of an art-house film— something in black and white—like the end of The 400 Blows. It’s a tale that was told early and often, by the band itself, as though to underline its unlikelihood. You might even think it’s a prank—the way Ed used to say the name Pearl Jam came from his great-grandmother, Pearl. The story has elements of allegory: the graveyard shift, and the sunrise; the talismanic cassette tape; the ocean baptism; the deserted, Edward Hopper setting; the automatic writing; the trinity of finished songs. What tends to get left out is the more pedestrian stuff, or how such a demo came to exist in the first place. *** He doesn’t make the lists of the better guitarists. Onstage, he’s an unassuming presence, most nights, if not the most easily overlooked. (Jeff and Mike are all motion; Matt is consistently dazzling; and Ed is the audiovisual center.) Unlike the other two guitarists, he doesn’t have a signature style. And to the extent that he’s known for anything besides music, it’s for being an appalling dresser. But it’s an irrefutable fact—and not widely known—that the person most responsible for the founding of Pearl Jam was Stone Gossard. Before the tape, and the surf, and the graveyard shift, was the less romantic work of writing: jams, riffs, ideas, and melodies, which Stone had been collecting since

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Mother Love Bone. With a bit of tinkering, it’s easy to hear how they might have glittered up a few of the songs and made them their own. Indeed, the most familiar of Stone’s riffs, “Alive,” was once “Dollar Short,” which Andy Wood performed in concert. Another song (“So Pleasing”) had been half-finished, in Mother Love Bone, and would later be recorded twice: with Chris Cornell, in Temple of the Dog (“Times of Trouble”), and again as the immortal Pearl Jam standard, “Footsteps.” But this is selling it short: to a startling degree, the songs that Stone was writing that spring and summer of 1990 were not only new, but abnormally so. *** Picture the scene. It’s a scorching afternoon, in the summer of 1990. Stone Gossard sits with his friend, Jeff Ament, outside, in the barely shaded backyard of a house in LA. They’re in town to promote a new album, Apple, by Mother Love Bone. Neither of them is famous; on the contrary. They appear to be in debt to their label, PolyGram, to the tune of $100,000—and in a group with no singer. On the surface, they make an implausible pair. They have a few things in common—musical taste; ambition; adversity—but it was more or less a case of opposites attracting. Jeff is the earnest, artsy, athletic guy from Montana. Stone is the sardonic, privately schooled, upper-middle-class Seattleite. Nevertheless: here we are. Someone is conducting an interview—it’s up on YouTube—and asking about their future. Q: What do you guys plan to do—the remaining four of you? What’s your—do you have, like—mapped out, say—the next six months—to get together, or? Stone: I think the status of the band right now is a little bit up in the air—just in the sense that, um—we’re not really looking, at this point, just to find a singer to replace Andy and go on with Mother Love Bone. I mean—Andy’s attitude and personality were such an integral part of Mother Love Bone that you wouldn’t be able to replace him.  e decided that it wouldn’t be right, just to go on—and just find some other, you W know—long-haired rock guy—you know, to be the singer. And so, at this point, I think everyone wants to—take a break, for one—and just kinda let things happen naturally, to a certain extent. Just see where we want to go with it. You know? We’re not in any huge rush to be rock stars, at this point. Something will happen.

The interviewer keeps at it. Q: Does it feel like the four of you are gonna stick together, though? Jeff: Um—

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Q: Or is that not even … Jeff: That’s not etched in stone right now, by any means. Um. Like I said, it’s— just the way that things came up—it’s kind of caused us to—just kind of sit back and re-think—I mean, even to the point of—individually, you know, it’s like—

Stone looks over. Jeff: —well, God, I just spent the last—two years doing this, and I—spent six years before that—you know, is this where—I really want to be, you know, right now? Or do—you know—do certain individuals want to—move on, to something else? I mean, we’re just giving everybody a chance to—just, think about it—and, uh— we’ll get together and talk about it when the time is right. When it’s just—when it’s natural to do that. We’re not going to, like—well, let’s have a meeting every two weeks. We don’t have any sort of—long-term goal planned out.

The following month, they’ll find their long-haired rock guy. *** In Pearl Jam Twenty, Stone describes Andy Wood in a revealing phrase: “We knew that he was trying to be sober. But you can’t really be a junkie and be superproductive. I mean, maybe somebody can, but he wasn’t going to be able to do it.” It’s not about acclaim; what he wants to be is productive. This goes a long way in describing his role in Pearl Jam. Unlike other eminent guitarist-songwriters— Jimmy Page, Pete Townshend, Noel Gallagher—he doesn’t seem given to flights of self-regard. His idea of himself is closer to a craftsman, or someone who is happiest when creating. (It’s perhaps not a coincidence that his middle name is Carpenter.) It was this pattern of productivity, above all, that allowed Stone and Jeff to transcend and surpass Mother Love Bone, and would soon give rise to Pearl Jam. Matt Cameron: I thought it was going to take a long time for those guys to heal. And I was surprised and really inspired by how quickly they got back to doing some more music. Instead of having that be an event that might seal their fate in a negative, they drew inspiration from it somehow, albeit maybe a darker inspiration. They definitely kept making music, and, ultimately, that’s when I first started playing with those guys: for all these songs that Stone had written after Andy passed away. I was struck by how the music was sort of different from Mother Love Bone. It had a little more emotional resonance.

***

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The songs came together in the attic of his parents’ house in Capitol Hill. In later years, they would come to be known as The Gossman Project, a name that bootleggers awkwardly assign. Twelve instrumentals, all three to five minutes, unevenly divided between up-tempo, mid-tempo, and ballads. The songs have provisional titles, nearly all of their key: “E Ballad,” “Weird A,” “Folk D.” Five are in E; three are in A. Two of the songs are acoustic. The others are marked by lush guitar, triumphant choruses, and the occasional wordless vocal. The demos were recorded in August, over two weekends, by Chris Hanzsek, who labeled the tape “Stone and Co.” It was work done partly in secret. Because Mother Love Bone and its members were still under contract, there were legal issues involved. “I know that they were very keen on not letting too many people know that this was like a band,” said drummer Chris Friel. “I think there was some legal wrangling going on—so it was called Stone Gossard Demos.” If you’re not a Pearl Jam person, there’s not much interest in these demos; and even if you are, a few of them—shall we say—are on the skinny side. But it’s all here, in embryo: most of the Ten era, incredibly, and a comprehensive blueprint of the band’s early style. It’s a little staggering to realize how much of Pearl Jam 1.0 was Stone writing by himself—so much so, that when you listen to Ed’s demo of “Alive,” you think: well, that makes sense. Already, in the 1990 demos, before anyone in Seattle has heard the name Eddie Vedder, four of Pearl Jam’s all-time most important songs—“Alive,” “Black,” “Breath,” and “Footsteps”—are instrumentally complete, as are the B-sides “Just a Girl” and “Alone.” “Once” and “Even Flow” are still closer to ideas than finished, but clearly recognizable, and entitled “Agyptian Crave” [sic] and “The King,” respectively. There’s a track that becomes “Pushin’ Forward Back,” by Temple of the Dog, also note-for-note with the recorded version. And there’s even a riff that would end up as “Animal,” three years later, on Vs. As he freely admits of himself, Stone is hardly known for his technique. Next to his peers—Jerry Cantrell, Tom Morello, Jonny Greenwood—he deserves to be better known: for his use of alternate tunings, and drones; his unorthodox riffs; and his unfailing sense of structure and development. You can always tell when it’s a song written by Stone: the best part will be the bridge, or the allimportant transition from chorus to closing verse. (See: “Breath,” “Alive,” and “All Those Yesterdays.”) Next to his bandmates—Ed and Mike, in particular— Stone is less outwardly indebted to his teachers, which were middle-of-the-road classic rock: Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, KISS. More so than most, his guitar lines

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have a swing—“Even Flow,” but also in “Deep,” “Why Go,” and “Leash”—without which, Pearl Jam is a far lesser group. (Naturally, he’s also the band’s hip-hop enthusiast.) Where Stone is unmatched is in writing patterns that approximate the human voice. Listen to the demos for “Black” (“E Ballad”), or “Breath” (“Doobie E”), and you realize it’s Stone, the former choir boy—not Ed—who made both communal sing-alongs. The same is true, more or less, of “Alive.” It’s not that Ed’s ideas for any of these were obvious. It’s because he had a Stone foundation. *** One of the tragic figures in the Pearl Jam story is Jack Irons, the unparalleled percussionist. He seems to appear at decisive moments, and to serve—almost unwittingly—as a pivot for events to come. In the early ’80s, Irons was a founder of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. He left after a year to focus on his group, What Is This, before returning in 1986. When  the band’s guitarist, Hillel Slovak, died in 1988, Irons had a nervous breakdown, and was committed to a psychiatric hospital in LA, where he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He makes our acquaintance in November 1989, when he is playing for Joe Strummer, of The Clash, in a group called The Latino Rockabilly War. As with so many others, Irons would credit Joe Strummer with saving his life, in a very literal sense. He’d been living at the hospital for months, and was sure he would never play music again, when the phone rang: “It was a very significant tour for me, because prior to meeting Joe Strummer, I was not going to do music anymore. I’d been traumatized, and I just couldn’t see that life again. But Joe offered me a gig and got me out again, because I love Joe, and I love The Clash. During that tour, I met my wife-to-be, and the next night, I met Eddie.” On November 21, 1989—as hundreds of thousands assemble across the Czech Republic, and exactly twelve days after the wall in Berlin is opened—Strummer is booked at a club in San Diego, whose crew for the day includes an earnest volunteer by the name of Ed. Most nights, Ed works the midnight shift, at a gas station, from eleven to seven. He spends the time reading, or playing music, or watching David Letterman. During the day, he records at home, or works at venues like The Bacchanal—for a chance to meet his heroes, and perhaps advance his career. That afternoon, Ed helps the band load in, and introduces himself—and in so doing, sets a part of the ’90s in motion.

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*** With the exception of Matt Cameron—whose first band played KISS covers, and would get a cease-and-desist order from KISS itself—every member of Pearl Jam  played with someone embarrassing first. We’ve covered the unfortunate affair that was Green River. And in charity, there’s no reason to inflict Mike’s metal band, Shadow, on anyone. But truly—and perhaps it’s only fitting, for all the gifts he was born with—no one, and I do mean no one, ever, had a more embarrassing early outfit than Ed. *** In 1987, Ed sees a listing in the San Diego Reader from a band looking for a singer. He’s played with a few groups—R.I.P., Surf and Destroy—but more often as a guitarist than singer. He sends in a tape, with three of his songs, and a cover of “Atlantic City,” by Bruce Springsteen. They call him in to play a few songs, among them “Paint It, Black.” The band is reluctant—something about him doesn’t quite make sense—but they decide to take a chance on him, anyway. Ed is about to turn twenty-three: a former drugstore clerk; a high-school dropout; a survivor of divorce, and a custody battle; an insomniac; and, at the moment, employed by the San Diego Petroleum Corporation. For a band whose career peaked in San Diego, 1989, there’s an unusual amount of Bad Radio footage online: two full shows, in decent image and sound, and a few sets of bootlegs. On the evidence, their output falls into two styles. There’s a couple of adequate, even compelling, U2-inspired songs, written by Ed, which show him developing his craft. There’s an early song—juvenilia, really—written before Bad Radio, entitled “Better Man.” And then—to put it politely—there’s at least a dozen duplicates of the Red Hot Chili Peppers at their adolescent worst. If we’re inclined to generosity, we might say that Bad Radio was typical of their scene, such as it was. “If there was anything going on in San Diego with real merit, I wasn’t part of that circle,” Ed said in 2011. “We tried to support each other, but it was too close to LA, too close to where people felt that they had to pay to play and there was some brass ring to pull you out of that morass of no visible support for each other.” Bad Radio had a bit of success: they won a couple battles-of-the-bands, and, in 1989, were mentioned in the L.A. Times, as setting up a showcase for MCA. Before Ed departs, in 1990, Bad Radio made two cassettes, which they sold at Tower Records. Ed calls in to the local radio station, 91X, to request their songs.

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The Pearl Jam Twenty book describes this moment as such: “In San Diego, Eddie Vedder and Bad Radio kept plugging away, although Vedder was still finding the confidence to let loose onstage. Often, he’d stand rooted firmly in place, barely looking at the audience.” But the Ed that you see in the footage online is not lacking in confidence. In fact, that’s precisely the problem: for long stretches, Ed’s act can be described as San Diego frat-guy, or less graciously, as Kiedis Lite. Take the February 11, 1990 show that’s up on YouTube—apparently, Ed’s last with the band. There may well have been a reason for him to have an X, in duct tape, over his crotch, but that reasoning is lost to us. After an unwarranted drum solo, the band shimmies on—I only wish the following were made up—and leads off with one of its more intelligent numbers—“What the Funk”—whose opening verse inquires, four times in a row: “What the funk is up?” As though to take the words out of our mouths, Ed interjects, in a George Clinton voice: “Good god!” Using the microphone stand, he propels himself, into an aerial split, before a series of unfortunate dance moves. In his best Anthony Kiedis impression, Ed is stalking the stage, whipping his hair, abusing the mic stand, and pounding his chest, like a coked-up auctioneer. During the second song, “Answer,” he demands: “Get up! What’s this bullshit?” (The whole room stays seated.) A few seconds later, he adds: “You can dance, if you want to.” Ed attempts another split—less gracefully. A few people stand up. For some reason, Ed decides to put the bassist—who is still playing—up on his shoulders, right before the song ends. “Everybody get up, relax, have a good time,” he pleads. In fairness, not everything Bad Radio did was terrible, or all imitation. On the demos, there’s at least two songs—“Crossroads,” and “Homeless”—that might have been promising, and prefigure the outlook and yearning that would mark so much of early Pearl Jam. There’s half a great song (“Believe You Me”) that you wish Pearl Jam had recorded—Ed will tease a verse of this a few times—which becomes an homage to The Police’s “So Lonely.” So not everything they did was wretched. It’s just that, when Bad Radio is bad, they’re heroically awful. You want to consign them to a footnote—music that would and should have disappeared—but you can’t, completely, because the Ed of early Pearl Jam is, at times, nearly indistinguishable, in his onstage demeanor. All the elements of the persona we would come to know are on display: the intensity, the earnestness, and the occasional folly. Already, in the show on YouTube, Ed is offering the onstage editorials that will become staple, if with slightly less aplomb:

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense Let’s sing a song about, uh—let’s sing a song for the rich people. Well, no—these are my friends. There’s no rich people here. Uh—let’s, let’s all tell the rich people to—to give a break to the diminishing middle class. And help out the poor for once. Why is it all my poor friends that we’re helping out the homeless? What about these rich fucks? Where’s all this money going? I don’t see any of it.

As though to taunt future scholars, Bad Radio has a song called “I’m Alive,” which you might think would shed light on a similar title—except that it was written by the guitarist, and goes so far as to ask, “What do you want, something profound in every verse?” The song ends with a squirm-inducing Kiedis routine that invents its own category of sheer awfulness: “I like to drink beer / I like to make love / I like to jam! / I like to read Bukowski buck naked / I like intellectual conversation.” Why, Ed? It might be as simple as this. Call me sentimental, or what you will. You don’t want it to be true that the guy who sang “I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life / I know you’ll be a star” spent years imitating the guy who said, “I want to party on your pussy, baby.” Even if he sort of did. *** In the problematic Five Against One: The Pearl Jam Story (1998), Kim Neely seems conflicted: between admiring Ed’s artistry and example, on the one hand; and attempting to expose him as a phony—or at least, highly calculating—on the other. Every so often, this tendency is transparent, if not ethically suspect. But it makes for good reading, as its author knew it would. The first quotation is typical: “I was going to try, or die trying. I felt like it wasn’t gonna happen if you didn’t make it happen. If you were gonna get your music out there, you really had to be full-fledged.” It’s a perfectly ordinary assertion, for an aspiring artist. Already, though— in Ed’s opening statement—Neely will underline the words “full-fledged” and “make” (her italics), to suggest something other than artistic purity. (Call it a portrait of the artist, as a young hack.) It’s the same kind of careerism that Mark Arm ascribed to Stone and Jeff, and Kurt Cobain, to all of them—and this is Ed’s first quote in the book. Here’s the second: “I’d work for free as a roadie, just to be closer to the whole pulse of what was going on. Even years back, I’d put myself in positions where I got to, like, hang out with Sting right before he went on stage. Whatever it was, I’d get pretty much the ultimate experience.” Neely, again: “To him, music had always been more than a hobby. Rather, he was fond of telling people, it was what he lived for.”

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The point is clear. Far from being a reluctant star, Ed was anything but: a starfucker, autograph-chaser, and a bit of a poseur—or, at minimum, someone who courted stars—for the sake of his own career. In addition to his striving, Neely is troubled by Ed’s time in Bad Radio: This was the Eddie Vedder that fans worldwide would come to know in a few years, through his songs and through the press: earnest and sincere, conscientious, empathetic about the misfortunes of others, and haunted himself by what appeared to be a walk-in closet full of old ghosts and bad memories. It’s difficult to reconcile this individual with the Eddie who can be seen in video bootlegs of old Bad Radio shows—the gregarious fellow with a trendy bi-level haircut, sporting a leather cap and loud, baggy trousers, who reminds club goers at the end of the set that there’s a “party at my house, tonight and every night.” In fact, some who knew Eddie in San Diego claim never to have seen the troubled, world-weary side he displayed in later years.

Neely is right. It is difficult to reconcile the Ed of Pearl Jam with the doofus you see onstage in Bad Radio. It’s difficult, because the Kiedis disciple in baggy pants is so obviously the embodiment of everything Ed will stand against in Pearl Jam: misogyny, machismo, and hedonism. It’s embarrassing: not in the way an old photo is embarrassing, but because Ed looks like a fool, and a phony. But it’s also because there’s a whiff of calculation to the whole sorry affair. How can the guy who wrote “Corduroy” so slavishly copy the author of “Sir Psycho Sexy”? Is the Ed in Pearl Jam an act, no less than the Ed in Bad Radio? So Neely has a point: but then, it’s a simple one. Only someone naïve would be mystified that, prior to fame, the Ed of San Diego was less than world-weary. At the time—does this need to be said?—he had no reason to be. It’s foolish to expect someone recognized the world over to be the same exact person he was before anyone knew his name. Yes, it is difficult for us to reconcile the Ed of Bad Radio with the one we’ll see only two years from now, on MTV Unplugged; but imagine how it must have been for him. *** In an interview for MTV Japan, in 1992, a still-bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Ed will say, of his time in San Diego: I would work in the day for a club, for free, lifting equipment and stuff. Maybe I would get a T-shirt from the band, or something. But it was always for free. But, in order to get closer to music, you know? This way, you can get in to

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense see the bands for free. And maybe talk to them at soundcheck, or shake their hand, you know? Or, Joe Strummer, of The Clash. I got to, like—no one was looking, so I picked up his guitar, and played “London Calling,” you know, and put it back, ran back into the corner. Like, yeah, I just played Joe Strummer’s guitar!

In the opening chapter of Pearl Jam Twenty, Ed will add a few details: I loaded in Joe Strummer’s gear that night … Fifteen minutes into Joe’s set, the opening band sabotaged the power in the club over a money dispute. I got flashlights and took everybody backstage, and I’m holding the light for Joe as he’s rolling a spliff with tobacco and weed. Mind you, I did not smoke cigarettes then, so it blew my head off. It took 90 minutes to get the power back on. I took a Polaroid with Joe after the show, and he signed it. Little did he know that he would be quite responsible for our band’s existence.

The Polaroid of Strummer and Ed is reproduced in Pearl Jam Twenty. Ed is wearing a white shirt, and a mortifying jacket, with the name of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. They’re standing with their backs to each other, facing the camera: Strummer, the legend—pursing his lips; a few inches taller; hair like Elvis; clearly at ease in his skin; and Ed, a month away from twenty-five, playing it cool, next to an icon—and whose face exudes a look of contentment and joy. He is exultant, unguarded, possibly in disbelief. In the picture, Ed is standing with his back to Joe Strummer, but there’s something almost paternal being suggested: less punk and the godfather than father and son. *** That night at The Bacchanal, Jack Irons and Ed hit it off, and exchange phone numbers. Ed starts making the trip up to LA from San Diego, as often as every weekend, to play basketball and hang out with Jack. If they ever played music together, or talked about it, neither seems to have mentioned it. The following summer—while Mike, Jeff, and Stone are first playing together, up in Seattle—Jack invites Ed to join him and a few friends on a trip to Yosemite Park. The caravan is an all-star team of LA rock: Irons, Flea, and Cliff Martinez of the Chili Peppers, and drummer Dix Denney from The Weirdos. By now, we have a pretty good idea how thrilled the acolyte must have been to find himself in such company. (Let’s hope he left the jacket at home.) In the presence of his heroes, was Ed thinking back to the night with Joe Strummer, the power outage, the spliff, and how that had somehow led to this? Was he quietly remembering

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the many Chili Peppers shows he had seen and even bootlegged? Or was he just trying to take it all in? It was during the long drive home from Yosemite that Irons happened to pop  a cassette into the stereo. Why he decided to play this particular tape is anyone’s guess, but the music he had chosen for his passengers was Mother Love Bone. It was the first time Ed would hear anything by that band, and a fairy-tale prelude to the demo that would fall into his hands from the same bass player and guitarist weeks later. “It was the weirdest thing,” Flea remembered. “We went backpacking up in Yosemite, and Jack brought him along. He was like, ‘This is Eddie.’ Then two years later, we go on tour, and there’s this band that’s gonna open for us called Pearl Jam. I never heard of ’em. And it was the guy from the backpacking trip. I was like, ‘Oh wow, we spent two weeks together in the mountains.’ Eddie goes from being an obscure figure on a backpacking trip to, you know, the world’s largest rock star.”

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4

The Off Ramp, Seattle (October 22, 1990) Q:  What is the best training for a writer? A:  An unhappy childhood. Ernest Hemingway

In September 1990, five instrumentals—soon to be known as “Alive,” “Black,” “Once,” “Alone,” and “Footsteps”—are quietly shared with friends. Among them is Michael Goldstone, who had signed Mother Love Bone to PolyGram, and since departed for Epic. It’s known that Jack Irons is the first person Stone and Jeff approach for their new band. What’s a bit more confusing is what happened next. In Jack’s account: My recollection is of meeting Stone and Jeff at a hotel in Los Angeles. They were starting a new band and asked if I was interested in playing with them. I wasn’t ready to move to Seattle and start a new life there and also had some touring obligations with other bands. They gave me the demo of their music that had Matt Cameron on drums and asked me to check it out and maybe pass it on to any singers I might know. So I gave it to Eddie. I left on a three-month tour with Redd Kross and about a month later I heard that Eddie went up to Seattle to play with them.

In Everybody Loves Our Town, Michael Goldstone says: I knew Jack Irons from his band What Is This. He was always around LA, and I ran into him at a party. Stone and Jeff had sent demos specifically for me to get to him. When I ran into Jack, I handed him the CD with the instrumental tracks on it.

But Stone’s memory is different: “[Jack] was playing with Eleven, and I literally just asked him on the way out the door—if you know of any singers, let us know. So he said, ‘Yeah, I do. I know a guy. Crazy Eddie.’” ***

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In September, as well, Jeff and Stone will attend the Concrete Foundations Forum, in LA: an annual heavy-metal convention—seriously—whose keynote speaker is Rob Halford of Judas Priest. They’re in town to do press for Apple, and to scout for new members. It’s amid this unpromising setting—a Spinal tableau, at the Hyatt, near LAX—that Ed will meet his future bandmates, who ask him to drive up. In the months since leaving Bad Radio, Ed has been playing with another (!) Chili Peppers-ish funk band, Indian Style, whose drummer is Brad Wilk, later of Rage Against the Machine. There’s a black-and-white photo of the group at a local Earth Day event, which would put the show a few weeks after Ed departs Bad Radio. The band members are identified, absurdly, as Mattie Tabasco (bass), Style (guitar), and—wait for it—Homeboy Eddie. This may explain why the tape that Ed brings along is of him playing solo. Stone: “We met him at the Hyatt hotel and said hello and just got to look at each other. Immediately, he was a humble guy and really excited. He played it pretty cool and it seemed right.” The occasion is brief, but historic. They have nothing in common, on paper— Jeff and Stone are industry veterans, still under contract to PolyGram, while Ed is very much the apprentice—but they’re musicians, and that’s enough. (Milan Kundera: “Every Frenchman is different. But all the actors the world over are similar.”) We can take a decent guess at what came up: Mother Love Bone, and Jack Irons, probably; Joe Strummer and the Chili Peppers, perhaps. At some point—surely thinking of The Who—Ed ventures the opinion that bands with four members are better than those with five. If this were a scene in a movie, it’s right around now that the guys would trade tapes, and agree to talk again soon. This being Pearl Jam, it has to be complicated. Whether by accident or design, no one seems to remember who gave Ed the demo, and if it happened before or after his trip to the Hyatt. How could something so momentous be forgotten by four different people? After all: it’s not every day that you meet the guy with whom you will sell eighty-five million records. The way the whole series of events is remembered—or not— only reinforces the magic of it all. Stone: “Ed just popped up, and we said hello. But was that before we gave him the tape, or after he gave us something to listen to? I know Jeff and I had one meeting with him before he came to Seattle.”

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Jeff: “It’s possible that he’d just gotten the tape and hadn’t listened to it yet.” (Plausible.) Ed isn’t much help: “Maybe I’d sent the tape with my vocals, and they hadn’t heard it yet. That’s the only thing I can think of.” (Unlikely.) However it happened, the next scene is certain. Well, aside from one or two points. *** Here’s the thing: you just never know. When a piece of industrial plastic—a cassette—will change your life, and many millions, besides. When the people you meet—through a person you randomly met, less than a year ago—will end up redirecting your existence, if not the arc of history itself. When a record, book, or movie will transform the way you see the world, and cause you to question your purpose. That’s the thing: you just never know. *** Tape in hand, Ed makes the drive back to San Diego—a little under two hours. We can assume that he listens, at least once—or maybe he doesn’t. We can imagine the road, and how it might have appeared, momentarily, when Ed hears the first notes of “Alive,” which is recorded in the next eighteen hours. It’d be nice to say he hears something that makes him sit up and hit rewind, but we don’t know this. Maybe he listens to the demo once or twice, on the drive, or maybe he waits, and saves it for later. Ed pulls into work just before eleven, clocks in, and sits down. He’ll be there for the next eight hours. Then—this we know—he pops in the tape. *** A playwright couldn’t improve it. Seven a.m., Ed clocks out. Instead of going to sleep—as most mortals would—he drives to Pacific Beach. It’s a foggy morning. By now, he’s been awake for the better part of a day. Sleep-deprived, his senses acquire a certain clarity. His eyes are observing the road, the ocean, the people outside—but his mind is adrift. Meanwhile, he has the music from Stone in his head.

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For reasons we can only wonder about, he thinks about his family: his mother; his father, and the man who has raised him. Only in the recent past, did he learn that these men were different people. Maybe this is what he’s had on his mind, that week, or that month—or maybe it’s what he’s avoiding, for all it implies. Is he, too, the person he believes himself to be, or someone else? Are his musical gifts, such as they are, his own, or those of a man he hardly knew? From the depths of his childhood, memories resurrect themselves, sublimated, and suppressed. (If Proust had been a surfer in San Diego, it might have looked something like this.) Ed steps out of the truck, onto the sand, and into the water. He won’t remember how long he’s in there for, or getting much surfing done—but rather, activating a fugue state. Later, he will tell Kim Neely: The sleep deprivation came into play. When you haven’t slept for days, you get so sensitive that it feels like every nerve is directly exposed. You can watch a mother with her child walk across the street, or see a little article in the newspaper, and you’ll just start to weep. I went surfing in that sleep-deprived state, and totally started dealing with a few things that I hadn’t dealt with. I was really getting focused on this one thing, and I had this music in my mind at the same time. I was literally writing some of these words as I was going up against a wave or something. I got out of the water, and I went right into the house and recorded three songs. I didn’t even write down the lyrics. I just wrote an outline and sang it, and the only time I even listened back to it was when I was mixing it down from four-track. I listened to it, got it right, and then listened to it again, and then just sent it off. I didn’t really think about it. When I think back, it’s pretty weird, because it was like a threesong mini-opera, this story that was really intense. Pretty much half of it was real, and half of it was extensions of reality.

*** The first Pearl Jam song—incredibly—is “Alive.” You would think a careerdefining classic is the sort of thing one builds up to—a grand slam, as opposed to a lead-off hit—but, in fact, “Alive” is the first finished lyric to appear, and the first official song to be complete. Like all Pearl Jam people, I’ve heard “Alive” way too much. I wouldn’t say I don’t need to hear it ever again—that would be “Jeremy”—but I’m sure I could go a few years. It’s not that it’s bad, or boring, so much as inescapable. If I’m playing a bootleg, it’s a song I’ll invariably skip, barring the extraordinary—a

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show in Argentina, with its epic singalongs. (I’ll take “Alive” over “Once,” and “Jeremy,” but not much else.) For obvious reasons, “Alive” is played at every show—more or less—and, along with “Better Man,” the song you’re likeliest to encounter among civilians: on the radio; karaoke; or a jukebox. Understandably, it’s overplayed, even tiresome on occasion. It seems ungrateful—but after thirty years, it’s hard to get enthusiastic about “Alive,” or anything from Ten, aside from “Release,” and maybe “Deep.” It’s not a song like “Daughter,” or “Better Man,” where every version is different; and it’s not like “Even Flow,” or “Black,” which—depending on the night—can be more persuasive than not. You’ve already heard “Alive,” a million times, and chances are, you’re going to hear it again tomorrow. Nevertheless—or perhaps for this very reason—it’s easy to forget how colossal the song is, if you haven’t heard it for a while. “Alive” is a triumph of paradox: true-life memoir and speculative fiction; private history, and public monument; first-person reckoning and Oedipal myth. A story of incest, deception, and inherited trauma, “Alive” is Ed’s first attempt—as Orwell put it—at getting back on the grown-ups who wronged him in childhood.* Like The Adventures of Augie March—another coming-of-age story, of a Chicago childhood—it speaks with the innocence, exuberance, and fearlessness of youth. It’s a song about a boy, written by a boy, and it sounds like it, in the language, register, and bravado of the young. Unlike the songs that Ed will write for No Code and Yield, in which an older person looks back on their youth, “Alive” is a lyric in which the hurt is permanently fresh. At the same time, its subject matter symbolically invokes literature’s oldest stories: Oedipus, Telemachus, Hamlet, and more than one character in the Bible. *** He titles the cassette “Momma-Son”: a nod to The Clash anthem, “Straight to Hell”—in which the orphans of Vietnam plead, in vain, for their American fathers: When it’s Christmas out in Ho Chi Minh City Kiddie say, Papa-Papa-Papa-Papa-Papa-san, take me home See me got photo, photo, photograph of you And Mamma-Mamma-Mamma-san Of you and Mamma-Mamma-Mamma-san

Wisely, Ed borrows not only a title from Strummer, but a structure and theme. Where “Straight to Hell” is three scenes, in three verses, the “Momma-Son” cassette is also a triptych, or what Ed will call a “mini-opera”: itself an allusion

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to Pete Townshend—the founder of the form—and, by his own account, Ed’s primary influence. (More on this, very soon.) Imitating his heroes, the triptych of Ed’s “opera” is “Alive,” “Once,” and “Footsteps,” in which a protagonist confronts his family, society, and himself. Learning from Townshend, Ed links the three episodes with a narrative—so that they can be played on their own, or in sequence. In “Alive,” the protagonist is told that his childhood is a fiction; in “Once,” the protagonist is vengeful; and in “Footsteps,” a prisoner, looking back on his life. Where the orphans in “Straight to Hell” were denied their inheritance, the “Momma-Son” character is denied his patrimony; and by extension, himself. *** According to the band, the writing of “Jeremy,” “Even Flow,” and every other standard soon to appear came about more easily than reaching Ed by phone. I found out a week [later] that Jeff and Stone had been trying to get a hold of me. Jack told me they wanted to fly me up to Seattle or something. Fly me up to Seattle? Fly me up? They can afford it? Shouldn’t I hitchhike or something?

On October 7th, in Costa Mesa, Ed attends A Gathering of the Tribes: a day-long festival, organized by Ian Astbury, of The Cult. The performers include Queen Latifah, Iggy Pop, Ice-T, and Soundgarden, whom Ed will watch from fifty feet away. He has no possible way of knowing—but in twenty-four hours, he’ll be standing next to Chris Cornell, learning a new song: “Hunger Strike.” The following day—October 8th—he takes a morning flight, up the coast, to Seattle. If there is any doubt about Ed’s motivation, it’s erased during one of his early phone calls with Jeff: I remember when Ed first came to town. Right before he got on the plane to come down, he said, “When I get there, I want you to pick me up, and I want to go straight to the practice studio, and I don’t want to fuck around. I just want to plug in the instruments and get at it. I don’t want to sightsee and I don’t want to get anything to eat or whatever.”

At approximately two o’clock, on Monday, October 8th, Ed is greeted at SeattleTacoma Airport by his new bandmate, Jeff, who takes him, as requested, straight to practice. We have to imagine what was said in the car: small talk, most likely. We do know that, within an hour of getting off the flight, and only three weeks after writing the song, Ed is standing in front of Pearl Jam—and singing “Alive.” ***

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In the annals of music, only a few rock bands have come into being, fully formed. The Sex Pistols appeared in 1975 as art and provocation; catapulted to scandal; and collapsed, all in twenty-six months. A decade earlier, a young Bob Dylan and The Band had barely been introduced, before setting out on an epochal world tour. And in the years since, any number of groups—The Velvet Underground, Talking Heads, and R.E.M., among them—made perfect, insurmountable debuts. But none of them coalesced in the time it took Pearl Jam. It bears some consideration. Let’s review: five guys, all under twenty-seven. The singer lives in a different state; has led several atrocious bands; and works overnight, as a gas-station attendant. The rhythm and bass guitarists are seven months removed from the death of their last lead singer. The lead guitarist is out of retirement, after a year at community college. The drummer is burdened by low self-esteem, and was unknown to his bandmates a month ago. It is, shall we say, not an orthodox route to worldwide domination. *** The first day’s session lasts ten hours. The guys play through the “Momma-Son” tape, and a few songs of Ed’s; one of them is “Black.” That evening, at midnight, Jeff, Mike, and Stone will play with Chris Cornell, for a band soon to be known as Temple of the Dog. In the hallway outside the rehearsal room, Ed meets Chris Cornell, whom he was watching onstage just yesterday; he doesn’t mention it. Ed suggests a vocal for the song Chris is writing: “Hunger Strike.” This is day one. Chris and Ed’s duet is legendary—operatic, nearly. There’s something about the contrast of their voices that lends the song a seamless sense of narrative. One is acrobatic, otherworldly, Olympian; the other, terrestrial, grounded, wistful. At first, Chris’s part is restrained, or tentative; only after the second vocal enters can the pyrotechnics commence. The simple repetition of the verse makes the song monumental; and the crescendo is one of the high points—if not the summit— of either Pearl Jam or Soundgarden’s catalog. There’s a reason this song is played on only the most special occasions. If you had four and a half minutes to show why Seattle meant what it did—you can do worse than to play “Hunger Strike.” Day one sets a pattern for the next five days, which are marked by long hours;  an  abundance of ideas; and unrelenting productivity. As the week continues, the band records a box worth of tapes, some of which makes it onto Ten intact. That week, the band completes a few auspicious numbers, including “Alone” and “Just a Girl,” and a few instant classics: “Breath,” “Release,” and

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“Black” among them. We are fortunate to be observing the onset of a profound and almost dizzying burst of creativity. In all, there are ten new songs, and a few sketches, including “Yellow Ledbetter.” Depending on your outlook, you might say this moment extends for the next four, six, or eight years, continuous. *** On Monday, October 22nd—two weeks after Ed arrives in Seattle—the band plays their first show. (Henceforth, this date will assume the place of an anniversary.) For lack of a better name, they choose the moniker of Mookie Blaylock. The venue is the 200-capacity Off Ramp, so named because of its location just off Interstate 5. On weekdays, the Off Ramp presents local rock and metal acts; on the weekend, it’s a lesbian bar. That evening, it’s an impressive crowd, and a full house. Most of the Seattle rock scene has turned out, including Chris Cornell and Kim Thayil of Soundgarden; their manager Susan Silver; Mother Love Bone’s manager Kelly Curtis; Nancy Wilson from Heart; and Randy Johnson, 6’ 10” star pitcher of the Seattle Mariners, who has an excellent view. At the moment, and for the next few months, the band is known locally as Jeff and Stone’s new project, and follow-up to Mother Love Bone. Presumably, any number of well-wishers and fans from the old band’s extended family have come out to the Off Ramp as well. The band arranges a slot on a three-act bill. They’ll play first, followed by Bathtub Gin, followed by Inspector Luv and The Ride Me Babies, soon to be known as Quick Apple Two Step. Once again, there is minor disagreement as to the details. Mike: I remember not wanting to do a show, because Jeff and Stone were still under contract with PolyGram. I thought if we showed people how good we were, they wouldn’t let them out of the deal. So I thought it was a bad idea, but Stone was like, “Aw, fuck it. Let’s go do it.”

But Stone says: I remember feeling nervous, not feeling ready to go out and do it. I know we’d committed to it. Jeff was really excited about doing a show. Ed was enthusiastic about it. And I was probably like, “Hey, let’s give it a couple weeks. Come back and let’s practice a couple more times and then we’ll get out there. Don’t worry. We’re gonna do it.” But they wanted to do it so we just did. I think it came off okay. It was just that you had to take your first step and we were already committed to it. We said yes, this is our new singer. We’re gonna go for it.

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Blessedly, someone has the foresight to document the occasion. The resulting video, or transfer, is more amateur than auteur: grainy, pixilated, periodically out of focus, with sudden jump-cuts between songs. The picture is dark, the sound muffled, as you might expect from an early-’90s camcorder. Even so, there’s not much mistaking the guy onstage in the ridiculous sultan’s hat, bandaged legs, and multiple layers of ill-fitting clothing—or rather, the voice that’s emanating out of him. So far as I know, there isn’t any footage of The Velvet Underground’s first public performance. But there is of Pearl Jam’s. The video cuts in on the band’s preshow soundcheck. It takes a moment to recognize, but they’re playing “Even Flow,” at two-thirds of the speed we will come to know it at, as though from a device whose battery is dying. They’ll never play it at this sluggish tempo again, but it’s intriguing to hear how this song—among their most (overly?) familiar—might have sounded. During the soundcheck, Ed’s gaze is planted firmly downward, into the floor, even during the chorus. By contrast, Stone looks comfortable, loose, nodding along, quietly in command. In the middle of the song, Jeff hops offstage to listen to the mix out in the house. It’s around now that the venue decides to open their doors, prematurely, thereby terminating the band’s not-quite-exhaustive soundcheck. Someone close to the camera cries: “Woo!” Equal parts sarcastic and genuine, Stone says: “And that was just the soundcheck.” They open, as they would so often, with “Release.” For a new and unproven band—and one so recently associated with the anything-but-subtle Mother Love Bone—this is neither an obvious move, nor one the entire band agrees with. Mike, in particular, thinks they should come out with guns blazing—this is Mike, after all—and you can see how he has a point. For most of the opening two minutes in this first “Release,” the audience is distracted, or restless. The melody is hypnotic; Dave Krusen’s cymbal work is notably inspired. But whatever “Release” is, it’s not a song that’s going to grab a Monday-night crowd, or at least not the first time it’s played. Still, Ed has his reasons. Even though the song’s lyrics aren’t quite finished, he senses that, as a curtain-raiser, it works as both overture and aria, introduction and showpiece. This is the first instance of Ed asserting his leadership onstage. He’s clearly a bit nervous, and very much aware of himself as a visitor to town, performing on someone else’s turf; but he also knows “Release” is something special, that the rock songs will come soon enough. He walks on after the band has been playing for a minute. You can hear that Ed is still refining the first verse—it’s hard to make out, but the opening words aren’t yet the four that

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could stand in for so much of Pearl Jam: “I see the world.” He’s already got the “rocking horse of time,” suggesting this was among the first lines to present itself—and soon, the song is identical to the version we will hear on Ten, in all its heartbreaking majesty. At the Off Ramp, Ed spends nearly all of “Release” standing still, or swaying tentatively side to side. His shoulders are slumped, slightly, and moving in time to Stone’s guitar, and the drums. His eyes seem to be looking into the distance, into the middle of a room of strangers. For most of the song, he’s standing with his arms crossed, as though enveloped by a straitjacket. He looks less like the singer of Bad Radio than his soft-spoken accountant. To his right, you see Jeff nodding his head, as though he’s hearing a different song, and Mike in deep concentration. Then—without any sort of hint that something special is about to commence—at the second verse, a spontaneous eruption. In between the first and second lines—from “I’ll ride the wave” to “Where it takes me”—there’s an all-consuming change that occurs, for the audience, and for Ed: an immediate transformation, where Ed seems to summon every scrap of feeling in his undersized frame, and pushes it out—from his throat, mouth, belly, lungs, and ribcage. In the video from the Off Ramp, you can practically feel the room fall silent, like someone has shattered a glass. It’s frightening, almost, but nowhere near as frightening or electrifying as the next time he does it, at the repetition of the verse. It’s an extraordinary moment, and only the first of countless to come. The timid, nervous, retiring guy with his arms tightly crossed has instantly vacuumed the air out of the room with the sheer volume and weight of his voice. It’s hard to tell for sure, but, from the sound of it, someone close to the camera says something like: “Where did they find this guy?” It’s an excellent question. Two and three decades later, Pearl Jam will still be opening shows with “Release.” But it’s no discredit to say that they don’t get much better than this one.

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“Jeremy,” “Garden,” “Yellow Ledbetter” (1991) We’re beginning a new era. This new era can be full of promise, an age of freedom, a time of peace for all peoples. But if history teaches us anything, it is that we must resist aggression or it will destroy our freedoms. George H.W. Bush

Like all Americans, I can measure out my life in mass shootings. In 1999, I was living in New Haven, in my second year of college, when I heard about the shootings at Columbine. Two teenagers had killed thirteen people— twelve classmates—and then themselves. In the media, and in Washington, some were saying Marilyn Manson was to blame. Eight years later—almost to the day—I was twenty-eight years old, and living in New York, when I heard about the shootings at Virginia Tech. An undergrad had killed thirty-two people—injuring seventeen others—and then himself. On December 14, 2012, I was sitting in a doctor’s office, in midtown Manhattan, when CNN reported that a gunman had killed twenty-six people, including twenty children, at Sandy Hook Elementary, in Newtown—a place my old girlfriend and I would drive to, on the weekend, in her station wagon. And in February 2018, I was coming up on forty, somehow, when I heard that a former student opened fire at Marjory Stoneman Douglas—down the street from my own high school—killing seventeen, and wounding seventeen others. But before any of this—there was “Jeremy.” *** On January 9, 1991, a short article appears in The Dallas Morning News. Jeremy Wade Delle—sixteen years old—had killed himself in front of a classroom at Richardson High School, outside Dallas.

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Halfway through the story, the reporters mention a peculiar detail. After the suicide, administrators decide against canceling school for the week—or even the rest of the day. The decision is reported with no more weight or import than the time of death. (“Classes continued throughout the day. Some students were allowed to leave early, but counselors encouraged them to stay at school and discuss their feelings.”) It’s this reality—that the suicide of a child is unworthy of a disruption in business, or anything beyond a wire clipping—that Ed is most haunted by, in the song that emerges. In 1993, he says: It means you kill yourself and you make a big old sacrifice and try to get your revenge, that all you’re gonna end up with is a paragraph in a newspaper. Sixtythree degrees and cloudy in a suburban neighborhood. That’s the beginning of the video and that’s the same thing is that in the end, it does nothing, nothing changes. The world goes on and you’re gone. The best revenge is to live on and prove yourself. Be stronger than those people. And then you can come back. That’s kinda what I did.

“Living—is your best revenge.” This counsel—so contrary, in hindsight, to the nihilistic ethos that their scene would represent—is how Ed explicates “Jeremy” in Rochester, New York, on April 7, 1994, as rumors of Kurt Cobain’s disappearance make the rounds, and the day before his death is announced. We can only wonder how much of Ed’s statement—“you kill yourself and you make a big old sacrifice and try to get your revenge, that all you’re gonna end up with is a paragraph in a newspaper”—came to mind the following day. The tragic subject of “Jeremy,” then, is not the world’s malevolence, but its malign indifference. *** In light of the original story, what’s revealing in “Jeremy” is not how much of the article Ed borrows, but how little. There’s nothing in The Dallas Morning News that implies Jeremy was in conflict with his parents or peers. (On the contrary: his classmates speak fondly of him, as a close friend.) The article mentions a divorce, in 1979—two years after Ed’s parents’ divorce—but nothing about Jeremy’s home life—much less, “something that mommy wouldn’t wear.” This—we can probably infer—is by someone who has experienced or envisioned something similar. “Jeremy” is an act of imagined biography—breathing life into a story that would otherwise be flattened, in a journalistic telling. At the same time—in its admission of guilt with Jeremy’s abusers—Ed’s portrait is three-dimensional and self-incriminating in a way that its source material cannot be.

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It’s hard to forget that “Jeremy” is the third of at least four songs on Ten that are about mommies and daddies, as they’re not so reassuringly called. Along with its companion piece, “Why Go,” “Jeremy” is a portrait of the family as a renewable source of hostilities. It’s also the most indelible treatment of a theme that Nirvana and Pearl Jam would return to: parents and children; selfhood and family; conflict and estrangement. (In their self-written promotional bio, Nirvana cites their influences as divorces, drugs, and rednecks, alongside The Beatles, Leadbelly, and Slayer. Five years later, in an obituary for Kurt, Jeff Giles of Newsweek writes that “grunge is what happens when children of divorce get their hands on guitars.”) We can leave it for someone else to say whether teenagers were any different in the early ’90s, or if kids going back to Anne Frank haven’t felt misunderstood by their parents. But if a “revolution in the head” was the implicit objective of rock music in the ’60s, then personal emancipation—from family, authority, and education—was the program of Pearl Jam and Nirvana, above all. Daddy didn’t give attention To the fact that mommy didn’t care

Unlike the decisive lines in “Black,” or “Alive,” these lyrics are less than universal. You don’t need to like Pearl Jam to know that there are people who should never have become parents in the first place; and if you happen to be born to such a family, these lyrics may resonate more personally. Some parents are actively cruel (“Why Go”); some are simply thoughtless (“Jeremy”). But as many have known, there’s an inhumanity in the act of thoughtlessness that can be every bit as corrosive. To the officials of Richardson High School, Jeremy’s suicide is not an important failure, and The Dallas Morning News seems to agree. The final paragraphs of the article mention offhandedly that in the first six months of 1988, three other students from Richardson committed suicide, including a sixth-grader, and two sophomores at nearby J.J. Pearce High School, one of whom hanged himself behind an elementary school. In 1985, the Morning News continues, a seventeen-year-old killed himself in front of four fellow students at Arlington High School, and no fewer than eight adolescent suicides were reported in Plano, Texas, during 1983 and 1984 alone. This outbreak of suicides is disclosed almost casually, and with no suggested link to the decision of Jeremy Wade Delle to end his life with a .357 Magnum during second-period English class, at 9:45 a.m., in front of thirty unsuspecting classmates. ***

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For those of us who were privileged—if that’s the word—with access to MTV in the ’90s, “Jeremy” will always be synonymous with its video, for better and for worse. Along with “Sabotage,” “Nuthin’ But a ‘G’ Thang,” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” “Jeremy” is one of the most iconic videos of the decade: five-and-a-half minutes that remain every bit as prescient in their depiction of violence as they were in 1992. Where their previous videos had made barely a ripple, it was “Jeremy,” without question, that made Pearl Jam wealthy, world-famous, and miserable. To say that it came out of nowhere is an understatement. Next to the more eager embrace of their peers—Nirvana in particular—Pearl Jam’s approach to music videos was closer to ambivalence. In the words of a critic, “Even Flow,” while effective, “could have been a Van Halen video circa 1984.” By contrast, the director Mark Pellington would craft a frantic, unforgettable rendering of teen psychosis—interspersing literary allusions, newspaper headlines, and schizophrenic jump-cuts. In 1990, Twin Peaks had hinted that in every American community there was a violent underworld. “Jeremy,” then, is Pellington’s treatment of a contemporary American tragedy: the interconnected epidemics of alienation and gun violence. With its virtuosic direction—not to mention the performance by Trevor Wilson, to whom we’ll return—there’s an argument to be made that the video is better than the song. Its images are permanently searing: Jeremy pleads with his classmates, teacher, and family, who sit utterly (e)motionless. The blink-andyou-miss-it scene of a classroom in Nazi salute; the slow-motion arc of the apple, offered to the teacher, before the fall from innocence; or the bone-chilling image of Jeremy illuminated in flame, the American flag draping his bare shoulders, like a hospital blanket. The counterpoint of Jeremy’s derangement with Ed’s theatrically haunted stare. At the end of the video, Jeremy enters the classroom; confronts his peers; and pulls the trigger. There’s a frozen image of his classmates, splattered in blood. MTV, however, in a rare show of restraint, would force the director to remove a key scene—of Jeremy putting the gun in his mouth—thereby making the conclusion ambiguous. In this way, a song about suicide came to be seen, mistakenly, as a song about mass murder. It was this interpretation offered to a jury in 1997, when lawyers for Barry Loukakis—a fourteen-year-old boy who had killed three people at a Washington state middle school—played the video in court, claiming: “This boy is Jeremy.” For anyone who watched MTV in the ’90s, “Jeremy” is a video you can conjure up immediately. Indeed, this is very much the problem. Like much of Ten, “Jeremy” has been played to the point of utter exhaustion. Even three

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“Try to forget this …” Screen grab from A Clockwork Orange (dir. Stanley Kubrick, 1971).

decades later, it’s hard to see how anyone would want to hear it again. As the song itself goes: try to forget this. It would be difficult—because MTV ran it with a ruthlessness that would give Stalin pause. That the video was played every two or three hours in 1993 is a verified fact. That it produced the same deep-seated aversion first glimpsed in A Clockwork Orange is probably closer to the truth. Familiarity is an elusive thing. In art, and with people, it can breed contempt, as the saying goes; or it can reveal a source of endless discovery, surprise, and meaning. Why does certain music seem to us perpetually fresh, exciting, powerful, while other music is exhausting on first listen, or simply never needs to be heard again? Why do certain albums, books, and movies command or even compel repeat study, and come to seem less familiar, not more, the longer we live with them? Why can I listen to certain Pearl Jam songs every day—“Present Tense,” “In My Tree,” “Tremor Christ,” and “Release”—while the opening of “Jeremy” induces PTSD? Would I still feel this way about “Breath” or “Release” if Pearl Jam’s most overplayed video had been made for these songs instead? What made Pearl Jam different was a perverse if authentic discomfort with ubiquity, renown, and commercial success. Part of it was the code of the reluctant hero. Part of it was the debate going back to Green River. But most of all, it was a feeling of genuine unworthiness, and the fear of becoming—through only limited fault of your own—“the guy that you hate.” Surely, it’s a rare song that’s improved by the frequency at which “Jeremy” was played. Surely, it’s the reason

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Pearl Jam became as successful as they did; but it’s fair to ask if they would go about it the same, given the chance at a do-over. *** As Pearl Jam’s biggest hit, “Jeremy” has had an afterlife—and then some. For the Delle family, the song’s popularity has been something of a curse. As of this writing, there are several websites devoted to the life of Jeremy Wade Delle. One of them, “The Jeremy Story,” published a letter from Delle’s father in 2009, recounting years’ worth of letters and trinkets left at his son’s grave site, as well as emails “from young teenagers with some perverse idea that what he did was really cool.” Somewhat like the character he played, Trevor Wilson, the child actor, is a tragic figure in the Pearl Jam story. Just a few years after being cast in the video, he leads a course that will take him some ways from his youthful celebrity, with stops in Asia and the Middle East. It’s a remarkable turn of events for the person who briefly rivaled Axl Rose for recognition, and “the most iconic face of grunge who wasn’t actually in a band.”* (The other child celebrity of grunge—Spencer Elden, from the cover of Nevermind—was, more understandably, soon retired from show business.) It was partly Trevor Wilson’s face, and partly his fragile, scrawny frame— crouching, in the mouth of a wolf; desperately entreating his parents; crazed, in a field set ablaze—that made him so captivating to watch. It didn’t hurt that he was a weirdly identical match to the actor Edward Furlong, who was equally ubiquitous that year in Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Wilson was twelve years old when he taped the audition that came to Mark Pellington’s attention. He was raised in New York, attended private school, and acting classes at the Lee Strasberg Theatre & Film Institute. (His mother, Diane, was a nutritionist and personal chef to Michelle Pfeiffer, Ridley Scott, and Phil Donahue.) It was the 1986 movie Stand By Me that sparked his interest in acting, and his mother’s connections that got him started as an actor—a job the young Ed had, as well. There’s a 1992 head shot in which Wilson looks less like King Jeremy the Wicked than a sleepy Macaulay Culkin. Trevor Wilson won the role of Jeremy over some 200 child actors who had sent in audition tapes, after seeing a casting call in the pages of Billboard. On the day he made his tape, he was ill—“kind of dazed and numb and fucked up,” Pellington said—and possibly under the weather when he walked in. “He had these looks on his face that were not very kid-like,” said the cinematographer,

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Tom Richmond. “He wasn’t smiling. No ironic, sarcastic smiles like you’d get from a twelve-year-old.” Pellington’s memory is more succinct: “He was not like everyone else. He had something wrong with him.” After the “Jeremy” video debuted, in August 1992, Wilson’s family moved from New York to LA, where he found himself deluged by fan mail. As the video attained saturation, the introspective teenager was recognized everywhere, and rapidly became wary of his fame. “When you’re famous like that,” said his mother, “you don’t know who your friends are and who likes you for being famous or for who you are.” Ed couldn’t have said it better. Whether because of his newfound celebrity, or an adolescent’s shifting priorities, Wilson lost interest in acting, and stopped going to auditions altogether. His attention turned instead to reading and writing: literature, nonfiction, and poetry, including much of his own. He enjoyed going to the opera, theater, ballet, and the philharmonic. In 1993, he appears at the Video Music Awards, where “Jeremy” wins in four out of five categories. Ed’s acceptance speech for Best Group Video starts with him irritably shushing the crowd, and then: “Well, uh. We’re a group, and I guess there was a video. I don’t know how you can say it was the best. It’s just a little piece of art. You can’t put art into a competition.” (Oh, and thank you Mark Pellington!) When the band comes on to collect their award for Best Video of the Year, Trevor walks onstage with them. Visibly intoxicated, Ed introduces Trevor to the audience, but not before wiping saliva from his mouth: “Hey everybody, this is Trevor. He lives.” The teenager is wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt five sizes too large, along with a shy, cautious smile that’s entirely appropriate to the setting, down to the confounding choice of presenters: Tony Bennett, in top hat, sunglasses, and short sleeves, along with Anthony Kiedis and Flea, in formal dress. In 1997, Trevor moved back to New York, where he finished high school, and enrolled at NYU, to study international relations. He eventually moves to Italy, where he was accepted at the University of Rome, leading to an internship in Egypt with the United Nations. He ends up staying in Egypt for three years, where he works for a UN development program in women’s education, and helps to write speeches for Suzanne Mubarak, the Egyptian first lady. It’s unclear when he left, but he moved back home in 2008. He applied for postings in Lebanon and Burma. In the summer of 2016, he took a vacation, and used the apartment of a friend in San Juan, Puerto Rico. After a few weeks,

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he stayed on. It was here, in Puerto Rico, on August 3, 2016—twenty-four years, almost to the day, after the video’s debut—that the 36-year-old Trevor Wilson drowned, inexplicably, despite his considerable ability as a swimmer, and a man who swam out to save him—a victim to the area’s legendarily fierce riptides. According to his mother, Diane—who spoke with him on the afternoon of her son’s visit to Ocean Park beach, and whose acquaintance I was fortunate to make—Trevor had been thinking about the next chapter in his life: a family, marriage, and his career. Their last visit together was Memorial Day weekend of 2016. He visited with his grandmother, on Saturday and Sunday, and went to the Met Museum on Monday with his mom. In a 2017 article in Billboard, by Gil Kaufman—a thoughtful account of a multifaceted person, whose interests were wider than his celebrity might suggest—there are a few photographs of Trevor Wilson as an adult. In most of the pictures, he looks identical to my friends from college and high school, who are all around the same age: balding, facial hair, slight belly. Unless you knew better, there’s nothing to suggest you’re looking at a person who was once famous the world over. But there’s one photo, at the very end, where the wise, haunted, familiar stare—try to forget this—is still unmistakably apparent. ***

Trevor Wilson, 2016. Courtesy of Diane Wilson.

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One week after Jeremy Delle’s suicide—on January 17, 1991—the US begins the war in the Persian Gulf: Operation Desert Storm. For forty-two days, 90,000 tons of precision-guided munitions will annihilate Iraqi infrastructure, in a comprehensive bombing attack—one of the most extensive in history. The ground campaign takes four days to drive Saddam out of Kuwait. Meanwhile, back in the US, millions watch the war at home, on CNN. The war in the Gulf would be responsible, in large part, for the rise of cable news, the 24-hour news cycle, and much that would follow. In a survey, in late January, 78 percent of Americans said the military was “basically telling the truth, not hiding anything embarrassing about its conduct of the war, and providing all of the information it prudently could.” The band will be outspoken in their opposition to war, but that moment is a few years off. If they are known for their politics, in the early ’90s, it will be for domestic issues—police brutality, abortion, gun control—before world affairs. Still, the war in the Gulf will figure—covertly—in two very different songs. They’re not usually connected, and with good reason: one is brooding, somber, even overwrought, while the other is sunny, soulful, and romantic. As anti-war songs go, neither “Garden” nor “Yellow Ledbetter” can be awarded points for persuasion. It’s a virtue of both that you could never know the songs were written with Iraq in mind, and derive just as much (or as little) enjoyment. (It’s precisely this abstraction that their later protest songs could use more of.) In 1937, George Orwell wrote that war against a foreign country “only happens when a moneyed class thinks they are going to profit from it,” and that every war, when it comes, or before it comes, is represented not as a war but as an act of self-defense against a homicidal maniac … The essential job is to get people to recognize war propaganda when they see it, especially when it is disguised as peace propaganda.

The distinction between war and peace propaganda will occasion the first song. In September 1991, Ed tells a journalist that “Garden” is about the seemingly predetermined march to war in Kuwait. He has no way of knowing that the song, much like its subject, will be the first in a series: I remember sitting in this pool hall with Stone and Chris [Cornell] … this really old, really classic pool hall—and we were sitting there, and it was really rainy out, and George Bush came on, and started telling us about the war and that we were going … and there’s part of that in it, when we talk about “I don’t question our existence / I just question our modern needs.” Why were we doing this? And why were we going off?

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A “garden of stone” can refer to a cemetery, as Ed is happy to explain in the 1991 interview. It can also refer to a sculpture garden—and unless you happened to be  reading the distinguished publication M.E.A.T. (Metal Events Around Toronto) magazine in late 1991, you’re hardly missing something obvious if “Garden” doesn’t jump out at you as kin to “Masters of War.” There’s a cost and a benefit to a phrase like “garden of stone.” On the one hand, it’s original, which can’t be said of “I just question our modern needs.” On the other hand, the risk is that no one will catch your meaning—which may suit Ed just fine. It does raise the question, though: why go to the trouble of writing an anti-war song in the first place? Is the point of a political song to speak only for itself? Or to get your audience to recognize propaganda when they see it? So it’s hardly self-evident that “Garden” is a song about the war in Iraq, which is probably why it works, just barely. The same case need not be made for “Yellow Ledbetter,” a song so abundantly poignant, expressive, and heartfelt—so quintessentially Mike—there is not a Pearl Jam partisan who’d complain to hear it at every show. Like “Alive,” the song is a bundle of contradiction: one of the band’s most exuberant, optimistic songs, while still, and solidly, about the most tragic of subjects; a study of the needless cruelties people inflict, which unfailingly will make an arena sing in unison, and thaw the defense of the most frosty curmudgeon; a partial improvisation, whose final shape feels meticulously plotted out, and seamless in structure; a luminous reflection on the fragility of life, which succeeds in making us aware of its potential. It’s a song the band was weirdly slow in coming around to. It is recorded early, with Rick Parashar, in the spring of 1991, during the same sessions that produce most of the master takes for Ten—and then is left on the shelf, more or less, for the next few years. Not surprisingly, the song’s primary composer, Mike, lobbies for the song’s inclusion on Ten; also not surprisingly, the good-natured guitarist puts up less of a fuss than he should when his bandmates unwisely decide against it. “Yellow Ledbetter” is not released domestically until the “Jeremy” single in September 1992, thirteen months after the issue of Ten; not performed live until November 1993; and not a regular part of the band’s setlist until the middle of 1995, when it belatedly assumes the place of honor it holds to this day. Even so, “Yellow Ledbetter” is evidence favorable to the humanist belief that good work finds its own audience. With the nearly concurrent release of Vs. and Vitalogy, and without any prodding from the band or its label, in 1994—a year

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not lacking for superlative popular music—“Yellow Ledbetter” begins picking up airplay on national radio, and reaches as high as number twenty-one on the Billboard mainstream rock chart, higher than “Corduroy,” “Animal,” or “Do the Evolution.” It stays on the charts for a total of nineteen weeks, driven by organic listener interest alone. There might be hope for us after all. Like many Pearl Jam songs, “Yellow Ledbetter” is enriched by knowledge of its source, but has never needed it, having long outgrown its origins. On August 7, 2008, at a solo show in Newark, Ed opens up during a rare Q&A, and says that the lyrics refer to a real incident, with an “alternative-looking” friend, whose brother had died in the first Gulf War. Ed and the friend were taking a walk when they saw an American flag, hanging from a house nearby, and several people out on the porch. Whether for reasons of fraternal pride, or neighborly decorum, the friend saluted, only to have his greeting ignored. (“They don’t wave.”) Maybe the guys on the porch were distracted—or maybe they were assholes. It’s a fleeting and easily forgotten moment: one that most people would take notice of, perhaps, but not one that many of us could turn into a career highlight, and a largely improvised one at that. To draw an odd analogy, the song opens with a scene that resembles Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, with a letter, sent to notify a soldier’s next of kin. The melody is wistful, with Mike’s melancholy riff played once, then repeated. For the first half-minute, there’s every hint we’re about to hear something devastating, along the lines of “Black.” With the entrance of the drums, bass, and vocal, however, the sun comes out, and the song becomes something different—unless you’re able to make out the words, which seem distinctly at odds with the music, in their elegiac tone. Here’s a guess—from the studio version: Unsealed on a porch a letter sat Then you said, “I wanna leave it again” Once I saw her, on a beach of weathered sand And on the sand, I wanna leave it again On a weekend, wanna wish it all away And they called and I said that I want what I said, then I call out again And the reason, oughta leave her calm, I know I said, “I know what or where, not the box or the bag.”

Much has been written about the inscrutability of Ed’s vocal in “Yellow Ledbetter,” and with good reason. Even after thirty years, you could be excused for asking if he had set himself the challenge of obscuring every third word, and then commended himself on a job well done. As he does on “Even Flow,” Ed goes

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to no special trouble to enunciate his words, beyond the pattern of stresses: it’s as much about the syllables, as the individual words. Especially in the middle, you can hear the words becoming less distinct, yet still falling into cadence. For all the mystery the band has encouraged, with “Yellow Ledbetter”—one of a tiny number whose lyrics have never been printed, or existed in any final form— there’s no ambiguity in the song’s central image, of a soldier’s final resting place: “the box or the bag.” The marvel of “Yellow Ledbetter,” then—like the music of  Brian Wilson—is its use of a tragic subject, in the guise of an infectious pop song. It’s an amusing footnote of history that a song as compact as “Little Wing,” by Jimi Hendrix, can inspire a behemoth like “Yellow Ledbetter.” In its better live versions—the 2006 tour, say—“Yellow Ledbetter” embraces its origins in tribute, and becomes a kind of showcase in the history of music, where Mike pays tribute to his heroes with a brief quotation: “The Star-Spangled Banner,” after Hendrix; “Little Wing”; Van Halen; and related guitar gods. (Fugazi who?) It’s always the show’s most forthright admission of Pearl Jam’s roots in classic rock, and their belief—or Mike’s, anyway—in the worth of a good solo: even (or especially) one that can veer off into excess.

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J.C. Dobbs, Philadelphia (July 12, 1991)

From the April 5, 2017 edition of Pearl Jam Radio, on Sirius XM: Rob: Alright, we got a couple people hangin’ on for a long time. Want to get to them. It’s the Faithfull Forum on Sirius XM’s Pearl Jam Radio. 855-9-PEARL-JAM. 855-973-2755. Uh—let’s go to—Rick, in Philadelphia, who’s been hangin’ on forever here. Hey, Rick. Rick: What’s up guys, how you doin’. Rob: We’re doing good. What can we do for ya? Rick: Good. I mean, uh—longtime listener, love you guys. Uh—and, uh—seen ’em from—Dobbs, to Camden, to—all four shows at the Spectrum. But, I wanted to get your feel on—that, uh, last show—from, uh—the Spectrum, where they did—they did Ten in entirety, which—I went there. I didn’t know they had the banner flying. And then, once they got to—you know, a couple songs in, I’m like: they’re gonna play the thing in entirety. What did you guys think of that? Were you guys there? Rob: I was— Jessica: I have to stop you. Rob: Well, we all have to stop you— Dawn: Yeah, we’re all— Rob: Wait, wait. He’s from Philly. Andrew: Yeah. Rob: It must be so hard to live in Philly— Andrew: Dobbs. Jessica: Dobbs. Jonathan: Dobbs. Rob: Well, yeah, Dobbs, but also— Jessica: We have to talk about Dobbs.

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense Andrew: Yeah. Rob: We have to talk about Dobbs. But also—he said the Spectrum. Rick: [inaudible] Rob: He said the Spectrum, which—it’s not, but—it must be so hard to live in Philly and, like—and still not—refer to your arena as the Spectrum. [laughing] Andrew: The Wells Fargo Center. Rick: [inaudible] Rob: Let’s—okay, um—that show was—that show was—that show was phenomenal. You know? Andrew: But, Dobbs. Rob: Yeah, let’s— Rick: Dobbs. Rob: The hardcore here want to talk about Dobbs. Jessica: Well, here’s the thing. The Spectrum show was amazing. I think, like—it’s also one of the most, you know, like—soughtafter bootlegs—like, now, that’s—you know—of the whole … Rob: No, he’s—he talking about the Ten show, though. Jessica: Oh, the Ten show? Andrew: He’s talking about this last year. Jessica: Oh, oh, oh— Rob: Yeah, yeah. Jessica: Oh, when they played Ten, in order. Rob: Yeah, yeah. Jessica: Oh, right. Rob: That’s in there too. But, back to Dobbs. Andrew: The special show’s cool too, but—Dobbs. Rob: Back to Dobbs. Jessica: You dazzle me with Dobbs. Rob: You, you—you Philly people have it all. [laughing] Rick: [laughing] Jessica: I can’t complain. I’m a New Yorker, so—we get the other half. Andrew: Yeah, but we didn’t—we didn’t get to go to Dobbs. Jessica: No. You gotta tell us about Dobbs. Rob: Tell us about Dobbs. Rick: Okay. Jessica: 7/12? Andrew: 7/12. Jessica: ’91?

J.C. Dobbs, Philadelphia (1991) Andrew: Rick:

Debut of a lot of songs. It was epic. It was epic.

[reverent silence] Rob: [deep breath] How’d you wind up there? Rick: Uh—just, uh—my—my dad actually took me there. [audible disbelief] Jessica: Your dad? Rob: Oh, dude. Andrew: Your dad is so cool. Rick: My dad, yeah. Rob: Dude. Jessica: Where did—where did you stand? Rob: [sputtering] Can you and your dad come up for a show next week? Rick: [inaudible] Jessica: Were you close to the stage, or in the back, or? Rick: No, no—not close at all. Way, way, back. Way, way, back. Way, way, back. Andrew: Yeah, but in Dobbs— Rob: Wait. Way way back is like 300 feet in Dobbs. Dawn: Well, I mean— Andrew: That’s like the fifth row at MSG. Jessica: And what did you think? Rick: … I was a little kid. It was awesome. It was the most epic night of my life. [awed silence] Rob: How old were you—at that point? Rick: Oh, gosh. It was ’92, right? Jessica: ’91. Rick: ’93? ’94? All in unison: ’91. Rick: ’91? Uh, I was—twelve? Thirteen? Fourteen? Jessica: Ugh. Rob: Love it. Andrew: Man.

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Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense Rob: Love it. Andrew: That’s awesome. Rob: [hysterically cackling] Rick: It was epic. Andrew: I’m definitely gonna do that with my kids.

*** On May 25, 1991, Dave Krusen plays the last of only twenty-four shows with Pearl Jam: a party for the cast and crew of Singles, leading to a police incident, and a two-day blackout. As you might assume—fourteen months after Andy Wood’s death—Krusen is asked to leave, and checks himself into rehab. It’s too bad that only four bootlegs of his time in the band have surfaced—one more than Matt Chamberlain, who played for all of six weeks. Krusen speaks well of his time in Pearl Jam, and was inducted to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for his eight months of service—but you do have to feel a bit bad for the guy. *** In June, Pearl Jam flies to Ridge Farm Studios, south of London, for the mixing of Ten. They work with Tim Palmer—known for his collaboration with David Bowie—who had also mixed Apple; and as with that record, it was drenched in reverb and delay. (The band will induce Brendan O’Brien to remix the album in 2009.) It was their first time out of the country. Ed arranges for tapes of the NBA finals, only to find they don’t work on UK machines. In London, they try playing with Brad Wilk, presently of Rage Against the Machine. It doesn’t work out. Back in the US, beginning on July 4, the band plays a run of dates with Matt Chamberlain: formerly, the drummer of Edie Brickell & New Bohemians. Chamberlain’s tenure is brief, but well-timed: he plays in Pearl Jam’s East Coast debut, and on camera, in the “Alive” video. His most important contribution, however, will be in making a referral. *** The seventh, eighth, and tenth shows are bootlegged—in Long Beach, Los Angeles, and Hollywood, all in early February. The next recording to surface won’t be for five months. But then, it’s a good one: July 12, 1991, at J.C. Dobbs, in Philadelphia—a microscopic, 200-capacity club—and an occasion Ed invokes at every Philly-area show in the next twenty-five years. (If there’s one thing Pearl Jam people agree on, it’s this: never, ever miss them in Philly.)

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It’s their third show with Matt Chamberlain, which explains some of the numerous unforced errors. But Ed himself comes in early or late, repeatedly, suggesting he’s a bit wound up, as well. It’s only their second performance of “State of Love and Trust,” and their third, of “Jeremy” and “Oceans.” It’s also the beginning of their ascent: their first visit to New York, Boston, Minneapolis, and Chicago. Most of these shows are in support, J.C. Dobbs being an exception. More often, they play second or first—at times, to empty rooms—before bands like The Lemonheads, Urge Overkill, and Buffalo Tom. At Dobbs, the band opens with “Wash.” In sincere amazement, Ed says: “I can’t believe I’m in Philadelphia right now.” If you’ve spent even five minutes in that majestic city, you will be unsurprised to hear that the crowd eats it up. A woman confirms: “Yeah you are!” Ed goes on: “This whole thing is a trip for me. Six months ago, I was out surfing.” He continues: “So, Mother Love Bone played here once—was anybody there?” Widespread cheer. “That can’t be right, ’cuz Jeff said there were only about ten people here. Okay—what was Jeff Ament wearing that night?” (Probably the same outfit.) He wraps it up: “We’re glad you’re here with us. This song’s called ‘Even Flow.’” Chamberlain comes in hilariously late; but then, the album’s not even out yet. The show is loose—very much a third show with a new drummer—but the Philly crowd responds with euphoria, as they will for decades to come. After “Why Go,” there’s a lengthy and heartfelt applause. Ed sounds only partly in jest when he says: “Oh, come on, you never even heard that song before. You’ve never heard any of these songs.” When “Porch” is done, a longer cheer follows, while the band takes a minute offstage. This is when Ed will inaugurate one of his recurring practices in the Northeast, of mischievously inciting crowds in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston against one another. “I think when we get to New York, we should tell everybody at the New Music Seminar to go fuck off,” he says. Always happy to engage in acts of ill will toward New York, the Philly crowd applauds, energetically. “Next time we come around, we’ll be all stuck up, and I’ll be doing, like, costume changes like Diana Ross and stuff.” Someone yells, “Yeah!” “Diana knows how to put on a show,” adds Ed, for some reason, before “Alone.” *** In late July, Chamberlain is asked to join, as a full member, and becomes the second drummer propositioned thus far to decline. In light of the enormous

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wealth he would forfeit, we might assume some regret on his part; but to hear him speak of it, his month and a half was a gig, plain and simple: I was just there to help out. I didn’t even know these guys. And then they basically asked me to uproot everything in my life and join their band that was in a van, still. Basically, I just had no connection to them on a personal level or musically. It could have been any drummer—they just needed one. Had I known it was going to generate millions and millions of dollars, maybe I’d have given it a second thought. But I think I made the right decision. It just wasn’t my thing. They were on a mission, but I was just there to help out for a second. I was just an innocent bystander.

There’s a touch of entitlement in his point that Pearl Jam “was in a van, still.” And he’s perhaps a little cavalier when he says he didn’t give it a second thought. Still, Matt Chamberlain is right: in July of ’91, Pearl Jam was an unknown, unfamous, and distinctly unglamorous band. In only three months, they would be opening arena shows, and sharing the stage with Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, and the Chili Peppers. In a year and a half, they would be one of the world’s biggest bands, and millionaires, many times over. But you can’t really fault him for not seeing that one coming. Before confirming his decision not to stay on, Chamberlain suggests a replacement. He doesn’t know him all that well, and has only seen him play a few times. For that matter, the bands he has played in are closer to the cockrock of Bad Radio and the Chili Peppers than Pearl Jam. Still—according to Chamberlain—the guy was worth a look. Once again, the band sends out a tape, and offers to fly a stranger up to Seattle; and once again, the offer is happily accepted. The new drummer’s name is Dave Abbruzzese. *** In the summer of 1991, the anti-abortion group, Operation Rescue, announced a major event in Kansas. “The nation’s most notorious killer practices his demonic trade in Wichita,” said a recruiting pamphlet. “George (Killer) Tiller advertises nationally and internationally to solicit women in their second and third trimesters.” In July, Wichita became the first fundamentalist campaign to target an individual abortion provider. Officially, the “Summer of Mercy” began on July 15, and was announced as a one-week event. A crucial mistake was made by the Wichita police, who asked Dr. George Tiller to shut down his clinic for the week—unilateral disarmament, in effect. A religious fervor began to build that summer in Kansas:

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American fundamentalists quickly came to see the shutdown of Wichita’s clinics as a miracle, a sign from God, and a blessing on [the] campaign. Never before had Operation Rescue been able to close all the abortion clinics in a single city for an extended period, and fundamentalists, particularly Charismatics who believed in visible miracles, convinced themselves that the Holy Spirit was moving in Kansas. As word spread through the fundamentalist subculture, sympathizers simply packed up and headed toward Wichita, some to pray and sing, others to risk arrest.

From around the country, thousands of supporters descended on the city. They attended nightly rallies; collected over $175,000, in cardboard buckets; and blockaded themselves, seven rows deep, in front of Tiller’s abortion clinic. A federal judge, Patrick Kelly, issued fines of $25,000 a day for Operation Rescue’s leadership, only to see his orders go unenforced by Wichita police. In early August, Joan Finney, the state’s Democratic governor, told an Operation Rescue rally: “I am pro-life … I commend you for the orderly manner in which you have conducted the demonstration.” During the fourth week of protests, the Bush administration weighed in on the side of the protesters, filing a brief for Kelly’s order to be overturned. In all, more than 2,600 supporters were arrested over five weeks. The “Summer of Mercy” ended on Sunday, August 25, with a rally that attracted 25,000 people to the football stadium at Wichita State University. The featured speaker was Pat Robertson, the TV evangelist, who told the crowd: “If we continue to buy the arguments of the radical feminists, the unrestrained abortion of America one day will lead to the wrath of God descending on this land that we love so much.” On Tuesday, August 27, Pearl Jam’s debut recording is unceremoniously released. The event warrants a four-sentence review in Rolling Stone—but not until early December. “Singer-lyricist Eddie Vedder sometimes lets his words get way ahead of his good intentions,” opined David Fricke, quoting one of the more cringe-worthy howlers in “Garden.” “Focus instead on his voice—a ragged, enraged mongrel blend of Robert Plant and James Hetfield—and the Pearls’ surprising, and refreshing, melodic restraint.” (Also: the Pearls?)

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The Palladium, Hollywood (October 6, 1991) The young men of this land are not, as they are often called, a “lost” race—they are a race that never yet has been discovered. And the whole secret, power, and knowledge of their own discovery is locked within them—they know it, feel it, have the whole thing in them—and they cannot utter it. Thomas Wolfe

Is Ten a good album? It’s almost beside the point—like asking if the Atlantic is a good ocean. Ten exists, and always will—as long as people listen to bombastic rock—and that’s all we need to say about it. The songs, we’ve heard: ad nauseam, or ad infinitum, depending on your taste. If Pearl Jam’s career is a map, then Ten is surely their Everest. “Jeremy.” “Even Flow.” “Alive.” “Oceans.” “Garden.” “Black.” “Porch.” “Release.” These songs are many things: theatrical, immoderate, exaggerated; but also affecting, personal, and introspective; melodramatic, perhaps; overplayed, without question; and not without the occasional scent of cheese. It was arena rock for sensitive guys, and the occasional intellectual: empowering without being obscure, relating sentiments long missing from rock—desperation, loneliness, confusion. Part of its power was that it also seemed confessional—owing in no small part to its singer. The band Pearl Jam most resembled with Ten was U2: unironic, altruistic, and deeply traditional. You and I may prefer Vitalogy, or Vs.—and the band would agree— but only a contrarian would argue that Pearl Jam’s legacy is anything but Ten, for better and worse. Much like its peers—Nevermind, Achtung Baby, The Black Album—it’s a self-conscious grab for the brass ring: the kind that rock bands mostly no longer make—and one that utterly reshaped the world for millions of young people. One such young person was the twelve-year-old Annie Clark, a.k.a. St. Vincent. “It was a girl on my soccer team,” she told Bob Boilen. “She was one

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of the kids who had MTV … I saw the video for ‘Jeremy’ and I heard the song for the first time. And then I was just off to the races, I was obsessed, completely obsessed with Pearl Jam—and I just remember it being—like, okay, I know what I want to do.” It’s like when you’re a kid and you finally have something that expresses that which you don’t know how to express. And you have this way to construct your identity … it was interesting because everybody liked Pearl Jam at that time. Everybody liked Nirvana, everybody even liked … Red Hot Chili Peppers and Soundgarden and that was the wave. You know? But I always felt like, Oh no, you don’t love Pearl Jam as much as I love Pearl Jam. You couldn’t possibly understand the depths. Oh, you like Pearl Jam? Oh, well, did you know this B-side? Do you know this rarity? ’Cause I do, I have all those tapes and all those bootlegs. And, you know, God bless my parents for letting me …. When I was first playing guitar, when I was twelve and learning songs and writing my own songs, I was doing an Eddie Vedder impression. That’s how I was learning to sing.

She was in good company. From The Strokes, Nikolai Fraiture and Julian Casablancas, in Lizzy Goodman’s Meet Me in the Bathroom: Julian: “I wanted to sing. I recorded myself singing a Pearl Jam song or something.” Nikolai: “That’s what we listened to, Pearl Jam and Nirvana.” Julian: “I was singing along and I thought, ‘Man, look at me go! I’m ripping this song up!’ Then I listened back and I was just so devastated and hurt at how bad my voice was, how out of tune and just how bad it sounded. I thought, ‘Wow, okay. Well, that’s the end of that.’”

Oddly enough, Ten is in some ways the most realistic album the band ever made. Almost every song is a true story, or based on a real event—even the ones that seem otherwise. “Alive” is based on a true-life story, as is “Jeremy,” as is “Deep,” about an addict; “Porch,” a missed phone call; “Even Flow,” a local homeless man; “Oceans,” “Black,” and “Release,” past and current relationships; and “Why Go,” a young woman in Chicago that Ed knew, whose story is revisited in “Leash.” Woody Guthrie once said: “A folk song tells a story that really did happen. A pop tune tells a yarn that didn’t really take place.” By this definition, nearly all of Ten can be called folk music. Much of it is the work of a genuine craftsman—a young writer, learning his trade—but some of it—namely, “Once”—is embarrassingly sophomoric.

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One of Ed’s best-kept secrets is a gift for improvisation, or automatic, onthe-fly writing; and both are in evidence on “Release.” It was composed, just like “Yellow Ledbetter,” in a single take—an ad-lib. The song doesn’t tell a story so much as express a state of being—a feeling of separation, from the world; a loved one; and oneself. His lyrics tend to be about people confronting ordinary circumstances and falling short—out of fear; duty; or inertia. The problems that his characters face are inevitably the hardest of all: how to let go of the past; how to persist in the face of suffering; and how to grow with grace. His protagonists evolve, by the end of the lyric—but just barely. His lyrics work best when you can feel him reaching for the empathy, insight, and predicament of other people. To these qualities he adds an optimism, a sincerity, and an absence of irony that were unusual in the early ’90s, and uniquely all his own. If anything, it was an excess of earnestness that made people uneasy about Pearl Jam. Ed wasn’t born cool. He became so. It may or may not be true—as Rolling Stone once wrote—that if Pearl Jam broke up after its first album, their place in history would be secure; but it’s a decent bet. Of their most popular songs on Spotify, four of the top five— “Alive,” “Even Flow,” “Jeremy,” and “Black”—are track-number two through six of their debut. Asked by an interviewer, in 1991, Ed says of Ten: “If we sell 40,000, it would be amazing.” He’s only off by twenty million. As of this writing, Ten has been certified for sales of thirteen million in the US, and at least that many worldwide: enough to qualify for the hundred best-selling LPs of all time. That’s an impressive return on investment, for an album that cost $100,000 to make. It says a good deal about Pearl Jam, that their reaction to Ten and its success is not arrogance, or even pride, but something closer to guilt. Ed: “I can listen to the early records [except] the first record, which is strange because it’s the one that, in a way, we’ve been defined by, or people know those songs most. But, it’s just the sound of the record. It was kind of mixed in a way that was … it was kind of produced.” Jeff: “We didn’t expect the record to be a huge deal. But I guess it kinda became one.” *** Ten is the quintessential slow burn. In the United States, the album ships 25,000 units its first week, right below the threshold of the Billboard 200 chart. (Today, those same numbers will land you in the top ten.) Two months after its release,

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Ten squeaks onto the “Heatseekers” chart, tracking new and developing artists, and debuts at thirty-eight out of forty. The momentum is a result of the band’s ceaseless touring—over 100 shows, in 1991 alone. It will take another two months—until January 4th—for the album to enter the Billboard 200, at the lessthan-spectacular position of 155. The following week, Nevermind will displace Michael Jackson’s Dangerous at number one—as Pearl Jam ascends to 143, right below Love Hurts, by Cher. That same month, MTV moves the “Alive” video into prime-time, while a single and a video for “Even Flow” are planned. This is when the train really starts moving. On January 28th, “Alive” is released as a single in England, leading up to Ten’s international release, and the band’s European debut. On February 25, 1992, while the band is playing in Nottingham, and the day after Ten comes out in the UK, the album is certified gold, for sales of 500,000 in the US. It will go on to sell as many as 100,000 albums a week until Christmas of 1993, and spends almost five years on the Billboard 200—the fifth-longest run of any title in the Soundscan era. (Its last week to qualify is October 12, 1996, when No Code is number ten on the same chart.) Even so, it never quite reaches number one—a distinction their next three albums will hit—owing to Billy Ray Cyrus’s Some Gave All, which spends an improbable seventeen straight weeks at number one. It’s worth noting that these were obscenely profitable months for the music industry, and the major labels in particular. Ten is one of a handful of records to come out during an annus mirabilis in popular music, with the simultaneous release of Nevermind, Out of Time, Achtung Baby, The Low End Theory, Badmotorfinger, 2Pacalypse Now, Gish, Metallica’s The Black Album, Use Your Illusion I and II, and Blood Sugar Sex Magik, not to mention My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless; Slint’s Spiderland; Primal Scream’s Screamadelica; Teenage Fanclub’s Bandwagonesque; and debut albums by Blur, Massive Attack, and Orbital. Also released that August and September of 1991 were Garth Brooks’s Ropin’ the Wind (seventeen million sold); Bryan Adams’s Waking Up the Neighbours (sixteen million); Mariah Carey’s Emotions (eight million); Brooks & Dunn’s Brand New Man (six million); Spin Doctors’ Pocket Full of Kryptonite (five million); Ozzy Osborne’s No More Tears (four million); and debut efforts by P.M. Dawn, Naughty by Nature, and Cypress Hill. Factor in the multiplatinum albums by Michael Jackson, Prince, Enya, Paula Abdul, Natalie Cole, Vanessa Williams, Trisha Yearwood, Michael Bolton, Richard Marx, Genesis, Van Halen, and Dire Straits, among others—all released in 1991—and you don’t have to see

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the balance sheets to know someone was doing well. All told, there may be no period that embodies the music industry’s pre-Napster heyday more than 1991, when Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Soundgarden enter the fray. It’s a phenomenon an armchair Marxist could pretzel themselves into a knot figuring out. Were millions of people buying music in the ’90s because there were a surplus of great artists, or were there a surplus of great artists because millions of people were buying music? Is it a coincidence that the Seattle bands came to prominence at an all-time peak for the music industry? When the major labels were highly competitive; flush with capital; and compelled by the necessity to develop new talent? Is it merely a fluke of history that Nirvana and Pearl Jam rivaled Michael Jackson at the last moment when there existed an audience and infrastructure to disseminate their ethos? If Ten and Nevermind had come out five years earlier, or later, would anyone have noticed, or cared? More to the point: how might such a movement have a fighting chance today? *** In late September 1991, the band sets out for what will gradually become four straight months on the road, starting in British Columbia, and working their way down the coast, into Arizona, Texas, and the South. For a group whose first year has been all but effortless, the shows are initially slow-going. On the opening night of the tour, in Victoria, Ed becomes enraged by a chatty and distracted crowd. He decides to unscrew the base of his microphone, and launches it, malevolently, across the length of the room—over the heads of the crowd, and into the back wall. Somehow, no one is hurt. The date is September 25, 1991: the day after Nevermind, The Low End Theory, Blood Sugar Sex Magik, and Badmotorfinger come out in stores. On September 30th, they play a small club in San Francisco, called the I-Beam. (It’s their second time at the venue—and their first, as Pearl Jam—right down the street from Miss Pearl’s Jam House, a beloved local restaurant.) There’s a good video, shot from halfway back—one of only a few concerts from ’91 that have surfaced in video form. The venue seems to be three-quarters full. They open with “Wash,” and during the last verse, you see Ed making a fist, and hitting himself in the head. During “Even Flow,” something goes wrong with the mic; Ed chucks it, and sings the next two lines unamplified. During “Garden,” he sees a fight break out, and jumps offstage, mic in hand. He jumps into the crowd again, during “Jeremy,” tailed by security—presumably, to stop another fight.

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Later, someone up front hands him a T-shirt, with a reproduction of the stick man. “This thing, gentlemen, is illegal,” he jokes, adding: “Who did this? We love it,” more effusive than casual. Jeff comes over for a look, and nods in approval. They close with The Beatles’ “I’ve Got a Feeling,” in which an overexcited audience member invites himself onstage to sing. Understandably, security tries to pull the intruder into the wings, no doubt for a beating, but Ed waves them off, walks him over to the mic, and stands back—the kid has a decent voice— before the fan is politely walked into the crowd. On October 1st, they perform at one of the nation’s more infamous dens of depravity: the Cathouse, in Hollywood, owned by Riki Rachtman, of Headbangers’ Ball. Something must have been special, because the L.A. Times’ Steve Hochman files a review, which surely delighted Ed with its intro: The Who’s “Hope I die before I get old” has been called the only statement any rock band ever needed to make. But Seattle’s Pearl Jam, some 25 years later, may have hit on a valid successor: “I’m still alive,” crowed singer Eddie Vedder at the Cathouse on Tuesday, like a rooster announcing sunrise. There was even a Who-like visual aspect to the show: Vedder leaping from stacks of speakers and twirling his microphone a la Roger Daltrey, and guitarist Mike McCready throwing his guitar at his amps, recalling Pete Townshend. But these were displays of pure existential joy, not the acts of frustration that have become rock ‘n’ roll clichés in the years since the Who set the standards. It was somehow fitting that this celebration of the death of nihilism took place at the Cathouse, a very temple of hollow live-for-todayism.

“Displays of … existential joy,” “a rooster announcing sunrise,” and “the death of nihilism”: not bad, for an eleven-month-old group. The day the review is published, they play a club in San Diego, where Ed used to work; the night after, it’s the Palladium, in Hollywood, along with Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, and—yes—Spinal Tap. In capacity terms, it is their biggest show to date; but not for very long. Ed tells the crowd that tomorrow will be a year since “we all met and became best friends.” He’s only off by a day. On YouTube, there’s a heartbreaking video, where Ed—billed as “Eddy Vedder”—is interviewed at the Palladium, interspersed with footage from the band playing “Hunger Strike.” In the video, Ed is beaming, beatific, child-like, and utterly in earnest. For the video’s second half, he stands with his arms

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politely tucked behind his back, next to Chris Cornell and Layne Staley. Ed is looking up at his peers, quite literally—Cornell, in particular, who stands at least seven inches taller, not counting footwear—with an expression that approaches awe; the smile on his face says nothing so much as, Can you even believe how great this is? There’s something terribly unguarded and sweet about the way Chris and Ed exchange a kiss, and the kiss that Ed, in turn, gives Layne—so much so, that you just about forget, how only one of the men you are watching is still here. *** In October, Pearl Jam is offered a slot on the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ North American tour, playing first of three, before the Smashing Pumpkins. (In fact, they are invited only after Soundgarden decides to tour with Guns N’ Roses; in turn, Axl calls them Frowngarden.) We can probably take an educated guess as to how Ed must have felt about an eight-week tour with his idols, adolescent as they might be. He tells ROX magazine: I’m proud the Chili Peppers have taken two new bands out instead of someone who would guarantee more ticket sales. It’s a great opportunity for us and it’s good for the crowds. It’s a good mix of styles, very Neapolitan, three distinct flavors, something for everyone. I’m the luckiest Chili Peppers fan in the world.

He’s not wrong—at least, about the lucky part. The Chili Peppers’ tour will take them from clubs to auditoriums and arenas. More prosaically, it takes them out of their ten-person passenger van, and into a tour bus, with driver and crew. It’s their first exposure to the trials of touring life, and the art of winning hearts and minds, in larger and less personal venues—all in thirty minutes. Jeff: It couldn’t have been a better thing to happen for us at that time. We knew we’d be opening. We only got thirty minutes, so we knew right off the bat that we had a lot of catching up to do. I’d go out to the bus before the show, bring my bass out, and play super hard. I almost got a sweat before we went onstage. Ed was in there a lot singing in the front while I was in the back. We sort of felt like, if we don’t bring it, we could get booted off this tour a week or two in. We went a bit crazy trying to make sure that didn’t happen.

That fall and winter, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, and the Chili Peppers play throughout the Midwest and Northeast: DeKalb and Normal, Illinois; Ames, Iowa; Omaha; Milwaukee; East Lansing, Kalamazoo, and Detroit;

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Cleveland, Columbus, and Cincinnati; Pittsburgh and State College; Boston and Springfield; Toronto and Burlington; Indianapolis and Chicago; Rochester, Troy, and Syracuse. On their nights off from the tour, and at least once on the same evening, they play smaller club shows; in Ithaca, admission is $5, and the band is billed as “THE HEAVIEST SOUND OUT OF SEATTLE.” Oddly, none of the band’s performances on this run are videotaped, or have surfaced, aside from a fifteen-minute clip of the November 11th show at Roseland in New York. (Audio recordings exist for quite a few.) They play to crowds large and small, ecstatic and indifferent. At the tour kick-off, in Madison, Wisconsin, Ed sounds nervous, and rambles, slightly: “It’s strange for us—we’ve played a lot in clubs … so this feels awfully big.” (It’s a 2,000-capacity theater.) On the second night in Toronto, he asks the crowd if anyone was at the previous night’s show, and the silence he gets by way of response is deafening. “I’m asking if anyone was here at the show last night,” he says, redundantly. Not a single person seems to say much of anything until the end, after “Porch,” when Ed asks, without a shred of irony: “Are you guys ready for the greatest fucking band in the entire world? The RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS?” God help us. That’s still better than the reaction in Cleveland, where the band walks into a near-empty room, and you can hear the dejection immediately: “Hello. Where is everybody? Smokin’ beer? Drinkin’ pot? For you guys who’ve come early, we’ll make it worth your while.” After a few songs, the crowd is still scarce, and unresponsive. In an unfortunate return to the days of Bad Radio, Ed adjusts his rhetoric from persuasion, to pleading, to outright resignation. It’s the weirdest thing. I’m looking out at you. I feel like—it’s just like a big movie, and I’m looking out at all you guys and it just looks like a big theater. It looks really boring. So if you feel like standing up and moving around or something, do it up.

Not exactly rousing words. Toward the end of the set, Ed rebukes the audience, yet again, sounding like a parent at wit’s end: Hey, before you start, stop. We’re gonna look at somethin’ right here. [Ed holds up an object.] This is part of Flea’s guitar from last night. He smashed the fucking thing, because the crowd was so fuckin’ into it. He gave up his favorite bass for the last two years because the crowd was so fucking insane. If this keeps up, Flea is not gonna be smashing any basses tonight. I might smash up something, though.

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The crowd responds with scattered jeers. Ed is being petulant, if also commendable, in his resolve, so long as the microphone stand doesn’t go flying; and it’s then that something special takes place. As will happen again so often in the months and years to come, when Pearl Jam finally drops the sermonizing—the vain worry of whether everyone within eyesight is sufficiently attentive—and locks in to “Why Go,” with its frenetic percussion, demonic bass line, stratospheric guitars, and relentless forward motion, the venue cannot fail to ignite; slowly, but surely, the crowd’s mood turns, and lets its defenses down— but it feels like too little too late. After the song is over, Ed sees two people in the balcony up on their feet, and dedicates the last song of the set to them. By now, the music appears to have converted at least part of the audience: a few people tentatively jump onstage during “Porch,” and then a few people more, until the security guards decide it’s time to start clearing them out. Without interrupting the song, Ed instructs security to leave the kids alone, in a voice that can be heard the next state over: “Hey! Leave him alone! HEY!!! One song. They’re gonna stay one song. ONE SONG!” *** As the tour progresses—the crowds assembling earlier at each new venue to see Pearl Jam—so does Ed grow into his role as a front man, a leader, and a spokesman. (Or, in a precursor’s words: “talkin’ ’bout my generation.”) Asked to contribute to the Rolling Stone ’91 year-end issue, Ed writes: “Finally, music gets to the point. Ian [MacKaye] sings, ‘We are all here …’ Perry [Farrell] sings, ‘These are the days …’ [Chris] Cornell sings, ‘The wreck is going down,’ and he’s right. Wake up, or die in your sleep.” At the final Roseland Ballroom show, he delivers an impromptu lecture in local history: “So your parents can’t give you no fucking shit for coming here and going crazy tonight, ’cos this is where they all lost their virginity. This building, this room might be the very reason you’re alive.” (You can guess which number came next.) At American University, they debut an electrifying call to arms on this generational theme: “Leash.” In late December, Pearl Jam closes 1991 with what are easily their most important shows in their short life as a band: a series of massive arena dates in Arizona, California, and Oregon with the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the newly imperial, all-conquering Nirvana. Again, it’s unfortunate that no one thought to document any of this, or to make the video public if they did. Pearl Jam’s sets from two of these shows have surfaced, in above-average audience recordings, and Nirvana’s in one audience recording, and one soundboard. As

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an admirer of the band, you would like to say that Ed and the guys hold their own at these shows, and give Aberdeen’s finest an honest run for their money. But listen to the recordings yourself, and it’s hard to avoid the conclusion: Pearl Jam sounds like a group swinging for the fences, while Nirvana sounds like a category-five hurricane.

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Cow Palace, San Francisco (December 31, 1991)

In Grunge is Dead: The Oral History of Seattle Rock Music, Ed says the following, about Nevermind: Nirvana’s record—people were passing around advance copies of that. Like it was a keychain—everyone had one. Everyone’s office, you’d just hear it playing … That was months before it came out. There was something about those songs— not only was there an immediate connection, but you didn’t get sick of them. It was an incredible bit of playing, songwriting, and focus of energy—having it seem natural. And where they were coming from, and what he wanted to say— even though you didn’t [know] what he was saying. We drove out to the Mojave Desert to see Fugazi—free show in the middle of the desert. You get there and there’s a van, two work lights set up, they’re playing in the sand amongst these dunes. It was quite a drive out there, and I think we listened to [Nevermind] all the way there and back. All that was on our minds was Fugazi, but then we would listen to this music. It was like getting doused and lighting yourself on fire—in some kind of celebration.

Writing in Spin, in 2011, he adds: After what happened with Kurt, I found it impossible to listen to the music— that’s where I lose touch with how people perceive Nevermind now. If I play something, it’s Incesticide or Hormoaning. It was just really difficult. When Krist came out with Sweet 75, and Dave with the first Foo Fighters record, that was how I’d listen to Nirvana.

*** It’s unclear when Pearl Jam and Nirvana first meet. In August of 1990, Nirvana opens for Sonic Youth in Seattle, while Jeff, Stone, and Mike are recording demos

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a few miles away. In 1991, the bands travel the country, and play many of the same venues. For a time, they seem to be moving in tandem: Dave Grohl plays his first show with Nirvana on October 11, 1990, three days after Ed arrives in Seattle. Pearl Jam records the bulk of Ten in April of ’91, a month before Nevermind. The albums come out within weeks of each other, on August 27th and September 24th, as will happen again, in reverse order, with In Utero and Vs. The video for “Alive” is taped in early August, and debuts in mid-September; “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is filmed in mid-August, and premieres in late September. But these are largely incidental; and the bands are in fact moving on completely opposite tracks. By the fall of ’91, copies of Nevermind have circled among labels, musicians, and well-connected fans, for the better part of a year. Even so, their label, Geffen, underestimates projections, and ships 50,000 copies its first week, selling out immediately. Nevermind debuts at 144 on the charts, and enters the top 40 in November. By contrast, Ten ships 25,000; limps along, rather mulishly, for several months; and will take until January to chart, right below Travis Tritt, at 155—when Nevermind is at number one. Well before Pearl Jam finds their footing, Nirvana has changed the terms of debate. In spite of the widening mismatch—or perhaps for that very reason—it’s only a matter of weeks before the bands acknowledge one another, in a manner that might be compared to the apes in the opening of 2001: A Space Odyssey. On September 28th, at a club show in Portland, Mike plays a fragment of “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” right between “Oceans” and “Deep.” (It’s the day before the video first airs, although it’s unlikely they knew that.) Are they pandering? Poking fun? In Portland, at least, the song is not yet a phenomenon—which can’t be said for the following week, in San Diego; or the time after that, in Ithaca, New York; Rockville, Maryland; Yonkers, New York; Roseland Ballroom; Salt Lake City; Chicago; and, for good measure, San Francisco—right before Nirvana is due on stage. By the end of the year, the gap between Nirvana and Pearl Jam will expand, to the point of being a rout—but a fortuitous turn will contrive to bring the bands together, for the first and only time. *** We’ve already noted how Nirvana’s label had not the slightest idea of the locomotive bearing down on them. It should come as little surprise, then, that their live career is managed with the same lack of foresight. In December—with Nevermind at sales of 2 million, or 1.8 million more than Ten—it emerges that

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the bands have been booked to play a week of shows together, right before New Year’s. It’s a lineup for the ages—as if The Beatles and The Velvet Underground had gone on tour together—and one that’s only partly polluted—perhaps inescapably—by the Chili Peppers, who will headline. The tour will travel to five venues on the West Coast: LA Sports Arena ($26.25, after fees); Pat O’Brien Pavilion, outside San Diego ($23.50); Arizona State University ($22.50); Salem Armory, Oregon ($19.50); and the Cow Palace, San Francisco, on New Year’s Eve ($27.50). (A sixth date, in Seattle, is canceled owing to illness.) With “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on indefinite loop, and Nirvana selling almost 400,000 units that week alone, there’s not much mystery who the crowd has come to see. Jeff, in Pearl Jam Twenty: I sort of felt like they were the biggest shows of our lives at that point. We were up there with Nirvana, and there was a competitiveness and a little bit of tension between us at that point. Nirvana bassist Krist Novoselic came out and told us there was a community jukebox between the backstage trailers, and he got upset that we were playing Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young songs and Beatles songs. So he put a sign on the jukebox telling us what we couldn’t play. I was just, like, ready to fuckin’ tangle with him. Like, “Great! Perfect! Bring it on.” We promptly loaded the thing up with everything he said we couldn’t play, so he’d come over and bump the jukebox during our songs. Eventually it just got unplugged.

If there’s a more perfect analogy for Nirvana and Pearl Jam, it’s hard to picture: the index of acceptable music; the words over CSNY; the regrettably Bushadjacent “Bring it on.” In fairness, though, you can see why the air might have been charged. Producer and drum tech, Barrett Jones: The Chili Peppers were headlining, but everyone was there to see Nirvana— crowds of people jumping up and down, going nuts for Nirvana … During Pearl Jam’s set at midnight on New Year’s Eve someone tried to jump from the balcony to the stage and missed, hit his head and got carried out. I had never seen a crowd this size be so unified with a band.

*** It’s a pity that recordings from only two of these dates have surfaced. Given thirty-five minutes, does the band come out with their finest, and astonish us with “Breath,” “Black,” or “Release”? Alas, they do not. But what they lack in range, they more than make up for, in recklessness. In Tempe, Arizona, during “Porch,” Ed climbs the scaffold over the stage, and sings the last verse upside

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down—terrifying the audience and band alike. In LA, Ed goes into the crowd, all the way  to the back of the venue. On his way back to the stage, he runs directly into a row of chairs; hits the ground, face-first; gets right back up, and on with the show. Two nights later, in San Francisco, he asserts, with unabashed excitement: “I gotta tell you something—if I lived in a different state, or in a different country, or if I wasn’t in this band, I would still make sure I was here tonight.” They play “Once,” and Ed blurts out the opening of “Waiting Room,” by Fugazi, into “Even Flow.” For good measure, he sings a few verses of “Suggestion,” to growing cheers—and then adds: “Hey, there’s a thing called date rape. Don’t go fuckin’ partying on other people’s pussy unless you’re invited.” And then: disaster, needless and total. After an unruly “Leash,” Pearl Jam intemperately decides to tease “Smells Like Teen Spirit”: Mike playing the lead-in riff, and Ed completely butchering the words (“Don’t be stupid / and contagious”), hyper as a puppy on crank. After Mike stops playing, and Jeff looks over, smirking, Ed says: “It’s our favorite band, is all.” He’s being sincere, more or less; but it’s quickly smothered in sarcasm. Stone interjects—jokingly, if obnoxiously—“Just remember, we played it first,” pointing into the light. Jeff raises a finger in triumph, like an athlete in victory, and Ed guffaws into the mic. The whole incident has lasted no longer than twenty seconds. Even so, you have to wonder: what in God’s name were they thinking? It’s the ninth time—in three months—that Pearl Jam has played an excerpt of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”—but for all that Kurt Cobain knows, it might as well be the first. (In Nirvana: The Biography, Everett True reports that Nirvana’s camp was unamused by the impromptu tribute, and it’s easy to see why.) They never touch “Smells Like Teen Spirit” again. Weeks later, Kurt Cobain’s first comments on Pearl Jam run in Musician magazine. It’s easy to make too much of this—and it’s important to note that they never play more than a few seconds—if that—as they do with Soundgarden (“Outshined”); Fugazi (“Suggestion,” “Bad Mouth,” “Waiting Room”); and Smashing Pumpkins (“Window Paine”). The point is this: it’s not in Pearl Jam’s nature to play songs they don’t revere. (Their taste is another matter.) This is one of their core beliefs: for Ed, a cover song is not recreation, but a chance to edify—to introduce the audience to something unfamiliar—and in so doing, pay tribute to both. Pearl Jam is the rare group that isn’t too cool to cover their peers, which makes them both cool and uncool, or simply less canny at exhibiting fandom. We can no more picture Nirvana covering Pearl Jam, even in jest, than we can Pearl

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Jam covering Nickelback. (Then again, Courtney Love did rampage her way through “Jeremy.”) In their own bumbling way, Pearl Jam were evangelists for contemporary culture, as seen by their selfless—at times, suspect—championing of their peers. It may have been in dubious taste to tease the song as often as they did—and downright foolish, on a bill with Nirvana—but it was also the real enthusiasm of the fans onstage, to the ones in the crowd. *** It’s obvious that Kurt and Ed had similarities: autodidacts; working class; children of divorce; ambivalent leaders; ingenious self-promoters; ambitious and principled; kindly, shrewd, sensitive, and slight. And yet: the differences are equally instructive. Beyond the offstage drama, there are ways in which Nirvana and Pearl Jam—and especially their front men—were perfect opposites. The differences are both subtle and superficial, intrinsic and profound. Kurt Cobain was nothing if not effortless cool, chaos, glamour, and disdain, where Ed was invariably earnest, obliging, solemn, and sober—at least, in the early days. Pearl Jam took their initial name from a point guard, and rooted for favorites in multiple sports, to the point of decorating their amps with figurines. (You can probably guess how the ill-fed smokers in Nirvana felt about athletes and athletics.) Kurt Cobain was an avid gun enthusiast, who wrote numerous songs about the persistent appeal of violence. By contrast, it is impossible to conceive of Ed speaking of guns with anything but contempt, or writing a song in the voice of a rapist, as Kurt did in “Polly.” Nirvana’s canon was The Raincoats, Bikini Kill, and PJ Harvey. Pearl Jam’s is Bruce Springsteen, The Who, and Stevie Ray Vaughan. Moreover, while Pearl Jam were hardly teetotalers, they were conservative, by comparison, with the notable exception of Mike. Or maybe it comes down to this: you sort of know that Kurt Cobain’s approval meant a great deal to Ed, as it would to most people in his shoes; but it’s unlikely, to say the least, that the opposite was true. Ed was California; Kurt was Minnesota. *** In early December, with Nevermind trailing only Garth Brooks, Michael Jackson, and Ice Cube on the charts, Kurt Cobain remarks, to his equally confounded bandmate: “Krist, I feel like we’re in The Who.” He doesn’t mean it in a good way. (Ed, on the other hand, could think of no higher accolade.) Krist has an idea: “Hey, let’s play ‘Teenage Wasteland!’” It’s a fitting initiation, in the absurdities of arena rock.

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On December 7th, Nirvana walks onstage in Rennes, France, and opens with a mockery of “Baba O’Riley,” resembling a migraine. The “cover”—if we can call it that—is sung, or rather skewered, by Novoselic and Grohl, and hatefully punctuated by Kurt: “I hope I die before I turn into Pete Townshend.” It’s a classic Cobain-ism—scathing and symbolic—and one he had first auditioned in his journal, then revived in press interviews. They repeat the gag at the LA Sports Arena—almost certainly with Pearl Jam looking on. Three weeks later, Pearl Jam plays “Baba O’Riley” for the first time. (Ever the instructor—and, in the middle of Mike playing the synthesizer part—Ed asks the crowd, giddy: “Anybody guess?”) This debut version of “Baba” is slightly rough, or under-rehearsed; even so, it’s a solar system from the ridicule of Nirvana’s reading, as you didn’t need me to tell you. *** On YouTube, a Samaritan by the name of “pjvideoguy” has indexed several hundred videos, going back to 1990: entire concerts, in varying degrees of quality—audience, professional, and somewhere in between—but also interviews, news clips, and other footage. The videos are organized by era, in numbers that rise and fall with the band’s activity and exposure: 1990–92 (seventy-three videos), ’93–’94 (forty-six videos), ’95–’96 (sixty-nine videos), and so on. For the Pearl Jam fanatic, pjvideoguy is a fountain of perennial pleasure, and a black hole for one’s productivity, as its 15,500 subscribers will confirm; and as with most of the encyclopedic, entirely fancreated, Pearl Jam live resources, the only real obstacle is knowing where to start. There’s something thrilling about the earliest shows—’91, ’92—for all the reasons you would expect. In their jubilant, delighted faces; their consistently questionable outfits; and their ecstatic stage presence, Pearl Jam looks youthful, carefree, in a way that would be scarcely recognizable one year later. The band is playing in lockstep, and visibly electrified at the gift of a nightly audience, after years of being heard by next to no one. It’s the energy of five young men who are well aware it could all end at any moment. Moreover, it’s a force the band is still learning to harness. Such is the voltage running through these shows, that it’s common to see the band members’ eyes, necks, and veins pulsing, Schwarzenegger-style, in a way that’s faintly endearing for effort, but more often alarming, or plain belligerent. Ed: At that point in life and having at long last the opportunity to play for bigger crowds, I really and truly felt like I had nothing to lose. No thoughts of what may be waiting in my future. It was all about the now. And that was part and parcel

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with whatever message the group and I had to impart to the audience at that instance. Risking your hide to evoke that emotion became part of the program. Usually instantaneous, but on good nights, I kind of figured it was going to go that route. I wasn’t going to forget those nights of our band firing, and I suppose I didn’t want the crowd to forget, either.

In that much at least, he succeeded. There’s something unforgettable about these  shows. But there’s something uncomfortable about them, too. It’s uncomfortable, because—between the backward caps, the bulging necks, the bared biceps, the chest-thumping, fist-pumping, and varieties of machismo—a distressing chunk of the early footage online is—as Kurt Cobain noted—an orgy of testosterone, and not all that evolved from the image of the Sunset Strip, or the San Diego frat house, for that matter. You don’t have to be an angry feminist from Olympia to be repelled by the macho vibe during Pearl Jam’s first few years. Here is Ed himself, in 2006: It’s hard for us to watch early performances, even though that’s when people think we were on fire and young. Playing music for as long as I had been playing music and then getting a shot at making a record and at having an audience and stuff, it’s just like an untamed force … a different kind of energy. And I find it kind of hard to watch those early performances because it’s so just fucking, semi-testosterone-fueled or whatever. But it didn’t come from jock mentality. It came from just being let out of the gates. And Jeff and Stone, their horse was just about to be put down when it was put in the race. And I was coming from the same place. So when they finally let us out of the gates, we didn’t have a smooth, galvanized, streamlined gate. We were just rocking all over the place.

As Everett True observed, Kurt Cobain’s authority derived from feminism—and his rejection of macho Americana: Nirvana’s soulful force came from the female side of Kurt’s nature—nourished and fed by Olympian people like Calvin Johnson and Bikini Kill and, yes, even Courtney Love. This wasn’t rock in the classic sense, far from it. Kurt might have loved the heavy metal riffs that helped free him from a life of small-town drudgery in Aberdeen but he was also aware that there was a better way than simply to emulate the people creating those riffs.

Ed, on the other hand, as he will later concede, is at this time still arrested in a posture of alpha-male machismo—and one it’s safe to say he’s not always conscious of, during the time he’s onstage, or suspended from the lighting rig. It’s not so much the return of the Kiedis disciple in Bad Radio as it is the release

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of a pent-up adrenaline, which still has the effect of running away with him. You hear it in the crack of his voice, when he’s being challenged by a crowd, or security. You see it in the way he is scaling ledges, walls, and rafters, or dangling from a beam—anything, short of death, to make an impression. To his infinite credit— and, in a clear sign of Kurt’s influence—Ed’s persona will quickly mature. The next tour finds them disavowing these very antics—stage-diving, crowd-surfing, scaffold-surmounting and all—whose popularity, they will learn, they have only themselves to blame. It’s in response to these aggressive displays—if not outright amends—that Ed will be outspoken in advocating for progressive and feminist issues, and abortion rights in particular: one of the many small ways in which Kurt Cobain quietly pushed Pearl Jam to better versions of themselves.

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MTV Unplugged (March 16, 1992) If you were born around this time or were living and alive, you could feel the old world go and the new one beginning. It was like putting the clock back to when B.C. became A.D. Everybody born around my time was a part of both. Bob Dylan, Chronicles

On January 3, 1992, the band comes home from three months on tour. Two weeks later, their show at the Moore Theatre is filmed, for a video: “Even Flow.” The show is halted, briefly, as Ed reprimands the director: “NO! NO, NO! Now, for once—these lights—we’re going to have to calm this place down, with all these, lights—and filming shit.” The crowd cheers, and Ed keeps haranguing. “This is NOT—this is not a TV studio. JOSH. Turn these LIGHTS out! It’s a FUCKING rock concert! READY?” (Ed is quoting a line of Pete Townshend, from an old bootleg: “This is a FUCKING rock and roll concert. Not a FUCKING tea party. ALRIGHT?”) The band kicks into “Even Flow.” *** In February, Melody Maker offers a lengthy (and atrociously titled) profile, by the writer Andrew Mueller: “Fjord Fiestas.” Parts of the feature have aged better than others. Mueller, in Oslo: “wild-eyed faces smeared with blood and/or lipstick”; “rush hour at the New York Stock Exchange as choreographed by Caligula”; etc. Nonetheless—perhaps, in part, because he shares a surname with the former Eddie Mueller—the writer builds an early rapport, yielding two future articles in Melody Maker and Vox. These features, in turn, will serve as an account of Ed’s increasing isolation, in the months and years to come. Mueller’s story appears to

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be the first time in print that Ed will talk about Pete Townshend: as an influence, and a putative father figure: “I mean, my upbringing was like a hurricane, and music was the tree I held onto. That’s how important it was, and is. It’s everything. If someone reads this, they’ll probably think that sounds silly, but it’s everything. It really is.” “I just kind of came to this realization today that Pete Townshend was probably more of a father to me than anybody. And yet I never sent him a Father’s Day card. I feel kind of guilty about that …” Eddie falls in love with people as well as music and tells me he has to believe in the artist as a person before he can believe in the art. [Perry] Farrell, Cobain, Fugazi’s lan McKaye [sic], they walk it like they talk it, he tells me, and it’s something he admires and strives for. “Hopefully,” he says, “I’m living what I’m singing.”

*** Would Pearl Jam have flourished—in the way that they did—if Nirvana had never existed? It’s possible, in theory; if unlikely, as I think they’d agree. If only for reasons of chronology, then, it’s curious that Pearl Jam made their appearance on MTV Unplugged so much earlier—March 16, 1992—and while they were still playing clubs. (Nirvana’s Unplugged in New York is taped eighteen months later, in November 1993.) More to the point, it’s hard to exaggerate the significance of Unplugged—the first time almost everyone saw Pearl Jam perform—and for a certain generation, an indelible TV moment. It’s worth emphasizing: in 1992, it was unusual for a new band to be given its own episode of Unplugged. (Previously, the show had featured the likes of Aerosmith, Elton John, Paul McCartney, and Joe Walsh, of the Eagles.) On Monday, March 16th—in a bizarre collision of worlds—MTV will record three episodes, all in the same day: the sultry sounds of Boyz II Men, at three in the afternoon; a twenty-two-year-old Mariah Carey, at eight in the evening; and— only mildly out of place—a bleary-eyed, basically embryonic Pearl Jam, at midnight. (Having finished their tour in Germany, three days prior, the band is effectively onstage at six in the morning.) For reasons we can only guess at, the Pearl Jam episode of MTV Unplugged is never released in full, and only included in the reissue of Ten, eighteen years later. (Even then, it was incomplete.) In that sense, it’s quintessential Pearl Jam: an iconic performance, made in one take, which would be the envy of almost

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any group’s catalog; the recording that would bring them to the awareness of millions—which they casually set aside, and leave in the hands of collectors. Maybe, at only eight songs, on rented instruments, it seemed a little paltry, less than a year after Ten. Whatever the reason, there’s no doubting it cost the band a few million in sales—at the very least. (Nirvana’s Unplugged is seventimes platinum, outselling In Utero—and that’s only a fraction of Eric Clapton’s twenty-six million sold—the bestselling live album ever.) It’s all the more mindboggling when you recall how inescapable Pearl Jam’s Unplugged was, in the early ’90s—as if on a continuous loop. It takes almost no time or effort to see why. Even abbreviated—MTV airs only six out of eight songs—Pearl Jam Unplugged is a more rewarding, representative listen, to these ears, than even Ten. The band walks on, to a stage set up in-theround. Stone wears a black Ramones T-shirt, over clashing tube socks. Jeff is in a tank-top and Siberian headwear; and Mike, his Stevie Ray Vaughan get-up, crowned by a leather Nehru hat. There’s a shot of Dave’s kit, with an overgrowth of cymbals, and the cheery drummer in regrettably matching sweatpants and -shirt. Despite the late hour, the crowd is lively, and appreciative. Ed comes out last. He’s grinning, boyishly, in a buttoned-up jacket, and a baseball cap, backward. He has a notebook in one hand, and the other in his pocket. Center stage, there are four monitor wedges, and four bar stools. Ed points to someone in the crowd; takes in the view; sits on the edge of his stool. It has only been a year and a half, incredibly, since the show at the Off Ramp, but—before a second of music has been heard—you can already see how aware he is of all the eyes in the room. The episode of Unplugged that aired on May 13, 1992, opened with “Even Flow,” into “Jeremy,” “Alive,” and “Black.” This, at any rate, was the program that MTV broadcast incessantly; the show that catapulted the band to a higher order of exposure; and the performance that the more enterprising among us bootlegged directly to tape, and thereafter wore thin. (I had to trade for my copy.) You can imagine our confusion, then, years later, when something astonishing emerged—equivalent, to a Pearl Jam fanatic, with proof that the moon landing was fake. Somehow, the Unplugged we’d been watching all these years was, in fact, a fraud. In hindsight, it seems so obvious: of course Pearl Jam knew better than to open with “Even Flow,” which was actually played as an encore; or “Jeremy,” into “Alive,” which was how MTV would reorder the setlist. In the version we were meant to see, the band opens quietly, with “Oceans,” into that song’s thematic twin: “State of Love and Trust.” (The former is cut, inexplicably; the latter is shuffled, hopelessly, toward the end.)

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It’s telling that Pearl Jam declines to play most of their ballads unplugged: not “Garden,” “Footsteps,” “Release,” or even “Wash,” which had opened every other acoustic show. Instead, they opt for the challenge of the more groovebased, riff-centered numbers: “Alive,” “Even Flow,” “Jeremy,” and “Porch.” The overhaul is less a matter of arrangement, key, or tempo, as in most Unpluggeds, than one of dynamics and swing. In the show’s highly exposed setting, the band pulls off a neat sleight of hand, and turns this very exposure into a useful limitation. Stripped of amplification, the songs have shed gravity, aggression, bombast; stripped of effects, what emerges is the lyricism, the architecture, and the melodic sense; the harmonies and counter-rhythms; accents, textures, and group interplay. “Even Flow,” in particular, sounds nothing like the sausage party we’ve been stranded at for months, and is invigorated with a wonderfully funky, serpentine, perpetual-motion groove; “Alive” is stately, ancient, allknowing; “Black” is barren, disconsolate, bottomless. Even “Rockin’ in the Free World” sounds less plodding and tiresome than usual: closer to “All Along the Watchtower” than the warhorse we know all too well. It must be said that—for those who came of age with Pearl Jam in the early ’90s—Unplugged is when the brilliance of Dave Abbruzzese surges to the fore. By March, Dave has been a member of Pearl Jam for seven months; and from his very first show, is performing with consummate authority. While his time in the band keeps him firmly—if happily—in a supporting role, Dave emerges in Unplugged as a chronic scene-stealer. (As it happens, he’s playing through a sinus infection, hasn’t slept for a day, and can’t hear the band for long stretches of the show.) Indeed, it’s possible that Dave is the hero of Unplugged—at once, a counterpoint to Ed, and the center of this performance—a word that Dave and Ed, above all, will enact for the viewer. With everything unamplified, it is percussion and vocals that predominate; and it’s precisely in this setting that we can hear—and see—just how much Dave brings to the band. Partly because of the staging-in-the-round, Dave appears in almost every shot of Unplugged, and gets more time onscreen than anyone but you-know-who. Every so often, the cameras make their preferences explicit, and linger on the two in split screen, sharing the frame: Ed in the foreground, and Dave bashing away behind him—the happiest man in rock. From the mallet work in “Oceans” to the pointillism of “Alive,” his hyperactivity, obsessivecompulsive disorder, and immoderate drum kit are a blessing to MTV’s cameras. It’s not that he’s doing anything virtuosic; what makes Dave so fun to watch are

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the little accents, ornaments, and flourishes between beats—the tiny touches on the high-hat and splash—that show him coloring every nook and cranny. *** The Unplugged performance of “Porch” is still definitive—and surely among the highlights of their first decade. Next to the original, this version is marked by the urgency of the vocal, and Mike’s solo; the give-and-take of guitars, and the tornado of Dave’s cymbal work. Unusually, it also shows them goofing around, and not taking themselves too seriously—up to a point. When Ed leans back a bit too far on his stool, after the first chorus, and tumbles backward, it’s a relief to see him laughing at his own lack of finesse, even crumpled on the ground. He corrects the stool, and uses it to lay out, horizontally; Jeff takes this as a cue to get up on the kick drum, and doubles on cymbal, with his ridiculous hat. Ed, in turn, has to get up on his stool. (He can’t let Jeff show him up like that.) But then, he already knew how this was going to end. In a master class of showmanship—and while the camera is still aimed at Jeff and Dave—the propagandist quietly pulls out a marker, which has been sitting in his pocket this whole time. He steadies himself on the stool, and leans in to write on his arm. At first, the writing is obscured by Ed’s hair, and the angle of the shot. But the camera makes sure we see what it says: nine letters, all in block caps, and three

“Porch” on MTV Unplugged, 1992. Screen grab from Pearl Jam Twenty.

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emphatic points of exclamation, bicep to hand: PRO CHOICE!!! (The first O is dotted at the center, like a target.) The camera pans out again. Ed is standing on the stool, turning, in rotations of 90 degrees. After the horseplay is over—not everyone can wring drama from a magic marker and a bar stool—that’s when something more incredible happens. Jeff steps off the kick drum; the band comes down in volume; Ed resumes his place in front of the mic, and kicks the stool over, just because. When the vocal resumes, Ed has his arms crossed, eyes planted, hand gripping wrist. With his posture; his concealing, shoulder-length hair; and the length of his arm covered in ink, he looks a bit like a shaman, and a bit like someone in hospital restraints, either one of which accords with what follows. If there’s a single spectator still doubting Ed’s sense of occasion, those doubts will soon be vaporized. As far as I can tell—out of more than 600 performances, “Porch” Unplugged is the only time that Ed recites the apocalyptic, Fugazi-inspired verse in full, right before the end chorus: There’s something There’s something I don’t mind There’s a choice In my time I don’t think Changing it I could die To make a change for it There is something that’s—different I know how I want to dress I don’t want to live I don’t want to choose

It’s a little silly, looking back—but it’s hard to exaggerate the importance those thirty seconds had for me, as a young person. I won’t pretend I had any sense of what it meant for a band to use their moment on MTV to make a statement— much less, on behalf of abortion rights; much less, during an imminent culture war. Looking this up, I see that April 1992 was the month the Supreme Court decided Planned Parenthood v. Casey, which reaffirmed the constitutional right to have an abortion, and also the month that 500,000 people marched from the White House to the Mall in support of abortion rights. Reading on, I see that Unplugged is regularly on the air by August, when Pat Buchanan delivers a prime-time address at the Republican National Convention, placing “radical

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feminism” and “unrestricted abortion on demand” at the top of Bill Clinton’s agenda: “a religious war,” “a cultural war, as critical to the kind of nation we shall  be as was the Cold War itself.” What’s unusual, in hindsight, is how fortunate we were in the early ’90s, to have intellectual, feminist, progressive role models—Ed, Kurt Cobain, Zack de la Rocha, Michael Stipe, and Fugazi, among others—so much so, that we assumed it was simply the way things were done. If we had been born just a few years earlier, or later, our models for male behavior would have been the likes of Mötley Crüe or Limp Bizkit.

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Pinkpop Festival, Holland (June 8, 1992) The shows were broader, the buildings were higher, the morals were looser, and the liquor was cheaper; but all these benefits did not really minister to much delight. Young people wore out early—they were hard and languid at twenty-one … Many people who were not alcoholics were lit up four days out of seven, and frayed nerves were strewn everywhere; groups were held together by a generic nervousness and the hangover became a part of the day as well allowed-for as the Spanish siesta. F. Scott Fitzgerald, “My Lost City”

The “super deluxe” reissue of Ten includes a few of Ed’s Polaroids from ’92: Orlando,  Minneapolis, Dallas, Hamburg, and London. The photos are an appropriate keepsake, for a period amounting to an eight-month blur. In the early Polaroids, the crowds are at arm’s length, and in focus, so you can still make out expressions, faces, distinctly retro hair. As the tour continues, the venues get larger; the faces, fuzzier, and farther away. When we get to London, the crowd is smudging into a post-impressionist mist. When we get to Holland, the band is separated by a barrier, and the crowd is a vast, immeasurable mass of humanity: off in the distance, you can see the front-of-house structure, suggesting an alien life form, and a series of spotlights, but everything human is hazy, indefinite, remote. They play to 40,000 at Finsbury Park, London; 50,000 at Rock am Ring, in Germany; 55,000 at Pinkpop; and 70,000 at Roskilde, in Denmark. For most of us, it’s hard to imagine an audience this size—let alone the spectacle that some were fortunate to see. If only for the way the tour ends, it’s commonly believed that the summer of 1992 is when the band endures its first setback, and one stemming from the more inhuman aspects of the festival circuit: football-field stages, gladiatorial security, Triumph of the Will-type crowds. There’s truth to this. But if you listen to the bootlegs, it’s clear that only two of the dates are disappointing—while several are downright historic.

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At Rock am Ring, the band is more cautious than animated, as befits a tour kick-off, but the crowd is responsive, and sings the chorus to “Alive,” well after the song is done. The next day, in London, the band is looser, more comfortable, out of the gate, even—yes—lighthearted, in their own way. (“Even Flow” is dedicated to Dee Plakas, drummer of L7, then starting her second month without a period.) But London will emerge as the first crack in the glass. Seven songs in—right after “Black”—something floats to the surface. Earlier, someone makes the honest mistake of showing Ed an article in the NME, which argued, curiously: Pearl Jam was “trying to steal money from young alternative kids’ pockets.” It’s not a review to send home to grandma, perhaps; but it’s only the NME. Most of us wouldn’t disrupt a show in central London, and invite an audience of 40,000 to pirate their music; but then, most of us aren’t Ed. Eight long years before Napster and Lars Ulrich, the audience in London is advised: I hope some people are bootlegging this show. Because—something’s kinda been on my mind for about the last hour—since somebody said it. And I usually don’t give a fuck about the press. But NME said something about us trying to steal your money, or something. Fuck that. Make tapes for your friends. Don’t buy a record. I don’t give a fuck. Make bootlegs, and then you can make money. We want you to make money off this band. We don’t give a fuck. It’s music.

There follows a mildly peevish “State of Love and Trust,” as sung by Attila the Hun. The rest of the show goes off without incident. But the band will be back at Finsbury Park, for a show that could not be more different—and certainly not an improvement—in just over twelve months. *** In a year of over-achievement, Pearl Jam’s afternoon performance in the Netherlands, at Pinkpop, surely stands at the apex. It’s a tall claim—between “Jeremy,” SNL, Unplugged, Lollapallooza, and the matter of three million in sales—and yet, it’s one I’d affirm. If Nirvana’s performance at the Reading Festival on August 30, 1992 is considered their pinnacle, as a live band—and rightly so—then Pearl Jam’s heroics at Pinkpop, almost three months earlier, is the nearest equivalent. Especially for the skeptic, Pinkpop is the rare show for civilians and partisans alike: an act of ritual, if not religion; and a classic concert film, fully on par with Otis at Monterey. There’s a handful of moments in Pearl Jam’s admittedly

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inconsistent career you could play for anyone: “Daughter” from Jones Beach is one; “Porch” from Unplugged is another; and the entirety of Pinkpop is third. By all accounts, the eighth of June was a day that would drive almost any promoter to drink: rain, in the morning; thunder, in the afternoon; unenforced decibel levels; blown curfews; and the resulting technical issues, which lead to a lecture onstage from Lou Reed. (In fairness, Lou was easily annoyed.) Any one of these would have felled a lesser gathering. But there’s a feeling at Pinkpop that the hour is charmed; and in spite of the mud, the rain, and the cold—everything seems to go right. Even the elements that should have worked against them—a stadiumsized mire of mud; a wobbly crowd of 55,000; and a security force fairly described as lenient, or simply Dutch—all combine for the purpose of making history. You see it instantly, in their faces, from the opening song. We’re only minutes into the show—sadly, the video cuts in, at the end of “Even Flow”—but the band is already enacting a kind of exorcism. There’s something distinctly possessed in their faces. Everyone is playing under the influence of delirium—visibly punchdrunk. (Everyone, that is, except Dave, who has imagined this moment a million times, and is fully in his element.) It’s partly adrenaline. It’s partly astonishment, spiked with terror, spiked with delight and disbelief. And yet, the question remains: why at Pinkpop? It can’t be only the crowd. (They had played to 40,000 in London, two days earlier, and 50,000 in Germany, the day before that.) It can’t be only the honor of sharing a stage with David Byrne, as Ed takes care to acknowledge. It is, rather, the spontaneous combustion of a band, playing for its life; a crowd, in that elusive sweet spot of feeling, focus, and fervor; and—needless to say—one preposterous act of showmanship, that make Pinkpop one for the ages. Even the slips will work to their benefit. During “Why Go,” Jeff loses his balance, and takes a nasty spill—not from one of his signature jumps, but from head-banging too hard—then plays straight through to the chorus, flat on his back. In the middle of “Alive,” you hear Ed’s voice crack: not from strain, but emotion. (I could go most of my life without hearing “Alive” again; but only a stone would be left unmoved by this version.) Toward the end of the song, carried away, Ed pummels the stage with the mic stand, and nearly decapitates Jeff in the process. Partly from the lights, the cold, and the angle, there’s a cloud from Ed’s lips; steam is wafting off the crowd, like a sauna. More so, arguably, than in any other show to date, Ed is in a state of possession. He can hardly wrap his head around it: “Never played for this many people before,” as though to himself. “Never thought we’d ever play for this many people.” He’s not lying.

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Before the band walks out for its encore, there’s a shot of Jeff collecting himself, towel over his head, clearly overcome. *** It’s one of the signature moments of Pearl Jam’s first decade, if not their whole career: Ed in his dark-brown, sweat-soaked Tivoli tee, waving the poor cameraman over, stepping on to the crane, and casting himself into a maelstrom of bodies. For a solid fifteen or twenty seconds, Ed is a pinball, entirely subject to the motion and whim of the crowd. The festival grounds are muddy; the fans are struggling to reach him, and to keep from falling. There’s a moment where the crowd seems to buckle, and a mass of people collectively surge backward; it’s right then that you see how easily someone could have lost their footing, and taken a stranger down with them. Not on this day, though; remarkably, the crowd is able to govern itself. No more than a few minutes after diving into the crowd, Ed is back onstage, mic in hand: the lower half of his T-shirt is shredded, pure fearlessness on his face. *** In an alternate universe, the band would have gone home after Pinkpop, and  allowed themselves time off, or to write new material, before heading out  again on the road in July. As it would happen, Pearl Jam stayed on for two-and-a-half weeks, and eleven more shows: six cities in Germany, alone; a flawless run in Zurich, Vienna, and Paris; and a show in Denmark that should have been canceled, with the benefit of hindsight. On June 25th, Pearl Jam plays an epic show at the Museum of Modern Art in Stockholm. For some reason, no opening act is scheduled, leaving the band with almost two hours to fill. Ed and Mike come out early, and play a pair of covers: “Throw Your Arms Around Me,” by Hunters & Collectors, and “Driven to Tears,” by The Police. The band opens with “Even Flow”; two improvs in the main set; and will honor a drunken request, for “State of Love and Trust.” The covers keep coming: a snippet of “Help Me Rhonda,” into “Deep”; tags of Bob Marley (“Three Little Birds”) and Jimi Hendrix (“Dolly Dagger”) in “I’ve Got a Feeling.” During the obligatory “Once,” there’s an incident that seems innocuous, at first, but will prove to be highly symbolic. Emboldened, perhaps, by the song’s chorus—or simply alcohol—an audience member launches a sneaker at Ed, and hits him, head-on.* After the song ends, Ed pours the contents of his beverage into the shoe, smiles, and takes a long sip. “I’m crazier than any of you fuckers,” he says, redundantly.

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Shoes and all, Ed spends the show in a talkative mood, much like Vienna, six nights earlier. It’s one of the last times we’ll hear him speak so casually about a festival. Right before the second encore, he makes a comment that will come back to haunt him, in the near and distant future: Do you know this thing called, uh—Roskilde? [The crowd cheers.] Well, we’re playing tomorrow. And after this, I feel like saying, fuck it, let’s just play here again. This is the size it should be. [More cheers.] It’s outdoors—this is as big as it needs to get, right here. So next time we come—and I hope the promoter is listening, ’cause we’ll make something work—it’ll be at this place, it’ll be all-ages, and it’ll be cheaper than it was today. This bullshit. And I don’t dare say that unless I plan to live up to it, you know? So, we will live up to it. We’ll see you then, huh?

More applause. Ed: “It’s really been a great day, thanks.” (This remark, too, will come back to haunt him.) “We never play this song, ever,” he says, not quite honestly, before “I’ve Got a Feeling.” In a real first, they come out for a third encore—“Release” into “Footsteps” (!)—the latter, prefaced by another story. At 110 minutes, it’s their longest show to date, and a preview of the Wagnerian workouts to come. In a brutal twist, they’ll discover only minutes later how the gesture is received—the proverbial fate of all good deeds. Entering backstage, they notice their belongings have been raided. Each of the members has something taken; but the culprit knew well what they were looking for—and it wasn’t Jeff ’s stash of incense. Among the items missing is a full suitcase of Ed’s, with two completely full notebooks: the entirety of his personal writing, these past few months. We’ll never know about the songs that were tragically lost—or rather, taken. But from the next handful of songs to emerge—“Daughter,” “Hard to Imagine,” “Go”—it’s fair to say the loss was extreme. To Melody Maker: [The notebooks are] no big deal to anyone else. But they mean a fucking lot to me, man. It was real personal shit, you know. And someone walks in while we’re playing and steals ’em. Some fucking asshole just walks in and steals ’em. That was it for me. That was what cracked me up. The stuff that was stolen was just irreplaceable. I said, “I’m fucking outta here. I’m not around.” You’re on stage, you know, and you think you’re giving everything you’ve got—but there’s always someone who wants more. And if you can’t give it, they’ll just fucking take it.

And just like that, the spell is broken: the burglary deals a finishing blow to the tour, and much more besides.** In their official welcome to adversity, the

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show to follow Stockholm, one day later, is the biggest of all: Roskilde, with an audience of 70,000. You wonder if they talked about canceling, en route to Denmark. Conjecture aside: if Pinkpop is the show where everything goes right, then Roskilde—’92—is the first time everything goes wrong. Despite their setback in Stockholm, the band comes out in overdrive— with the exception of Ed, who looks utterly defeated. “Why Go” is ferocious; “Jeremy” is credible; and “Alive” is again sung by the audience, well after the music ends. Ed offers a quip: “I made a mistake. I thought, Roskilde: I thought that meant, small club. I fucked up.” He’s being a curmudgeon—post-Stockholm syndrome—but at least he’s making an effort. There’s a curio—one that Ed will sing again with Beyoncé, in Central Park, two decades later: “Redemption Song,” solo, and mostly persuasive. It’s not about to make the world forget Bob Marley. But it’s also not the sign of someone about to lose it, either. All of which is to say: the first four songs at Roskilde go about as well, or better, than expected—that is, until the final notes of “Jeremy,” and the ensuing breakdown. “I wish I was right with Jesus,” Ed says, out of nowhere. He’s made similar, sarcastic asides before; but there’s no mistaking how far from humor he is. The next song is “Deep.” The cameras show a nation’s worth of Nordic men and women, banging their blonde-brunette heads; raising their fists—at times, alarmingly so; and waving dozens of flags, one of which is emblazoned with the stick man. (The band is playing beneath an unsightly, bright-orange overhang, in the shape of Madonna’s Blond Ambition bustier.) All of a sudden, a microphone drops. We see someone running offstage, then someone else, then Jeff coming over, to see. The video cuts to security, all in orange. For a good fifteen seconds, it’s not remotely clear what’s happening: a confusion the security guards will share in, and end up contributing to. We see Ed, fending off an assault—not from a fan, but from Roskilde’s own guards, who don’t seem to recognize the guy who was just onstage; we see Eric Johnson, the band’s tour manager, being similarly accosted, stripping off his shirt, and pointing to his laminate. Later, it will emerge that Ed runs offstage after seeing an audience member get attacked by security. Watching these same guards beating up the talent, you tend to believe it. There’s a moment where Ed is standing next to one of the barricades dividing the crowd from security, and a hundred human arms are straining to reach him. He seems to be taking it all in—making sense of things—when the crowd pulls him over the barricade, and into the audience. Ed is doing his best to connect,

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despite a medieval-sized moat, and despite having months of his work stolen, hours earlier; even so, the contrast with Pinkpop is startling. Walking back to the stage, another sea of hands reaches out: hugging him, pulling him back in. From the stage, we hear: “Get the fuck up!” *** Dave starts in again with the backbeat to “Deep.” Visibly pissed off, Ed storms up to the mic, yanks it from the stand, and commences one of his less finer moments. “I hate to cause trouble”—sounding like someone who hates no such thing— “but then again, I’m just sick of these big fucking places, where we feel so far away.” There’s a cheer from the crowd, from a distance that may as well be Finland. To the festival crew, he says: “And maybe if some of you guys would even pay attention to what band were playing. We should distribute pictures of Nirvana, so you can see what they look like, so you don’t beat the fuck out of ’em.” Rounding third: “You guys probably know what Extreme looks like, so don’t worry about that.” The band keeps playing—clearly nervous, as to how this will end. When “Deep” resumes, Ed will improvise a site-specific verse: To security here: YOU AIN’T NOTHING To security here: YOU AIN’T NOTHING To security here: I AIN’T NOTHING FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE FUN CAN’T TOUCH THE BOTTOM IN TOO DEEP

It’s a different band from the one we saw at Pinkpop, or even five minutes ago.  There’s an unfortunate shot of Ed, brandishing the mic stand—like a truncheon—from its base. There’s another unfortunate shot, of Ed grabbing a bottle of water, and seeking out one of the guards, to chuck it at. There’s a shot of Jeff looking over, anxiously, like someone minding their unstable friend. When the song is finally over, Ed resumes the charm offensive: “These are fucking adults here, so why don’t you start treating them like adults? What the fuck?” A few seconds pass. “Let’s start over here. This isn’t a fucking competition down here, all right?” His expression is equal parts annoyance and despair. There’s a moment where it’s unclear if the show will continue, or degenerate, into a cordial Scandinavian riot. It’s right around then that Ed says: “I know a good song to play.” There’s a shot of Stone and Jeff, almost certainly wondering: what now? A betting man would say he’s about to count off for “Porch”; but in a jujitsu maneuver of diplomacy,

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he offers, instead, the chorus from the national football anthem: “We are red, we are white, we are Danish dynamite.” (Denmark’s team is playing in the final of the Euro Cup at this very moment, on its way to winning, 2–0.) To the few Americans at Roskilde, this might as well be Kierkegaard; but to the 70,000 Danish nationals, it’s reindeer meat. A vast, Viking war cry rings out; Ed looks over his shoulder, amused, and shrugs; and just like that, a situation is defused. Ed is clearly in misery—“Alive” has never sounded less believable—but he’s a trouper, and plays through. Just before “Black,” his exhaustion gets the best of him. “I just want to go home,” he says, defeated. He’ll get his wish—but not before one final flogging. *** In late June, MTV reports on Ed’s meltdown at Roskilde, along with a video— naturally—of his outburst. Drafted for damage control, Jeff gives an interview from the side of the stage, in which his exhaustion is palpable: “I think we’re definitely at a point now where we’re starting to feel a little tired … And just the fact that we’ve been on the road for as long as we have—I think some of the songs off the record maybe, aren’t quite as fresh as they—as they used to be.” (The video for “Jeremy” has yet to premiere.) He continues: “I know tonight, like—some of the songs, kind of took a more—a more angry angle, than they usually do.” (He maintains a straight face, nearly to the end.) According to Everett True, Roskilde is the day that changes Kurt Cobain’s opinion of Ed—and not in the way you might think. Writing in Melody Maker, musician and critic alike show sympathy—up to a point: Second night in Stockholm, the assembled Nirvana and [Teenage] Fanclub crews are watching an MTV clip of Eddie Vedder going off the rails in Denmark. There’s no appreciable glee at a well-publicized rival losing it, just a sad empathy, a feeling of genuine pity that perhaps here is another singer who is unable to cope with the lies and pressures and trauma of fame, who loathes and despises the distance forced between him and his audience, who can’t see any way out of the trap, the role forced upon him simply because he’s written lyrics that reach people (it’s not his fault his band sucks). Pearl Jam canceled the remainder of their European tour the same day. Bet Kurt was jealous.

By mid-1992, there were numerous parties awaiting the end of the tour: promoters, for one; label, crew, and management, for another; the news media; and not least, the fans. Wisely, they put their health first, and canceled, anyway:

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dates in Finland, Norway, Belgium, France, and England, two of which Nirvana was playing as well. It’s the only time the bands would have played the same festival, and the first of multiple setbacks—self-inflicted and otherwise—that will characterize the next half-decade. For insurance, the band enlists a doctor to confirm that Ed is showing exhaustion, and unable to tour. Frankly, it’s incredible that it took as long as it did: by Denmark, the band has played seventy shows for the year—and it’s not even July.

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The Singles Soundtrack (1992)

From a lecture by Brian Eno, in 2015: Where does art come from? Is it just out of thin air, as libertarians and laissezfairists tend to think? Romantics as well. They imagine that people like Beethoven walk about with symphonies in their head and they all sort of just burst out into reality by some unstoppable, divine force. I don’t think that’s how it happens. And I went to a show about 25 years ago now, at the Barbican. Of early 20th century Russian painting. It was an area of painting that I particularly loved. I went to this show at the Barbican and there were probably 150 artists in there, including all the big names like Kandinsky and Tatlin and Rodchenko and so on and so on. And I would say that 70 of the artists in there I’d never heard of. And they were really good. And I thought that’s so mysterious, why didn’t I know about any of those people? And so I thought there must have been so much going on at that time and the differences between the ones who survived into history—like Kandinsky—and the ones who you’ve never heard of, was very small. There were a lot of people making great pictures then. So I thought how did that come about? Why was there so much going on at that time? Well, one of the reasons that went on was because it had a lot of help. There were a lot of collectors. They put a lot of money into the scene, but there were a lot of hangers-on as well. There were people who had nice apartments that artists could meet and have parties in, or people who rented salons. There were people who had empty places where you could have a show. You know, even if you weren’t very well known. There were galleries that went out in competition with one another to poach the newest, the best young artists. There was a whole thriving scene around the artists themselves. And that thriving scene was actually what produced all this work, I think. I came up with this word then. Which I still use, which is the word “scenius.”

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So genius is the talent of an individual, scenius is the talent of a whole community. And I think, you know, in history you see many examples of great sceniuses, like that point in the Renaissance when Raphael, Michelangelo and da Vinci were all alive at the same time and in the same cities. Or British pop culture, actually. British pop culture in various times has been that kind of scenius where suddenly all sorts of talents and opportunities came together. And you get something that is actually an ecosystem.

*** Back in the US, on June 30, 1992, the soundtrack to Cameron Crowe’s romantic comedy, Singles, is released. The movie itself won’t be out for almost three months; but the soundtrack debuts at number fifty-three—aided, surely, by Nevermind (twenty-six), Temple of the Dog (twenty-five), and Ten (four); not to mention, Mack Daddy (nine), by Sir-Mix-a-Lot. It’s probably not the sequence Crowe had imagined, during the eight years it took him to research, write, and produce a movie about single people in Seattle. It’s almost certainly not the scenario that Pearl Jam envisioned, when Singles was being filmed, thirteen months ago. Even so, the soundtrack will be a high point in Pearl Jam’s miraculous year, and a study, in the standing of movies and music, from one decade to the next. *** Barring unforeseen events, it’s likely that Cameron Crowe’s obituary will open with the movies Almost Famous, Jerry Maguire, and Fast Times at Ridgemont High, along with their associated epigrams: “I am a golden god”; “You had me at hello”; “People on ’ludes should not drive.” The middle paragraphs will mention his career as a writer for Rolling Stone, at the precocious age of fifteen; his book of interviews with the director Billy Wilder; or his unsuccessful series on Showtime, canceled after one season, Roadies. It’s possible, though, that his monument, and most influential creation—the work of art that’s held up best, or given the least guilty pleasure, for longest—is one he can take only partial credit for: the Singles soundtrack. *** It was hardly a golden age, for the cinema; but it was a platinum-gilded penthouse in Trump Tower, serenaded by Celine Dion, for the soundtrack: between The

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Bodyguard, The Lion King, Forrest Gump, Reality Bites, The Crow, Trainspotting, and Titanic, to name only a few. Some of these were inspired, organically, by the artists given prominence in the film. Others took on the work of subsidizing artistic one-offs, for the sake of testing convention, or prodigal budgeting. Others still—the ubiquitous Forrest Gump—were essentially mixtapes, strategically licensed and sold. In the case of Singles, perhaps uniquely, it was all three: for its filmmaker, a decade-long passion project, steeped in the love of a place, and its music; for its label and studio—that is, once it occurred to them—a predictable cash grab, by way of open blackmail. *** It’s easy to say that the Singles soundtrack—thirteen songs, ten flawless—has aged better than the film. (Crowe himself calls it “the least successful of the movies I’ve been lucky enough to make,” which is saying something.) It’s not that the movie is horrendous, like Vanilla Sky: it’s simply overmatched, as almost any other film would be. Interchangeable, at times, with its peers— Reality Bites, Clerks, Empire Records—Singles is one of a dozen intermittently diverting, uniformly Caucasian examples of the Gen-X slacker genre, soon to be perfected in Friends. But the soundtrack was something else: a weirdly inexhaustible collection, and one that easily holds its own—then and now—with the best of a bountiful decade. Even among an era of influential soundtracks, not one would assume the importance, for a certain generation, of Singles: in a sense,  the Big Chill of its time. To venture a guess: I’d wager it’s the rare compilation to be given its own tribute night, in suburban Detroit—all thirteen songs played live, by local bands, and in sequence—with a cameo by Mookie Blay & The Lousy Lays.* *** This being Hollywood, there was, inevitably, coercion. To chart the progress of a movie he describes, variously, as an obsession, a freight train, and “the right movie for the wrong studio,” Cameron Crowe will keep a daily journal, later excerpted in Rolling Stone: the first entry reprinted is October 15, 1990. In the magazine, Crowe recalls that the writing of Singles took a sharp detour, after two locally seismic events: the death of Andy Wood, in March of that year; and the extraordinary show of community, creativity, and solidarity that soon followed. The first time the cast and crew will meet is

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February 25, 1991, in Seattle, for an evening of local bands, and friends of the director: reigning hometown favorites, Alice in Chains, and a dubiously named opener: Mookie Blaylock. Shooting begins on March 11th, and ends with a wrap party on May 24th. An excerpt from Crowe’s journal, and the first cast meeting: Today, Bridget Fonda and Matt Dillon arrive in town. Matt, who will play a Seattle musician named Cliff Poncier, has already spent time in New York with Mother Love Bone’s Jeff Ament, Stone Gossard and their intensely shy new lead singer, Eddie Vedder. Their new band is called Mookie Blaylock, after the New Jersey Nets basketball player. In the movie, they will play Cliff ’s fictional band, Citizen Dick. Matt has already got a lead singer’s walk down—all attitude, chest puffed slightly out. I wanted rehearsals to begin weeks early so the cast could soak up the local atmosphere and the music. Tonight we go to see Mookie Blaylock and Alice in Chains performing at the Off Ramp. The cast meets for the first time in the lobby of our hotel. For a few minutes, nobody says much. (“I hope this isn’t a yuppie movie,” Matt announces, picking an odd conversation opener.) We go to the club. It’s sweaty and packed, and the cast slowly makes friends as we sit in a corner booth.

And the slightly divergent memory in Pearl Jam Twenty: I was trying out the camp counselor thing: “Let’s all go to this club and check out these bands.” It really was the hell version of John Hughes. Here I come into the club with all these actors, and we sit in the corner. It was so packed, and people were throwing beer bottles, and after a little bit, Kyra Sedgwick says, “I really get the ‘wonderful’ scene going on here. I’m going to go home now.” Then the costume girl goes, “Great. This is great. Bye!” It ended up being Matt Dillon and Campbell Scott hanging until the very end, slam dancing.

*** Contrary to how it was understood, the movie that Warner Bros. relinquished on September 18, 1992, was the work of a Seattle transplant, and—in a term the city would help invent—an early adopter, and patron. Notwithstanding how it might have been called Sleepless in Seattle—itself released nine months later—Singles was a prophetic forecast, and a cinematic homage to a city—not only its music—in the spirit of Woody Allen’s Manhattan. (That was the idea, anyway: the film it ends up imitating most is Annie Hall.) Say what you will about its shortcomings—stock characters; contrived plotting; canned dialogue;

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erratic acting; sitcom-ish pacing; and glaring datedness, technological, racial, and romantic. (“I was just … nowhere near your place.”) One thing you can’t accuse Singles of is being late. (In this sense, alone, you could call it seminal.) Yet another quirk of timing, then—and a lesson, in the limits of foresight— that the quintessential grunge movie was written, shot, and mostly finished by summer 1991: well before Ten or Nevermind were even in stores, let alone cash cows; and well before the locals playing bit parts, extras, and walk-ons were newly world famous—a bit like making A Hard Day’s Night, right before Ed Sullivan. (In fact, the script emerges from a draft dating to 1983, set in Phoenix, Arizona.) According to Singles’ music supervisor, Danny Bramson, the first screening for executives, in October, is a disaster: the studio leaves alarmed at the prospect of a movie with rock bands, in the wake of U2’s (admittedly unappetizing) Rattle and Hum. Reluctance gives way to inertia: the opening is scheduled for February 1992; postponed to early April; then to May—two days into the LA riots—then to late summer; then, to keep the movie from competing with Warner’s own Batman Returns—seriously—to mid-September. In The New York Times, the studio’s head of publicity offers a ringing endorsement: “It’s not a concept that rolls off the lips in two sentences.” That much is true; or it was, back when Singles was first screened for the studio, when Seattle’s biggest band was still Queensrÿche. It seems hard to believe: a Hollywood movie—filmed on location in Seattle, and market-tested by November ’91, just as Nirvana reaches world domination—is then sat on, serenely, for the better part of a year. It’s common, of course, for movies to languish for months on end in purgatory. What’s less common is when that movie is literally filmed in the room where Nirvana debuted “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and when that same movie is cast, costumed, and soundtracked by Seattle’s finest, circa 1992—with uncanny prescience. It seems even harder to believe: Warner’s turtle-paced promotion scheme—equal parts perplexity and sluggishness—will be an unwitting stroke of genius. *** In January of ’92—with Nevermind selling 300,000 copies a week—the studio prepares a list of suggestions for the title, alternately abysmal or baffling: Addicted to Love; Leave Me a Message; Love in Seattle; In the Midnight Hour; and, with admirable restraint, Come as You Are. It’s only the first of the studio’s maneuvers—scrupulous and otherwise—to extract the maximum return on its newly propitious investment.

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The studio may be skeptical, reluctant, or bewildered, as to the movie’s commercial prospects; but the soundtrack label is under no such confusion. In April, Epic unilaterally sets a mid-summer release date for the Singles soundtrack, thereby locking in a title—and, in all likelihood, a theatrical release for the film. Crowe’s journal, April 9th: Still no release date. A year after filming, the world has caught up with the bands and the music we built this movie around. Pearl Jam and Soundgarden and Alice in Chains have all exploded. Epic, the label releasing our soundtrack, moves to put the music out now. WB agrees, and they quietly default into the only real title of this movie, Singles. The hometown music that helped inspire the script is now our best ally in getting the movie released.

Conspicuously unmentioned in the director’s journal—at least, the excerpts in Rolling Stone—is the all-important catch, or complication. After eight months of test screenings, market research, and rewrites, Singles will finally come out in theaters—but only if a certain Seattle entertainer agrees to promote the movie— how else?—with a live special on MTV. The studio’s ultimatum won’t surface until years later—well after most people lost interest in the Seattle bands—and even then, just barely. In the second-to-last paragraph of a December 1996 article about Jerry Maguire—during an otherwise boilerplate biography—The New York Times reports, offhand: One of Mr. Crowe’s more humiliating experiences was being told by studio executives that his movie Singles, would not be released around the country unless the rock band Pearl Jam, which had a bit part in the film, would promote it on MTV.

Unbeholden to Warner, Crowe will divulge the improbable chain of events, linking “State of Love and Trust” to “Show me the money”: “I went hat in hand and begged them to do the show,” Mr. Crowe said. “It’s so vivid just the way my stomach ached begging those guys who were friends of mine and who had been struggling six months earlier and were now the biggest band in the world. They eventually said yes, and we got the movie released. But it was so painful. I begged and, to tell you the truth, I put a lot of it into Jerry Maguire.”

Five years later—in Spin—Crowe will add: Warner Bros. said, “If you can get Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, and Pearl Jam to play the MTV party that we can use to publicize the movie, we’ll put it out.” So

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I painfully had to try and talk the bands into doing it. Pearl Jam said that they’d do it as a favor to me. So the taping happened, and it was … a disaster. It was populated mostly by studio executives and their children, who wanted to see the Seattle sound.

The decadent display that was the Singles release party, on September 10, 1992, has been documented at length: in Pearl Jam Twenty (“By any measure … an unmitigated disaster”); Everybody Loves Our Town (“The fire marshals were being difficult”); Five Against One (“just stupid, drunk as hell”); and elsewhere. It’s the only time the band will show up drunk to work, and fall down on the job—or, more generously, fall down in the way rock stars are supposed to. It’s also known—in Pearl Jam Twenty—as the event that would lead to “the birth of no”: their almost-total disappearance from interviews, television, and videos for most of the ’90s. The point that’s drawn less attention is why this largely underwhelming film would summon music of such eloquence, from so many artists, in registers they were not always known for, and never again in this way. What’s drawn even less attention is the shadow that Singles would cast over so much of Seattle music— not least, Chris Cornell. *** Temple of the Dog set out on tour—their first—in November 2016. That same month, Cameron Crowe would write an essay for the anniversary of Singles. The essay is included in the soundtrack’s inevitable reissue, with almost twenty unreleased demos, live tracks, and instrumentals, six of them by Chris Cornell. It was an unsettling coincidence—if not utterly depressing—that the Singles anniversary edition came out on May 19, 2017: not even twenty-four hours after the news of Chris Cornell’s death, at the age of fifty-two. Needless to say: if it was difficult to hear the soundtrack without thinking of Chris Cornell before, it’s impossible now—as Pearl Jam, in their unorthodox way, will show. *** For a group that released only one album—back in 1991—Temple of the Dog’s reunion tour was brief, but impressive: eight shows, including Madison Square Garden. At all eight, they play an arresting, full-band arrangement of “Seasons,” from the Singles soundtrack: one of Chris Cornell’s most haunting solo efforts, if not the finest.

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At four of the shows, they pull out an exceedingly deep cut: “Missing.” It’s a song that Chris Cornell wrote—one of five—for Singles, mostly as a joke. The songs are compiled on a limited EP—Poncier—named after Matt Dillon’s character, Cliff Poncier. (“Flutter Girl,” the third song, will be recorded for Cornell’s questionable solo album, Euphoria Morning, if less successfully than the song before that: “Spoonman.”) It’s a testament to the community, imagination, and ethos of Seattle in the ’90s, that an affectionate gift—made tongue-in-cheek— can lead to not one but two popular anthems. Cameron Crowe’s remembrance offers a window into Cornell’s generosity, intelligence, and good humor: “Seasons” arrived as a grand surprise. As part of the movie’s story, Citizen Dick would disband and leave Cliff Poncier as a solo artist, a street busker in Seattle selling home-made cassettes … Jeff Ament had mocked up a fictional solo cassette for Cliff Poncier to sell on the street in the movie. Ament had come up with a great list of fake song titles for the cassette box. Chris Cornell, who had also been an early inspiration for the movie, and even had an acting part, secretly decided to record real songs to match the made-up song titles. One night Chris sent the cassette home with my wife [Nancy Wilson] as a surprise. “I bought this from a guy on the street,” she said, as per his instructions. I played the tape and every song was a gem. “Seasons” was the one that best fit the movie, but many of these songs would later emerge in other forms, most famously when Soundgarden recorded “Spoonman,” another song from the mythical Poncier tape.

He’s still selling it short. From a 1993 interview with Guitar World: Cornell: I just did it as a surprise for Cameron. I did it partly because I had always wanted to do that—write down ten titles on a piece of paper and make an album based on those titles. One day when I was on the movie set, I saw the cassette lying there with the titles on it. It was the Cliff Poncier fictitious solo tape, and I thought it would be really fun to whip out some quick four-track shit and make this thing real and give it to Cameron as a surprise. The songs were totally influenced by the titles and my interpretation of the vibe of what solo tapes are like. Solo tapes usually have lame production and a lot of acoustic shit, and softer, more inside views of whoever’s writing it.

*** Those of us lucky enough to attend Pearl Jam’s hometown shows at Safeco Field in August 2018 had a better-than-average hunch that the band would pay tribute, at some point, to Chris Cornell. After all: it was their first time playing Seattle in five years, and their first show in the US since their friend and former

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bandmate had passed. Would the tribute take the time-honored route of the video segment, the sing-along, the moment with lighters and phones? Would someone—Corin Tucker?—come out to sing “Hunger Strike”? Would it be a fragment of “Outshined,” or “Black Hole Sun,” or a dark horse, like “Kickstand”? Or would they say more by not saying anything outright, and leaving us to figure it out? As always with Pearl Jam—they did, and they didn’t. Being a mensch, Matt Cameron plays one show in a black-and-white “90” T-shirt—the same design worn by Chris Cornell since the early ’90s—and the other in a Soundgarden shirt. Surprising no one, on night two, the band brings out Soundgarden’s Kim Thayil, to play on three superfluous covers: “Sonic Reducer,” “Kick Out the Jams,” and “Search and Destroy.” (Mike throws in a tease of “Superunknown,” which would have really been something.) Out of 40,000 self-appointed experts, no one could have guessed that the band will honor their friend with “Missing”—an obscurity, even by Pearl Jam standards—all without any introduction, ceremony, or fuss. As Chris Cornell points out: on the Poncier cassette, “Missing” is a bit of a joke: a spoof of the production values, lyrical approach, and sound world of a solo artist, making their own four-track cassette at home. With its tinny, barebones production; mounting and overdubbed vocal; periodically nonsensical lyric; and mechanical, drum-machine backbeat, it’s a song that an artist like Cliff Poncier would record: genial, self-involved, largely forgettable. But an hour or so into the show at Safeco Field, on August 10, 2018—there’s a decent video capture of the song up on YouTube—it’s clear that the band is playing this song without recourse to satire, or easy sentiment. Quite the opposite: Cornell’s deceptively light chorus will give shape to a monumental absence—from its insistence, repetition, and hurt: I’ve been hard to hold I’ve been hard to hold I’ve been hard to hold And I’m missing, missing, missing, missing

Like most people on the field, I had never heard of “Missing,” much less identified it. Watching the song again on YouTube, it’s impossible to miss the dignity, the reverence, the quiet gravity in the band’s performance: but only if you know the person being sung about is Chris Cornell. It would have been far easier—more direct, dramatic, even effective—for the band to play “Hunger Strike,” or “Black Hole Sun.” But then, that wouldn’t have been the Singles way of doing things.

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Stadio Flaminio, Rome (July 7, 1993) [He] was touched by success the way someone might be hit by a truck: he never gave  the  impression that he had come through it unscathed. His problem was not arrogance, but a savage despair that exhausted those closest to him. It is hard to watch someone get what everyone dreams of, and then have to console them for it. Virginie Despentes, Vernon Subutex

Depending on your point of view, Pearl Jam spends a comical, sadistic, or superhuman amount of 1992 on tour. Not counting SNL, Unplugged, the Video Music Awards, the Singles release party, the annual Bridge School benefit, their show with Keith Richards on New Year’s Eve, or Ed and Mike’s rendition of “Masters of War,” as part of a tribute to Bob Dylan—the band will play 120 concerts, in fourteen countries and twenty-seven states, over an eight-month span: bars, clubs, and ballrooms; parks and pavilions; amphitheaters and arenas; at least one soccer field, and at least one gymnasium. Nice work if you can get it—and yet: in 1992, the band will be on tour for every single day in February, March, April, June, and August, and most of May, July, and September. Not counting lost setlists, they play “Once,” not once, but 80 times; “Jeremy,” no fewer than 99; “Even Flow,” a minimum of 103; and “Alive,” a mere 108. They spend so much time on the road, in fact, that the band who wrote an album’s worth of music after only six days finds its output decline to near-zero over the next twoand-a-half years. (Why go home, indeed.) Consider: in September ’91, the band—or rather, Ed and Dave Abbruzzese, on guitar—record the first official Pearl Jam song since Ten: “Angel,” a twominute acoustic ballad, whose refrain (“I am by your side”) is adopted, more successfully, in “Leash.” Six months later, the band will debut “Dirty Frank,” their misogynistic homage to the Chili Peppers, and a contender for the least tasteful song in their repertoire. In May of ’92, Ed and Stone write a new song,

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“Brother,” which they later revise, to a more familiar title: “Daughter.” And that’s pretty much it—four songs—between the writing of Ten and Vs., or two-and-ahalf years. In fairness, we know the band was robbed of at least two notebooks’ worth of material, after the show in Stockholm. In fairness, even two-and-a-half years—or, for that matter, a multiple of that—is a fraction of the band’s pace, more recently. (And, in fairness, two out of four are classics.) Nonetheless, it’s fair to ask: how might their second recording have sounded, if they’d been given more than nominal time off? If they had been free to write, and record, instead of playing “Jeremy” again; and if they might have fortified themselves a bit better for the coming fusillade. By comparison, the band will play fifty-seven shows in ’93, and only twenty-seven in ’94—but they will write more than two albums’ worth of superlative new material. Turning to the songs that emerge, after this sabbatical—the band’s King Midas moment, and for many, their creative peak—it’s reasonable to wonder: what might have been, if they’d been let off the leash just a tiny bit earlier. *** In 1992, and early ’93, members of Pearl Jam take part in four events that bring them face-to-face with music royalty. There’s the Dylan tribute, where Stevie Wonder, Johnny and June, and Tracy Chapman, among others, take part. Ed and Mike meet a few of their heroes—Neil Young, Tom Petty, George Harrison, and Dylan himself, who Ed seeks out for counsel. Asked how the writer of “Blowin’ in the Wind” got accustomed to fame, Dylan gives the earnest young man three bits of wisdom: 1. Don’t read anything in the paper. 2. Don’t watch TV. 3. Get away. (It’s advice that Ed will absorb well, and return to: “Rearviewmirror,” “In My Tree,” “MFC,” and “Given to Fly,” to name only a few.) Two weeks later, in San Francisco, the band makes its debut at Neil Young’s yearly benefit for the Bridge School, for children with special needs. (Also on the bill are Elton John, Sammy Hagar, and James Taylor—at whose concert, two years ago, Ed was working as a gopher.) Although they haven’t played acoustic since Unplugged, the Bridge School is one of their more unique recordings, with “Footsteps” to open; skeletal versions of “Black” and “Alive”; the first performance of “Daughter,” still with early lyrics; and, with an election only hours away, Steven Van Zandt’s

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“I am a Patriot,” played solo. A few weeks later—in an apt finale, to an already immoderate year—the band opens for Keith Richards and the X-Pensive Winos, in Times Square, on New Year’s Eve. On January 12, 1993—seemingly self-assured, next to over-the-hill rockers—Ed gives a speech inducting The Doors into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He then appears with the three surviving members, to sing bizarrely convincing, apparently never-ending renditions of “Roadhouse Blues,” “Break on Through,” and “Light My Fire,” as played by an out-of-work bar-mitzvah band. (The ceremony is the first time The Doors have performed together since 1978, and it shows.) Before the speech, Ed comes out wearing a lightly striped shirt; shoulderlength hair; and a discordant, dark-chocolate fur jacket. Whether by design or accident, it’s hard to miss the resemblance to Encino Man—and perhaps to Morrison Hotel. Ed doesn’t know it, but this is the first of four induction speeches he will give for the Hall of Fame—not counting his own—and by far the shortest, at only three minutes. He starts by describing the tricks used by each member of The Doors to avoid serving in Vietnam. When he gets to Robby Krieger, the guitarist—who pretended to be gay—he adds: “An angle that, apparently, can still be used today.” (Clinton would soon break a pledge to gay service members in the armed forces, by enacting the craven “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.) He offers a list of their most beloved songs, along with the years they were written—marveling, without irony, that their first album had three massive hits alone. And he ends on a point of amazement, noting that The Doors released six LPs, in only four years: a telling observation, for someone about to start his own second album. *** In 1993, everyone—including Pearl Jam—knew that the hype was getting out of hand. But how could a band with only one album under its belt live up to the expectations? By recording Vs.: forty-six minutes of music that almost never go wrong, or let up. Without pretension, self-consciousness, or visible strain, the album covers vast amounts of territory. Nothing sounds affected, heavy-handed, or insincere—“Indifference” aside. Neither time, nor age, nor hyperbole can diminish this record. Each of us is invincible when it’s playing.* The difference between Vs. and Ten is simple. Ten was an accident; Vs. was deliberate. It’s their first mature recording, as opposed to their uneven debut; their first considered statement, as opposed to the precocious singles; and the

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first unassailable advance, into a range even the optimists among us could hardly anticipate. In the words of Melody Maker: “This is a raw, festering, fucking wound of an album, a brilliant, relentless passion play. It’s all we’d hoped for and one hell of a lot more than many suspected Pearl Jam capable of.” For this writer, it is their first indisputably great album; the first of four consecutive masterworks; and the onset of their imperial phase. Where Ten was bombastic, Vs. was indecently thrilling, inexorable, austere. The album’s unflinching focus on calamity and terror made it one of the most violent albums ever to hit number one. (It’s the rare pop album to commence with discussion of torture, abuse, abduction, alarm, bondage, blood, pain, and nemeses. And that’s just the first two tracks.) The first three songs toggle between roles of captive and captor, abused and abuser, predator and prey; in so doing, they lend a darkness that never entirely lifts. Where Ten was a work of arena rock, Vs. offered punk, funk, folk, country, psychedelia, and Afrobeat. Where one was labored, the other was effortless, or appeared to be—its most accomplished illusion, for all its count-offs, false starts, and delight in revealing its seams. Most impressive, the band’s second album is written while their debut is still securely in the Billboard top twenty, and approaching five million sold: a privileged, if daunting, comparison. Or so you would think. For those who thought they were unlikely to surpass “Jeremy,” or “Alive,” there was “Daughter,” and “Go.” For the apocalyptic fury of “Porch,” “Rearviewmirror”; the ferocity of “Why Go,” “Leash,” “Animal,” and “Blood”; the exuberance of “Even Flow,” “Rats.” Any one of these would have been significant. That they were written when most of the world was impatiently waiting on Pearl Jam to deliver—and most likely, to fall short—makes them even more so. In the twenty-five years since Vs., only The Marshall Mathers LP, by Eminem, came with the same level of excitement and expectation, that seemed to represent the convergence of so many forces. *** My count was off: it’s five events, not four, that bring a band member face-toface with royalty, around the recording of Vs. In January ’93, Dave and Jeff agree to represent the band at the American Music Awards, in LA, where Pearl Jam is nominated for two awards. On the day of the ceremony—according to Kim Neely, thanks to food poisoning—Jeff calls to cancel. Eric Johnson, the band’s tour manager, goes with Dave in his place. This being the drummer and factotum of a highly visible rock band, and a TV audience of millions, they do the sensible thing, and get prodigiously

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stoned before arriving at the venue. With Michael Jackson, Mariah Carey, and Elizabeth Taylor sitting nearby, Dave begins to comprehend the task he’s taken on, and offers Eric an inducement of $50 to walk onstage with him, if they win. When Pearl Jam is announced, inevitably, as the winner in the “Favorite New Artist: Pop/Rock” category—beating out Arrested Development and TLC—the panicked percussionist and tour manager will accept the award together, with an act of oratory, diplomatically described as concise, or perhaps Joycean, in its stream of consciousness. Dave is wearing a pair of oversized, old-lady glasses—more geriatric than grunge—magnifying his heavy-lidded eyes. Between the suit, the hair, and the soul patch, he looks less like a rock star than a creepy instructor of poetry, or a dealer of light narcotics—and it’s definitely the latter that he sounds like, poor guy, stepping up to the podium, and delivering one of the more awkward acceptance speeches in history. “Haaaaaahhh,” he starts, partially freaking out. “Well, this is—um—first time I’ve ever done this, and it’s pretty heavy.” It’s not a bad start—but then: “First, I guess—want to keep it short—we want to thank—everybody at Epic, and— Sony, and—I wish the rest of the band were here—I brought—I actually paid Eric Johnson, our tour manager, to come up, and stand here with me, ’cause I was kind of nervous”—Eric nods, and smiles—“but—just—thanks, to everybody— and—[awkward silence]—thanks.” He’s only been speaking for twenty-five seconds, but there’s a glistening pool of sweat on his forehead. Eric and Dave embrace, and stagger offstage. Later on, when the band is announced as “Favorite New Artist: Heavy Metal/ Hard Rock”—beating out the abysmal Mr. Big and Ugly Kid Joe—our protagonist will have to face the music alone. “Well, now I can, uh—make up for what I didn’t say last time.” Again, it’s a promising start. Just then, Dave makes the honest mistake of scanning the front row, where his eyes meet Michael Jackson. Being human, he continues: “Wow,” raising hand to heart. Then, recovering: “Kelly Curtis—and Michael Goldstone, are up there somewhere,” pointing vaguely. “And—it’s—thanks to them, too. And again—thanks to everyone else—thanks.” The second time, he’s onstage for no more than eleven or twelve seconds, total— and just enough time, it will turn out, for Dave to start losing his job. *** Unlike every other album, there’s no clear standout on Vs.: nothing like “Corduroy,” on Vitalogy; “Off He Goes,” on No Code; or “Insignificance,” on

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Binaural. It’s fair to say that “Rearviewmirror” is its thematic center. “Daughter” is the embodiment of what makes Pearl Jam special in concert; “Small Town,” the sentimental favorite; “Leash,” for the superfan; and “Blood”—to this admitted eccentric—its cantankerous peak. Given the choice, though—a bootleg; in concert; or even the album, if you must—it’s hard to think of a better showcase than the two-and-a-half minutes of “Go.” It’s one of the few Pearl Jam songs we can all agree on; and one of a handful—“Breath,” “Release,” “Hard to Imagine”— we can call inexhaustible. That the song is written not by Ed, or Stone, but their tongue-tied drummer, will make his dismissal in one year that much more depressing. How many songs did Dave have in him like “Go”? Even after thirty years, it’s the rare Pearl Jam partisan who doesn’t have a Pavlovian response to the intro: DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN, DUN-DUN-DUNDUN. It’s their version of Beethoven’s Fifth—doo-doo-doo-dooo—and like Beethoven, the remorseless intro sounds like fate, pounding on the door. In concert, this moment is unfailingly spectacular—especially, to open—and sure sign of an auspicious night. On the album, this moment occurs after half a minute, and two count-offs: one of several false starts, wayward jams, and extreme dynamic contrasts. After the instruments tune up, we hear an entreaty— equal parts plea and demand—suggestive of one or more songs from the past: “Oh please don’t go out on me, don’t go on me now.” You can call him many things, but impolite is not one. For the fourth time in a little over two years, Ed will use a familiar construction: “Oh please, let it rain today” (“Wash”); “Oh please, I need some sleep” (“Just a Girl”); “Oh please, let me sleep, it’s Christmas time” (“Let Me Sleep”). There’s the compulsive repetition of “go,” here employed in a more fundamental sense, next to “Why Go”: closer to desertion, abandonment, forsaking. Vs. is an album about responding to invisible and undefinable forms of authority and repression. It sounded different because, despite the familiar reference points, it really was something new. If there’s a central idea to Vs.—from “Go” and “Daughter” to “Dissident,” “Rearviewmirror,” and “Leash”—it’s emancipation, or freedom. *** It’s one of the better scenes in Pearl Jam Twenty: Ed and Stone, writing “Daughter”—or “Brother,” as it’s being called—on the tour bus. They’re somewhere between Colorado and Montana—a ten-hour drive—where they will play for a few hundred people. Then a twenty-hour schlep to Arizona.

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Ed and Stone are on opposite sides of a table. The date is May 6, 1992. In Los Angeles—where Pearl Jam will play in a week, with Rage Against the Machine— the LAPD and National Guard are out on patrol, after five straight days of rioting. (Even the apolitical Mike will tell the crowd in Boulder: “Remember, it’s alright, because our good president is sending the troops into LA, and it’s going to protect all of our good white people. Fuck him!”) Stone, patiently playing the introduction, acoustic, in a twangy tuning; Ed, watching, and counting, and singing—eyes open, at first, then shut. He’s worked out the structure—chorus and verse melodies—but the lyrics are still taking shape. Every so often, in the background, you see the light from the highway. In the film, this moment is painfully brief—one minute, on the dot—but it’s just enough to witness how this remarkable song came together: Alone, listless Breakfast table in an otherwise empty room Young girl, violence Center of her own attentions In another room a mother tells a story Brought up family center [?] Upstairs the brother takes her hand Next of kin, shuts the door and locks it

The band plays “Daughter” only twice in ’92, and then at every show, practically, in the next five years. It’s not until the fourth performance, however, in 1993, that the song meanders beyond the original. It’s then—during a club show, in Oslo, aided by an enthusiastic crowd—when Ed, either by arrangement, or off the cuff, decides to add a few phrases, after the long outro (“The shades go down”): All my pieces All my pieces set me free Human devices Human devices set me free

It’s brief: barely forty-five seconds. For all the crowd knows, these lines are simply the end of the song—one of several being heard and played overseas for the first time. (In four months, the lyrics emerge in a very different tune:

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“W.M.A.”) To anyone attending the second show in Oslo, one day later, they would hear something quite different during the outro to “Daughter.” Perhaps remembering Pinkpop—almost exactly twelve months ago—Ed will drop in a few lines of “Pulled Up,” by Talking Heads, along with a Beatles tribute (“Come Together”), as he did in Holland. The following day, in Stockholm—with a nod to Neil Young, and their dreadful last visit—it’s the chorus of “Tonight’s the Night,” heartily joined in by the Swedes: the first instance of “Daughter” as calland-response, and participatory sing-along. It’s a testament to the intelligence of “Daughter,” that it easily incorporates, and invites comparison, to these songs, and countless others; indeed, it practically demands it. (Only “Better Man,” in the Pearl Jam songbook, seems equally incomplete, without a coda, or tag.) More than any other song, early or late, “Daughter” is an accounting of influence, predecessors, and models; a canvas, for their deepest political beliefs; a window, into their collective disposition; and a mapping, of their artistic DNA. During its first year, “Daughter” serves a kind of jukebox function—taking in multiple decades, songwriters, and moods—if one that’s apparently set to shuffle: The Beatles (“Across the Universe,” “Instant Karma”); The Who (“Young Man Blues,” “The Real Me,” “I’m One”); The Rolling Stones (“Ruby Tuesday,” “Gimme Shelter”); David Bowie (“Golden Years”); Henry Rollins (“Shine”); and U2 (“MLK”). During 1994, by contrast, “Daughter” assumes a more topical function—platform, or pulpit, easily assimilating abortion rights (“I Won’t Back Down”); education (“Another Brick in the Wall, Part II”); police brutality (“W.M.A.”); and the suicide of Kurt Cobain (“American Pie,” “My My, Hey Hey”). After the 2000 Roskilde tragedy, “Daughter” takes on a rather different, elegiac meaning, with Dead Moon’s “It’s O.K.”; and in late 2002—as the United States prepares for the invasion of Iraq—the ballad is grafted onto “War,” by Edwin Starr; “With My Own Two Hands,” by Ben Harper; and “People Have the Power,” by Patti Smith. *** The beating of Rodney King by four Los Angeles police officers—and the subsequent acquittal, by an all-white jury—is remembered, rightly, as one of the decade’s transformational events. More often overlooked is another incident the following year—and one that might have easily come and gone—if not for a small intervention. On November 5, 1992, in the city of Detroit, a vicious, violent, state-sanctioned murder takes place, and soon finds expression on Vs. ***

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Allan Jones, in Pearl Jam: The Illustrated Story (1994): One afternoon in downtown Seattle, Eddie cut out of rehearsals for the new album to put some money in a parking meter. He didn’t plan on being long, but the rest of the band were working on something that was going to keep them occupied so he wasn’t in too much of a rush. When he saw someone waving to him from the park across the road, he went over to say hi. “He was just this guy I kinda knew,” Eddie recalled. “He’s not exactly homeless, he just hangs out in this park. A lotta guys hang out there. There’s some deals go down there, you know. Nothing too heavy. And I went and sat next to him on this bench and we started talking. “I think I’d probably stayed at the rehearsal studio the night before and it had been a couple of days since I’d had a shower and I’ve got my old shoes on and I don’t look too great, a little grunge on my teeth or whatever. And I’m sitting there with this guy who’s of a darker color than me, and along come these cops. Two of ’em. In Seattle, we got these cops, they ride around on their bikes trying to look cool. “So here they come, they’re heading straight for us. And they just ignored me and started hassling him. Compared to me, this guy looks respectable as fuck. But they started hassling him, and that just blew me the fuck away. So I started hassling them. I was just really wound up by it. I had all this fucking energy rushing through me. I was mad. Really fucking angry. I got back to the studio and the guys had been working on this thing and I just went straight in and did the vocals, and that was the song.”

*** In a more humane world, the name Malice Green would be known for better reason. He was born on April 29, 1957, in Arkansas, the only son of Jessie and Patricia Green. He spent his childhood living with his grandmother. He graduated from high school in Detroit, where he played basketball, and was known as a quiet, considerate young man. After high school, Green got a job at Morton Manufacturing, near Chicago, running a machine that made steel for the railroads. He would work there for thirteen years. At the time of his death, in 1992, he was unemployed, and planning to join his wife in North Carolina. He had nieces, nephews, and sisters; two daughters; three stepchildren; and a grandchild. At approximately 10:15, on the evening of November 5th—hours after Bill Clinton tells the world, in his victory speech: “Our destiny is bound up with

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the destiny of every American. We’re all in this together, and we will rise or fall together”—Malice Green is questioned by Detroit police officers Larry Nevers and Walter Budzyn. The officers had each drawn more than twenty-five complaints about misconduct, while Nevers was the subject of three separate lawsuits, all settled by the city. The neighborhood called them Starsky and Hutch, after the rough-and-tumble TV show. According to the officers, Green refused to comply with an order—to open his hand. The officers, in turn, hit him repeatedly with their two-pound, footlong flashlights, powered by four D-cell batteries. They hit him again. And again. And again. Green began to slump backward, across the front seat. One witness said Nevers climbed into the car. “Starsky,” said one of the onlookers. “Why don’t you tell your partner to be cool?” Nevers turned to the gathering crowd. “You all can leave,” he said. Responding to radio reports, other officers began to arrive. By now, there were five men in uniform around the car. Malice Green died of massive head injuries. He was pronounced dead at 11:06 p.m. The street and the sidewalk were covered with blood. No drugs or weapons were found in Green’s car. After the beating, Nevers and Budzyn were allowed to wipe blood from their hands, their flashlights, and from Green’s car, with peroxide. An emergency technician would ask his supervisor: “What should I do if I witness police brutality/murder?” An autopsy finds that the officers struck the unarmed civilian with at least fourteen blows to the head. At his trial, Larry Nevers says he beat Malice Green because he was resisting arrest. In 1993, Nevers and Budzyn were convicted of second-degree murder in the death of Malice Green, and began serving their sentences at a federal prison in Fort Worth. The officers appealed their convictions, alleging erroneous jury instruction, insufficient evidence, and jury tampering. In July of ’97, the Michigan Supreme Court granted Budzyn a new trial, on the grounds that the jury had been tainted; Budzyn was immediately released on bond. The following year, prosecutors announced plans for a new trial. In 1998, Budzyn was convicted of involuntary manslaughter; it appeared that he would not serve additional time in prison because of time served. Nevers’s conviction was later reduced to manslaughter after another trial. He was released from prison in 2001, and maintained until his death that the charges against him were the result of a political witch hunt. The liner notes to Vs. reproduce a news clipping—a fragment—with a detail that only a few outlets report: namely, that the beating of Malice Green was so severe as to detach a part of his scalp. It’s a horrifying image—which is probably

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why it’s consigned to the lower-right corner, in microscopic type, next to the lyrics of “W.M.A.” Pearl Jam was creatively embedding commentary within the fabric of pop music—taking subjects like racism, police brutality, and white privilege to its audience. In the liner notes, it remains implicit that detaching an enemy’s scalp—as a trophy, or proof of valor—is a practice dating back to ancient times, and the earliest days of American history, up to the wars against Native Americans. Or maybe the hand-drawn American flag at the top of the page is all we need to make the connection. Almost three decades later, the advances made by the activists of Black Lives Matter show how much work remains to be done. “W.M.A.” could have been written last week. *** In June, Pearl Jam heads to Europe for a three-week, fifteen-date tour. They open five shows for Neil Young—who was playing with Booker T. & the M.G.’s— and four with U2, then in their Mussolini phase, with the spectacle of Zoo TV. The tour opens in Oslo on June 26, 1993—a year to the day of Roskilde. That same evening, Bill Clinton orders a missile strike on Iraq, in retaliation for an assassination attempt—later disputed—against the former President Bush; a bombing that Ed will bring up in Oslo, Stockholm, and London, leading into “Glorified G.” The shows with Neil Young are a success, for the most part, in spite of Ed’s voice—which is failing, four shows in—and despite—or because of— their previous visit. In Norway, Ed will apologize, to the alarm of the band, for canceling the tour after Roskilde. (“Remember they said it was ’cause we were too tired, or something? That’s bullshit.”) He explains the burglary, and the culprits: “fuckin’ Americans.” The next day, in Stockholm, the band opens with four new songs, and even gets the Swedes to sing the chorus from “Tonight’s the Night.” In Ireland, at Slane Castle, Ed will sing from “Rain,” by The Beatles, and apologizes, tongue in cheek, once again: “Sorry we haven’t been here yet before. Sorry. We just didn’t know. We just had no fuckin’ idea how cool it was. So, I think we’re gonna come back and play, like, two weeks of club shows.” The crowd eats it up, as they do at every show with Neil Young. The shows with U2, on the other hand, are less successful—to put it mildly. It’s worth taking a moment, to consider why. *** It is a common observation—and one we’ll come back to, in Chapter 25—that Ed’s biggest influence—artistic, and musical—is Pete Townshend, followed—in no particular order—by The Beatles, The Clash, the Ramones, Bruce Springsteen,

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Fugazi, and Neil Young. All true. (This still omits R.E.M., Neil Finn, Pink Floyd, and Talking Heads.) What’s drawn a lot less comment—owing, I think, to their proximity in age—is the importance of U2: less in terms of sound, than of spirit. Much as Ed would like to think otherwise, Pearl Jam and U2 are big bands—bands that wouldn’t make sense outside the concept of stardom. Their music is inspiring without being elitist, the lyrics just ambiguous enough, the stage show uniformly thrilling. For Ed, a group like U2 is inescapable as an influence, artistic and ethical. In Bad Radio, he writes at least two attempts at early U2, circa The Joshua Tree. In Pearl Jam, he writes “Why Go,” about a woman in confinement, against her will—a reimagining, perhaps unconscious, of “The Electric Co.,” about a treatment of shock therapy in a mental institution. And for much of the Ten era, he astonishes the audience with dizzying, death-defying theatrics—almost certainly developed from Bono. (See if this description sounds familiar.) Bono would now be scouting routes for his nightly plunge into the audience … He had always engaged the audience physically. In a small club it was simple, a matter of eye contact or stepping from the stage. But as the venues got bigger, the task of breaking down the physical barrier between musician and ticketbuyer became harder. It was this Bono was after, the Iggy Pop concept of oneness between audience and star taken further, given more meaning … Bono’s adventures along balconies, into stalls, up scaffolding, along routes that no rock star had dared to travel before, were spectacular, a guarantee that U2 would be remembered, that the show, this show, on this night, in this arena, every night, would be special.

According to an early roommate, Ed acquires more albums by U2 than any other artist during the time they lived together, and looked up to Bono—only four years his elder—in an endearingly romantic way: In the eighties, Eddie’s musical taste turned to more of the commercial rock and roll genre bands that released singles scoring high on the pop charts. At that time, he was in awe of U2’s Bono. He was Eddie’s musical mentor of the time, and he followed every move the band made. According to Eddie, when he was younger he had the opportunity to meet Bono in a hotel lobby in Chicago. Bono was so nice to him, and even gave him a hug after they talked for a short time. From the first day I met Eddie, all I would hear about was U2. In fact, he would wear small U2 buttons with pictures of Bono on his dark leather jacket. I remember laughing to myself when I first saw them. I thought it was going a

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little too far; kind of like what a twelve-year-old girl would wear to an early ’80s Duran Duran concert. But hey, I think we all did things in the ’80s that we’re embarrassed by! He collected many magazines, newspaper articles, and videos of the band. There was no question that he was obsessed with the band.

It’s easy to see what the Ed of Bad Radio would admire about U2: their unabashed idealism, sincerity, social conscience, and commitment. By the same measure, it’s easy to see what the Ed of “Animal” and “Blood” would despise about them— or rather, their infrastructure—circa July 1993. At the time of their shows with Pearl Jam—astronomical soccer stadiums in Italy—U2 is sixteen months into a world tour for Achtung Baby, their astounding 1991 reinvention, and only weeks away from Zooropa, their even more startling detour into electronic music. These albums are promoted with a two-year, four-continent, 157-date behemoth known as Zoo TV, comprising a nation-state of production crew, a video display to rival Times Square, and a lighting system made of suspended East German cars. Depending on your taste, Zoo TV was either a daring and subversive experiment, in the convergence of entertainment, technology, and spectacle; or the height of obscenity, decadence, and folly. You can guess which camp Ed fell into: U2 was one of my favorite groups of all time. I’d seen them from the War tour to this new, intensified Technicolor version on such a large scale in these European stadiums on Zoo TV. I felt like in order to watch the band, I had to cup my hands over my eyes. I didn’t want to be watching the biggest screen ever invented. It was rare that Bono was within twenty yards of any other member of the band. I felt like it was my duty as this old-school follower to tell one of the guys, “This shit ain’t working!” But after every song, 80,000 Italians are clapping, screaming, and losing their minds. So who was I to say?

The day Pearl Jam plays the Stadio Bentegodi, in fair Verona—capacity: 40,000— Ten has been out for almost two years, and certified quadruple platinum. Nevertheless—to the Italians awaiting U2 that night, and all that week—the band is barely acknowledged, let alone applauded. In Verona, the opening night’s crowd is courteous, but quiet—never a good sign, in Italy—and Ed, in turn, is all business—never a good sign, period—almost to the end. They’ll mix it up a bit, the next day—a seven-minute “Porch,” where Ed will throw himself into the crowd; a tease of “I Will Follow,” into “Go”—but the Italians are indifferent, aside from a fragment of “Sympathy for the Devil.” Before “Alive,” Ed points out: “This is a big place, for such a little thing like music.”

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He’s not wrong; but then, he’s not a hostage, either. (I can only speculate, but I assume the Ed of Bad Radio would have thought to say thank you, at some point, instead.) The third show, in Rome—at a merely 35,000-capacity stadium—starts more auspiciously. “Jeremy” is greeted by the sound of crickets, but Ed insists: “We can see everybody. Benvenuti Pearl Jam radio”: a wink at Zoo TV, and an unsuspecting preview, at once. (See Chapter 20: “Self-Pollution Radio.”) After “Daughter”: “Don’t forget to sign your name at the Greenpeace and the Amnesty International booth while you’re here, okay?” The resulting applause is louder than for any Pearl Jam composition that entire week in Italy. Encouraged, he continues: “It’s always good to help someone, ’cause, uh, you might need help yourself, someday.” (It will emerge that “someday” is in fact “tomorrow.”) With that, they proceed to the human-rights anthem, “Animal,” into a wellreceived “Alive.” You think they’re going to make it through—and then they play “Blood,” which, for some reason, doesn’t seem to be a crowd favorite. It’s not the most synchronized performance, admittedly—but it’s unlikely that’s the reasoning of the Italians throwing bottles, and yelling, “Fuck you!” Having spoken on behalf of Amnesty International, Ed responds with the dignity becoming his platform: “Fuck me! Fuck me! That’s right. Fuck me. You fuck me, Bono will fuck you.” (Nice, Ed.) It’s only a short step to “What the fuck is this world …” After which: “See you someplace smaller. Bye.” By the final show, the Romans are more responsive, and the band almost seems comfortable, or at least accustomed to stadium sound. “Grazie, grazie. Is everyone okay up here? You alright? I saw you working it out on your own, which is good.” It’s almost like he’s in a good mood. Then—unsurprisingly—“The love music comes later on in the evening.” There’s an intriguing improv, into “Go”; an infuriated “Why Go”; a metal-adjacent “Rearviewmirror.” Once again, you think they’re going to make it—and then they play “Jeremy,” which appears to trigger something. With the band tuning up for “Glorified G,” Ed inquires of no one in particular: “Isn’t this a soccer stadium?” The Romans think he’s talking about the local franchise, and start applauding. For a split second, there’s the possibility of Ed winning over the masses with sport, the way he did with Danish dynamite. If only. “What the hell is music doin’ here?” he asks, sullen and sour—as if he walked in off the street. In a span of only minutes, he reverts to the grouch from Roskilde—only now, he doesn’t have a robbery to blame. “Tell you what—I’ll meet you guys back in the club, next time.” Having defended the integrity of music, they proceed to the club banger, “Glorified G,” into yet another outburst:

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“Ah, don’t clap, we ain’t even fuckin’ tryin’.” (I imagine the band is considering the odds of another cancellation, right about now.) They play “Daughter,” with an extended quotation of U2’s “MLK.” It’s an inspired gesture, soon to be detonated. “Everybody see my new shirt?” (It says PAUL IS DEAD, as a show of thanks to Bono, a.k.a. Paul Hewson. Any resemblance to persons living or Oedipal is purely a coincidence.) “That’s what you paid money for,” oozing venom. Wisely, Stone will take this opportunity to start “Alive,” into “Black,” into a dyspeptic “Blood.” With the finish in sight—with U2 looking on—we hear Ed’s magnanimous farewell: “Enjoy the TV show. Zoo TV.” There’s more: “I want to know. Are we the animals? Are you the animals?” As banter goes, it’s not exactly “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?,” as Johnny Rotten said, by way of resignation. But you get the point. The writer Bill Flanagan traveled with U2 during Zoo TV, and wrote about it in the entertaining U2 at the End of the World. Flanagan is backstage for all of Pearl Jam’s shows with U2, and alternately inspired, entertained, or confounded by Ed. (Welcome, Bill.) It is the afternoon of July third. It is very hot in Verona. People in the stadium are wearing as few clothes as possible. Onstage Pearl Jam, who have with their first album become very big stars in America, are trying to connect to a large audience who don’t know who they are. Eddie Vedder, the band’s passionate lead singer, is not going to go down without a fight. He is telling the crowd, “This is a big place for such a little thing like music. I can’t wait till we can come back and play in a place where we can see you.” The band then plays a new song called “Daughter,” a slow tune with a powerful lyric—“she holds the hand that holds her down”—that like many of Vedder’s songs seems to be about the grief children suffer at the hands of incompetent or oblivious parents. It means nothing to most of the chatting, laughing, drinking crowd, but it clearly means a lot to Eddie. When it’s done he stands at the edge of the stage looking out at the disinterested audience and sings, quietly, the first lines of U2’s “I Will Follow.” It is hard to tell if he is trying to mock the public’s hunger for the headliners or make a connection. In a lot of ways Vedder seems like a fan who has found his way onto U2’s stage by mistake and figures that as long as he’s up there he’ll see what singing their song feels like. Behind him the band starts playing a very slow version of “Sympathy for the Devil” and Vedder makes up new lyrics to fit his circumstance: “I got here through 29 stadiums.” He holds up a devil mask and the crowd is mildly amused. Vedder tries on his devil mask, then tries on a fly-head mask. I wonder if he’s mocking Bono’s onstage personas—devilish MacPhisto and the Fly.

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Flanagan is right: it is hard to tell if Ed is mocking U2’s audience with “MLK” and “I Will Follow,” or trying to make a connection. (It’s both.) He’s perceptive, in observing that Ed “seems like a fan who has found his way onto U2’s stage by mistake,” which of course is precisely what he is. And he captures a comical set piece, in Rome, when a member of U2’s entourage—MTV president Tom Freston, there with Christy Turlington and Naomi Campbell—will ask if this wasn’t the greatest show Ed had ever been to. Presumably with a smile, Ed says he’d prefer Henry Rollins in a small club. (I’ll take Zoo TV in Rome.) To his credit, Flanagan recognizes the real deal when he sees it. At the end of day two in Verona—when Ed makes use of the preposterous catwalk leading to U2’s B stage, and throws himself into the crowd—Flanagan’s response is admiring, and an implicit foil to the headliner: I see Vedder bobbing up on the arms of the crowd, then disappearing under them, then popping up, like a swimmer fighting an undertow. Finally he scampers back up onto the ramp, most of his clothes torn to rags. He has made contact with the audience with the same sort of recklessness that almost got Bono kicked out of U2 a decade ago.

*** Having extended a gracious va fangool to U2 and their fans in Italy, you might assume the band is eager to reunite with Neil Young—and, indeed, the first of two dates, at Slane Castle, with Van Morrison, is among the tour’s best. The next day, in London, is a different story, if not an outright embarrassment. The first time Pearl Jam played Finsbury Park, in London, it was June 6, 1992: two days before Pinkpop. It’s a good show, if nothing unusual, to look at the setlist. Still, you can hear an enthusiasm—even glee—especially in the banter. This is where “Alive” is introduced with an improbable preface (“This song—is to life, ’cause what a beautiful thing life is, isn’t it?”); where Ed, with a straight face, asserts that they’re playing for “a cause that affects us all,” that being Dee from L7, and her irregular menstrual cycle; where Ed invites the crowd to bootleg them, and thanks the audience “for inviting this band to play today.” It’s also where, in the middle of “Porch”—demonstrating his unique gift for connection—Ed points to the audience up front: “I remember you. Your name’s Adam. I remember you. I remember—you. I remember you.” He walks to Mike’s side of the stage. The microphone is in his right hand; the extended middle finger, his left. You think he’s about to jump into the crowd, or climb one of the

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speakers. (That will happen soon enough.) Instead, it’s a short vocal improv, and a moment that reminds you why this band changed lives. If you got something to say, say it If you got something to say, say it If you got something to say, something, Say it, say it, say it, say it, say it IF YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY, SAY IT IF YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY, SAY IT If this is what you got to say Say it Say it SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT

The second time Pearl Jam played Finsbury Park, it was July 11, 1993: the day after Slane Castle, and two days before their much-anticipated Brixton Academy debut. At first glance—aside from being properly outfitted for London weather—it’s obviously the band we’ve been watching for two-and-a-half years. Jeff is wearing shorts, naturally; questionable headwear, of course; and a pair of Eazy-E sunglasses, for a change, along with his figurines. Mike is wearing a delightfully clashing dinner vest over a sweatshirt and blue jeans, like a stylish guidance counselor; Stone, a maroon button-down, and dark pants, instead of T-shirt and shorts; and Dave, as ever, behind an overgrowth of percussion, cigarette in mouth, perfectly serene. (You know who that leaves.) Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well, or still jetlagged. Maybe Ed had beef with 4 Non Blondes, or Teenage Fanclub, or James, also playing Finsbury Park that day. Maybe the famously gentle British media wrote something hateful again; or maybe—this being their tenth show, out of fifteen—he was just cranky, and ready to go home. Whatever it was—and, in fairness, it’s a show he will apologize for, years later—the return to Finsbury Park is hardly Ed in his prime. (Needless to say, it’s a show someone will document on video.) You might say the evidence is clear, even with the volume on mute. Ed is wearing an olive-green jacket—an upgrade, from his usual T-shirt—but his expression is sluggish; his speech, impaired; his face, swollen. He’s wasted— not a crime, or the end of the world, but also not the state in which you want Ed addressing a crowd, at least in July ’93. A song or two in, you notice that his

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jacket has been personalized, with three words on the back, in electrical tape: FUCK IT ALL. They open with “Animal,” into “Go,” into “Once.” The last is performed, endearingly, with Ed pretending to fire a pistol into the crowd, and then his own head. Ed looks off in the distance, equal parts dazed and confused. “Feel like I’m dreaming,” he says, to no one in particular. The band cues up for “Blood.” “Stick a needle in me,” absently, stabbing a finger into his arm. Somehow, the extreme intoxication doesn’t impair the performance—just everything else, beginning with Ed’s comic timing: Hey. Uh. We played here once—before. Do you remember? We were here? We— and, we played—the next song, and we dedicated it to the drummer of L7, who played that day—and, uh—she couldn’t, uh—she wasn’t having her period, you know—she was, uh—you know what that means. So she asked us please—to play that song, and dedicate it to her—so she would start to flow—so this song is dedicated to anybody out there—any women—who need their period. It’s called “Even Flow.”

Two songs later—right before “Daughter”—Ed starts cracking up, into the mic. From the video, he looks like he’s either about to fall over, or withstanding a dose of military-level tranquilizer. By now, the only word left on his jacket is ALL. They play the song for a perfunctory three-and-a-half minutes. Finally, the moment his bandmates surely anticipated all along is imminent. “Can I just—be honest with ya—a second?” He’s holding his arms up, palms out, as if under arrest; the agreeable English audience applauds. “[Sigh]—I’m, uh—these big places—I just don’t—I’m really looking forward to Brixton. It’s just gonna be very nice,” bringing his hands together. The crowd cheers, again. There’s a brief sound of guitar—Stone, I’m guessing—either tuning, or telling Ed to get on with it. “I just can’t see you all, and I feel like I’m about this big, and I just want to go, hey,” waving his arms. “This song’s called ‘Alive.’” Once again, the song itself is oddly unaffected; if anything, it’s more powerful, by “Is something wrong, she said? Of course there is.” The band plays a short, funky improv. Here’s what Ed comes up with, on the fly: What could you do? Wake up in my shoes? What would you do? You’d fuckin’ kill yourself, man.

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You think it’s going to end—and it just doesn’t. Sarcastically: “Okay, everybody, jump up and down,” into “Why Go,” sung in part with hand in pocket. With only two songs left, the band tunes up for “Leash.” All of a sudden, Ed seems to have an idea. (I only wish the following were fiction.) He walks over to the side of the stage to tell Eric Johnson, the tour manager, something or other, then walks back to the mic. In the cadence of an irritable butler: “Drop the leash, drop the leash, get out of my fucking face, please?” They play “Leash.” For the next three minutes, it’s almost like they’re having fun—and then the song is over, and Ed is walking offstage, to the surprise of the band. He comes back, seconds later, with—can it be?—oh, dear lord—yes, it can—not one, not two, but many bouquets of carrots—leafy tops and all—and starts chucking them into the crowd. The more optimistic among us might assume he’s doing this to be kind—like sharing water. If only. The carrots take flight. “I’ve got some carrots for you all,” an epigram surely unclaimed in the annals of entertainment. “If you eat them now, you’ll be able to see Neil [Young] a little better.” More carrots go into the crowd; for English produce, they reach an impressive arc. I would like to believe that the carrots just happened to be backstage, and not an advance request; that the idea spontaneously occurred to him, right before “Leash.” (I suppose it’s not impossible.) Ed counts off for “Porch,” shirt pulled over his head. A year ago, he improvised: “If you got something to say, say it.” Today, however, it ends with a tag and a whimper: “Why do I keep fucking up? Why? Why?”

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Lakefront Arena, New Orleans (November 16, 1993) What you seek in vain for, half your life, one day you come full upon, all the family at dinner. You seek it like a dream, and as soon as you find it you become its prey. Thoreau, to Emerson; epigraph to A Frolic of His Own, by William Gaddis

It is far easier to say when they were the biggest band on Earth, than to say when they became artists. The former can be dated, almost to the hour, of October ’93. The latter, needless to say, is a matter of opinion, man; but there’s a case to be made for the very next month, and even a setting: the immortal American city of New Orleans. *** The album first printed, mistakenly, with three titles—Pearl Jam, Five Against One, and Vs.—is officially released on October 19, 1993, one week after it comes out on vinyl. It debuts at number one, with 950,374 copies sold, in only five days: a figure that fans of a certain vintage can recite to three digits, and more than the next nine albums—including Music Box, by Mariah Carey; It’s On (Dr. Dre) 187umKilla, by Eazy-E; and Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell, by Meat Loaf—combined. (By comparison, In Utero—released in September, so as not to compete—sells 180,000, out of the gate, and also debuts at number one.) That five-day figure sets a chart record that will stand for the next five years. (The only LP to come close is Vitalogy.) Vs. will debut at number one in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Netherlands, Sweden, Norway, and Ireland. In the US, it stays at number one for over a month, when it yields to another blockbuster: Doggystyle, by Snoop Doggy Dogg. On January 6, 1994, Vs. will be certified five-times platinum, in under three months. With a collection of

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light, friendly fare—“Rats,” “Indifference,” and “Blood,” among them—they had made the fastest-selling album in Billboard history. Without a video, or a single, they had joined the ranks of Thriller, Purple Rain, and Born in the U.S.A. It’s an incredible achievement, for anyone—let alone a band that was three years old. “As if it’s getting ready for the long haul,” Jon Pareles wrote, in The New York Times, “Pearl Jam … uses its new album to broaden its music … There’s still plenty of Led Zeppelin crunch and Hendrix wah-wah in the guitars of ‘Animal,’ ‘Blood,’ and ‘Go,’ but Vs. also echoes, for starters, R.E.M., The Police, The Allman Brothers, Jefferson Airplane, The Rolling Stones and The Beatles. As a debut album, Vs. might sound like an identity crisis, but the band clearly wants to escape any formulas.” Pareles was eerily prophetic when he asked, in the intro: Who would want to be a rock hero? At this late date, the role seems utterly thankless, a never-ending attempt to navigate between fans’ escalating demands on the one side and deluded self-importance on the other. Anyone with a memory can tally the would-be heroes who ended up as cranks, self-parodies, small-timers or corpses; even self-proclaimed anti-heroes slip up and become mundane. It’s hard to find some middle ground between rock’s egalitarian myth—that anybody can do it—and the gifts of talent, passion and charisma, or to take songs seriously without inviting cackles from Beavis and Butt-Head.

The English press was less enthused. In the Independent, Andy Gill writes a splendidly withering review, whose kindest words may well be the lede: “Now that their Ten debut has outsold Nirvana’s Nevermind, Pearl Jam have some claim to the title of hottest band around, which is a thoroughly depressing prospect.” Gill found Vs. to be—his words—“Victim Rock”: Calculated to appeal to teenage self-pity, feeding fantasies of victimization rather than fornication or any of the other classic rock ‘n’ roll desires … one long extended litany of plaints against potential abusers, defilers and traitors which only lets up occasionally, and then only to itemize the positive qualities of rats.

Predictably, the music press would consider In Utero and Vs. as a clash of the titans—often, to the point of parody. An otherwise intelligent review by Simon Reynolds, in Melody Maker, is typical: “Pearl Jam Versus Nirvana: The Final Countdown.” (“If numbers count for anything, Pearl Jam wiped the floor with Nirvana.”) In places, it’s not always clear which musician Reynolds is writing about: [He] seems stunned by the fact of his mass audience, and is thus unable, or unwilling, to connect with them. Which is why he barely speaks onstage … he’s still clearly aghast at the notion of people looking to him for answers or

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leadership. Probably because he feels just as, or even more, lost and incapable as any of them. [That part is about Kurt.] In other places, the comparison is more astute: Pearl Jam are The Clash to Nirvana’s Sex Pistols. Like The Clash, Pearl Jam’s vision of rock is humanist, heartwarming, inclusive, and thus deeply traditional. Pearl Jam’s success is based on the notion that youth can be marshalled into a unity of alienation, and somehow make their collective power felt. Which is why their music—blues rock and funky boogie given a glossy, panoramic, CDfriendly production—is rooted in the early Seventies, the last time people still believed in counterculture. Whereas Cobain’s songs fuse the melodic aggression of the Pistols with the faithless, proto-punk despondence of Sabbath. Nirvana’s point—from “Smells Like Teen Spirit” through to “Radio Friendly Unit Shifter”—is the same as The Sex Pistols’: rock rebellion is a fraud, it’s high time the concept of youth culture was killed off. And so In Utero is a self-indulgent, solipsistic record, Cobain singing the millionaire rockstar blues. Typically, the only part of being a Rock Savior Cobain can relate to is being crucified. In that respect, In Utero is a bit like the bitterly disillusioned second album Rotten might have made if he’d stayed in the Pistols.

Much like Pareles, Simon Reynolds understands something intuitive about Ed, and even describes it in the same way: “the point about Vedder—and it’s what makes him a Rock Hero in the most conservative sense—is that he doesn’t give up the fight.” Like his colleague, the critic will make an eerie prediction. In describing In Utero as a “self-indulgent, solipsistic record, Cobain singing the millionaire rockstar blues”—a tough judgment, but not unfounded—he’s unwittingly described the album Pearl Jam is halfway through recording: Vitalogy. *** The week that Vs. comes out, Ed is on the cover of Time magazine. The date of the issue is October 25, 1993—three years, almost to the day, of their first show. It’s hardly a flattering shot: between the angry, contorted face; the bared teeth, and double chin; the orange tan; and the unsightly red borders, up against the yellow headline (ALL THE RAGE)—all adjacent, weirdly, to THOSE FABULOUS PHILLIES. Still, it’s the cover of Time.* Also in the magazine that week are editorials and stories about the North American Free Trade Agreement

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(NAFTA); the embargo of Haiti’s military regime; and a five year old in Ohio who commits arson, after seeing it on Beavis and Butt-Head. The Time cover story (“Rock’s Anxious Rebels”) is written without Pearl Jam’s involvement. It’s an easy piece to ridicule, with observations on the order of, “In keeping with rock tradition, alternative is defiant.” Nevertheless—for a general readership—it’s better than you’d think, or was acknowledged at the time. It’s to Time’s credit that the cover is assigned to an African American writer, Christopher John Farley—a novelist, critic, and biographer of Bob Marley and Aaliyah, among others; and it’s to Farley’s credit that his article is neither sensational—despite the condescending headline—nor puff piece. On the contrary: in 3,500 words—well-researched, respectful, often humorous—Farley gives a fair portrait of the band’s context and origins: from Sub Pop and Mother Love Bone to KISS and Quadrophenia; from Soundgarden and Urge Overkill to Juliana Hatfield, Babes in Toyland, and Liz Phair. He also makes a number of points I imagine the band would agree with: Alternative rock is the sound of homes breaking. If you are in your teens or 20s, chances are your family has been through a divorce. Alternative music has become an emotional sound track, speaking directly to unresolved issues of abandonment and unfairness … While Pearl Jam, Nirvana and their colleagues have a real message to deliver, most of this was overlooked during the past two years by trend watchers who were more interested in the way they dressed and the Seattle scene they came from. The song “W.M.A.” is a critique of an actual crime in which a black man named Malice Green was beaten to death with flashlights by Detroit police … The irony is that the initials W.M.A. could stand for many of the people who will buy Pearl Jam’s album. In fact, they stand for all the members of the band, as well as most of the people in the alternative rock scene, though female musicians have grown in prominence. Whose music is it anyway? Adults are always trying to find out what kids are up to, replicate it, and then sell it back to them. The kids like rap? Let’s give them Vanilla Ice! Usually the youth-oriented products that adults come up with are all too obviously a grownup’s conception of what a young person wants. The suits are, after all, suits. Getting a handle on youthful culture is like trying to hold onto one’s adolescence. It slips away—it’s meant to.

The Time magazine story was indie culture at its most tortured. It embodied a tension most would never resolve: between populism—an art form for

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everyone—and the elite. In the case of grunge—a white, working-class, suburban art form—the irony was acutely pronounced. On the one hand, it aspired to an ethic of inclusion: one in which the marginalized—women, gays, and weirdoes— were welcome. At the same time, it could never quite shake off its suspicion of the mainstream—which, after all, is where the majority of their fans were from. If anyone could understand what it meant to live in middle America—where the record store was Wal-Mart, and where people read Time—it was surely Kurt and Ed. This is why Nirvana made a censored version of In Utero, that Wal-Mart would stock—and why Cobain would have regrets about declining the cover of Time. Twenty-plus years later—in Danny Goldberg’s memoir, Serving the Servant: Remembering Kurt Cobain—it’s fair to say that it’s still a sore point: Two years after Nevermind had changed the rock-and-roll world, the ultimate establishment magazine, Time, was belatedly working on a cover story about the “new” wave of popular, punk-influenced rock and roll. Kurt didn’t want to do an interview, and I vaguely remember encouraging him not to. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel he was being pushed into something mainstream he didn’t like, and as a practical matter Time covers had been a mixed blessing to rock artists over the years. However, I later learned that Kurt had second thoughts about having blown it off. Courtney heard that Eddie Vedder initially agreed to do an interview and then, after Time was fully committed to a Pearl Jam cover, Vedder changed his mind, having his cake and eating it too. The cover of the issue featured a photo of him singing live with the caption “All The Rage: Angry young rockers like Pearl Jam give voice to the passions and fears of a generation.” Twenty-five years later Courtney told me with a sigh, “Kurt was pissed. He ranted for a day about it, calling Eddie a poseur. Kelly Curtis played that chess move better than we did.”

*** That same week in October, the band is on the cover of Rolling Stone, and the subject of an 8,000-word profile by Cameron Crowe—his first in the magazine since 1979. Again, it’s not a flattering photo. Jeff and Mike are in front—the former, in shorts and bandana; the latter, in dark glasses, pencil moustache, hippie necklace. Dave and Stone are dropped in from a different photo, and out of focus: Dave, in multicolor shorts and a white T-shirt, squinting; Stone, also in shorts, and what seems to be a chef ’s hat. Ed is wearing army-surplus,

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and either avoiding the camera, or enduring a migraine. Also in the magazine are stories about NAFTA, Tupac Shakur, The Breeders, Curtis Mayfield, and, uh, Jethro Tull. It’s not what you would call a flattering article—at least, where Ed is quoted: “I fucking hate it here,” says Vedder. “I’ve had a hard time … How do you make a rock record here? Maybe the old rockers, maybe they love this. Maybe they need the comfort and the relaxation. Maybe they need it to make dinner music … The whole success thing, I feel like everybody else in the band is a lot happier with it than me,” he says. “Happy-go-lucky. They kind of roll with it. They enjoy it, even. I can’t seem to do that. It’s not that I think I’m better than it. I don’t know. I’m just not that happy a person.” He shrugs. “I’m just not. What I enjoy is seeing music, getting to watch … I would do anything to be around music. You don’t even have to pay me.”

Confusingly—for the world’s bestselling band—the article is titled “Five Against the World.” This is where Ed opens up, at length, about the “true meaning” of “Alive”; about his family, and biological father; about his relationship, of nine years; and, in passing, that there’s a song by Andy Wood that “always got to me. Someday I’m going to sing it.” It’s also where his unfortunate diatribe in Italy—or several—are detailed; where Jeff observes, “He was genuinely quiet and loving Eddie when we first met him … and at a certain point, he changed”; where Stone will say, of Ed, “My goal, what I really want to achieve, is not to need him”; where Mike admits, “No, I don’t know if we’ve ever had that big, bonding talk yet”; and where Crowe—with expert insight—makes a point that’s rarely understood: “At the heart of Pearl Jam is the relationship between Gossard and Vedder.” At a time when interviews and access to the band were nonexistent, Crowe’s piece will be the definitive profile of the Vs. era—for better, and for worse. Most prophetically, it’s the piece where—if his odd-man-out position on the cover doesn’t make it obvious, and almost a year in advance— Cameron Crowe will reveal how imminent, if not predestined, the exit of Dave Abbruzzese will be. “So are we talking about ‘Daughter’ as the first single?” drummer Dave Abbruzzese asks casually. Suddenly, all air leaves the room. The other four members dog pile on Abbruzzese. What single? One meeting at a time! What do you mean, single? Abbruzzese shrugs … “To me, when I was younger and I heard about a band selling a million records, I thought the band would get together and jump up

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and down for at least a minute,” he says with a wide-open East Texas laugh, “and just go, ‘Wow, I can’t believe it.’ But it doesn’t happen that way [in this band]. Me, I flip out. I jump up and down by myself.” For Abbruzzese, who co-wrote the album’s opening track, “Go,” it’s sometimes hard to watch his bandmates deal with success. “There’s a lot of intensity over decisions,” he says cheerfully. “And I think it’s great. But every once in a while, I wish everyone would just let it go. Make a bad decision!” He looks out at the same green forest Vedder had raged at earlier. “Look at this place! It’s paradise.”

You don’t need to know a thing about Dave—don’t need to watch more than a minute of him playing—to know that he’s being sincere: in wishing his band weren’t so intense; in remembering that a million albums sold is a blessing; in calling the band’s recording studio a paradise, which is surely what it was. By the fall of next year, he’ll discover that his colleagues follow one prescription all too well: “Make a bad decision!” *** On October 25th, the band kicks off a six-week tour of the US, with a warm-up at the Off Ramp. That show is not recorded, sadly—with a finale of “W.M.A.” into “My Generation”—but the next one is. Owing, surely, to the 800-capacity venue, and the ocean-side setting—Santa Cruz, California—the band is in excellent spirits, if a tad rusty. The next day, in San Francisco, Pearl Jam is clearly reinvigorated. After “Blood,” ironically: “So you guys been okay?” Loud cheers. “’Cause I worry about you, you know. Losing a lot of young people these days.” (That’s the bit that makes Simon Reynolds swoon: “This is Vedder all over: he comes over as a sort of elder brother offering guidance, support and consolation to his faithless, directionless flock of twenty something youth.”) Before “Why Go”: “I look upset, don’t I. You know, I’m not upset when it’s, uh—the music, and it’s us, and it’s you. There’s nothing wrong then.” Before “Alive”: “It sure is nice to learn from people when they’re still living. Take it from me.” The first leg of the Vs. tour will comprise twenty-six shows, in eighteen cities. (There’s one show that gets canceled, in Colorado, and one that should have been, in California.) Of their new material, “Daughter,” “Animal,” and “Go” are played every night; “Small Town,” “W.M.A.,” and “Rats,” almost not at all. They play seven different cities in California; Arizona, Albuquerque, Arkansas, and Oklahoma; three shows in New Orleans, and three across Texas. Once

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again—almost without exception—the band’s playing is inspired; the crowds are euphoric; and nowhere in sight—at least, from the bootlegs—is Eddie Vader, alter ego, last seen in London. (Well, almost.) In Berkeley, Ed talks about a letter from a fan, who’d been considering suicide: that their birthday was yesterday; that the phone number they had left was out of service; and that the next song was for them. In San Jose: You know, if someone thinks you’re a loser—fuck ’em. It’s your opinion of yourself that counts. And you know, another good thing to do is—not going around thinking other people are losers, too. Give ’em the benefit of the doubt. We’re all human beings. We ain’t that different. We all deserve the benefit of the doubt.

In Mesa, Arizona, Pearl Jam plays two benefit shows for the Mount Graham Coalition: a group of Native American activists, working to prevent the University  of Arizona from building an observatory on sacred land. There’s a clip that runs on MTV, showing Ed—I’m not making this up—in an Apache drum circle; addressing a crowd of students, several hundred strong; and even igniting an Arizona sweatshirt, onstage—Stone provides the lighter fluid— toward the end of day two. (It’s a bit extreme, admittedly—if also exhilarating, to see “Leash” with a raging inferno, center stage.) In a nod to The Clash—who sought to raise artistic and social consciousness alike—they invite the Mohican singer-songwriter Bill Miller to open the show, along with—er—the Butthole Surfers. According to a profile of Miller, in the L.A. Times: On the first night, the boisterous, impatient grunge crowd booed Miller, threw things and spit at him. It was a night he remembers as “just sickening—the longest thirty minutes of my life.” “I was packing up after that show, just disgusted, you know. There was this little scraggly guy standing there, just sort of checking me out. I said, ‘Can I help you?’ He said (Miller affects a high-pitched, wheezy voice at this point), ‘Yeah man, yeah man! Can I talk to you?’ He started raving about my music and how much it had moved him and how he really appreciated it. I’m like, ‘No problem.’ “He said, ‘You look kind of bummed out, man.’ I said, ‘I am bummed out! This audience treated me rude; they wouldn’t even listen to me. I thought a little respect for the Native American was due here, that’s what this was all supposed to be about. I don’t even feel like playing tomorrow night.’ He said, ‘You’ve got to, man!’ I said, ‘Who the heck are you?’ He said, ‘My name is Eddie, man. Eddie Vedder.’ I go, ‘You’re Eddie Vedder?’

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“And he just looks at me, and he jumps on me, he’s hugging me and hanging on me. The crowd sees this—it’s still light out—and we’re still on stage, and they start shouting for him, and he turns around and yells, ‘Shut up!’” The next night, Vedder lectured the crowd before Miller’s performance on the meaning of the event, and on according Miller some respect and listening to him. The night passed smoothly.

*** The first night in Arizona, Ed comes out for the encore by himself. He gives a mildly puzzling speech, which recalls Marlon Brando, on the treatment of Native Americans—in tone, if not in content: I wanted to thank you for your patience, and listening to—all the speakers, and being able to enjoy the Indian music before the night’s festivities begin. It’s funny, you know—there’s a guy here up in front—he’s, uh—he’s really mad at me, ’cause I spit in his face before. And, uh, I just wanted him to know what it felt like, you know? The American Indian has been spit in his face since we got over here, you know. We’re a bunch of white kids, you know. We’ve got it made. Anyways, they need our help. It’s all we can do, you know.

He plays a devastating “Patriot,” solo. It’s a heavy lyric, on any day; and overwhelming, in this context. (“I am a patriot, and I love my country”; “And I ain’t no imperialist”; “And the river shall open for the righteous, someday.”) Two days later, in Albuquerque: “You know, if you feel like shit—and, uh—if you feel like your existence is just hopeless—and you’re just a fuckin’ stain—help somebody. It works every time.” In Nacogdoches, Texas—a show only partly blemished by Dave passing out from exhaustion, ironically, after “Alive”—the band opens with “Daughter”; offers an improv (listed as “Take Me,” and never played again); “Yellow Ledbetter,” minus Dave; and a perfect “Throw Your Arms Around Me,” solo. The entire tour, in fact, is an embarrassment of riches: in New Orleans, a memorable “Crazy Mary,” with its writer, Victoria Williams, and Brendan O’Brien playing organ; a verse of Michael Jackson’s “Ben,” a cappella, in the same show; and, in Las Vegas, the un-awaited, ear-splitting reunion of Green River. Indeed, if not for April ’94, it’s tempting to cite this tour as the most astounding incarnation of the live band, night after night. In truth, it’s only a matter of weeks. ***

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Where does “Tremor Christ” come from? On November 11th, the band plays an arena in Denton, at the University of North Texas. It’s an enjoyable show, if nothing historic. After “Black,” Ed announces: “I think that was the last time we’re ever gonna play that—so that was—you were there.” Following the main-set finale of “Once,” there’s a good five minutes where the band is offstage, and the audience is idly clapping. Eventually, Pearl Jam returns for the encore; and compared to Arizona, Ed’s introduction is, you might say, more appropriate for the college setting. Thanks very much. We appreciate it. Thank you. [Applause.] Hey, uh—someone, uh—someone on the way in—someone just gave me a really good book. I think almost all of us—have read it. I feel like a librarian here, but I’m gonna tell you about this book called The Stranger, by Albert Camus. [More applause. The bestever rock show in Denton?] Okay, but wait. Before we, uh—before I quit my librarian position here, uh—let’s sing a song together. And it’s one you all know. It’s just “Happy Birthday.” But, uh—it’s—it’s Kurt Vonnegut’s birthday today. So we’re going to sing “Happy Birthday.” “Happy Birthday, Kurt Vonnegut.” We’re going to sing that, and then I’m going to send him the tape, okay? I think he’s seventy-one. Seventy-one years old.

The crowd sings, with good cheer; the band plows into “Glorified G.” (So it goes.) Before “Porch,” Jeff points out that Glenn Frey and Meat Loaf are distinguished alumni of this very institution. (He means Don Henley.) In all the bustle, Ed forgets about Camus, and The Stranger, and its tale of a nameless Arab, bloodied on the shore—or at least, he forgets in Texas. On November 12th, it’s the last of five shows with the Butthole Surfers, at the (perhaps inadequately vetted) Southern Methodist University (SMU), in Dallas—or “Satan’s Methods, Universal,” in Ed’s rebranding. Introducing a light number about religion: “You don’t know this song. It’s called ‘Whipping.’ Kill one another.” The next day, they make the un-scenic, eight-hour drive to New Orleans—city of mausoleums, marching music, and masks—where they quietly intend to record. They’ll be in town for at least three days—maybe longer. *** “The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds—the cemeteries—and they’re a cold proposition, one of the best things there are there,” Bob Dylan wrote in Chronicles.

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Going by, you try to be as quiet as possible, better to let them sleep. Greek, Roman, sepulchres—palatial mausoleums made to order, phantomesque, signs and symbols of hidden decay—ghosts of women and men who have sinned and who’ve died and are now living in tombs. The past doesn’t pass away so quickly here. You could be dead a long time. The ghosts race towards the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing—spirits, all determined to get somewhere … A  lazy rhythm looms in the dreamy air and the atmosphere pulsates with bygone duels, past-life romance, comrades requesting comrades to aid them in some way. You can’t see it, but you know it’s here. Somebody is always sinking.

*** At the first NOLA show, they play a familiar set, up to the encore. After “State of Love and Trust,” and apropos of nothing, beyond New Orleans itself: “Any of you guys, uh—any of you guys ever met an angel before?” The superfans think they’re about to hear “Angel,” not unreasonably, and start applauding. “I swear I met one, once. And, uh—we got to know each other really good. And then, uh—she got really mad—she gets—this angel got really pissed,” completely deadpan. “I—you don’t really picture angels as getting—really pissed off, but—sometimes they get pissed off. Then they kinda turn into devils. So if you ever meet an angel, don’t piss ’em off, alright?” (Politely puzzled applause.) It’s a peculiar introduction: not to “Angel,” but “Porch.” It’s also—it seems fair to say—an echo of “Tremor Christ” (“ransom paid the devil,” “triumphant are the angels”), recorded that same week. Ed comes out for the encore by himself: “It’s nice to be here. For real. Thanks  for—this is a song for, uh—someone who is here tonight—and they know who it is. And, uh: it’s by Pete Townshend.” He plays “The Kids Are Alright,” magnificently; the band comes out for a volcanic “Rearviewmirror.” But then: “Hey, guess what?” The response is mild. “I said, guess what?” (That’s more like it.) Ed holds up a sheet of paper—two, it looks like—with apparent pride: “These are words. These are words—to a new song.” (Tepid applause.) “That no one—has ever heard before.” (Less tepid applause.) “We just—we, uh—invented it last night. And, uh—I don’t know if—I don’t think—Mike knows it—yet.” (He sure doesn’t.) “But we’re gonna play it anyways.” It’s the first world premiere of the tour—a song from Vitalogy, only a month after Vs. came out—and the first indication of the avalanche to come. There’s a long count-off from Dave—and, eventually, the debut of “Last Exit.” To be

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candid, it’s not a recording the band is likely to release, unless it’s for a welldeserving charity. From the bootleg, it’s clear that the first and second verse are still in progress—as, indeed, are the chorus, the bridge, and the outro. But being the first of two songs from Vitalogy the band will debut this November—one, a milestone—it will be an occasion to remember, all the same. *** I’m skipping over a lot, if you can believe it. There’s a show that gets abruptly canceled, in Colorado—the last of three—after a fight with the venue, as it were, over security. There’s a famous show of malice in southern California—the site of Coachella, six years early—where a degenerate crowd of 25,000 assaults them with sneakers and saliva. (This one is all over YouTube, and rightly so. Look for “Shoe the Shoeless.”) And then there’s the day, or the early morning, when Ed is arrested, in New Orleans—of all places—for public drunkenness and disturbing the peace. Predictably, the facts are in some dispute; but they involve Ed being antagonized by a stranger, and—uh—spitting in that person’s face. (It’s indefensible. I also wasn’t there. There’s an interview where Ed recalls the person saying to him: “You’re not my Messiah.”) It’s not that these events aren’t documented. Quite the opposite: it’s this very dimension, and only this one—in New Orleans, under arrest; in Italy, endlessly complaining; and on MTV, utterly sour—that the general public sees, week after week. It’s more that their relevance to the songs is tenuous. After all: it’s one thing to speculate about Camus and The Stranger; “three days, maybe longer”; or Ed, agreeably rambling about angels. It’s another, surely, to be ridiculous, and imply that a masterpiece by the deeply unpromising title of “Tremor Christ” derives from New Orleans Parish, and “You’re not my Messiah.” Or did it? (“The smallest oceans still get—big, big waves.”) *** In late November—six years, almost exactly, after Green River’s breakup—Mark Arm and Steve Turner open half a dozen Pearl Jam shows, as Mudhoney. The bands meet on November 26th, in Boulder. Mark Arm’s opening statement: “It’s great to be gay and in Colorado.” (The state had passed a shameful anti-gay amendment in 1992, soon to be struck down.) Years later, Arm would remember: It was a weird thing, because the focus wasn’t on the band so much as it was on Eddie. We played with them in Colorado, and I remember kids chanting,

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“Eddie! Eddie!” before they came on. It wasn’t like they were chanting, “Pearl Jam! Pearl Jam!” But clearly he was speaking to a lot of people at that point.

When the final show in Colorado is canceled, abruptly, the bands make their Nevada debut, at the Aladdin Theater, in Vegas.** They open with “Even Flow.” “Daughter” honors John Lennon, with quotations from “Across the Universe” and “Instant Karma.” All in all, it’s nothing too unusual—until a few minutes later, when Pearl Jam plays the first authentically weird song in its catalog—and, in my opinion, the song that only they could have written. “We recorded ‘Tremor Christ’ in a very short period, one night in New Orleans, and I remember what that night was like,” Ed recalled. “I can see how the lights were turned down low. I can see the room. And so I like listening to that.” Mike: “It’s kind of an odd, marching Beatles tune. It’s just a strange song.” Stone: “It seemed to write itself. It was just a riff-and-a-half, basically.” The band will debut “Tremor Christ” without introduction. If we’re being honest, it’s not until the fourth or fifth show—well into next year—before they nail it; or until Ed can remember his own lyric (“Winded is the sailor, drifting by the storm”). To return to a thought from a few pages back: it’s easy to say when Pearl Jam became giants. It’s harder to say when they started sounding like themselves, instead of their influences. My own theory: on or about November 1993, in New Orleans: or the day they record “Tremor Christ.” *** The first leg of the tour ends in Reno, on December 2nd, before a long-awaited homecoming. After five weeks on the road, and nineteen samples of “Blood,” Ed is a walking invalid, and shouldn’t even be onstage. As early as the opening song, you can hear the strain in his throat, chest, and lungs. Two songs later: “I’m fuckin’—I’m fuckin’ sick, man. I’m fuckin’ really sick, man.” You think he’s going to lay off a bit, but no; if anything, they lean in: the triathlon of “Why Go,” into “Deep,” into “Jeremy”; the “Momma-son” trilogy, to follow; an unpleasant “Ain’t Nothing to Do,” by most of Green River; and a dreary “Indifference,” to close. It’s not exactly D-Day, but it’s a commendable show of resolve, and evidence of what the fans admire, above all: his willingness to push himself—even risking harm—for the sake of the audience. You just wish he had left it in the tank, for a week and a half later. ***

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Back in Seattle, on December 7th—the first of three shows—the band sounds rested, and eager to take themselves down a few pegs. After the very first song (“Go”), with sunny self-loathing: “Most popular band in the world.” (Sustained applause.) “Fuck. Us.” During “Daughter,” there’s an extended quotation of David Bowie. It’s not by chance that the song is “Golden Years”: the sequel to “Fame”— Don’t let me hear you say life’s taking you nowhere, angel Last night they loved you Opening doors and pulling some strings, angel Wish upon, wish upon, day upon day I believe, oh Lord, I believe all the way

—into “Across the Universe,” by The Beatles (“Nothing’s gonna change my world”). As Chris O’Leary writes in Rebel Rebel: The promise of “golden years” isn’t communal here. The chance is offered just to one person, the hope of being sealed off in a limousine from the street … You want fame? Here, take it: it will eat you up. Last night they loved you, opening doors and pulling some strings, Bowie sang, snarling out the gees. The following night, the doors could well be shut. A rap of materialist promises becomes a desperate prayer to God, followed by a murmured warning to run for the shadows.

On day two, they open with “Release,” and play the trilogy, in order. Ed says: “So there you have it. It’s kind of—our Nutcracker, sort of,” adapting the “miniopera” to a Russian ballet. Maybe the locals are distracted, or partial to Swan Lake. Whatever it is, Ed keeps going—in a voice that’s alternately sarcastic, or sincere—often, at once: You heard of The Nutcracker, right? [Applause.] Ah, you’re just saying that. You don’t know shit. Bunch of fuckin’ stupid white male—fuckin’, American— fuckers. [More applause.] Fuckin’—and you think that life sucks? You guys think that life sucks? You guys—you got it all in the palm of your hand. You gotta get off your ass and do something about that. Fuck me! [The audience cheers, loudly. Of the 8,000 in attendance, one person says: “Fuck you!” Enter Vader.] Fuck me? [Through clenched teeth.] Yeah, fuck you. One, two, three, four—

After “State of Love and Trust”: “We ain’t played this in a long time. It’s kind of mellow. It, uh—well, go home and look it up. Today’s a special day. Go home and look it up.” For John Lennon, who died thirteen years ago, on December 8th, they play “I’ve Got a Feeling.” The following day—the finale—they open with “Rearviewmirror,” into a brief improv. There’s another “Golden Years,” during

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“Daughter”—the last time it’s ever heard. After Bowie’s refrain (“Run for the shadows, / run for the shadows in these golden years”), and before “Alive”: You know, I really—I really believe this. You can’t live in the past. You just gotta live for today, you gotta live for tomorrow. Fuck yesterday, man. [Applause.] You got the shit kicked out of you yesterday? Well, you better fuckin’ be stronger tomorrow. The harder you kick me in the face, the bigger my toothless grin. Alright?

All good advice. He’ll need it himself, in about seventy-two hours. *** It’s the epitome of unkindness—after thirty perfect shows—to complain about the one they canceled. And yet: as Pearl Jam Twenty concedes, “The year 1993 is supposed to end on a high note.” Indeed. In late November—shortly after Nirvana’s Unplugged in New York is recorded, and with Vs. at number one—MTV will approach the bands about a joint one-off. Despite a year of moaning about MTV, the “Seattle sound,” and overexposure— the bands and the network reach an agreement. MTV suggests New York. Pearl Jam, apparently, insists on Seattle. The network agrees, and locates a warehouse on Puget Sound. The taping is December 13th—four days after the last Pearl Jam show—and will run on New Year’s Eve. It’s not far-fetched to say it might have been one for the ages: the ’90s equivalent of the Rock and Roll Circus; or The Clash, with the Sex Pistols. Surely, it’s fair to say it might have even exceeded them, knowing how Ed admired Nirvana, and the arsenal each had at the ready: Pearl Jam, between Vs. and Vitalogy; Nirvana, touring In Utero, and fresh off Unplugged. (Oh, and there’s also The Breeders, circa Last Splash; and Cypress Hill, circa Black Sunday—to open.) It’s fair to say that MTV knew as much, as its round-the-clock announcements would show; and further, that everyone—audience, artists, and network—would benefit, most of all. It was not to be; and instead, Live and Loud is a disappointment: not with the bands sharing a stage; and not a symbolic ceasefire, as even the Israelis and Palestinians had managed, two months prior; but with Pearl Jam canceling, and with something less than candor; with Nirvana stepping in, to save the day; and with tens of millions, left to speculate why.

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Hints, Allegations, and Things Left Unsaid (1993–94) If you want to destroy a revolution, shower it with money! Ho Chi Minh (attributed)

When I was in my thirties, I was lucky to work for a record label. It was an editorial job—liner notes and packaging—and, if the work was monotonous, the position came with perks. Film screenings; concert tickets; the occasional Madonna sighting; and more free music than you could possibly consume. What I most enjoyed about it, though, was the education it offered. The label president was an icon in the music industry, having signed some of the biggest names of the last three decades. When he learned that I was a fellow classical-music nerd, he started popping into my office, and shooting the shit. We talked about our favorite musicians—how the memoirs of Miles Davis and Bob Dylan had much in common; how Philip Glass was almost forty when he wrote his first major work. My boss revered the pianist Glenn Gould—as did I—even as we disagreed on Stephen Sondheim, and musicals in general. The topic we always returned to, though, was one of reputation. Because of his career, perhaps, he was of the opinion that—in music, at least—artists tend to find the audience they deserve. In other words: if someone was wildly popular, there was a reason for it; and if someone was a cult concern, there was a reason for that as well. To him, there was no such thing as being underrated; the socalled cream rises to the top. I mention this, by way of introduction, because all these years later, I wish I had asked him about Stone Temple Pilots. *** Stop me if you’ve heard this. In 1994, the L.A. Times interviews a young band, with an emphasis on the front man. (He’s described as a child of divorce, whose

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family moved to California from the Midwest.) The band’s first album is a huge hit, selling over eight million worldwide. But the band itself is derided by its peers, who openly doubt their authenticity. The band has just recorded its second album, with producer Brendan O’Brien, after a year on the road. Described by the Times as “moodier and at points darker” than their first, it enters the charts at number one, and is instantly acknowledged a leap from their debut. *** In science, the idea is known as “multiple discovery,” or “simultaneous invention.” The most famous examples are Newton and Leibniz, inventing calculus at the same time; Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace, with evolution; or Edison and the twenty-three people who invented the light bulb. In music—and especially in the ’90s—the idea is known, less kindly, as “post-grunge.” Its more infamous practitioners, in no particular order, are Stone Temple Pilots, Candlebox, and Collective Soul; Live, Bush, and Silverchair; Nickelback, Puddle of Mudd, and— in the eighth circle of the inferno—the Christian-rock band Creed. The point is affirmed by those discriminating critics, Beavis and Butt-Head, watching the video for “Plush”: Beavis: Butt-Head: Beavis: Butt-Head: Beavis: Butt-Head:

Is this Pearl Jam? This guy makes faces like Eddie Vedder. No, Eddie Vedder makes faces like this guy. I heard these guys, like, came first and Pearl Jam ripped them off. No, Pearl Jam came first. Well, they both suck.

*** It’s an event I would guess most Pearl Jam people remember: the summer of 1993, when MTV first aired the video for “Plush,” by Stone Temple Pilots. For the first fifteen seconds, it’s your standard ’90s fare. We see a band in a venue. We see a light-haired young woman; a David Lynch-ian character; and a foreboding motel. The guitarist is wearing a dark-red shirt, tucked into khakis, and is partially offset by the singer, whose hair is dyed a bright pink, with a Presleyan pompadour; and who bears an unmistakable resemblance to Ed. From that moment, onward, it was difficult to watch MTV, and not find Ed on the screen—either in “Jeremy,” or, confusingly, with a band called Stone Temple Pilots. The optimist in me wants to believe it was a fluke of timing; but all these years later, it’s not much wonder that Ed felt violated, to see himself copied

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so convincingly. It’s hardly a coincidence that the director of “Plush” was Josh Taft, who did the videos for “Even Flow” and “Alive.” In light of the lashing that Ed delivers, during the shoot for “Even Flow”—“This is NOT a TV STUDIO! JOSH!!!”—it’s even possible that “Plush” is the director’s revenge. *** History, as someone said, is written by the victors; but not always. Sometimes, at least, the first draft is written by the critics. Take it from some of the conspicuous losers. Take, for example, Candlebox—not a sentence I write every day—or Collective Soul. Something about these bands offended people, on an almost personal level. In hindsight, it’s hard to say why this was. In the ’90s, people took music rather seriously—maybe too seriously—like a matter of state security. I’m not saying that they don’t today—or maybe I am. I’m just saying it was especially so, then. Consider the following, from Rolling Stone, in 1996: Eyebrows shot skyward when the English band Bush announced that iconoclastic engineer Steve Albini—he of the Pixies’ Surfer Rosa and PJ Harvey’s Rid of Me— would twiddle the knobs for the group’s sophomore album. Albini manned the board for Nirvana’s 1993 record, In Utero. For Bush, the most successful and shameless mimics of Nirvana’s music, to go with Albini at a time when distancing themselves from the Seattle sound could only help their credibility seems bizarre—and a little creepy.

*** In 1994, readers of Rolling Stone voted Stone Temple Pilots best new band, while the critics voted them the worst. When STP played in San Diego, someone from the group Rocket from the Crypt allegedly switched a bottle of urine for a beer that was sitting onstage—unbeknownst to the band’s guitar player, who took a long drink, and then immediately spat into the crowd. Even SNL got in on it. On Weekend Update, David Spade observed: “I liked them better the first time … when they were called Pearl Jam.” In 2015, who but the singer of Stone Temple Pilots could be eulogized in a piece called “Scott Weiland: Rock’s Greatest Poseur”? From the autobiography—I skimmed it, okay?—Not Dead & Not for Sale: The critics hated it; the critics pulverized us; the critics loved pulverizing us. Today, I can talk about the critics’ murderous response to our work with a certain distance. Today, I don’t give a shit. But back then, I cared. I was a serious musician looking for serious critics to take us seriously. Robert, Eric, and

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especially Dean, who was super serious about rock history, felt the same. So when the writers dumped on us, it was a definite drag. I actually called Danny Goldberg, the president of Atlantic, to explain my plight and point. He said, “Don’t worry. I used to be the publicist for Zeppelin, and, for their first years, it was the same for them. Now look at how they’re viewed—as legends.”

*** The critic Chuck Klosterman once called Bush “the grunge Warrant”: “a good band who just happened to signal the beginning of the end.” If this is right, then STP was Bon Jovi: a massively successful outfit who got no respect whatsoever. They started in San Diego, in 1987, and recorded a demo under the name Mighty  Joe Young, in 1990; you can find it on YouTube. Their first show was with Henry Rollins. In late ’91 and early ’92, STP records its debut, Core, with Brendan O’Brien, who would produce all of Pearl Jam’s best work, from Vs. to Yield—after first working with STP. It’s unusual, then, that Core would come out more than nine months later, on September 21, 1992—a year after Nevermind and Ten. But then, that probably wasn’t up to them. *** Kevin Martin moved to Seattle in 1984, at the age of fourteen, when his father was offered a new job. At seventeen, he started working at a shoe store downtown. His boss, Susan Silver, also managed a few local bands: among them, Soundgarden and Screaming Trees. Kevin met Silver’s then-boyfriend, Chris Cornell, and his roommate, Andy Wood, and became friendly with both. He also met Seattle natives Bardi Martin, Peter Klett, and Scott Mercado, and started his own band, Uncle Duke, which developed an instant following. At their fourth-ever show, their producer recalled: They were playing the Weathered Wall, which was basically the next club down from the Crocodile Café. It probably held about 600 people stuffed. They want me to run sound on this show, and I walk into this club—and it’s literally like their fourth gig—and there are so many people in this thing, and outside the door people can’t get in. I’m just like, “What the fuck is this?”

In the spring of 1992, Uncle Duke records a demo, and decides to change their name—tenuously—to Candlebox. They sign to Madonna’s imprint, Maverick; release a video and single (“Far Behind”); and the rest, as they say, is history—as written by the haters. From a Seattle transplant, by way of San Diego:

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One of the things that I wish we could have done more of—things like Monkeywrench Radio. Getting the airwaves for the night, and having Fastbacks or Mudhoney play live. And wanting people to see what real Seattle music [was], as opposed to—not to single out anybody, but a perfect example would be a band like Candlebox, which was doing a lot of pseudo-Seattle sound, and they weren’t really from there. A lot of that was going on. The waters were getting polluted.

“Seattle never liked them—let me back up … Seattle fans loved them,” said a local club owner. “But they were sneered at by the local rock journalists, and even the established grunge bands. They came on the tail end of grunge, and it looked like they were just trying to copy everything else before it. But, you know, they could knock out a good set of songs.” *** “Candlebox suddenly appeared in our practice space,” Ken Stringfellow, of the Posies, recalled, … and they’re already signed to Maverick. First I just saw in the loading area of our rehearsal complex like 57,000 road cases stenciled CANDLEBOX. I was like, Candlebox? Geez, Louise. Not that our band has a great name, either. I don’t know if they’d played a show. They had gotten their deal straight out of the rehearsal room, more or less. That’s the kind of frenzy that was ensuing at that point. I knew the drummer, Scott, from another band, but I was like, “Where the hell did these guys come from?” It was like “the old immigrants always hate the new immigrants” kind of thing.

“It’s kind of funny because we were probably one of the most Seattle Seattle bands around,” said Bardi Martin, Candlebox bassist. “Pete, Scotty, and myself were all born and raised in Seattle. Kevin moved to Seattle when he was like in 10th grade, and that must have been a good five years before Nirvana formed. We were supposed to have been from LA and moved up to Seattle to cash in. That was the kind of shit-talking I’d hear second- or third-hand.” Kevin Martin: We were labeled “grunge lite.” They would say, “Grunge-lite band Candlebox.” We were lumped in with Bush, Live, Collective Soul. People confused us with Collective Soul all the time. I got divorced in ’02 and was dating Zoe, Jason Bonham’s sister, briefly. I went over to see her in London and hang out with her, and her brother is like, “I love your band.” I’m like, “Wow, cool. I can’t believe you know us.”

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“Yeah, man: Duh nuh nuh Nah nuh nuh Nah nuh Nah nuh NAH. Yeah!” I’m like, “That’s Collective Soul.”

*** In “The Face of Seung-Hui Cho” (2008), Wesley Yang describes the 23-year-old Virginia Tech gunman as such: He was “obsessed with downloading music from the Internet,” the press reported, putting a sinister cast on something that everyone of a certain age does. But the song he continually played on his laptop, driving his roommates to distraction, wasn’t some nihilistic rhapsody of wasted youth. It wasn’t Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails saying he wanted to fuck you like an animal, and it wasn’t the thick lugubrious whine of James Hetfield of Metallica declaring that what he’d felt, and what he’d known, never shone through in what he’d shown. No, it was the cruddiest, most generic grunge-rock anthem of the nineties, Collective Soul’s “Shine.” “Shine” came out in 1994, and you only had to hear the first minute to know that whatever was truly unyielding about the music Nirvana spawned by breaking punk into the mainstream was already finished. The song cynically mouths “life-affirming” clichés noxious to the spirit of punk rock, but then these are not, given the situation, without their own pathos. You could picture the Cho who stalked around campus not saying a word to anyone, even when a classmate offered him money to speak, coming home in silence to listen to these lyrics repeat in an infinite loop on his laptop, and even, one day, to write them on his wall: Tell me will love be there (love be there) Whoa-oh-oh-oh, heaven let your light shine down.

*** The year 1994 brought number-one albums for Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Alice in Chains, and Soundgarden. There has not been a year since when four bands from one part of the country all reached number one. “At that moment,” said Kim Thayil, of Soundgarden, “it felt like the Seattle Mariners had just won the World Series, in baseball. It started to seem like something was happening, not just to me, but to Seattle.” If the new guitar music established itself in 1992, then 1994 was when they achieved hegemony. Up until now, the arbiters of taste had always dismissed the Billboard charts, and disparaged anyone with commercial intentions. In 1994, that changed. Rock music was suddenly relevant. Middlebrow groups—Everclear, Counting Crows, Blind Melon, Live—acquired

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a weird credibility. When Bush arrived on the scene in December, they were greeted with wild enthusiasm. An unusual year, 1994. There weren’t so many Nirvanas, but there were a lot of Soul Asylums. A spirit of determined diversity and spontaneous surplus still reigned. The charts were filled with radio-friendly unit shifters. And honestly, it was a very good time for music. *** Candlebox were the black sheep of Seattle—if by that, you can mean a group who sold five million records; played Madison Square Garden; and made a buck or two in the process. Others were less fortunate: Collective Soul, remembered— if at all—as the pretenders, lowercase, of the early ’90s; Silverchair, the Australian boy band, described by Robert Christgau as “almost exactly like Pearl Jam except no good, which is useless”; and worst of all, Bush: “nice men who made music that today is remembered by no one,” in one writer’s mostly correct estimation. It was Bush, in turn, who would briefly take the place of Nirvana and Pearl Jam on MTV, and represent the coming decline and fall. It was appropriate, then, that their debut, Sixteen Stone, was released on the same day as Vitalogy. Their singer, Gavin Rossdale, was among the first to acknowledge Pearl Jam’s role in their success: Gavin nods, “But it wasn’t our fault that when we came out there was a void—a void in the sense that, after Kurt died, Eddie Vedder wasn’t interested in being made into a replacement, and that at the time it all seemed a little bit anonymous, no bands who were large or interesting or who’d appeal to people on that large level. There was another generation of kids looking for a band, and we sort of came along at the right time and lucked in. My voice is in the same range as Kurt, and in some of the songs I complain a bit. But I’d do that anyway—I’m from England.”

By 1995, grunge was already something of a joke—a subject of comedy routines. With the advent of groups like 3 Doors Down, Seven Mary Three, Better Than Ezra, Matchbox Twenty, and the Goo Goo Dolls, nothing much was sacred about rock music. Although the Seattle bands were still making albums, rock itself was musically static. “Nirvana begat Bush; PJ Harvey and Liz Phair gave us Alanis Morissette and Meredith Brooks; who still weren’t bad, compared to the Britneys and Christinas to come; and Pearl Jam produced Nickelback and Creed,” wrote the critic Jim DeRogatis. By the end of 1996, grunge had run its course, and even “post-grunge” was old news. Alice in Chains were on hiatus. Screaming Trees were finished; Soundgarden made its last album, Down on the Upside, before

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breaking up; and Nirvana had become the Foo Fighters. The situation with the “sort-of-grunge” bands wasn’t much different: STP had gone glam; Smashing Pumpkins, electronic. In terms of mainstream rock: who did that leave? But then, I’m getting ahead of myself.

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Civic Center, Pensacola (March 9, 1994) Emerging as loud as thunder from the depths of the wilderness, the voice said in Quechua: “This is not for you; God is keeping these riches for those who  come from afar.” The Indians fled in terror and the Inca, before departing from the Cerro, changed its name. It became “Potojsi,” which means to thunder, burst, explode. Eduardo Galeano, Open Veins of Latin America

On March 10, 1993—thirteen days after a bomb exploded in the garage below the World Trade Center, and only a few weeks after Bill Clinton is inaugurated—an act of domestic terrorism takes place in Pensacola, Florida—Mike McCready’s hometown. More precisely, at Pensacola Women’s Medical Services, where a militant, anti-abortion fanatic—yelling, reportedly, “Don’t kill any more babies!”—fires three bullets into the back of Dr. David Gunn, a 47-year-old abortion provider and ob-gyn. In The Washington Post, a witness told reporters that the gunman singled out the physician as his target, chased him, and shot him at point-blank range. The witness said the protesters at the clinic acted strangely after the shooting. “It looked like they were just happy,” he said. As Newsweek wrote, at the time: For nearly two decades, right-to-life militants have used arson, firebombings and blockades as weapons of intimidation and obstruction. During much of that time, presidents sympathetic to their ends, if not their means, occupied the White House. The fact that Gunn’s murder occurred just when the prochoice movement is experiencing its greatest gains in a dozen years may not be coincidental. During his first week in office, Bill Clinton reversed a number of Reagan and Bush restrictions, including the “gag rule” banning abortion counseling at federally funded clinics. And with the Supreme Court all but certain to let Roe v. Wade stand, desperation seems to be setting in at the fringes of the right-to-life movement. “When Clinton came in, we had to stop looking

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to the president and start looking to God,” says John Burt, a former Klansman and now regional director of Rescue America, the group behind last week’s demonstration in Pensacola.

The murder of David Gunn is reported widely. Five days later, another militant, Paul Hill, is invited on The Phil Donahue Show—in the presence of David Gunn, Jr., no less—to declare the killing a “justifiable homicide.” *** Several months before his murder, the anti-abortion group, Operation Rescue, circulates “WANTED” posters, with Dr. Gunn’s picture, home and work address, phone numbers, and work schedule. In a letter to the Florida parole board, in 2017, David Gunn, Jr. wrote of his father’s pursuers: Anti-abortion activists circulated these Wanted posters all over the region including his home town, offices, and around my sister’s high school. He feared he was being stalked and followed as he drove alone city to city. I later learned this fear drove him to take alternate routes as he traveled so as not to follow a predictable route. This was all before cell phones were widely available. It is fairly sparse and desolate between Eufaula and Montgomery from Pensacola to Mobile. Anything could happen … Groups such as Operation Rescue published manuals instructing their adherents in surveillance techniques, offered advice on legal ways to harass and intimidate, and organized clinic sieges in an effort to further their cause and incite hatred and violence.

David Gunn, Jr.’s open letter is a remarkable document—searching, eloquent, selfcritical—and affords his late father a complexity that was largely overlooked at the time. Raised in rural Kentucky, David Gunn was a twin; married young; and had three children—the eldest of whom died in a car accident, at seven months. After his residency, in well-to-do Nashville, Dr. Gunn moved to Brewton, Alabama, in 1977: “a tiny, poor, paper mill town,” just north of the Florida panhandle, and firmly in the Bible Belt. Why Brewton? To serve a community with one of the country’s highest infant mortality rates: “He and his partner desired to serve the underserved. They wanted to save lives.” In 1983—a decade after Roe v. Wade— Dr. Gunn got a call from a clinic in Columbus, Georgia: “They had no shortage of patients but lacked a committed doctor.” By the end of his life, he was driving a thousand miles a week, six days a week, despite his own disability and pain: Dad contracted polio as a child which left him with a severely disfigured leg, and he walked with a limp his entire life. The impaired leg caused significant hip and

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back pain and stunted his growth. He was a slight man in appearance but was full of intense courage and determination. Although he was disabled, he never pictured himself as diminished or small; rather, he did all he could to ensure his childhood was not marred and scarred by disability. He played baseball though it pained him to run the bases. He was a Boy Scout attaining the rank of Life just shy of making Eagle … Once he decided to reach a goal, he reached it. Polio may have maimed him physically, but it did nothing but fire his spirit and determination.

On January 22, 1993, David Gunn drove to work in Montgomery, Alabama—a trip of ninety miles, each way—to find another mob waiting for him in the parking lot. According to his son, the doctor will serenade his enemies with an impromptu, unaccompanied “Happy Birthday,” for the twentieth anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Then—you just can’t make this up: He produced a large boom box, adjusted the volume to 11, and played Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” in their direction while he sang along. His protest generated some local press, his ongoing dedication to women’s health began to draw national attention, and the ire and desperation of his foes intensified.

After his father’s murder, David Gunn, Jr. is asked to appear on The Phil Donahue Show. Ed happens to be watching, at home, and decides to get in touch. The doctor’s son tells Spin: “Eddie Vedder called me after I had been on Donahue about a year ago, just to say ‘Hello and I’m sorry.’ He genuinely felt bad for me and the situation I was in.” On May 13, 1993, the band plays a benefit to raise money for the Surfrider Foundation, in San Francisco. It is one of their all-time most formative shows, in which nearly all of Vs. and “Better Man” are debuted. For the occasion, they are billed as the David J. Gunn Band. *** In March of ’94, the band kicks off a nineteen-city, twenty-five-date tour. Their opener for the first week-and-a-half is The Frogs—an outsider duo, and brothers from Milwaukee, whose comedic home recordings discuss, variously, perversion (Bananimals), gay sex (It’s Only Right and Natural), and American racism (Racially Yours). The reception is lukewarm, at best. The tour starts at the Paramount, in Denver—effectively, an open rehearsal. After six songs: And, uh—that last song, was called “Deep.” And that’s the last song on our setlist. We don’t really, uh—it’s just kind of, you know—I gotta say. Uh—some of us,

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used to work—on crews, and stuff. You know, we’d lift amps, and uh—and we—I think we all agreed that, uh—soundchecks, and rehearsals, are always more, uh—much more exciting, than—than the shows. [Applause.] So this should be a really good show.

It should be, yes; and it mostly is: tags of “Hunger Strike” and “Satan’s Bed,” in “Daughter”; “Rats”; and the debut of “Spin the Black Circle.” Even so—you knew there’d be something—Ed calls a time-out, a few seconds into the next song. Stop, stop. [Scattered applause.] I tell you what—uh, just to be candid with you, here. It’s a really interesting situation—we’ve got, because, uh—it’s definitely a nice theater. It’s nice—we don’t want to damage it—in any way, you know. [Applause.] No, we don’t. But, um—and, uh—you know, there were problems at the last show, because—people thought I was a little out of hand. [Cheering.] I’ll talk about that more once the lawsuit’s over. [Smile.] But—um—it just seems like some of you are kind of—bored. We’ve been so excited to come and play. [Applause.] ’Cause I was at Beauty and the Beast a little earlier, and the kids were crazier, than …

Having compared the Denver crowd—unfavorably—to children at a Disney romantic musical, the band starts over, with an exhilarating “State of Love and Trust,” into “Blood,” into “Go.” (It’s one way to get a room’s attention.) At the end: “Hey, cheers. You’ve been great. It’s been interesting.” (Applause.) “And, uh—I really think we, uh—we really should give great thanks, ’cause I think we owe it all to The Frogs. For starting us off so great tonight. The fabulous—Frogs.” (Booing and derision. Enter Vader.) “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I like ’em; they’re getting paid. Fuck you.” (Mike chimes in: “Quit bullying. Jesus Christ.”) “It’s gonna be a while before we come back. So just take care of yourselves, alright? This is an, uh—this is an important state—to remember to vote in, alright? So, uh—do the right thing. I’ll see you guys around. Good night.” *** The following day—March 7th, also at the Paramount—is more successful: “Oceans,” to open; “Breath,” into “Why Go,” into “Blood.” The recording is muffled, and incomplete—a 28-second “Alive”; a painful edit of “Oceans”—so it’s likely there’s some banter missing. Thankfully—for the author of Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense—the first bit of dialogue is unabridged: We—we get a lot of mail these days. It’s, uh—it’s all pretty interesting. Of course, I read every piece of it, and—use it for wallpaper. But, I can just—I can just sit in my room, and—read all these people—telling me how great I am. [Laughing,

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weakly.] Actually, that’s—that’s the whole point, is, I don’t read it, anymore. Um—and every once in a while—um—some will get through. And one of them was from, uh—a convicted, uh—rapist. And he said, how great our music was. So I wrote this song called, uh—“Not, for, You.”

Let’s pause here, shall we? *** Let’s give Ed the benefit of the doubt. Maybe, of the hundreds of letters to arrive at Curtis Management circa 1994, one of the few to make it into his hands, is by someone who identifies himself, unprompted, as a convicted rapist. (It would be a weird story to make up.) If it’s true, it reflects poorly—to say the least—on the mailroom. I’m not saying it didn’t happen. I’m just saying it bears a curious resemblance to the story of “Polly,” as explained in the liner notes of Incesticide, released December ’92: Last year, a girl was raped by two wastes of sperm and eggs while they sang the lyrics to our song “Polly.” I have a hard time carrying on knowing there are plankton like that in our audience. Sorry to be so anally P.C. but that’s the way I feel. Love, Kurdt (the blond one)

For that matter, the resulting song—“Not for You”—bears an equal resemblance to Kurt’s Incesticide note: At this point I have a request for our fans. If any of you in any way hate homosexuals, people of different color, or women, please do this one favor for us—leave us the fuck alone! Don’t come to our shows and don’t buy our records.

Then again—what do I know? It would be a weird story to make up. *** Simply by existing, “Not for You” flirts with contradiction. Here was a band at the peak of its popularity, playing an irresistible pop song—about wanting key segments of their following to fuck off. Being Pearl Jam, they perform it on Saturday Night Live—i.e., the widest possible platform—only a week after Kurt Cobain’s death; and, being Pearl Jam, they make it infectious enough to get stuck in almost anyone’s head. In this sense, no song better captures the essential paradox of Pearl Jam. How were you supposed to know if it was “Not for You”?

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It’s an old idea—older than you might think. In the nineteenth century, the pianist Franz Liszt made it known that his chamber-music programs “were not the sort to seduce the dilettantes or the dandies in the balcony.” In 1958, the curmudgeonly composer, Milton Babbitt, writes an essay with an infamous title: “Who Cares If You Listen?” Right around the same time, Thelonious Monk said of bebop: “We’re going to create something that they can’t steal because they can’t play it.” And when Rolling Stone sent a journalist, in 1977, to interview the Sex Pistols, they were told: “This band hates you. It hates your culture. Why can’t you lethargic, complacent hippies understand that? You need to be smashed.” As a manifesto, “Not for You” was an abrupt reversal from “Leash” (“Troubled souls unite!”), “Breath” (“I would take you there”), or “Alive.” If Ten and Vs. were accessible, populist efforts—nothing was very long, or hard to follow—then “Not for You,” by its very title, was designed to keep people out. A song about the undesirable, uninvited element was a conscious step away from inclusion—in favor of an outlook that was, by definition, exclusive, if not elitist. The writer Dave Marsh called it the folk virus: “the suspicion that if what you do is accepted by a mass audience, then it must be either devoid of content or a sellout, and you yourself the enemy you meant to destroy.” It was Pearl Jam at the apogee of their self-loathing. They were downsizing the audience they had built, and once desired—or attempting to. The result was a song that was part provocation, part protest, and mostly indestructible pop—a mixture that confounded some listeners. Ed found himself having to explain repeatedly in concert that the song was “not— for you.” That there were many who still missed the point only supports the band’s position. Pearl Jam’s popularity had brought them almost instant wealth and acclaim. Their competing ambitions—to be inclusive, and to retain their integrity—seemed to be in conflict. Only three years ago, their aspiration had been to support themselves and make music. Now they found themselves in the spin cycle of popular culture—a world of built-in obsolescence. Like Dave Chappelle, like Greta Garbo, Pearl Jam turned the concept of celebrity upside down. Material success and stature were no longer something to be flaunted. It was, instead, a more luxurious cage—something to be dismantled. In the history of pop, only The Beatles had imploded their own myth in the same way, by a strategy of conscious refusal. “This, they say, is a band that could be as big as U2 but has chosen not to be,” writes a critic in 2002. It was the rare example of an artist reaching the top of their profession, and deciding: “I would prefer not to.” ***

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There’s another bit of banter at the Paramount, after “Jeremy.” This one is definitely abridged, but you get the point: … Florida—tomorrow. Um—a year ago, on March 10, they, uh—this, uh—this guy, who thought, um—he was in his right mind, he shot this, uh—doctor, outside, a—Planned Parenthood clinic, in Pensacola. [Booing.] But, uh—the guy, the doctor’s name is David Gunn—and, uh, I’ve had a lot of conversations with his son. His son’s about twenty-three years old—and, uh—you know, it’s not just—a name in the newspaper anymore. It’s like a real—person, and—you see a guy, and—he lost his father, and—so, anyways, we’re gonna go down. It should be, uh—just a little bit intense. [Applause.] You gotta—fight for your right. But, uh—I’m thinking of David, already, so this is kinda for him.

They start “Alive.” They’ll play it again for him, in just a few days, along with something special for the occasion. *** In March of ’94, Pearl Jam makes two separate visits to Florida—with patrician Massachusetts, the only state to be so honored. (I’m just as mystified as you.) They play three shows: Pensacola, on March 9th; and then Miami and St. Petersburg, on March 28th and 29th. Outside the Middle East, it’s hard to picture three sets of neighbors being more different: pentecostal Pensacola, in the Bible Belt; placid Tampa-St. Pete, on the gulf coast; and lawless, wayward Miami, in the south. Sadly, none are filmed, or have surfaced, if so; but all are bootlegged, in adequate to exceptional fidelity: St. Petersburg, in particular. Depending on your source, these are either their sixth, seventh, and eighth shows in the Sunshine State since 1992; or their sixth, seventh, and eighth, without me there. Being fifteen at the time, and a freshman in high school, I’m sure I could have made it to Miami, at least, if only by stealth and cunning. All these years later, though—it’s Pensacola I wish I could have seen. It would be a mistake—very much so—to say that Pearl Jam’s first political act occurs in Florida. There was “Porch” on Unplugged; Rock for Choice with Fugazi; “Glorified G” and “W.M.A.”; and the shows for Mount Graham, in November ’93. Beyond the exhortations to vote; the political discourse; the benefits in support of the environment, and reproductive choice, they were the rare group—then and now—to put their name on the line, and firmly on the side of progressive causes. It’s more accurate, then, to say that only in Florida, do they put their safety at risk; and only in Florida, that they enter the frontline. ***

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It’s unclear when the idea for a show to honor David Gunn is first discussed. (The band’s initial routing has them off on March 9th, heading to Chicago.) Also unclear, is when Ed reaches out to Tom Petty—himself, a Floridian—to ask for his blessing to play “I Won’t Back Down,” Dr. Gunn’s anthem of opposition. (Petty says: “The song is there to be used.”) In early March, Rock for Choice sends a team to Pensacola. They arrive only a few days before David Gunn’s murderer is found guilty, and sentenced to life in prison. To counter the benefit, six local churches organize a “Positive Life Rally” that some 700 attend. At the Pensacola Grand Hotel, the bands check into their rooms, only to find graphic, anti-abortion pamphlets under every door. Jennifer Finch of L7 keeps a diary for Raygun: 6:15 p.m. March 8, 1994 To avoid further stalking incidents, the hotel offers to change our rooms, but that would mean separate floors. The FBI agent Pearl Jam hired for extra security says it is the best for everyone to stay together on one floor. The hotel posts guards at our doors. I am more nerved. 6:30 p.m. March 8, 1994 DuVergne Gaines and Michel Cicero, Rock for Choice’s full-time coordinators, stop by to see if everything is okay. They have been here in Florida for the last week organizing tomorrow night’s event. When I ask them how the pre-show planning is, they tell me about the hoops they’ve been jumping through to get this bonanza off the ground. Apparently, the town fathers don’t want us bra-burning battle-axes tainting their good city. In addition to an extra army of regular security and metal detectors at every entrance, these jethros threaten to cancel the gig unless Rock for Choice pays off the local sheriff, SWAT team and K-9 unit to provide “extraextra” protection (where are they when the clinics need them?). The list of complications goes on from here. Undertaking this event in LA would have been much easier. But easy ain’t why we’re here. We’re here for an evening of pro-choice relief in a community beaten down by anti-abortion extremists and to raise some money for Rock for Choice.

*** The first time you hear Ed sing “I Won’t Back Down,” in Pensacola, by himself, what might stand out are the small things: the shriek of recognition,

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from the crowd, and the ensuing quiet; the crack in his voice, at the sustained “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, baby”; and most of all, the phrasing—the tiny, one-word detours from the original—that make it unmistakably Ed’s: I will stand my ground Won’t be turned around I will keep my world from draggin’ me down, I Won’t back down No I, won’t back down

“You know why we’re here, right?” We do indeed. *** Outside the Pensacola Civic Center, an act of God—or a simple thunderstorm— keeps the protesters to a dozen. Jane Pratt, the editor of Sassy magazine, serves as benefit emcee, and inverts the anti-abortion slogan: “Choice. What a beautiful life.” After “Even Flow,” Ed points out that Mike was born in Pensacola: That’s a true story. And you know, me and Mike—when we first started playing, we used to room together. And every night, he’d sit on the side of the bed, I’d hear him mumbling. And, uh—I realized later on, that he was— thanking God every night, that he made it out of Pensacola. [Cheering.] And you know, if any of you were panicked—because you felt like the, uh—the weather was a—was a sign from above—uh—I wouldn’t worry, ’cause I think it was actually, uh—there to—prevent—anybody protesting outside. This song’s called “Dissident.”

It’s a setting—and a context—where even a line you’ve heard a million times gives you the goosebumps: “He won the lottery / when he was born”; “That’s okay, man / ’cause I love God”; “Maker of my enemy”; “I’m still alive.” (For that matter: “This song’s called ‘Dissident.’”) During “Daughter,” there’s a tag of “Reclamation,” by Fugazi: “You’re in my body / You’re in my body, body.” And after: I was gonna try to keep from doing this—because, I—I can’t tell you not to listen to someone else. You know, if we tell you that, then you might as well not even— listen to us. But that’s kind of the whole point, is—you should be able to make the choice—for yourself. [Applause.] And, uh—I’m usually pretty good—with my temper [laughs, unconvincingly]—but—something about—some of these people, man, I just—I really get fed up with these men—trying to control women’s bodies. [Cheering.] And, uh—I just feel like they’re speaking from a—a bubble.

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I don’t feel like they’re part of—they’re separate from what’s real. And they’re separate from the street. And—I just—I want to say that I’m fuckin’ mean, and I’m ugly—and my name is reality.

Does it go without saying that the next song is “Blood”? *** After the encore, Ed introduces David Gunn, Jr. (“I think he inherited a lot of courage, from his father.”) In front of 8,000 people, the lanky 23-year-old is nervous, at first, but quickly finds his way: It’s really encouraging to see all of you—out here tonight. Supporting us. We need the help—as you can well see that the face of the pro-life movement has taken a bad turn. We’re faced every day with the prospect of violence perpetrated on us by some protester. You all have the voice. We are the majority—and—as long as we stand together—we can take our country back—[applause]—from the zealots—who try to—who try to take our lives away from us—by taking our choices away from us. [More applause.] Nature loves diversity. And nature loves choice. We love Pearl Jam—thanks a lot for having me. [Cheering.] Please try to get signed up for the clinic defense training this Saturday. And if you have good intentions, you can join us in Birmingham, where we try to—where we will hope to defeat the siege of Birmingham, by Rescue America. Please help. There are people in the front to assist you. There’s booths—it’s all set up. Thanks a lot for coming out. Have a good show.

Ed takes the mic. Would you please do that? You know, I remember the last time the band played a Rock for Choice show was with Fugazi—and, I’ll never forget one of them saying—I think it was Guy [Picciotto], said—“You know, you may be too young to vote, but—you certainly ain’t too young to fuck”—and, uh. [Cheering.] And you’re not too young to get out and go defend some of these clinics—and, uh— you can show your strength, no matter how old you are. Hey, thanks for listening to all this tonight. And, uh—I think you can make a difference.

*** David Gunn is the first abortion provider in America to be murdered by the “pro-life” fringe. Within a year, his replacement at a Pensacola-area clinic, John Britton—a 68-year-old doctor, from Jacksonville—will be shot and killed, along with Jim Barrett, seventy-four, a retired lieutenant colonel in the Air Force, and a member of a local church, which had started a volunteer escort service

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after Dr. Gunn’s killing. In December 1994, a gunman opened fire at two clinics in Brookline, Massachusetts, wounding five, and killing two young women: Shannon Lowney, twenty-five, and Lee Ann Nichols, thirty-eight. In total, five Americans—doctors, volunteers, and support staff—are killed at abortion clinics in only twenty-two months. By 1995, the proportion of ob-gyn residencies in the US offering abortion training falls to a low of 12 percent. As Jennifer Finch points out, in her diary for Raygun: the week after the concert, a Houston man is arrested and charged with bringing 500 rounds of ammunition to Pensacola. His plan is “to take out as many child-killers” as possible, in a “Beirut-style” suicide attack, at a meeting of the National Coalition of Abortion Providers—also at the Pensacola Grand Hotel, to honor David Gunn—on March 12th and 13th. As Kathryn Kolbert, a public interest attorney who argued Planned Parenthood v. Casey, told Slate in 2017: the murder of David Gunn gave permission to everyone else. It was like Charlottesville … it’s hard for people today to remember the actual terror he wrought. At that time the doctors, the nurses, the clinic workers, even the people seeking care were terrified. That killing began what I think of as years of siege.

The comparison is apt: in 2016, the Feminist Majority reports that attacks on abortion providers were higher than the preceding two decades, with over a

David Gunn, 1993. Photograph by Ralf-Finn Hestoft.

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third citing “severe violence or threats of violence.” In 2015, a gunman kills a police officer and two people accompanying friends to a Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado Springs. The shooter says he took inspiration from the 1993 murder of David Gunn. *** On March 10, 1994—having taken the scenic route, via Pensacola—the band arrives in Ed’s hometown of Chicago, for two shows, both in untraditional venues. The first is at Chicago Stadium—home of the Bulls—which will host its final events in September, and be demolished shortly after. The second is at the historic New Regal Theater, in South Shore—Chicago’s answer to the Apollo, and only 2,500 capacity. Like Pensacola, the two Chicago dates will be significant: in their own right, and for what they initiate. From an April ’94 report in Billboard: Pearl Jam’s pass through Chicago in March was typical for the band and displayed its penchant for the unusual. Rather than playing the Rosemont Horizon, the preferred modern arena located northwest of the city, Pearl Jam chose downtown’s Chicago Stadium, which hadn’t hosted a hot rock show in a decade. It sold out instantly. “They could have camped out there for a week,” says Andy Cirzan, senior talent buyer for Chicago’s JAM Productions, which handled the show. Instead, the band asked JAM to scout out an unusual venue for die-hard fans. Cirzan selected the Regal Theatre, a refurbished South Side R&B joint [sic] that hadn’t hosted a mainstream rock or pop act in more than ten years. Fan club members were tipped about the show via a mailing from the band’s Seattle-based club, Ten. Remaining tickets were then put on sale to the general public. But Vedder was concerned that at a moment’s notice, kids wouldn’t have access to a credit card. The band worked out a deal with Ticketmaster so fans could reserve their tickets by phone and pay cash within 48 hours.

As early as March 3rd, the Chicago Tribune will report: Rumors about where and when Pearl Jam will play in town besides Chicago Stadium on March 10 are getting out of hand, as far as at least one local club is concerned. Metro says it smelled a rat when 500 tickets were sold in advance for next Wednesday’s performance by Curious Yellow and two other local bands. Callers seeking tickets to the show say they were tipped off that Curious Yellow is the pseudonym for Pearl Jam. The Seattle band will actually be playing in Florida that night. Metro says refunds will be offered at point of purchase to anyone who bought a ticket for the March 9 show under the assumption Pearl Jam would be playing.

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The tickets are priced at a fraction of market value: $18, before fees. (Also: Curious Yellow?) “It was extremely high-maintenance on my end,” said the Chicago promoter. “I spent more time on that one show than anything else all last year. And I handled Lollapalooza … They complicate their existence tremendously by being so concerned with how they present themselves. But I admire them for it.” According to Stone: Ticketmaster insisted on imposing a $3.75 service charge on top of the $18 price of a ticket to our concerts. We negotiated with Ticketmaster’s general manager in Chicago and obtained an agreement to identify that service charge separately from the actual price of the ticket. Then, just as tickets were to go on sale, Ticketmaster again reneged. It was necessary for us to threaten to perform at another venue before Ticketmaster backed down and agreed to sell tickets that separately disclosed its service charge. Even then, Ticketmaster told us that its concession only extended to our Chicago shows and we should not expect them to be willing to do it elsewhere.

At Chicago Stadium, Urge Overkill will open, along with The Frogs. A reviewer opined: “the show got off to a rocky and slow start with the Frogs’ opening set in front of a bored and confused crowd. They were practically booed off the stage until Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder, in costume, stepped on stage to do a cover of the Who’s ‘Tommy’ with the Frogs.” (He means “See Me, Feel Me.” The costume is real, as confirmed by the Tribune: “There was Eddie Vedder, he of the terminally furrowed brow …”) As they almost always do, in Chicago, they open with “Release.” Four songs in, after “Even Flow,” Ed’s excitement is palpable, if not effusive: “It didn’t even sound that bad.” Nice place. Good evening. [Applause.] It’s pretty cool to play rock and roll in this building. It’s gonna be—[more applause]—it didn’t even sound that bad. How does it sound? [Cheering.] It’s history, in a way. It’s lucky we’re gonna be here playing music—I certainly wouldn’t have made it, you know, playing basketball. But, uh—Jeff, maybe. In fact, speaking of Jeff, it’s his birthday. [Applause.] And it’s really great, ’cause he’s the biggest Bulls fan I know. [Cracking himself up.] This song’s called “Dissident.”

Right after: “I’m, uh—I’m—I’m from here, you know. I was born here.” (Widespread hometown cheer.) As far as I know, it’s the first time he says this onstage—and it must have been special: the last concert in a sacred building; down the road from his adolescence; and on the court of Michael Jordan, no less.

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Somehow, though—of the minimum 13,000 people applauding—Ed will notice the one person not beside himself at the announcement; and, unfortunately, has to say something. “Looks like, you know—someone’s here—he’s saying, that, like—it’s not my hometown, or something.” (General Midwestern discomfort.) Or maybe it’s all just a setup: “But, uh—I got a little song I can sing to you, to prove it.” The prodigal son of Cook County sings a pitch-perfect, late-’70s jingle, from the local Empire Carpet corporation, to the crowd’s delight: “Five-eight-eight— two-three-hundred—Em-pire.” (In 2011, at least one obituary for the Empire Carpet family will mention this.) The setlist has “Why Go,” next—another locally inspired jingle—but they opt for “State of Love and Trust” instead. During “Daughter,” there’s a nod to Ed’s favorite band, into a short improv, into “Reclamation.” Can you see the real me? Can ya? Can you see the real me? Can ya? How could you know me? When I don’t even know myself Don’t think you own me Long ago I bought myself

The song ends. The crowd applauds, heartily; or without apparent distaste; and, for the next forty-five seconds—not a whole lot. (There’s depressingly little video of this tour, and none at all from Chicago Stadium. The recordings are adequate, if incomplete.) There’s an ugly belch of static, twenty seconds in; another twenty  seconds, before Dave counts off, and stops. (If I’m going into excessive detail, it’s because of what happens next.) Maybe Ed was unhappy with “Daughter”; or maybe the Fugazi got less of a response than he had hoped. How do we know? Generally speaking: it’s not a good sign when a bootleg has a track labeled “Eddie Monologue.” Chicago Stadium has two. Here’s the first: This, uh—we’re gonna play something you haven’t heard before. [Applause. Dave starts.] Hold on a second. [Keeps up a beat.] No. [Dave gives up. Awkward silence.] See, he’s trying to, you know, get me in a better mood—because sometimes I get kind of pissed off, and I—[laughs, unconvincingly]—even though there’s a bunch of happy people, and we, you know—[in the background: EDDIE!!!]—I don’t know, there’s just all these people who want to come to the show, and—and, uh—[EDDIE!!]—it’s really hard—if you can’t fit everybody in.

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We’re really glad you’re here. For anybody who misses out, you know—we’re sorry. [Encouraging applause.] And not to sound—elitist—never want to do that, but—seems like, uh—I don’t know—just doesn’t seem like this many people could like our music. You know? I don’t know. [More applause. Enter Vader.] I just—well, I don’t know—I think some of the people who wanted to come tonight, they wanted to come ’cause, they—thought they knew me, or they had relatives who thought they knew me, and—kinda pissed me off, ’cause I didn’t think they were into the music at all. [EDDIE!!!] And they know who I’m talking about. And this song’s for them. It’s called “Not, for, You.”

Afterward, and seemingly chastened: “And then again—as the late Hillel Slovak said: ‘Dude—the stage is not the place for your personal problems,’” into “Rearviewmirror.” Or maybe not: “Someone’s yelling that they want us to bring The Frogs back out to play.” (Widespread booing.) Ed, in disbelief: “You don’t like The Frogs?” (General derision.) “I thought MTV was trying to teach you to, uh—you know—free your mind. If your mind was free—you would like The Frogs. This song’s called ‘Blood.’ I hope you like it. But I don’t care.” (This appears to be the case.) There’s an inspired hometown gesture, during “Porch”: Like Mike If I could be like Mike Like Mike, yeah If I could be like Mike

There’s a birthday cake for Jeff; “Tremor Christ” into “Footsteps,” for us; and a reprise of “I Won’t Back Down,” into “Leash,” for Dr. Gunn. The show runs for 135 minutes—their longest to date, and a record that will stand for all of three days, up to their show at the New Regal. And since we called him out for the first Eddie Monologue, it’s only fair to give you the second—from the encore: You know, you get into a situation like this, where you know how hard it was—for everyone to get in here—just seems like a shame to leave, you know? [Applause.] But we kind of—we, uh—you know, we’re thinking of what you want to hear. We don’t know what—[to the band]—what were we doing? [Hundreds of requests from the crowd. The band deliberates.] This is kind of unusual, but, uh—we’re gonna put it to a vote. We have, uh— two that are very different songs—if you know. We have one called—“Sonic Reducer.” [Tepid response.] I don’t think very many people know that one. One called “Sonic Reducer”? [Crickets.] It was a Christmas single—like, two years ago. [Let it go, dude.] Or—“Footsteps?” [Unanimous roar.]

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In other words: a discerning crowd. The following day—according to a story in the Tribune, over a week later—Ed celebrates by going to a blues club, in Lincoln Park, where he falls in with a 56-year-old local, and his band: Vedder’s limo rolled up to the BLUES club on Halsted last Friday [March 11th] and the singer was smitten by Magic Slim and the Teardrops. The next night, he was back asking Slim to open for Pearl Jam at the Regal. “Slim didn’t know who he was,” says Teardrops guitarist Brian Trisko, a.k.a. Bo McGee. “I told him this was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up, so he signed a contract with Eddie on the back of a napkin.”

It sounds like an urban legend. But sure enough—according to Magic Slim: We were doing a show at Blues, and after our set this little guy was hanging out having a drink staring at us. I finally said hey, can I help you? He said he just wanted to tell us what a great show it was and buy me a drink. So I told him I’d have a shot of Wild Turkey which was brought over to me but then he still didn’t leave. I pulled him over and asked if there was anything else I could do for him. He said his name was Ed and he was in a band called Pearl Jam and he was hoping we could open a show for them at the New Regal Theater the next day. I didn’t know nothing about no Pearl Jam but asked him how much he would pay us. Ed said $700 for 40 minutes. That’s pretty good money for 40 minutes but he also said they had played the Chicago Stadium a couple nights before so I said that if he threw in a bottle of Wild Turkey they had a deal. And you know what, those boys from Pearl Jam are all right. When we came off stage after our set they had TWO bottles of Wild Turkey for us.

It must have been a scene—if only, backstage: The Frogs, in full regalia; The Teardrops, and Magic Slim, with entourage; and the world’s biggest rock band, playing to $18 a head. Once again, Ed comes out early to sing with The Frogs— not from Tommy, but a Frogs original: “I Only Play for Money.” (Inexplicably, this is the one video to surface from the Regal.) The crowd is going bananas. “This is, uh—you gotta be able to hear the words. ’Cause they’re such good words.” In a leisurely tempo: I don’t do interviews I don’t sign autographs Don’t you love the star When he’s a prick? I only play for money I don’t give a fuck about the fans I only play for money

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I don’t give a shit if you dance ’Cause you’re diggin’ on the star ’Cause you’re diggin’ on the one who’s gone so far

(How much fun do you think that was to sing?) Having been out on the town, Ed is nursing a cold, but otherwise in good spirits: “We’re gonna take the opportunity tonight to fuck around … This song is about, uh—Jeff Ament’s—perverted dream to—take on the Chicago Bulls all by himself,” into “Animal.” It’s too bad there’s no video: having sung the tender refrain, “I’d rather be with an animal,” Ed gets emotional—I’m serious—and delivers an impromptu Eddie Monologue: I was getting all choked up. The fuck? [Cheering.] It’s pretty intense to play—in a place this small—where, uh—we can see you, as good as you can see us. [Warm applause.] You forget how strong you guys react, to some of this stuff—to some of the words, that—it gets kind of heavy. [Pause.] Um—we played this the other night. And these words have, uh—I been—livin’, lately, and—uh—it’s just got— it’s called “Not for You.”

After “Spin the Black Circle,” the band comes out for the encore. “If you’ve ever— heard this next song, you’ve only heard it—illegally,” into “Hard to Imagine.” If there’s any question they’re performing for the faithful, the room ignites at the start of “Yellow Ledbetter.” “We’ll just make this version of this next song a really long one. I don’t know if you’re, uh—I don’t know if you’re gonna be able to rock out in this, uh—this fine building again—so, uh—take advantage of it, right now—for, uh, me. Thanks very much for welcoming us, the last four days, Chicago. We appreciate it.” The band plays “Porch.” Here is Kim Neely’s write-up, in the May 5th issue of Rolling Stone: Midway through an encore of “Porch,” an exuberant Vedder edged his way out onto a high balcony. Perched high above the crowd, apparently having realized too late that the throng below represented more of a threat than the jump, he paused for an agonizing interval before finally giving himself over to a backward free fall. As expected, the fans below politely caught him, then immediately transformed themselves into a pack of wild dogs. The several minutes that passed before crew members were able to fish Vedder out of the melee were scary, indeed.

And a different take, from the fan-directed Five Horizons concert chronology: During “Porch,” he climbs up to the balcony of this ornate old theater and takes a flying leap. The crowd seems to instantly envelop him, then back away a little bit and he’s lying on the floor in the aisle completely limp. The [band] is jamming

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along not even really watching, but when he doesn’t immediately get up, Jeff gets a really concerned look on his face and scans the crowd for a sign of Ed. Eventually, two security guys go into the crowd and grab Ed, who is still limp, and literally drag him back to the stage, depositing him in a pile behind the mic stand. Everyone is going nuts and after about 60 tense seconds of Ed laying in a heap, he begins to move, swaying to the groove. He gets to his knees grooving; unsteadily to his feet, grooving, hair a pulsating mass. And them wham! “Hear my name, take a good look,” and the capacity crowd literally roars in unison. As an encore, he returns on a skateboard with Dave, who accompanies him on guitar on the rarely played “Angel,” closing the show.

It’s not the first or last postmortem to resemble Rashomon. And if two people can remember one song so differently—you can only imagine what will happen when a major public disturbance ensues—where else?—in the Sunshine State.

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Bayfront Amphitheater, Miami (March 28, 1994) Oh yeah. In the new century I think we will all be insane. Tony Kushner, Angels in America

“I felt at this time that we had the secret of contemporary pop music, that we knew  what was required. We entered our imperial phase.” So said Neil Tennant, singer of the Pet Shop Boys—and a former music critic—on the approximately ten months when they were the biggest group in England. Writing for Pitchfork, Tom Ewing elaborates: “There’s something double-edged about the concept: It holds a mix of world-conquering swagger and inevitable obsolescence. What do we know about emperors? That they end up naked: The phase always ends.” Tennant’s bandmate, Chris Lowe, had his own definition: “It means you can do what you like, usually followed by disappearing up your backside!” Welcome to Vitalogy. *** “Spin the Black Circle” premieres on March 6, 1994; “Not for You,” March 7th; “Corduroy,” March 15th; “Nothingman,” March 20th; “Out of My Mind,” April 2nd; “Satan’s Bed,” April 3rd; and “Immortality”—the crown jewel— April 11th. (Technically, “Satan’s Bed” is embedded with “Daughter,” in early March; and you can argue that “Hard to Imagine” really premieres in Chicago, on March 13th.) “Nothingman” aside—nothing personal, guys—it’s an impressive month; not to mention “Last Exit” and “Tremor Christ,” in November ’93; or “Better Man” and “Whipping,” that May. Also in March of ’94 are the first quotations of “Androgynous Mind” (Sonic Youth), “Beginning to See the Light” (Velvet Underground), and “Another Brick in the Wall, Part II” (Pink Floyd),

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all during “Daughter.” And there’s a half a dozen improvs that might have easily flowered into songs, but are never heard again. It was easy to congratulate yourself, in 1994, that you’d chosen your favorite band perfectly—for their ability to innovate in a way that outpaced your wildest expectations.* Why did Pearl Jam write nothing for a year and a half—and then two classic albums, in a matter of months? How do they manage it—period, let alone, while on tour; on the covers of Time and Rolling Stone; and on the verge of implosion? What part was craft, and what part was unconscious? How do we get from “Alive” to “A trapdoor in the sun?” And why—why, God?—did it ever have to end? This is Pearl Jam’s imperial phase: when even offhand improvisation (“Out of My Mind”) results in gold; when almost every night we hear a new fan favorite, and everything—interpersonal communication, aside—is effortless; when a creative dam, full to bursting, breaks its banks. Like that magical first week, we are observing a band in full flower; a moment of manic productivity, and a stretch of writing—four albums, in five years—to rival rock’s best. Fugazi has a run like this, as will Guided by Voices. But no band will be at its peak for so long—in a pattern of clear, continuous development—as Pearl Jam, in the Vs. era onward. If only from the songs to emerge in 1995—“Habit,” “Lukin,” “Long Road,” “I Got Shit,” “Brain of J,” “Red Mosquito”—it’s not grotesque, I hope, to wonder: what might have been, if April—the cruelest month—had ended differently. *** It’s proof of how incendiary the band was in concert, that even a bomb threat, at Purdue University, in West Lafayette, Indiana, can be called a nonevent; and indeed, the most ecstatic crowd of the tour. (A Purdue official, in the Lafayette Journal and Courier: “The intensity and the number [of hopeful ticket buyers] were greater than anything I have ever experienced … People think they have this inalienable right to see them.”) Ed is on the front page of the Journal and Courier,  the next day, dwarfing articles about Whitewater and the siege of Sarajevo. They open with “Wash,” into “Animal.” Six songs later: “So what’s all this I hear—about a bomb threat?” (Widespread approval.) “Mike McCready thinks they might have said—bong. Personally, I see something very suspicious from the front of the stage, and I think I have to report it to you. I think it’s my civic duty.” (More applause.) “Of all the places to hide a bomb—and all the seats”—

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(someone: “YEAH!”)—“everyone is standing up, except these four people, right here.” (General scorn.) “I think the bomb—is underneath—THESE FOUR SEATS!!” (Purdue is losing it.) After “Dissident”: It’s funny, um. I’m gonna—I was gonna tell. My girlfriend and I went to school—uh, she went to school—in, uh—San Diego—and, uh. I couldn’t—I couldn’t afford to go. I think—I don’t think I couldn’t afford to go, mentally, you know. [Cheering.] I thought you had to be really smart to go to college. I found out later that all you do is get drunk and, uh—[spirited applause]. Hey, you know, I thought, if I would have said that, you would have just said, “Noo.” But we appreciate your candor. [Applause.] So—near this school—which was called San Diego State [cheering]—no need to applaud, wait ’till you hear the story—[“FUCK YEAH!!”]—there was a frat there—I’m not sure which one— [Midwestern unease]—but, um—anyways these, these—always think of that line, in that song, ’cause it said, uh—it’s not about this, at all, that last song, but it says, uh—“at a quarter past—holy no.” Holy no—it’s like, you know—what a girl says to you. You know. That’s holy—if she says no. You gotta respect that. [Warm applause.] So—I mean, this—what I lived through, in San Diego—uh—was, the rape of some girl—at one of these parties, or whatever. And it just wasn’t, uh—it was the most uncool thing I’ve ever heard of. It was just sickening. And, uh— [applause]—it’s funny, driving in, I mean—I look at those houses, and—and that—that’s my fuckin’ memory of college, you know? And—I hate that memory. So—give me a new memory. This song is about that. What we just talked about. “State of Love and Trust.”

A fan writes in to the Journal and Courier—ardent, if innocent: Never in my life have I seen so much positive energy in one group of people at one time. I heard 6,000 voices sing simultaneously. I saw 6,000 bodies flow together to the beat of one drum and the downstroke of one guitar for three continuous hours. I witnessed 6,000 people cheer when they were told that their lives were in danger because of a bomb. Outside I saw young entrepreneurs getting a head start in the business world with the valuable tickets they held. I saw free thinking men and women handing out literature on their views of the world, expressing their thoughts, as the freedom of speech gives us the right to do. I saw more people participate in the song “Even Flow” than I’ve ever seen participate in the national anthem.

The Journal and Courier’s Mark Rahner is unmoved: “No seats torn out. No mosh pit. No big crowd pushing up to the stage. No fights … The audience was just too well-behaved, too safe.” (That would be their music critic.)

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The rarities keep coming: in Cleveland, a one-time-only “Sheraton Gibson,” by Pete Townshend, and a tease of “So Lonely,” into “Alone”; in Memphis, a pointless cover of “Street Fighting Man”; and in Murfreesboro—memorably—a perfect “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay,” with its coauthor, Steve Cropper, on guitar. By and large, the sets are less varied than the fall, with nine of the twelve songs on Vs. played almost every night; and only “Rats,” “Leash,” and “W.M.A.” consigned to the bench. Still, you can’t really complain. *** Having performed with royalty, in the great Steve Cropper, it’s fitting that the tour’s  next stop is Miami: the Redneck Riviera. This being—in a local’s estimation—“the state everybody makes fun of,” or “the Ellis Island of stupid people”—it may not surprise you to learn that a major public disturbance ensues; that the city of Miami dispatches the riot squad; that one or more projectiles are lobbed at the police; and that the details—or some of them—are in dispute. After all, it’s south Florida: home sweet home. On March 28th, the band plays the Bayfront Park Amphitheater, in Miami— not to be confused, of course, with Bayfront Center Arena, in St. Petersburg—and back then, the “AT&T Bayfront Amphitheatre.” (It’s now “Klipsch Amphitheater at Bayfront Park”—not to be confused with Klipsch Music Center, in central Indiana. For now.) Bayfront Park (8,000 capacity) and Bayfront Center (6,500) sell out in ten minutes—with only a single announcement. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, for the Vs. tour; but a reaction the promoter would have been wise to take into account. *** From an occasionally suspect review, in the Miami New Times, which is worth quoting at length: When Pearl Jam performed in Miami a few weeks ago, fans had the opportunity to enjoy two spectacles: one outside the Bayfront Park Amphitheater, one inside. With the gates supposed to open at 7:00 p.m., but not opening until about an hour after that, some slight civil unrest was no surprise. When some attendees decided they didn’t want to listen to [opener] King’s X or Pearl Jam from outside, they rushed the show. The first attempt was a failure, but the gang charged twice more, successfully ripping down a fence, allowing a large mass of ticketless people in.

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It was at this time that our friendly neighborhood police decided to call in the riot squad. (This being, in my opinion, a not especially brilliant idea.) The Armored Ones lined up quite orderly. Thanks to my highly developed reporter skills (big ears) I heard that the riot police were due to leave in about 30 minutes. But, brothers and sisters, who should ruin the moment but a quite portly man who couldn’t hold his liquor and likened himself to Nolan Ryan. Throwing a bottle, this man started the “riot” that will guarantee tighter security for future concerts at Bayfront, or perhaps just fewer concerts at Bayfront. Not to babble, but during the tussles this reporter noticed quite a few occurrences that made my opinion of the Miami police sink lower than the cross-bay pipeline. Among the skirmishes: a young man idly walking along the grass, who, pursued by several weighty officers, was enthusiastically kicked in the ribs; an elderly woman, who, when told by a young cop to “please step back from the line, ma’am,” and didn’t step back far enough, was handcuffed and knocked upon her senior noggin; and a television journalist whose camera was blocked just as he was filming a teenager being beaten out of a few years … Something that I did not notice until Pearl Jam came on: The concert’s promoter, Cellar Door, in a move that I must commend them for, sectioned off the grassy area from the concrete. (How long do you think that fence lasted? C’mon, be realistic now.) This being a night of the proletariat, I enjoyed watching the fans tear it down, showing those yuppies down front a thing or two about grunge … The police actions that took place on that night were totally justified, of course. Like that one mustached officer pulling his gun and screaming, “I’ll blow your fucking ass away.”

As the philosopher, Will Smith, once said: bienvenido a Miami. *** The first reports appear on March 29th—the morning after—in the three local papers. On the front page of the Sun-Sentinel—under an improbable headline (“Pearl Jam fans rampage”)—and adjacent to news of an actual rampage, in Johannesburg: Thousands of impatient fans at the sold-out Pearl Jam concert trampled fences and tried to rush the stage on Monday night at Bayfront Amphitheater, police and witnesses said. No one was injured, but it took scores of police officers in full riot gear to control the crowd.

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Inside—next to an alarming caption (“Fans next to the stage were practically crushed in the general admission Bayfront Park Amphitheatre”)—Deborah Wilker, staff music writer, reports: Injuries and arrests were mostly minor and few, though City of Miami helicopters flew overhead and police eventually called in a riot squad to stand guard at the front of the building. The crazed behavior of fans was at odds with the often introspective messages sung by the band—champions of offbeat, hard-edged alternative rock. The five-man Seattle band, which has just stepped up to major headlining status, was to have played for about 8,000 concertgoers—top capacity at the general admission, outdoor amphitheater. But more than 25,000 fans showed up and attempted to barrel their way in, according to Miami Police estimates.

The Palm Beach Post is more extravagant. In an eighteenth-century image (“Thousands of fans storm barricades to see Pearl Jam”), reporter Scott Benarde will write: About 8,000 tickets were sold for the show. But when Pearl Jam took the stage almost an hour late, 12,000 to 20,000 members of Generation X were crammed into the place, police officers and Miami Fire-Rescue workers said. Thousands more fans remained outside on the street hoping to hear one of the hottest alternative bands in the country as Metro-Dade police helicopters flew overhead shining powerful spotlights on the crowds. “They should have had this stupid thing at the Orange Bowl, then they could have sold as many tickets as they wanted to,” one fire-rescue worker said. “They knew something like this could happen.” The Miami Police Department put riot police on alert in case of trouble, but they were under orders not to arrest people unless they were committing a felony, according to Sgt. Ed Blanco. He said that he had never seen a crowd this size and this concentrated at the Amphitheater.

*** Even by Florida standards—the state that gave us 2 Live Crew, Cops, cocaine, and Hooters, it’s a pretty fantastic story—if only it were true. At the end of her news article—the second-to-last paragraph—Deborah Wilker quotes the promoter, Cellar Door Productions: “I’m not sure it was 25,000 fans. Our

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estimate is that it was only 6,000 or 7,000 more than 8,000 … We had a 170-person security force. The answer [for us] would have been a six-foothigh fence.” The Miami Herald gives an even lower estimate—of 8,000 fans, and 2,000 outside. It’s a distinctly Floridian margin of error: an extra 2,000, in the Herald; “only 6,000 or 7,000,” in the Cellar Door accounting; and a surplus of 17,000, in the Sun-Sentinel. Even allowing for the low end—it’s safe to say that 10,000 young Floridians would cause a disturbance—not to mention, out of doors; in downtown Miami; and under a full moon. But almost none of this is borne out by the recording. They start with “Release,” into “Go.” (In between: “We’re all in one big boat tonight—let’s keep it up, huh? Don’t let it go down.”) Ed checks in after the very next song: “Everybody okay?” (Cheering.) “Okay up in front? This’s what it’s all about—here, tonight. Being together. This song’s called ‘Dissident.’” Then: “So you guys, uh—you guys all college geniuses, are ya?” (If there’s anyone who wonders if they’re really in Miami, the next words on the bootleg are “Fuck no!” and “Fuck that!”) Ed continues—with an observation that no one I know, at least, ever talked about in south Florida: Well, just on your way to being so smart, I thought—I thought I’d throw in a little bit of, uh—street education. You know, while you got an open mind, still. But right across the street—there’s a little homeless community that lives, uh— under the bridge. You should just know that, uh—those people ain’t all crazy, and sometimes it’s not their fault. This song’s called “Even Flow.”

This being Miami, there has to be a tough guy: “One of you guys in front is hitting people—this guy, right here? Pull him out. Get him out. We don’t want to see him again.” You wonder if the riot squad was hearing any of this; or how much Ed was aware of the commotion outside, when he says: We can accomplish a lot, by getting to—you know, by showing all these people that—think that we’re all a bunch of fuckin’ losers, and that we don’t have a life— that we can get along—we can actually, you know—[cheering]—maybe scare the shit out of ’em—make ’em think that this next—this next generation might actually do something—accomplish something, in their lives. Got a gun, fact I got two, that’s okay, man, I love God.

If nothing unusual had occurred at Bayfront Park, it would still be significant for what follows: the first appearance of “Another Brick in the Wall, Part II”—

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the quintessential “Daughter” tag, and the one that most amplifies its original meaning. That it’s played again in St. Petersburg—and in three of the next five shows—suggests an instant Ed favorite. (Mike will add a tease of “Wish You Were Here,” in St. Petersburg, for good measure.) The crowd in Miami starts cheering, after the first four words: We don’t need no—education We don’t need no—thought control We don’t need no education Teacher leave those kids alone

(It’s not a coincidence that the next song is “Jeremy.”) We can infer the intended audience, for what follows: He won the lottery when he was born Took his mother’s white breast to his tongue Trained like dogs, color and smell Walks by me to get to him Police man Police man

Later on: Well, the boat stayed afloat. You been great, passengers—even the stowaways. You know, I was layin’ naked on the beach today and boy I just realized, how nice you got it here. Appreciate your life. I don’t know how many you’ve got. One, two, three, four …

*** Deborah Wilker’s report is syndicated widely: by newspapers in Texas, Alabama, Pennsylvania, and upstate New York, all on March 29th; and in the Orlando Sentinel, on March 30th. That same day, the Sun-Sentinel will displace its columnist, Ray Recchi, to run a special editorial, written by Wilker, under the headline, “Pearl Jam’s edicts endangering lives,” which is again printed widely. In language recalling Escape from New York, the column begins: In my ten years on this beat, I’ve never felt that my life was endangered. Monday’s Pearl Jam concert changed that. With thousands of people ripping through chain link fencing and recklessly raging forward, there was no safe harbor. Exits were blocked. Options were zero and the people just kept coming.

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As disasters-waiting-to-happen go, the one at Miami’s Bayfront Amphitheater ranks right up there. That’s because this particular setting had all the key ingredients: • An oversold general admission show that stretched the venue’s 8,000-person capacity. • More than 15,000 unticketed fans who spilled onto Biscayne Boulevard and tried to push over makeshift barriers. • An understaffed security force. • An outdoor venue lacking a permanent security wall and trained staff. • A weary, sweat-drenched crowd stoked with booze, drugs, rocks and bottles. • Police choppers ominously overhead and riot squads pacing out front. Rowdy crowds, drugs, alcohol, arrests, and the usual pushing and shoving is nothing new for rock ‘n’ roll. But the touring policies of Pearl Jam are now endangering lives.

Setting aside the numbers, for now—or the connection between the “police choppers ominously overhead,” and the band’s touring policies—Wilker minces no words in her conclusion: Ultimately, people will be killed, just as in Cincinnati in 1979, when eleven fans were trampled racing for prime space at a Who concert. Miraculously on Monday, there were only minor injuries and eleven arrests, but that was just dumb luck. Often in this business we hear only about what the band wants. The band wants green olives, not black. The band wants spring water, not well water. And the band wants kids pressed against the lip of the stage whether they can breathe or not. Tell that to the parents of the three kids who died in a Salt Lake City stampede at a general admission AC/DC concert in 1991. Is that really what the band wanted? Cellar Door’s Dan Barnett, who was in charge of this concert, says he and his reps advised the band of all this months ago, but the band wouldn’t budge. Will policies finally change when a kid goes home in a body bag?

Needless to say, Deborah Wilker’s warning is well-taken. And yet: it’s fair to ask why her own newspaper ran a follow-up that same day: “Police initially estimated that an additional 6,000 to 7,000 fans showed up, but on Tuesday they reduced their estimate to between 400 and 500.” The article continues: “The

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cost of the extra police officers was estimated at $10,000 to $11,000, said Miami police. Taxpayers may get stuck with the bill.” *** To the surprise of no one, in late March, at the 66th Academy Awards, Steven Spielberg’s black-and-white Holocaust epic, Schindler’s List, wins for seven out of twelve nominations, including Best Picture. Days before, Oprah Winfrey begs her audience to see the movie, saying: “I think that I’m a better person as a result of seeing Schindler’s List.” In December, the reviewer-in-chief, Bill Clinton, had said: “I implore every one of you to go see it.” Not to be outdone, New Jersey’s governor, Christine Todd Whitman, said the film would be screened for communities across the state, to combat intolerance. Most effusive was Disney studio chief, and soon-to-be-Spielberg-partner, Jeffrey Katzenberg, who predicted: I think Schindler’s List will wind up being so much more important than a movie. It will affect how people on this planet think and act. At a moment in time, it is going to remind us about the dark side, and do it in a way in which, whenever that little green monster is lurking somewhere, this movie is going to press it down again. I don’t want to burden the movie too much, but I think it will bring peace on earth, good will to men. Enough of the right people will see it that it will actually set the course of world affairs. Steven is a national treasure. I’m breakin’ my neck lookin’ up at this guy.

*** From Alison Des Forges’s Leave None to Tell the Story: Genocide in Rwanda (1999): President Juvénal Habyarimana, nearing the end of two decades in power, was losing popularity among Rwandans when the RPF [Rwandan Patriotic Front] attacked from Uganda on October 1, 1990. At first Habyarimana did not see the rebels as a serious threat, although they stated their intention to remove him as well as to make possible the return of the hundreds of thousands of Rwandan refugees who had lived in exile for a generation. The president and his close colleagues decided, however, to exaggerate the RPF threat as a way to pull dissident Hutu back to his side and they began portraying Tutsi inside Rwanda as RPF collaborators. For three and a half years, this elite worked to redefine the population of Rwanda into “Rwandans,” meaning those who backed

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the president, and the ibyitso or “accomplices of the enemy,” meaning the Tutsi minority and Hutu opposed to him.

*** On the afternoon of April 6th, the band pulls up to the Springfield Civic Center, in western Massachusetts, to play for 7,000 lucky souls—luckier than they could know. From Samantha Power’s A Problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide (2002): On the evening of April 6, 1994, two years to the day after the beginning of the Bosnian war, Major General Romeo Dallaire was sitting on the couch in his bungalow residence in Kigali, Rwanda, watching CNN with his assistant, Brent Beardsley. Beardsley was preparing plans for a national sports day that would match Tutsi rebel soldiers against Hutu government soldiers in a soccer game. Dallaire, the commander of the UN mission, said, “You know, Brent, if the shit ever hit the fan here, none of this stuff would really matter, would it?” The next instant the phone rang. Rwandan president Juvénal Habyarimana’s Mystère Falcon jet, a gift from French president Francois Mitterand, had just been shot down, with Habyarimana and Burundian president Cyprien Ntaryamira aboard. When Dallaire replaced the receiver, the phone rang again instantly. Indeed, the UN phones rang continually that night and the following day, averaging 100 phone calls per hour. Countless politicians, UN local staff, and ordinary Rwandans were calling out for help. The Canadian pair hopped in their UN jeep and dashed to Rwandan army headquarters, where a crisis meeting was under way. They never returned to their residence.

*** Springfield is a deeply uncanny performance. Even if it weren’t occurring as a war is breaking out, and in Kurt Cobain’s final hours, it’s as though someone— namely, Ed—is aware of something we’re not. The crowd is chanting after the very first song: “ED-DIE! ED-DIE!” “That’s my name. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out. This song’s called ‘Whipping.’” During “Daughter,” there’s a quotation of “Hate the Police,” frequently covered by Mudhoney— Mommy, mommy, mommy Look what you done Mommy, mommy, mommy Look at your son

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—into “W.M.A.,” into “Androgynous Mind,” by Sonic Youth: Hey, hey, it’s okay Hey, hey, it’s okay Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey

(It’s possible that Kurt Cobain is writing out the words of “My, My, Hey Hey,” by Neil Young, at this very moment.) “Black,” into “Alive.” (“Is something wrong, she said?”) There’s a frightening performance of “Blood”—followed, perversely, by Ed taking requests: “You know how it works. One at a time.” They play an exquisite “Yellow Ledbetter,” then “Out of My Mind.” There’s another improv, with the following, two minutes in: Feels like so long Away from here I can’t fall Back again Seems so long So hard to leave Swore I wouldn’t Ever return Once is enough Twice is too much Now we’ll see What am I thinking? What am I thinking? What am I doing? What am I feeling? Bit too much Bit too much Bit too much And a bit too much And a bit too much Bit too much Bit too much

For that matter: who can say why they decide to play “My Generation”—the last instance being in October, forty-five shows ago? (If this were in a movie, you would roll your eyes in disbelief.) People try to put us down Just because we get around

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Things they do look awful c-c-cold Hope I die before I get old This is my generation This is my generation, baby

*** Alison Des Forges, Leave None to Tell the Story: In the thirteen weeks after April 6, 1994, at least half a million people perished in the Rwandan genocide, perhaps as many as three quarters of the Tutsi population. At the same time, thousands of Hutu were slain because they opposed the killing campaign and the forces directing it. The killers struck with a speed and a devastation that suggested an aberrant force of nature, “a people gone mad,” said some observers. “Another cycle of tribal violence,” said others … But this genocide was not an uncontrollable outburst of rage by a people consumed by “ancient tribal hatreds.” Nor was it the preordained result of the impersonal forces of poverty and overpopulation. This genocide resulted from the deliberate choice of a modern elite to foster hatred and fear to keep itself in power. This small, privileged group first set the majority against the minority to counter a growing political opposition within Rwanda. Then, faced with RPF success on the battlefield and at the negotiating table, these few powerholders transformed the strategy of ethnic division into genocide. They believed that the extermination campaign would restore the solidarity of the Hutu under their leadership and help them win the war, or at least improve their chances of negotiating a favorable peace. They seized control of the state and used its machinery and its authority to carry out the slaughter.

*** On April 7th, Pearl Jam will play the Community War Memorial, an arena in Rochester, New York. That same day, the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle runs a profile by staff critic Jeff Spevak. An excerpt: Pearl Jam emerged from the dank pack known as the Seattle grunge scene. For the most part, that means lank-haired bands draped in baggy flannels or black T-shirts, bearing sexually suggestive names: Hole, Mudhoney, Mother Love Bone, Pearl Jam. The sound is slurred vocals over guitar riffs that rumble like an approaching thunderstorm.

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The band Nirvana is also Seattle scene. The extreme scene. Perhaps not unexpectedly, Nirvana lead singer Kurt Cobain dropped into a champagne-andalcohol-induced coma a couple of weeks ago. He’s back, we’re told, but for how long, we don’t know. The fragile personalities of some of these musicians seem not quite as durable as a microwave burrito. And Seattle is back to being just a city, anyway, says Steve Turner. “That scene is ancient history,” claims Turner, the guitarist for Mudhoney, tonight’s opening band. “Soundgarden is on tour all of the time. We never see the guys from Pearl Jam or Nirvana around town anymore. The only time we see them is when we hook up with them on tour.”

*** From “The Holocaust Boom,” by Frank Rich, in The New York Times (April 7, 1994): If there’s such a thing as a good year for the Holocaust—as measured by a bull market in public awareness—this is it. Last month Schindler’s List won the Oscars that assure it a mass audience. This month the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington marks its first anniversary with attendance doubling projections … As an American, I love happy endings, so I want to believe that this year Holocaust remembrance will evolve into an eternal flame. But as a Jew, I don’t trust happy endings, even when scripted by Steven Spielberg. To my own subjective eyes, the most powerful American evocations of the Holocaust are the most abstract; they give the mind more room to summon up imaginings darker than any photographic record. At the Washington museum, a room full of shoes left behind by the dead is more horrifying than the documentary films of Nazi atrocities precisely because the Jews’ absence hangs so palpably in the empty air. The art of remembering the Holocaust is by definition a work in progress. The moment that people start smugly pointing to long box-office lines and saying the job is done is the moment to worry that the world is beginning to forget.

*** They open with “Wash,” in Rochester: only its third appearance, since ’92— Oh please, let it rain today This city, so filthy Like my mind in ways

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—into “Animal” (“so frightened of your pain”); “Go” (“turned to my nemesis”); “Dissident” (“couldn’t hold on”); “Even Flow” (“he’ll begin his life again”); “Why Go” (“she scratches a letter”); and “Jeremy,” followed by another you-can’t-makethis-up moment. Aside from a brief hello, here is Ed’s first bit of banter—about the real-life “Jeremy.” Does he know something we don’t? Okay, so he spoke. What the fuck did he say? [Cheering.] He said, fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you too, and fuck this whole fucking world—I don’t give a fuck, I’m out of here. [Widespread applause.] Well, you know what? He fucked up. Living—is your best revenge.

Encouraging words, on any day; and especially, on April 7, 1994. There’s not one, but two quotes, from Kurt’s favorite Beatle— In my life In my life Nothing’s gonna change my world Oh, nothing’s gonna change my world

—into “W.M.A.,” into a haunting, scat-improv: It’s better to not be sane It’s better to not be sane It’s better to not be, better to not be, better to not be, better to not be sane

It keeps coming: one of the last sightings of “Breath,” for the next four-and-a-half years—and an almost painfully ironic choice: If I knew where it was, I would take you there. There’s much more than this.

“State of Love and Trust,” into “Rats.” (The good old days.) Into “Once.” (Can’t win ’em all.) “Black” (“I know some day you’ll have a beautiful life”), into “Alive.” “Hey, thanks, from the bottom of our hearts. Thanks, from the soles of our shoes.” (Warm applause.) “It’s pretty weird, getting this much attention, when you’ve been, like, you know—an outcast, all your life. I gotta tell you.” (Cheering.) “I bet you can imagine. This is a good driving song. It’s a good runaway song. This is my song.” Into “Rearviewmirror” (“once and for all”); into the second-ever “Corduroy,” still with early (and uncanny) lyrics: Take your entrance back Oh, find a hole inside my head I don’t want to take what you can’t give

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I would rather starve than eat your bread No matter how far we both have ran We’ll end up alone like we began

Does Ed know something we don’t? “That’s a song off our new album. It comes out tomorrow. Actually, I’m selling it out of my hotel room. You can come get it tonight, if you want.” (Applause.) “I mean, the record. I’ll be selling records out of my hotel room tonight. Mike will be selling something else. I’m not sure.” There’s a split-second tease—instantly applauded—of “Release,” into “Small Town” (“all these changes”); into a glorious, Jane’s Addiction-type improv: Leave me alone Don’t touch my tongue You with your emotional choice You just don’t have nothin’ to do But don’t leave me alone I won’t leave you alone Leave me alone I don’t need your prescription I don’t read or need your subscription I just wanna smash my head down It’s not like I haven’t done it before

And then, there’s this: You guys, uh—take care. Grow up to be, uh—young, healthy, responsible—dogooding—adults. [You can’t make this up.] Don’t forget—rock and roll. Don’t forget—love. [Brief pause.] Don’t forget to pray—to—someone above. One, two, three, four …

Does Ed know something we don’t? There’s an unmistakable crack in his voice— and how could there not?—at the all-important lines: You didn’t Leave a message at least I Could have learned your voice one last time

*** The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein asked: why did one crucifixion captivate the world for 2,000 years, when thousands were crucified by the Romans, and immediately forgotten?

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I learned about the genocide in Rwanda several months later—and even then, only superficially—whereas on the subject of Kurt Cobain, I had read almost everything. In his novel, A Poison Apple, the Brazilian writer, Michel Laub, tells of meeting a survivor from Rwanda: I keep wondering what Immaculée Ilibagiza must think of someone like Kurt Cobain. After our conversation in São Paulo I even imagined an interview in which she commented on each line in his farewell note. There’s good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much: tell me, Ms. Ilibagiza, do you feel some solidarity with the dramas faced by the author of these words? Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage: would you agree that it’s too great a burden for the author? The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I’m having 100 percent fun: what do you think of the author having written this part a day before the war began in Rwanda?

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Patriot Center, Fairfax, Virginia (April 8, 1994) It thus follows that even though it is possible to design, manipulate and orchestrate one’s immortality in advance, it never comes to pass the way it has been intended. Milan Kundera, Immortality

From “An Interview with Eddie Vedder,” by Carrie Brownstein, in The Believer (June 2004): CB: Is tomorrow the day you’re quitting smoking? Do you want to discuss that at all? EV: Yeah, let’s see. Well, it’s shameful that I thought that we should talk before I quit. I’m still at the point where I think that I get my best thinking done when I’ve got a fucking cigarette in my mouth. CB: Do you quit today or tomorrow? EV: Well, I’m going to be hypnotized tomorrow. To assist in my quitting. And I’m also going to ask her if maybe she can throw in something about writing and being able to write a better bridge. You know, better bridges for songs. CB: [laughs] EV: We’ll see. When I think about it, man, I’ve got all kinds of things I’d love some subconscious help with. CB: Is the process that she hypnotizes you and then talks to you about your smoking and about how you could go about writing better bridges? EV: You know, I’m just kind of going to go in open to it. And I think I’m fairly malleable. I think I can be talked into something like smoking or writing better. I just know that I’m over smoking. You know, I feel like I’ve gone on long hikes and gotten to the top of the mountain

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and I’m looking at something beautiful, some great huge landscape, and there’s some of the cleanest air that’s on the planet. And then I light up, and say, “Ah, what a great smoking moment this is!” So it’s something evil that’s taken over, and I want control over it. CB: When you play, can you feel that you’re a smoker in terms of singing or jumping around on stage? EV: No. That’s the problem. It hasn’t really affected any of that. And I feel I can get away with it. But now I’ve smoked since right around when Kurt died or whatever. CB: That’s when you started smoking? EV: That created some kind of neuroses that I needed to pacify.

*** On December 9, 1980—the evening after John Lennon was killed, at forty years old—Steven Van Zandt was so distraught, he was reluctant to go onstage that night in Philadelphia. His boss—The Boss—insisted that they owed it to their fans, and to Lennon, to perform as scheduled. Springsteen opened the show with a tribute: I’d just like to say one thing. I appreciate it. It’s a hard night to come out, and play tonight, when so much has been lost. The first record—the first record that I ever learned—was a record called “Twist and Shout.” [Applause.] It was a Beatles record. And if it wasn’t—if it wasn’t for John Lennon, we’d all be someplace very different tonight. [Cheering.] And it’s—it’s an unreasonable—world, that you get asked to live with a lot of things that are just—unlivable. And—it’s a hard thing to come out and play, but there’s just nothing else you can do.

The band opened with “Born to Run.” The writer Fred Schruers would say: “I’ve seen people digging firebreaks to save their homes, and I’ve seen some desperate fistfights, and, God knows, I’ve seen hundreds of rock ‘n’ roll shows, but I have never seen a human being exert himself the way Springsteen did that night in Philly.” *** In Your Favorite Band is Killing Me: What Pop Music Rivalries Reveal About the Meaning of Life, Steven Hyden writes: Pearl Jam played a concert in Fairfax, Virginia, the night Cobain’s death was confirmed. Vedder later told a Los Angeles Times reporter that he trashed his hotel room after he heard the news. He added, “Then I just kind of sat in the

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rubble, which somehow felt right … [It felt] like my world at the moment.” But Pearl Jam’s performance is remarkably controlled given the circumstances— Vedder occasionally makes oblique references to the tragedy during the first half of the show, but otherwise the band carries on in a professional (if emotionally exhausted) manner. If you didn’t know the context of the concert, the bootleg wouldn’t seem all that different from other live recordings of this period.

Well, yes and no. Yes, the performance is less mournful than professional. Yes, the bootleg isn’t all that different from the recordings of this period, banter aside. And yes, the setlist is fairly typical: “Release,” to open; “Porch,” to close the main set; “Rockin’ in the Free World,” to close. But you hardly need to be an obsessive, to hear the anguish, in “Release”; the irony in “Go,” or “Dissident” (“escape is never / the safest path”); or Ed’s welcome (“I think you all know what’s on our minds”), which is hardly oblique. After “Jeremy”: “It’s kind of tough tonight, yeah.” (Applause.) “Thanks for— making it. We appreciate you coming. It’s nice of you.” (Cheering.) “And I—I know that if we can’t—play—we decide, like, after, this, even, this next—song, even—if we can’t play—you’ll forgive us. So, thanks—we appreciate it.” (From the bootleg, at least, the crowd is not so understanding.) The next song is “Daughter.” As Hyden writes, it doesn’t seem all that different—until the end: Hey hey, my my Rock and roll will never die My my, hey hey My, my, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee But the levee was dry Good old boys, drinking whiskey and rye Rock and roll will never die

It’s worth remembering: the date is April 8, 1994—a day and a half before Courtney Love will disclose her husband’s suicide note; and a day and a half before the very same song (“My My, Hey Hey,” by Neil Young) is revealed as its centerpiece. *** Kurt Cobain was born in 1967: the year of “Try a Little Tenderness,” “Waterloo Sunset,” “I Can See for Miles,” and the Summer of Love. (It was also the year of “Heroin,” “A Day in the Life,” “For What It’s Worth,” and “All Along the

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Watchtower.”) It’s appropriate, then, that his death would be associated, instantly, with “a very 1967ish song,” in the words of Lester Bangs—writing in 1972: Don McLean’s “American Pie” has ripped out of nowhere and taken the country by storm … It took exactly two weeks to shoot to the top of the charts, everybody I know has been talking excitedly about it since first hearing, and, even more surprisingly, it has united listeners of musical persuasions as diverse as Black Sabbath and Phil Ochs in unbridled enthusiasm for both its message and its musical qualities. All of which is not so surprising once you’ve heard it, because it is a brilliant song, a metaphor for the death and rebirth of rock that’s at once complex and immediately accessible. For the last couple of years critics and audience alike have been talking about the Death of Rock, or at least the fragmentation of all our 1967 dreams of anthemic unity. And, inevitably, somebody has written a song about it. About Dylan, Buddy Holly, the Beatles, Stones, Byrds, Janis and others. About where we’ve been, the rush of exhilaration we felt at the pinnacle, and the present sense of despair. Don McLean has taken all this and set it down in language that has unmistakable impact the first time you hear it, and leaves you rubbing your chin—“Just what did that line mean?”—with further listenings because you know it’s all about something you’ve felt and lived through. A very 1967ish song, in fact, in the way it makes you dig for deeper meaning, but not the least bit mawkish.

In its symbolism, popularity, and timing, “American Pie” was the “Smells Like Teen Spirit” of its day: a phenomenon, and a metaphor, for the death and rebirth of rock, and all our dreams of anthemic unity. It’s this tradition Ed is alluding to when he references Don McLean’s eulogy. But where “American Pie” is written firmly in the past tense (“a long, long time ago”)—Ed is remembering, at once, an acquaintance, a contemporary, and an occasional rival. This analogy—of April 8, 1994, to “the day the music died”—is among his most decent and magnanimous gestures. And yet: for Ed to add a few lines from “My My, Hey Hey”—on the very same day—is eerie, to say the least; and bitterly ironic, in the context of the Neil Young original. *** “My My, Hey Hey” is from the live album Rust Never Sleeps (1979)—a collection Ed and Kurt know well, as “Not for You” and “Immortality” will attest. Like a number of ambitious, late-’70s albums—among them, Animals (1977) and Wish

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You Were Here (1975) by Pink Floyd—the Neil Young album opens and closes with two versions of the same song: an acoustic arrangement (“My My, Hey Hey”), and the full-band, electric version (“Hey Hey, My My”). As the inveterate collectors also knew: it’s only the former—the acoustic, folk arrangement—with the lyric almost everyone remembers: “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” Ironically, it’s the heavy-rock arrangement that answers overwhelmingly in the negative: “And once you’re gone, you can’t come back / When you’re out of the blue and into the black.” It’s this unassuming verse—and its opposition, ethically, to the lyrics Kurt Cobain would end with, in his suicide note (“It’s better to burn out”)—that embodies all the difference between Ed and Kurt; all the difference, between Pearl  Jam and Nirvana; and all the difference in the world. In Virginia, on April 8th, the point is underlined, implicitly, by the songs that follow: “Even Flow” (“life again, life again”) and “Breath” (“there’s much more than this”). “This song, uh—this song might be a little—easier than others, to play tonight. This one’s called ‘Footsteps.’” The opening has never sounded more devastating: Don’t even think about reaching me I won’t be home Don’t even think about stopping by Don’t think of me at all I did, what I had to do If there was a reason It was you

Another incapacitating “Black” (“I know you’ll be a star”), into “Alive” (“is something wrong, she said?”). After “Small Town”: “We got one more. Thanks again. Thanks for coming. Thanks for living. Don’t die. There’s too much to live for. Swear to God.” And after “Alive,” with great humility and reverence: Aw, man. [Extended applause.] There’s a lot of space between us, tonight. [Scattered “No!” from the crowd.] And, uh—you know, we always complain about, uh—you know—the good old days, of playing in clubs. But actually, you know—clubs, you couldn’t get in, unless you were twenty-one. That kind of sucked. [Cheers.] Or—unless it was a Fugazi show. [Brief pause.] We’re not only kind of far. We’re kind of—elevated, I noticed. A little more than—usual. Either that, or I’ve gotten taller. [Cheering.] But I don’t think it’s very good, to elevate yourself. I think that could be very dangerous. [Applause.] But sometimes, whether you like it or not, people elevate you—you know—whether you like it or not. And it’s real easy to fall. [Cheers.] So, uh—I don’t—I don’t want to be

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the messenger—you know—somebody who delivers bad news, you know—kill the messenger. But, uh—I—I don’t—I don’t think—any of us—would be—in this room, here tonight—if it weren’t for—Kurt Cobain, so. [Widespread cheering.] One, two, three, four …

*** On April 10th, a spontaneous memorial—estimated at 7,000 people—takes place in Seattle, while millions watch on TV. People bring candles, drawings, little makeshift shrines. Courtney Love and Krist Novoselic record messages that morning for the crowd. Courtney starts: I don’t know what to say. I feel the same way you guys do. If you guys don’t think—that I used to sit—in this room—when he played guitar—and sang—and feel so honored—to be near him—you’re crazy. Anyway. He left a note. It’s more like a letter to the fucking editor. I don’t know what happened. I mean, it was gonna happen. But it could’ve happened when he was forty. He always said he was gonna outlive everybody and be a hundred and twenty. I’m not gonna read you all the note ’cause it’s none of the rest of your fucking business, but—some of it is to you. I don’t really think it takes away his dignity to read this considering that it’s addressed to—most of you. He’s such an asshole. I want you all to say, “asshole,” really loud.

She continues—reading the note (in italics): This note should be pretty easy to understand. All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics—involved with independence and the embracement of your community— has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to, as well as creating music—along with really writing—something, for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. For example, when we’re backstage, and the lights go out, and the manic roar of the crowd begins, it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love and relish—in the love and adoration of the crowd. Well, Kurt, so fucking what—then don’t be a rock star, you asshole. Which is something—I totally admire, and envy. The fact is—I can’t fool you—any one of you. It simply isn’t fair—to you—or to me. The worst crime I can think of—would be, to put people off by faking it, pretending as if I’m having 100 percent fun. No, Kurt, the worst crime I can think of—is for you to just continue being a rock star, when you fucking hate it. And just fucking stop.

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Sometimes, I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it, and I do—God believe me, I do. But it’s not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists, who—who only appreciate things when they’re—alone. I’m too sensitive. [Courtney: Aww.] I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child. On our last three tours, I’ve had a much better appreciation of all the people I’ve known personally, and as fans of our music. But I still can’t get out the frustration, the guilt, and the empathy I have for everybody. There’s good in all of us—and I simply love people too much. So why didn’t you just fucking stay?

She ends: So much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad, little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus, man … Oh shut up, bastard. Why didn’t you just enjoy it? I don’t know. Then he goes on to say personal things to me that are none of your damn business. Personal things to Frances that are none of your damn business. I had a good marriage, and for that I’m grateful. But since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful toward all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along and have empathy. Empathy? Only because I love and feel for people too much, I guess. Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the last years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody—person, and I don’t have the passion anymore. So remember— And don’t remember this, ’cause this is a fucking lie! It’s better to burn out than to fade away. God! You asshole. Peace, love, empathy—Kurt Cobain. And then there’s some more personal things that are none of your damn businesses. And just remember—this is all—bullshit. But I want you to know one thing. That ’80s, tough-love bullshit—it doesn’t work. It’s not real. It doesn’t work. I should have let him—we all should have let him—have his numbness. We should have let him have—the thing that made him feel better—that made his stomach feel better. We should have let him have it. Instead of trying to strip away his skin. You go home and you tell your parents: “Don’t you ever try that tough-love bullshit on me, ’cause it doesn’t fucking work.” That’s what I think.

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And I’m lying in our bed. And I’m really sorry. And I feel the same way you do. I’m really sorry, you guys. I don’t know what I could have done. I wish I’d have been here. I wish I hadn’t listened to other people. But I did. Every night, I’ve been sleeping with his mother, and I wake up in the morning—I think it’s him, ’cause their bodies are sort of the same. I have to go now. Just tell him he’s a fucker, okay? Just say, “fucker.” “You’re a fucker.” And that you love him.

*** In an interview with Robert Hilburn, in the L.A. Times, Ed says “Immortality” was composed in Atlanta, presumably on April 2nd: the day before “Go” is dedicated, on the air, to Kurt Cobain. For one reason or another, it doesn’t premiere until April 11th and 12th, in Boston—six shows later—and with an alternate set of lyrics—or two, to be precise. As far as I know, the early “Immortality” is played only three times: twice in April ’94; and again on September 4, 2018—also in Boston, and not by coincidence. In the same interview—one of only three that he gives, all year—Ed will say that the song is not about Kurt Cobain, but “the pressures on someone who is on a parallel train.” If this is true, it can only mean that Ed is contemplating his own mortality—on the opposite coast, and at precisely the same time—to the hour—as Kurt Cobain. They play it first at Boston Garden, on April 11th, without introduction, right after “Rats.” The crowd thinks it’s either “Garden” or “Small Town,” and starts applauding. Ed: “It’s like an older song—[but] it’s a new song.” (An understatement.) The next day—at the 2,700-capacity Orpheum Theater, and the second-to-last show of the tour—it’s considerably different, after only one performance: Boston Garden April 11, 1994

Orpheum Theater April 12, 1994

I can sail the world I can’t tell which one as you are I won’t feel the comfort in the world I don’t feel the curse I can’t fault which one anymore I won’t feel the comfort in the world

I could take the sun I could call the couple anyone I won’t tell the comfort in the world I can’t take it off I won’t say, “Enough, it’s not my fault” I won’t care, there’s something in the wind

Take it as is I don’t need this I’ll die just to live Immortality

Take me as I am I don’t need this I’ll die just to live Immortality

Patriot Center, Fairfax (1994) I can’t crawl the cross I won’t tell which way’s on or off I won’t fold unless I have to go I won’t feel the world I will run, take me far enough I won’t take the answer from the work

I could paint the moon I could reflect light into a room If I could, the fortune all be there I could paint it all I won’t say nothing’s not my fault I won’t call the altar in the air

Oh, take it as is I don’t need this I’ll die just to live Immortality

Take it as is I don’t need this I die just to live Immortality

I can’t fault the world I can’t fault the world I can’t fall which way down I been fallin’ which way down

I can’t take a walk I won’t fight this world I won’t save it all It is not my fault

I don’t stay long I can’t hold on I’ll die just to live Take it as is I don’t need this Take it as it was

Take it as is I don’t need this I’ll die just to live I won’t stay long I’ll be long gone I’ll die just to live

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Hey hey, this is my last day My my, you know how hard I tried Hey hey, I would’ve loved to stay My my, I wish I could get high

The first “Immortality” uses the word “I” twenty-two times; the second, at least twenty; and the studio version, only two: “I cannot stop the thought / I’m running in the dark.” Neither the first nor the second affirms, “vengeance has no place on me or her”; “vessel stabbed / next up, volunteers”; “a truant finds home”; “victims in demand for public show”; an “auctioned forearm”; “whiskers in the sink”; or “scrawl dissolved, cigar box on the floor”; nor did they have any reason to. It’s only when the band plays “Immortality” acoustic, in October, at the Bridge School, that the final lyrics are in place. But then—more than a few things will have changed, by then. *** It was either a cosmic coincidence, or bizarrely preordained, that Pearl Jam would play Saturday Night Live on April 16, 1994. (The show is announced in February, along with the spring tour—including an April 4th date in Rock Hill, North Carolina, that never quite occurs.) That this performance will be their only televised appearance in 1994—two years, almost to the day, of their SNL debut; and a week after you-know-what—makes it that much more uncanny.

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If the past is, indeed, a foreign country, it’s clearly one where Emilio Estevez is promoting D2: The Mighty Ducks Are Back. In 1994, Emilio is enjoying the returns of the eventual classic, Men at Work; still married—for about a month— to Paula Abdul; and producing the film known to posterity as The Jerky Boys: The Movie. On Thursday, April 14th, Pearl Jam comes in to SNL studios to rehearse for the cameras. (There’s a video on YouTube, awkward interactions and all.) At rehearsal, the band plays “Not for You”; “Daughter,” with tags from “American Pie” and “My My, Hey Hey”; and “Rearviewmirror,” last. Ed is introduced to Emilio; endures a promotional segment, or several; and has a conversation with Adam Sandler—decked out as Opera Man—before scampering off. (“He’s shy. He’s basically shy,” says Lorne Michaels.) In April 1992, Pearl Jam played two songs on SNL: their ubiquitous single, “Alive,” and then “Porch.” In April 1994—with Vs. approaching six million sold— the band played three: a distinction granted to only a few artists in SNL history. When the show returns from commercial, twenty-five minutes in, you see the photo: Stone, in the middle; Jeff and Dave, to his left; Mike and Ed to the right: the latter, wearing a Rock for Choice T-shirt. Emilio says: “Ladies and gentlemen: Pearl—Jam!”; and there’s Dave’s backbeat, before the band is shown onscreen.

Adam Sandler as Opera Man, 1994. Screen grab from Pearl Jam Twenty.

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The camera has everyone in the frame, at first. At “restless soul,” it zooms in; by “enjoy your youth,” it’s Dave, Ed, and Jeff; at “like Muhammad,” only Dave and Ed—where it mostly stays. Ed is playing guitar in the spotlight. It’s barely visible, at the moment, but there’s the faintest hint of writing on his shirt. In the background, Dave is pummeling away: a boy and a piñata. At the bridge—the all-too-brief, ascending passage, with Stone’s elementary solo, countering Ed: My friends they don’t Scream my friends don’t Call my friends don’t

This “Not for You” is one of their peaks—an exceptionally simple one, at that. Anyone else would have opened with something from Vs.—“Small Town,” maybe, or “Go”—or, presumably, less of a fuck-you. Almost anyone else would have acknowledged the elephant in the room. Instead, they go on to play “Rearviewmirror”—only the second song from Vs. to be heard on TV, and one that observes: “I guess it was the beatings / made me wise.” (One can imagine a weary sigh from Epic.) But it’s not until they get to “Daughter”—at the very end of the program—that Pearl Jam assumes the destiny they knew had been bequeathed to them. In a little over five minutes, we see Pearl Jam establishing new territory—a world in which they alone will shoulder the generational mantle. If Ed had wanted to make a statement about Kurt Cobain—who had died all of eight days ago—they would have played “Daughter,” to open, with an unmistakable quotation. In typical form, they play it third, and only twenty minutes before the credits, or when most of the audience had turned in. Moreover: instead of reprising “American Pie,” as they did in rehearsal, he improvises— truth be told, unsuccessfully—as is always the risk of any improvisation: Where I come from nothing’s given Yeah yeah yeah, I resent nepotism Now I paint with turpentine I, I give such good paradigm

—into the more familiar: Hey hey, my my Rock and roll can never die There’s more to the picture than meets the eye Hey hey, my my

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As an homage to Kurt, it’s entirely appropriate. That is to say: nothing could be easier than to pay tribute in someone else’s words. It’s more difficult—and more in keeping with the spirit of Kurt Cobain—to take a running leap, and to expose oneself to uncertainty—all at the risk of failure. It’s precisely this moment—along with Ed’s inspired salute, with a K over his heart, at the end of the show—that makes me think this is one of Pearl Jam’s most humane and emblematic gestures. *** From “Real Life Rock” (Summer 1994), in Artforum, by Greil Marcus: On April 8, the day Kurt Cobain’s suicide was announced, there seemed to be as much Pearl Jam on the radio as Nirvana; given the solemnity always present in Eddie Vedder’s singing, every song sounded like a eulogy. Still, that was no preparation for the wake the band staged little more than a week later … Pearl Jam began with the unreleased “Not for You.” It was an extraordinary number—led by the most rudimentary up-and-down guitar riff by Vedder, and only for a moment raised into the realm of myth by a modal passage from guitarist Stone Gossard—a song at once ordinary and mysterious, elemental and twisted, quiet and full of alarms, elegiac and damning. Later the group moved on to “Rearviewmirror,” then closed, after another break for moronic skits, with “Daughter.” Pointedly pulling back his jacket to display a K on his T-shirt, Vedder ended the tune with a few lines from Neil Young’s Rust Never Sleeps—the album Cobain quoted in the suicide note his widow, Courtney Love, had publically denounced as “like a letter to the fuckin’ editor.” She was right. One of the horrors of the event, a small horror, maybe, but a horror nonetheless, was that a man who could speak so freely in his own songs could not in the end find his own words, or make someone else’s words (“It’s better to burn out than to fade away”) sound like his own. Yet when Vedder sang, as if the thought or the quote had just occurred to him, “Hey, hey, my, my, rock and roll can never die” (the line has carried unpleasant ironies since Young first offered it; once again, as always, it had to fight off an audience’s idiot whoops), Vedder could not have appeared more completely himself: a fan surprised to find himself on a stage but ready to push his chance to the limit.

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Rayburn House Office Building, Washington, DC (June 30, 1994) What is it about music that lends itself so well To business as fucking usual? Destroyer, “City of Daughters”

*** How big was Pearl Jam, in the early ’90s? Consider: on April 9, 1994—the day after their performance in Virginia—the band is invited to meet the President of the United States at the White House. Their tour mates, Mudhoney, decide to tag along, and are intercepted by a White House staffer. Clinton meets the members of Pearl Jam in the Oval Office, where they talk about Kurt’s death; whether Clinton should make an official statement (he would decide against it); and—wait for it—college basketball. “We were cracking jokes,” said Jeff. I’d just been to the Final Four in Charlotte, North Carolina, which he attended to see Arkansas play. Every single person that went to the game had to go through a metal detector, but there were only four or five of them in the arena, and I gave him shit about having to miss the first five minutes of the game because of it. Then he proceeded to talk about the Secret Service and how hard it was for him to make the adjustment; like, he couldn’t drive his Mustang around. We weren’t afraid to ask him anything, and he wasn’t afraid to talk about anything. He was just one of the guys.

It’s hard to tell if Ed was being facetious with the first half of this quote: We were there specifically to find out whether some of the US military bases that had recently been shut down could be used as concert sites. It would have been a way to avoid using Ticketmaster and it would have been a boon to local economics. I was also asked if I felt okay assisting in an official response to Kurt’s suicide, but at the time I was too shell-shocked to offer any help.

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It’s equally difficult to improve on the account Mark Arm wrote for Grand Royal magazine: We were supposed to meet Pearl Jam at their hotel at 10:00 a.m. Realizing we didn’t have much time, I ran down to Matt and Dan’s room for some wake ‘n’ bake, so to speak. On my way out the door I could have sworn I heard Steve mutter, “Fuckin’ stoners! I hated ’em in high school and I hate ’em now.” After that, we hooked up with the guys in “P.J.” (as we call them)—all except Dave, their apolitical drummer, and Eddie, who had spent the night at Ian MacKaye’s house. Then we all piled into a van for the hungover hell ride to the White House. Anyway, Matt brought a joint with him, hoping to smoke it before we got there. The driver told some story about how we should make sure none of us had any pocket knives or anything ’cos he’d heard of a lady who went on a White House tour and the Secret Service had found a three-inch nail file on her, so they threw her in jail overnight. As the driver was saying this, I watched the paranoia slowly overcome Matt. He started digging through his pockets. Out came a pocket knife, which he hid in the seat pocket in front of him. And out came the joint, which he ate. We soon arrived at the White House gate and sat there for ten minutes while Eric (P.J.’s tour manager) tried to convince the van driver to go through the gate. He kept saying, “No sir, I can’t do that, I don’t have the authority.” Eric kept saying, “Yes you do! I have clear and distinct instructions to go through the goddamn gate!!” Eventually Eric went out to get some sort of authority figure, and he finally came back with a Secret Service Agent who escorted us through. We got out of the van and marveled at the fact that we were indeed just outside the White House. We were met there by Eddie and Kelly (P.J.’s manager). Everything seemed real cool, and looked as though we’d finally get to meet Bill, Hillary, and maybe even Chelsea! We soon separated into two groups. Suddenly the Pearl Jam folks were escorted away in one direction by a couple of plump White House staffers, and just as suddenly a tall guy in a black trench coat came up to us and said, “Hi, my name’s Henry. You’re with me now.” We nodded and followed the six-foot-plus Ubermensch as he led us away in the other direction. I looked back over at the P.J. group, and Stone gave us this same look that I’ve seen people give to doomed pups so often at the dog pound, the look that says, “I’d help you if I could. Really, I would.”

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I think Henry could feel our discomfort. He tried to put us at ease by telling us, “You know, I didn’t always look like this. When I was in college, I had purple hair and listened to Depeche Mode.” We relaxed immediately, realizing we were in the hands of a dork. A trained killer, yes, but a dork nonetheless. Actually Henry turned out to be pretty nice. He took us on a special tour behind the ropes. So while thousands of proles filed slowly by, between the ropes, gawking at us on the other side, we were treated to a most deluxe and intimate tour. We flitted from room to room without any kind of restriction of boundary. Suddenly I noticed a small group of grunge kids eyeing us. This went on for a while as we absorbed the interior of our nation’s most grand mansion. Finally, though, one grunge kid asked Steve for his autograph. Steve obliged and called out to the rest of us, “Hey, guys, come on over! Some of our fans want our autographs.” Since none of us are dicks, we went over there to give our John Hancocks to a few fans. Within seconds, the room was overcome with the sound of rustling papers and opening purses. Soon we were in the midst of an autograph frenzy. Little old ladies shoved pens and paper in our faces, screaming, “ME NEXT! SIGN MINE! WHO ARE YOU?!” We freaked.

Oval Office, 1994. Courtesy of ­William J. Clinton Presidential Library. Photograph by Barbara Kinney.

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Sensing distress, Henry told us to follow him, and things died down a bit once we got into the next room. Then a small group of fraternity brothers and sisters started going, “Hey, look, it’s Pearl Jam! Hey, Pearl Jam, give us your autograph!!” Dan looked at them and said, “You don’t want our autograph.” “Yeah we do, c’mon, give us your autograph,” they insisted. “What, are you too good for us or somethin’?” “No, it’s just … We’re not Pearl Jam,” we tried to explain. “Yeah, right!” “No, seriously! We’re Mudhoney—we’re the opening act.” “Very funny!” they laughed. “Ha ha ha! That’s a good one! Hey, Pearl Jam, get back here!” Henry turned a corner, we followed, and the next room we entered was empty. Relief. Once my heart slowed down, my eyes refocused and the ringing in my ears subsided, I could hear Henry saying, “Sure is beautiful, isn’t it? This is where they keep the Presidential crystal and china.” Meanwhile, Matt and Dan (the married guys) were hunched over the Grover Cleveland section. Eventually, Matt turned to Dan and said, “Lovely, isn’t it?” Dan said “Uh-huh,” and Steve stood in the corner, arms folded, muttering, “It’s not very punk.” Henry glared at Steve. “You want punk?” he asked. Next thing you know, Henry is telling us about this guy who walked up to him at the White House gate, said “I’m Jesus Christ,” stabbed Himself in the stomach and began twisting the knife around in His guts, apparently without pain. Henry was forced to wrestle Christ to the ground while another agent grabbed the knife from Him. Jesus unfortunately died later at an area hospital. Another time some dude in a ninja suit came stalking across the White House lawn, swinging his nunchucks. Henry told him to stop but he kept coming. “Twenty feet more and we’ll have to shoot!” Henry yelled. The guy kept coming. “If you don’t stop now, you’re a dead man!” Henry reminded him. Still he kept coming. Henry had no choice but to tell a guard to fire. A sharpshooter did just that and split the ninja’s skull. “Wow, that is punk!” said Steve, fully impressed. “Hey, man, check out Ulysses S. Grant’s crystal whiskey flask,” chimed in Dan. We followed Henry further into the bowels of the White House, and among other things, we saw the Press Room, complete with a handful of bored news types waiting for some kind of announcement. Then we went into the Situation Room. This is where the staff meets with the President whenever a “Situation” occurs. Inside is a long wooden table and a bunch of cushy chairs. Further into the room, around a corner, is another, smaller room, where three guys sit with headsets monitoring televisions and computers.

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There are always three guys in there, 24 hours a day. And if something screwy happens, they alert the President. Henry told us that civilians never get to see the Situation Room and that we are extremely lucky. I bet he says that to every girl he brings here, but I have to admit it’s kinda cool—even if I was expecting something more along the lines of the War Room in Dr. Strangelove. Then Henry took us into another, final room, where we hooked up with the Pearl Jam contingent. They had just met with President Clinton (Chelsea was again at her ballet lesson) and were all sporting Presidential booty. There was some left over, and desperate for mementos, we descended on the pile of goodies. There were Presidential M&Ms (all green), Presidential shot glasses and Presidential post-drink Pep-O-Mint LifeSavers. The Pearl Jam guys had gotten the last of the Presidential ribbed Trojans, I guess.

*** It’s one of the very few things—along with “Jeremy,” and maybe “Even Flow”— that almost everyone who was alive then sort of remembers. Even people who couldn’t care less about Pearl Jam vaguely recall that they were entangled with something or other to do with Ticketmaster—and that it didn’t quite work out. Here’s the short version.* *** In September ’92, as a thank you to fans, Pearl Jam plays—and pays for—a free outdoor show in Seattle. (The bill comes to at least $100,000, and is well worth it. Look up “Drop in the Park” on YouTube: especially “Porch.”) The city of Seattle, quite reasonably, insists on the show being ticketed, to monitor attendance. The band, in turn, inquires with Ticketmaster about its services. The company asks for $1.50 a ticket, to cover its costs—an expense of $45,000, for the anticipated turnout. Pearl Jam opts to print the tickets themselves, and gives them out with the help of local radio. Let’s call this round one. In December ’93, the band negotiates a deal with Ticketmaster’s office in Seattle, whereby the company would match a $20,000 donation to charity as part of Pearl Jam’s year-end shows at the Seattle Center. Minutes before the tickets go on sale, however, Fred Rosen himself tells the band that the donation had been unauthorized, and that a $1 fee would be added to cover the cost. Pearl Jam, apparently, will threaten to cancel; and Ticketmaster backs down, donating $14,000. Let’s call this round two.

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In February ‘94, the band announces their intention to keep ticket prices to $20 for its upcoming tour. It was a quintessentially Pearl Jam proposition: classy, kindhearted, and utterly impractical, if not quixotic. That month, Pearl Jam and Ticketmaster would clash, head-to-head, on four occasions. In Chicago—at both the Regal Theater and Chicago Stadium—the band charges $18 a ticket, only to have Ticketmaster add a $3.75 service fee: a markup of 17 percent. Pearl Jam negotiates a deal to have the service charge identified; and again—an hour before tickets go on sale—the company reneges on the deal. Once again, the band threatens to cancel; and once again, Ticketmaster backs down. For their show in Detroit, one week later, the band attempts to circumvent the company entirely. They reserve 300 tickets for fan club members, and sell the rest in an awkward lottery system—coupons in the local newspaper would be mailed in, along with a Social Security number—that blankets lower Michigan in mail. (They get 600,000 requests—over half of Detroit’s population—for 3,200 seats.) It’s a nice idea, in theory—if only Nederlander, the promoter, didn’t have a contract in place with Ticketmaster. Unsurprisingly, Ticketmaster threatens to sue for breach of contract; and will even go so far as to disable the venue’s ticketing machines, remotely. (This time, Nederlander backs down.) In Boston, like Chicago, Ticketmaster insists on a $3.75 fee. The band proposes another preposterous lottery; and the company agrees to a $1.80 fee. Finally, for their show in New York, the band would once again find a workaround, giving out tickets through the fan club, and local radio. (Allegedly, Ticketmaster threatens the venue with legal action, but fails to pursue it.) Let’s call this round three. *** On March 24, 1994, the head of the North American Concert Promoters Association, Ben Liss, sends a letter to his membership. The subject is PEARL JAM, in all caps. Appropriately, he starts with a sports analogy. The tone of the letter is chummy (“brother raccoons”)—until it isn’t. Dear Friends: Obviously, spring training has begun and it’s going to be a long season. I alerted you last week about the concerns of your brother raccoons on Meatloaf ’s national ad campaign. This week’s topic is PEARL JAM.

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PEARL JAM is putting out feelers once again to require promoters to bypass Ticketmaster on their dates later this summer. TM has indicated to me they will aggressively enforce their contracts with promoters and facilities. Ticketmaster’s stance is that they have been loyal to their partners in this business and they hope & expect their partners will reciprocate. I do not need to remind you that loyalty in our industry is a valuable asset and that long-term relationships depend on it. I know you are very busy and I sincerely hope you are making great deals that will see you through your most successful season ever. Best regards—

*** The following day—March 25th—Ben Liss would send a follow-up: This is an update on the Pearl Jam/Ticketmaster controversy. Fred [Rosen] has indicated that he intends to take a very strong stand on this issue to protect Ticketmaster’s existing contracts with promoters and facilities and, further, TM will use all available remedies to protect itself from outside third parties that attempt to interfere with those existing contracts. TM views the Pearl Jam issue as an all or nothing proposition, meaning they will not agree to handle half the available inventory on a show in any situation where a contract exists [as the Grateful Dead, alone, were allowed]. If asked, you may wish to consider and cite this fact: you and/or your venue have an existing contract with TM which precludes you from contracting with others to distribute tickets. I urge you to be very careful about entering into a conflicting agreement which could expose you to a lawsuit. I know all of you hope this matter is resolved amicably to everyone’s satisfaction. In the interim, you may want to review your situation in preparation for an important decision that you may be asked to make next week.

*** A common misconception is that it was Pearl Jam who initiated a lawsuit against Ticketmaster. In reality, it was the Department of Justice who reached out to the band, and encouraged them to file a memo of complaint. (The department had been following Ticketmaster since 1991, after the company acquired its rival, Ticketron, in a government-approved merger.) On May 6, 1994—through its attorneys, Sullivan & Cromwell—Pearl Jam filed a statement with the Justice Department’s Antitrust Division. In its formal complaint, the band related two concerns: that there was a lack of competition—

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i.e., a monopoly—in the live-music industry, thanks to Ticketmaster’s exclusive contracts; and second, that the band’s touring business had been impeded, as a result. They noted, moreover, that the company’s service charges were effectively arbitrary, ranging from $1.50 for a movie ticket to $15 or more for a concert. Two weeks later, the department sent three officials to start the investigation. *** The news got out on May 28th. Chuck Philips, an investigative reporter, broke the story in the L.A. Times. He noted, correctly, that the band had accused Ticketmaster of operating a monopoly. He added: “After being turned down by virtually every major promoter in the country for bookings, Pearl Jam postponed its summer tour.” That was a bit of a stretch: the reason Pearl Jam postponed its summer tour was because of exhaustion—as well as the death of Kurt Cobain, seven weeks earlier. Philips, who would follow the story closely over the next year, wrote a follow-up on June 8th—and offered room for Ticketmaster’s defense: “I admire any young band who tries to reduce ticket prices, but the service fee just can’t be brought down to the price Pearl Jam is asking,” said Claire L. Rothman, general manager of the Forum. “It’s an unrealistic demand.” Gary Bongiovanni, editor of the national concert trade journal Pollstar, concurred. “Venue owners and promoters aren’t going to just turn their backs on the revenue stream that Ticketmaster provides simply because Pearl Jam wants them to,” said Bongiovanni, reflecting a view expressed privately by several promoters. “And, besides, these surcharges stem from legal contracts.”

It might have remained a concern of the Justice Department, if not for an unusual turn of events. On June 5th—next to opinion pieces about US policy in Asia, and the fiftieth anniversary of D-Day—Bob Herbert of The New York Times devotes his weekly column, “In America,” to the Pearl Jam and Ticketmaster story. Without quite taking sides, Herbert outlines the issue: Pearl Jam is the intense Seattle-based band that has become the top rock act in the country. Ticketmaster is the colossus of American ticket brokers, a tough, aggressive computerized service that sells more than $1 billion in sports and entertainment tickets annually. A bitter fight between the band and the ticket service has now landed in the US Department of Justice and the outcome could change the way tickets to major events are priced and sold.

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Pearl Jam believes rock concert tickets are often too expensive, priced so high that many of the youngsters who most ardently support the music can’t afford to buy them. Top prices for rock concerts have broken the $100 barrier in some venues, and it is common for concertgoers across the country to shell out $25 to $50 per ticket. The price includes the face value of the ticket and a service charge for the ticketing agency that issues it. Pearl Jam, which has a strong teen-age following, has wanted to keep the total cost of its tickets below $20. The band members, fabulously rich now, remember what it was like just a few years ago when they were broke. They empathize with the 50 percent or so of their fans who earn less than $12,000 a year. They don’t think those fans should be frozen out of Pearl Jam concerts. So the band proposed that its concert tickets sell for $18 plus a 10 percent service charge. That was a problem. A $1.80 service charge is well below the average for concert tickets. Such charges often run $6 to $10 each, and sometimes higher. The service charge for a $350 Barbra Streisand ticket was $18. Ticketmaster, to put it delicately, did not find Pearl Jam’s proposal congenial.

And that was where it stayed—until a few days later, when John Edgell, a congressional staffer, picked up the Sunday Times. Edgell—an employee of the Information, Justice, Transportation and Agriculture Committee, which oversaw the antitrust division—read the column, and had an idea. “I read it on Friday [June 10] and said, ‘Holy cow, that would make a good hearing.’ I ran it through the traps and everyone said, ‘Sure, if we can get good witnesses, including Pearl Jam, let’s make it happen.’” *** It’s one of the iconic band images. At nine in the morning, on June 30, 1994, Jeff and Stone are sworn in before a capacity crowd in room 2154 of the Rayburn House Office Building, in Washington, DC. Jeff is wearing a backwards cap, over a bandana—possibly, a first in Congress—while Stone wears an untucked salmon button-down; a pair of glasses, in his pocket; and a student-government smile. “They had to rotate the audience every fifteen or twenty minutes,” said Congressman Gary Condit, from California. “Once people found out that Pearl Jam was in the building, staffers—young people that worked for the government—they lined up and down the halls, encircled the Rayburn Building to get in to see those guys.”

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Testifying in Congress, 1994. Photograph by Shayna Brennan.

Yet another misconception about the Ticketmaster affair is that the politicians failed to take their witnesses—namely, Jeff and Stone—seriously. It’s true that Gary Condit got things off to a depressing start: “No bottles, no cans, no Frisbees or beach balls are allowed at this hearing. Lighters are okay though.” Not to be outdone was Collin Peterson, from Minnesota: “I am probably the only cardcarrying member of the Federation of Musicians up at the table here today. I have never had the kind of problem they had.” And then there was California’s Lynn Woolsey: Woolsey: I have to ask another question that has nothing to do with monopolies. What does Pearl Jam mean or does it have a meaning? Gossard: I am not going to answer that question.

And yet, to read the testimony, it’s not the case that the elected officials fail to ask good questions. On the contrary: Bart Stupak, a Democrat from Michigan, will ask about disclosure of service charges; Karen Thurman, a Florida Democrat, inquires about access in rural communities; Collin Peterson, the resident musician, asks about the radius clause—in which an artist is forbidden from playing in a certain window of dates; Craig Thomas, a Wyoming Republican, asks about the various middlemen—promoter, facility,

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and Ticketmaster—before concluding, quite accurately: “You could get lost in it, I suppose.” Of all the committee members, it was Stephen Horn, a California Republican, who asked the most rigorous questions. Horn: Has Ticketmaster ever refused to sell tickets to your concerts? Gossard: I think this line of questioning is very strange because it seems like what does that really have to do with anything with the issue at hand here, which is whether Ticketmaster is a monopoly. It doesn’t have anything to do with our business or what our relationship is with our manager or record company. Horn: Well, have they ever refused to sell tickets to your concerts? Gossard: I don’t know whether they have or not. Horn: Can your staff answer it? You know, a monopoly is something— Gossard: My staff has said they don’t think so. Condit: You are probably aware that we do have Ticketmaster coming up. Horn: No, but I would like to know from their side … The question is what is a monopoly, how does a monopoly function? You are claiming to be the victims of the monopoly. I am trying to get a feel for what activities alleged to have been done by the monopoly make you feel you are a victim. Now, one would sure make me feel I am a victim if I wanted to sell tickets and they refused to sell tickets to my concert, and I take it the answer is they have never refused; is that correct? Ament: No, you are right.

If anything, it’s the members of Pearl Jam who come off knowing less than they should. Thurman: Are there a lot of other ticket sellers out there? Is there a reason why they have got a monopoly or has this just evolved? Gossard: I wouldn’t be able to answer that question.

(Oops.) Condit himself is the first to question the musicians, and gets directly to the point. Condit: Can you tell us how the ticket prices are set? Who sets the ticket price? Ament: The band does … Before we went on tour last fall we sat around and decided that we never wanted the price of a ticket over the course of the next year or two to ever be over $20, and that is how

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we came up with anywhere between $16 and $18, so when the service charge was tacked on that it would never be over $20. Condit: Do you adjust your fee to accommodate it not being over $20? Ament: Actually, I think in order for us to break even or make money on the last couple of tours we had to set it at $18, and so I think there were cases when the tickets were $21 or whatever, but this summer we just decided that we didn’t want the tickets to be over $20. Condit: To achieve that you work with the concert halls or stadiums or whatever. They receive a fee. You obviously have Ticketmaster, who gets their cut. Do you readjust your fee to get to that $20 or is your expectation for the stadium and Ticketmaster to readjust their profit margin to get to that $20 total? Ament: Well, I think we were willing to talk about that.

Well, yes and no. It was generous and commendable of the band to keep ticket prices affordable, and to relinquish millions of dollars—but it’s not clear why they thought everyone else would do the same. The next round of questions doesn’t show the band at their best. Initially, Jeff seems to mishear: Condit: Why was your summer tour canceled? Ament: I don’t know what the exact date was. Probably about two and a half months ago. Gossard: Did you say why? Condit: Yes, why. Gossard: We didn’t feel like we could coordinate—because of our dispute with Ticketmaster and feeling really the only way we could tour was to sort of go outside and try it on our own, given the amount of time we had and our feelings about security and whether we could actually put on a safe show consistently in these sort of—we could be in outdoor venues, probably in fields and stuff. We just felt it wasn’t appropriate and we should deal with this issue first and focus on recording music. Condit: So your dispute with Ticketmaster is the reason you canceled the tour? Gossard: Yes.

It’s not quite a lie—Ticketmaster was part of it—but it’s not quite the truth, either. Even if the band had gotten the service charge they wanted—it’s fair to say that they were ready for a break, and rightly so. Stone himself would say as much, in

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Pearl Jam Twenty: “The Ticketmaster thing came at a perfect time for us to say, you know what? We can’t tour. It was perfect for us to wallow around in some controversy with Ticketmaster.” *** Everything Pearl Jam was accusing Ticketmaster of was true. In the nation’s major markets—LA, New York, Chicago—it was a choice between playing a world-class arena like The Forum, or a makeshift field on Randalls Island. To their credit, Pearl Jam tried—not once, but twice—to find a way around. When they could have easily gone along, and acquiesced—as, indeed, any band their size would have done, without raising an eye—they complicated their own existence, enormously, and looked for an alternative. In 1995, they booked a tour in out-of-the-way places: Casper, Wyoming; Red Rocks, Colorado; Park City, Utah; Las Cruces, New Mexico. (Today, the booking of festivals in out-of-the-way places is a cottage industry; at the time, it was considered an embarrassment.) The following year, they assembled a tour that would play eleven cities: Seattle, Toronto, New York, Fort Lauderdale, and Charleston, among them. In so doing, they would only end up proving Ticketmaster’s point—that a band was free to tour and ticket their shows without them. Nevertheless, by the time Yield was released, in 1998, it had been five years since Pearl Jam played Los Angeles—a situation bizarrely of their own making. Let’s give them some respect: at the time, it didn’t seem nearly as far-fetched for the world’s biggest band to go on tour without Ticketmaster—a company a fraction of its size today. Moreover, there were quite a few artists who initially pledged their support—only to leave the band in the wind. “What Pearl Jam is doing is precedent-setting,” Pam Lewis, manager for Garth Brooks, told the Chicago Sun-Times. “Garth and I support the band, and we’ll help in any way we can. We think greed is ruining the business and encourage others in the industry to rally to Pearl Jam’s defense.” (Lewis clarified her remarks in a letter to Fred Rosen: “Garth Brooks does not have a quarrel with your organization, and I hope my comments did not make it appear as though that was the case.”) Peter Buck of R.E.M.: “I don’t like Ticketmaster, but I also am not going to not tour … I’m not going to cripple my band just because society is not run the way I like it.” Tim Collins, Aerosmith’s manager, was more succinct: “I mean, how many years does Aerosmith have left?” ***

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The hearings continued for four hours, and adjourned at one in the afternoon. (Also called were the managers of R.E.M. and Aerosmith; the music writer, Dave Marsh; and Fred Rosen, of Ticketmaster.) It would be one of two congressional hearings that summer and spring to make regular headlines. (In April, tobacco executives had testified, under oath, that nicotine is not addictive, but that they would prefer their own children not to smoke.) For the next eleven months, the Justice Department spoke to musicians, concert venues, and promoters in multiple states. There were interviews with ticketing companies, touring agencies, and general managers. More often than not, the department would hear the same thing: that the venues had willingly entered into a contract with Ticketmaster; and moreover, that they were pleased with the service. (They were earning a dollar a ticket; they had every reason to be.) “Before Ticketmaster came onto the market, every promoter in the country was unhappy,” an LA-based promoter told the Times. “Ticketmaster completely rewrote the rules and improved everything. They revolutionized the way tickets are distributed. I think the problem is that when anyone gets as big as Ticketmaster is, they just become a target for critics.” On July 5, 1995, the government issued a short statement: “The Department of Justice announced today that it has informed Ticketmaster Holdings Group, Inc., that it is closing its antitrust investigation into that firm’s contracting practices. The Department will continue to monitor competitive developments in the ticketing industry.” The following day, at a press briefing, Attorney General Janet Reno was asked about the announcement. “My understanding is that the division found there were new enterprises coming into the arena and based on that evidence … we do not have a basis for proceeding.” And that was it: three sentences—at a cost of $100,000—after the band’s legal expenses. *** It was gutsy of Pearl Jam to go to the mat with Ticketmaster. When they could have been charging two or three times what they did—and playing only arenas—they were engaged in a lengthy, laborious, and costly legal dispute. Just when the band had reached peak visibility, they took themselves off the road— perhaps unwisely—and partly to prove a point. While their contemporaries were vilifying corporations in song—Fugazi, Rage Against the Machine—it was Pearl Jam, perversely, who was leading the charge.

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And yet—for all the good it would do—they were effectively tilting at windmills. As Bertis Downs, R.E.M.’s manager, said in his testimony: “If you want to do a major tour, a major arena-level tour in major markets, you have no choice. Ticketmaster comes along with the building. It comes with the building the same way concessionaires do.” If the band had insisted on concessions being $5; that only vegetarian fare be served; that only a certain brand of pizza, or beer, or whatever, be on offer—it would have been seen as an overstep, and rightly so. *** Then again: it was always unlikely the Department of Justice would decide against Ticketmaster—especially during the Clinton years. This much became clear after the midterm election. In May of 1995—only weeks before the Ticketmaster decision is announced— The New York Times reports that the media industry “have seldom met more receptive lawmakers. Committee Republicans have held numerous meetings with industry executives since January, at which they implored companies to offer suggestions about the ways that Congress could help them.” The result—at the urging of ABC, CBS, NBC, News Corp., and their respective lobbyists— was the 1996 Telecommunications Act. Nearly four years in the making, the bill would deregulate every form of media in the United States: newspapers, radio, television, and the internet. As it was first presented, the bill would encourage competition; monitor the internet, with “V-chips”; and deregulate cable rates. In its final form, it would allow corporations to expand their footprint in almost every medium and market, thereby upending the structure of the live-music industry as a result. Prior to the 1996 bill, a company was allowed to own up to forty radio stations, and only two per market. After, they could own an unlimited number—and up to eight in the same market. One of the beneficiaries was Robert Sillerman—a billionaire who made a fortune buying some eighty stations, and combining them to form SFX Broadcasting. In the fall of 1996, SFX began acquiring major concert promoters across the United States. Sillerman bought out the New York-based promoter Ron Delsener for $27 million; the legendary Bill Graham, in San Francisco, for $65 million; and the Contemporary Group, based in St. Louis, for $90 million. By the end of 1998, SFX had spent more than $1 billion in acquisitions, and owned 80 percent of the American live-music business. It was the largest operator of facilities in the US, with sixty-nine venues in twentyeight different markets. It would produce 5,000 concerts and an equal number

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of theatrical events. In 2000, Sillerman sold the company—which was heavily in debt—to Clear Channel, for $4.4 billion. Five years later, it was sold again, and spun off, as Live Nation. In January 2010, the Justice Department approved a gargantuan merger between the two biggest entities in the live-music business, Ticketmaster and Live Nation. Over the objections of consumer advocates—who pointed out that service charges were likely to go up further—the two companies were allowed to consolidate, after an extensive investigation, similar to the one conducted in 1991. The new Live Nation Entertainment would own and operate 140 venues across the world, and sell an estimated 140 million tickets a year. Almost ten years later—in December 2019—the Justice Department announced it was opening yet another inquiry, alleging that the company had coerced venues into using Ticketmaster. *** One last thing. As someone who is fortunate—if that’s the right word—to earn a living in live music; as someone who is happy, more often than not, to see extortionists tarred and feathered; or simply, as someone who’s bought a few tickets in the last two decades, my sympathies—obviously—are with Pearl Jam, for engaging the vampire corporation known as Ticketmaster. And yet: as someone who believes, firmly, that Pearl Jam made their most substantial music during this period—’93 to ’98—you wish they’d picked a less utopian fight; or—I’m sorry to say—never bothered in the first place. That is: if the same amount of work had gone into recording an album—or even a few—there’s no telling what they might have achieved at this point in their development. As it turned out, they would spend their most exceptional years, not performing, or participating, but learning about portable toilets—when they might have easily made another two or three albums, the equal of Vs., Vitalogy, or their best, No Code.

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He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night. The Great Gatsby

Pearl Jam folks are an easygoing bunch. Unless you’re legitimately being a jerk— and there is some of that—it’s a laissez-faire kind of crew. Nevertheless: when conversation turns to the band, there’s only one sure way to start an argument, or to cause visible discomfort. As with so much else in our society, it’s a source of bitter disagreement, even venom—and a debate you don’t want to get in the middle of at the dinner table. What’s the easiest way to provoke a room of Pearl Jam people? Ask them about drummers: Dave Abbruzzese (1991–94); Jack Irons (1995–98); or Matt Cameron (1998–present). *** If you wanted to write a book about enthusiasm, inexperience, and the unkindness of fate, the career of Dave Abbruzzese would be an excellent place to start. From the Boston Globe, April 13, 1994: Pearl Jam blended into the backdrop of Harvard Square so much during their stay at the Charles Hotel that the shopkeepers at Vilunya Folk Art didn’t even know it was drummer David Abbruzzese who wandered in Monday to buy a wooden Indonesian calendar. Abbruzzese, spotted in the hotel lobby yesterday, called Cambridge “a mellow place; there’s lots of cool stuff to do around here.” He was voted friendliest band member by folks in the Square who met the band. Shop owners Vilunya Diskin and Ellie Hendrie said the calendar Abbruzzese

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bought, for about $100, is one-of-a-kind and is good for keeping dates for four years. Hmmm … Pearl Jam concert tour, 1998, perhaps?

*** Most rock drummers are boring. Or, rather: few are consistently fun to watch. It’s puzzling: compared to guitarists, or singers, most drummers hold the same visual interest as professional golf. There’s a reason why Spinal Tap had a series of drummers, many of whom combust onstage. Personal, imaginative, colorful: good drummers are all these things, but there are almost none you would pay to see on their own. Brendan Canty from Fugazi is one. Greg Saunier from Deerhoof is another. Dave Abbruzzese is a third. There is, unfortunately, a very good opera to be written about the life of Dave Abbruzzese, and one with an extravagant array of cymbals, and arias in Italian. Unlike the more infamous examples of drummers’ indulgence—Keith Moon, or John Bonham—his firing is pedestrian, and all the more a pity. Dave will be dismissed, not for drugs, or drink, or because of his drumming. (If anything, his final shows, in April ’94, are among their most cherished.) Dave gets fired, in a word, because he got on Ed’s nerves—and there doesn’t seem to be much more to it than that. “I never sensed that Dave fit in,” photographer Chris Cuffaro told Kim Neely. “In a weird kind of way, Dave was too normal for the band. All Dave wanted to do was have fun. He wasn’t so uptight and hung up on every little thing—he was just like, ‘Hey, I wanna play drums, I like being in a band.’” Robert Christgau once wrote that Ringo Starr was “our representative” in The Beatles, by which he meant the band’s most human member, and biggest fan. If this is right, then Dave was surely our representative in Pearl Jam. *** On YouTube—where else?—there’s a wonderful series, entitled “Pearl Jam: The Saga.” It’s clearly the work of a demented and brilliant fan. As far as I know, The Saga runs to three installments, each about four minutes, and numbered— mysteriously—episodes three, four, and five. (I’m ashamed of how much time I’ve spent looking for one and two—if they even exist.) Anyway: episode three is “Stone Gossard fires Dave Abbruzzese.” Episode four is “Stone tells Eddie that he fired Dave for him.” And episode five is “Eddie hires Jack Irons.” In each episode, the band members are animated, halfway between LEGO and Toy Story; seated, in a nondescript café; and speaking in computerized voices. Improbably, Ed is sporting a vest; a ski cap; and a goatee, which—as a few

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commenters point out—is at least a decade early. Stone is wearing a striped shirt, and a studious expression; Dave is in a cap and a hoodie, with weirdly blond hair; and Jack Irons is wearing only underwear—as he explains, because he was just with the Chili Peppers. It sounds idiotic—and believe me, it is. Even so: for the Pearl Jam fanatic—or anyone needing a laugh—it’s tempting to give you the transcript of “Pearl Jam: The Saga” unabridged, even with two episodes missing: it’s that funny, irreverent, and informed about exactly what was happening—artistically, and otherwise— at this all-important juncture. Here’s an excerpt from episode three, when Dave and Stone meet for waffles: Dave: I really can’t wait for Vitalogy to come out … This tour is gonna be awesome. Stone: Yeah, about that. Dave, I’m sorry to say this. You’re out of the band. Dave: Good one, Stone. Stone: No, seriously. You are out of the band. Dave: I don’t understand. What do you have against me? Stone: Dave, I don’t have anything against you. Dave: What the fuck, Stone? You just said I’m out of the band. Of course you have something against me. Stone: I’ve been told to tell you that you are out of the band. Dave: What do you mean, you are told? Are you hearing voices or something? Stone: I mean, the band wants you out. Dave: What do you mean? I was hanging out with Mike just two weeks ago, playing Nintendo. He wants me out? Stone: No, Mike loves you … It’s Eddie. He really doesn’t like you. Dave: Why the fuck isn’t he here telling me this? Stone: I don’t know. I think he’s surfing. Dave: What the fuck? He should be here for something like this. This is kind of important. Stone: Yeah, no. Ed just couldn’t be here. Dave: So this is mostly because Eddie has a problem with me? Stone: Yeah, pretty much. Dave: Why doesn’t he want to talk about this? He talks to the crowd about fucking anything on the top of his head every night. We could probably fit another three songs in our setlist if he didn’t ramble. But now, not a word? This is fucked up. Stone: Yeah, I’m sorry. Dave: Stone, do you agree this is fucked up? Stone: I do agree with you that this is fucked up, Dave.

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Dave: Then why did you agree to fire me? Why doesn’t Eddie grow a pair of balls and do it himself? He’s good at screaming and rambling. You’d think a guy like that would have some fucking hair on his chest and do this himself. Stone: [pause] I can’t answer that, Dave. Dave: This is so fucked up. I have the stick man fucking tattooed on my arm, too. It’s like I’m branded for life. Stone: I’m sorry, Dave. I really am.

*** As long as Pearl Jam is a going concern, Ed will be its most respected member: for his artistry, character, and charisma. And yet: for the thirty-six months— almost to the day—that he was their drummer, Dave Abbruzzese was the most well-liked. On this point—for once—Kim Neely is spot-on: Fans were stunned to learn that Dave had been fired. The one member of Pearl Jam who had unfailingly found time to sign autographs or stop to talk to concertgoers, the drummer had long been a favorite, and to fans who were unaware of the tension that had been brewing between Dave and Eddie nearly from the beginning, his ouster seemed sudden and unjust, tarnishing the band’s one-big-happy family public image. Three years later, debates would still be erupting regularly over why the drummer was fired, with fans yet to reach a consensus as to whether Dave’s replacement had adequately filled his shoes.

*** In Everybody Loves Our Town, Dave is quoted about the aftermath: I got home and Mike called and Jeff called. I think it was difficult for everybody in the band, except for the one person I never spoke with after that, which was Eddie. The only time I ever had two words with Eddie since I got fired was two or three years later. I was sitting with Alain Johannes from Eleven on the curb after a Chris Cornell show in Seattle, and Eddie came up to us. He said, “Dave Abbruzzese,” and kinda put his arms out in greeting, because he couldn’t hide from me. And I stood up and realized how much shorter he was than I remembered. I think it was a one-armed hug. He started rambling and tried to join in our conversation, and he ended up toddling off. There was a little part of me that would’ve loved to clobber him and another part of me that felt like I already had, just by the fact that I could still sleep at night and I was still proud of everything that we accomplished.

***

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In Kim Neely’s account—and, for what it’s worth, she did get the story from Dave, along with a few ex-associates, with their own axes to grind—the word is delivered with Sicilian cruelty. In mid-August … Dave phoned Kelly Curtis to check in. Curtis, he says, was friendly and happy to hear from him—nothing seemed amiss. Just before they hung up, the drummer says, Curtis casually told him, “Oh, I think Stone wanted to talk to you. You should give him a call.” When Dave got in touch with Stone, the guitarist asked him if he wanted to go have breakfast the next morning. Dave agreed, and the two made plans.

As you might imagine, there’s a good amount of shit-talking: of Kelly Curtis, the callous consigliere; Jeff, for being a pushover; Stone, for disloyalty; Mike, for something or other; and Ed—of course—for being a tyrant, and a coward to boot. But then, you only have to read Dave’s own quotes in Five Against One to see why he wasn’t long for the band: Dave claims Jeff told him the night after he was fired that part of the band’s rationale was his inability to communicate with Eddie. While he doesn’t deny that he and Eddie had a communication problem, he says it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on his part. “There were definitely a lot of arguments with me saying, ‘I wish I could talk to Eddie,’ and everybody getting pissed. Their advice to me was always, ‘Wait for him to talk to you.’ When I tried to talk to him, he’d say, ‘Uh, not now, man,’ and just leave. He’d do that a few times, and then I’d just say, ‘Fuck it.’ You know, ‘Why do we have to treat him so delicately when he makes demands of everyone?’”

Well—because, Dave; that’s why. Here is Stone’s (characteristically diplomatic) account, in Pearl Jam Twenty: Dave Abbruzzese is a gentleman. He is a nice guy and a fantastic drummer, and he added a lot to the band. But he was one individual in a situation where five people had to work it out. There comes times when if a personality conflict is not resolved, sometimes you have to make changes. He was in a situation where the band felt they had to make a change, and I helped facilitate that, because I’m part of the whole. It was a missed opportunity for him, for sure, in terms of not figuring out a way to identify that there was a problem and to move through it; to put yourself in a position where you’re not being kicked out. I think anyone who listens to those records realizes that he is a great drummer. It wasn’t his drumming that was the problem. The problem was that he needed to fit in with a group of five very different, strong personalities and do it in a way that worked with those five personalities. I’m sorry that it didn’t work out. I wish that it had.

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Not surprisingly, this is thoughtful, kind, and well said. Also not surprisingly, Mike gets to the point much more quickly: Dave Abbruzzese was integral in getting us to the level where we were at because he was a really good drummer, and we were out there touring with him. I can’t say that he wasn’t an integral part of us kind of being huge. He fit in at first, and I got along with him. But I think Dave and Ed never really got along.

*** There’s an overwhelming amount of Pearl Jam on YouTube. As anyone who has waded into this ocean can attest, the vast majority of comments from footage made in the ’90s (and well after) will be about Dave—his complete dominance over all other drummers, past and future; and, indeed, the band’s inexorable decline in his absence. From the reasoning, frequency, and punctuation of the comments, you might assume the work of Russian bots; but they appear to be genuine, and the opinions of functional adults. I’m not exaggerating when I say you can choose literally any Pearl Jam video from ’91 to ’94 at random, and discover some variation of the following—all quoted verbatim: Without a doubt. The best drummer that pj ever had holding the drumsticks. THEY NEVER SOUNDED THE SAME AFTER THIS DRUMMER. IN my opinion. Got a gun. Fact I got two!!!!! DAVE you FUCKING rock man! Dave was and forever will be the best ever Pearl Jam drummer. This video excellently portrays Dave Abbruzzese’s drumming prowess. Tell me which other Pearl jam drummer could bring the same grooves and sound as Dave Abbruzzese? Pearl Jam with Dave = Grunge, after the ditched him = crap. I’m not saying the other drummers are bad, they’re just really boring, flat and any one can emulate their drumming. As for Dave? Watch the video and let it do the rest of the talking, thanks. one one musics greatest trajedys,to fire a kick ass drummer ismply because he pulls more fluff than the rest is sick pearl jam have never been as good as they were with dave on the throne hail king dave Even flow has been really painful to listen to, ever since dave stopped playing it! Amazing how a song sounds with the perfect drummer, as opposed to anything else, its just a fast paced song i have no interest in, and its been that way since

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dave left the band! Facts!!!! Dave IS the baddest drummer of the 90’s, and one of the most influential drummers of all time, as the post sais! This version, same as the official video, i awlays wonder, how the hell can anyone, play the original cd version of this song, even that one pales in comparison, to this live version with dave! When i hear the studio version come on, i turn it, i hear a station play this version, i turn it up!!! That about sums it up!! Dave is the hardest hitting but tight and precise drummer i’ve heard he really is a dream drummer … do your own thing dave,fuk PJ this is the fucking best DAVE IS THE FUCKING BEST El mejor baterista que ha tenido Pearl Jam … excelente ritmo y energía PJ in the good ole days … Before EV became Lord Vedder, and took over the band … one of the complaints was apparently Dave’s “rock star attitude” … how ironic … ’coz now Dave is just a great musician out there, playing, grinding, more “Alternative” than Vedder could ever be, while Eddie himself is a millionaire, married to a twenty-something model, rubbing shoulders w/ Hollyweird … what a cliché Pearl Jam with Abbruzzese = 10 Pearl Jam without Abbruzzese = 8,5 Could give a Rats ass about what people say about current and past Pearl Jam Drummers, the Day you left a part of Pearl Jam Died, so can the other players play yes, but the full Energy you brought to the band is and was unmatchable, a fine Example Animal on MTV wow u tore up the set true beauty … Not sure if they ever looked back, but I’m sure it’s still burns inside …. All said Its not fair … It is just not fair.

Maybe there are just as many fans of Jack Irons and Matt Cameron—or Krusen, or Chamberlain—as there are of Dave, and they’re more active elsewhere. It’s possible, but it seems unlikely. *** Like almost everyone who loves Pearl Jam, I was enormously fond of Dave; and on the rare occasion when the band was on TV, it was usually him—almost more than Ed—you would end up watching. Like almost everyone, I loved the way he made the drum kit sing; the preposterous array of cymbals; the way he never came in off-time; or played with anything but abandon and joy. (In other

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words: the way that you would play, if you were lucky enough to be in Pearl Jam; and presumably, if you could.) I must have watched him—not them—a thousand times on MTV Unplugged; memorized every fill, flourish, and solo; and even borrowed a set of sticks, from the orchestra room, to imitate. Now, in fairness—between Matt Cameron, Dave Grohl, Jimmy Chamberlain, and others—the ’90s were a golden age for drummers, as in so much else. But even at their best, it’s hard to think of a more consistently compelling musician to watch on screen than Dave Abbruzzese. That was what I thought at fifteen, anyway, and for most of the next two decades: so much so, that I never quite forgave Ed, for maneuvering Dave— Dave!—out of the band; never gave his replacement a chance; and never thought of Pearl Jam the same way—diminished, somehow—A.D. (If this is overly theatrical, I can only plead to being fifteen.) Indeed: if you had asked me, circa 1994, what I made of their future, I would have said that Pearl Jam, minus Dave, was extinct—like Nirvana without Dave Grohl. (So much for that.) In this misguided belief, I was hardly alone; and in light of everything else that they would soon be mired in—it was easy to see it as an unforced disaster. Listening back—to the tours with Nirvana, the Smashing Pumpkins, and they-that-will-not-be-named; the euphoric peaks of Europe, and Lollapalooza; the ’93 tour; and the tempest of ’94—I’m no longer so sure. Or rather: I’m not so sure it was the worst thing to happen; or that Dave was their best drummer; or even their second-best, if we’re being candid. Don’t get me wrong: Dave was exhilarating; inspiring; and a privilege to watch. Even so, it’s clear that he had his limitations—and not in the songs you might think. Listen to “Rockin’ in the Free World”: not a song that anyone ever needs to hear again, but a structure that couldn’t be simpler; and one that Dave never quite lands. Or almost any improv; or almost any extended jam in “Daughter,” or “Porch.” Or most of the big songs from Ten, from his very first tour, to the last: without exception, they’re played perfectly—almost too perfectly, for a band about to make Vitalogy and No Code. Again: this is not to say that Dave is anything but a brilliant musician: you need only listen to “Go,” “Daughter,” “Blood,” “Rearviewmirror,” “Tremor Christ,” or “Immortality,” which is almost certainly his peak. It’s more precise to say that from the first time Dave sat in with Pearl Jam, something was lost, as well as gained.

20

Self-Pollution Radio, Seattle (January 8, 1995) Revolution is not the uprising against pre-existing order, but the setting up of a new order contradictory to the traditional one. Jose Ortega y Gasset, The Revolt of the Masses; printed on the inner sleeve of Fugazi’s Repeater

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. On November 22, 1994— two weeks after a landslide election, soon to be known as the Republican Revolution—the band releases Vitalogy, its third album, exclusively on vinyl. As with its predecessor, it was preceded by neither a video nor a single. It sells 34,000  copies in one week—a chart record that stands for the next twenty years—at a time when the vast majority of Americans do not buy vinyl. Two weeks later, on December 6th, Vitalogy is released on CD. It will later be certified as the second-fastest-selling album in history—after Vs.—with 877,000 copies in its first week, and goes on to spend five straight weeks at number one. In January 1995, Pearl Jam records an outstanding album—Mirror Ball— with Neil Young. (Ed gives a speech to induct Neil into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, that same month.) These sessions also result in a two-song single, Merkin  Ball, that stands among the band’s most perfect recordings. (More on this, very soon.) Also in January, the band performs on behalf of Voters for Choice, in Washington, DC, and offers its first home broadcast—Self-Pollution Radio—from a house in west Seattle. (More on this, as well.) In February, the band embarks on its first tour of Asia, with shows in Manila, Bangkok, Singapore, and Taipei, and three in Japan. They play ten different shows in Australia—including a live broadcast from Melbourne—and two in Auckland, New Zealand, in March. (There’s an unreleased documentary from this tour on YouTube—partly shot by Ed.) Also in March, there’s Above, an

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album from Mad Season—perhaps the finest of all Pearl Jam side projects, Temple  of the Dog included—which is the work of Mike McCready, in collaboration with Layne Staley of Alice in Chains, and Barrett Martin of Screaming Trees. Only two weeks after that, the long-awaited anti-Ticketmaster tour is announced. What could possibly go wrong? *** The success of Vitalogy—which would be the second of three consecutive albums to debut at number one—obscured the fact that the band was effectively disintegrating. Pearl Jam had become larger than life. Their relationship with the media and their fans had become more sensational with every passing week; their relationship with each other would never be so strained. Not only did Ed feel unworthy of the attention—the countless bands in Seattle that Pearl Jam had overshadowed—he grew increasingly distraught over what to do about it. Conscious attempts at dismantling their own myth—such as “Not for You”—had only added to the circus. Perhaps, they reasoned, the way forward was to retreat from the public eye. No more interviews. No more videos, or photo shoots, or impersonal football stadiums in Rome. It was not an immediate solution, but perhaps it would return things to scale, little by little, and in the long run, allow them to become, once again, human. The original title for Vitalogy was supposed to be Life, which would have been their first amusing album title—an art for which they’ve shown bizarrely little skill. “Taken from the Epic album: Life” is printed, anyway, in the packaging for “Spin the Black Circle,” the first single. It’s ostensibly a song about vinyl—and by extension, the older way of doing things. Vitalogy, in turn, means “the study of life,” and is taken from a 1927 book that Ed finds at a rummage sale. The irregular album art is a lavish reproduction of the book, at a cost to the band of an extra fifty cents per CD, or $2.5 million, in first-year sales alone. Of the albums that Pearl Jam released at the height of their fame, it’s fair to say that Vitalogy is the least accessible, collaborative, and eager to please; the most uneven, self-indulgent, and consciously opaque. It’s an album of riddles— of lyrics misheard, or misprinted; double entendres; acronyms, allusions, and messages recorded backward. It’s the work of a person who can never quite forget that everything they write, say, or sing will be under the microscope. Pearl Jam’s mode in 1994 was metaphor—saying one thing while meaning another. These

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songs were preoccupied with their own imagined audience—and, if possible, bidding some of it good riddance. Where Ten and Vs. were statements about society, violence, and youth, Vitalogy is about the more private pursuits: intimacy; belief; “little secrets, tremors”; “dedications, naïve and true.” Where the earlier albums were confessional, and highly personal, Vitalogy, at times, is impenetrable—closer to Murmur and Michael Stipe than the Ed we have heard so far. Where those albums were methodically produced, Vitalogy was minimal, and off-the-cuff, as befits an album written on the road: simple songs, recorded quickly. (“Eighty percent of the songs were written twenty minutes before they were recorded,” according to Stone.) What would a shrink say? Vitalogy is a work of relentless morbidity, dwelling almost compulsively on mortality and death. Whether you were a fan or a casual listener, it was difficult to miss the sense of crisis. It sounded like the group who made it was in a bad place—nothing new, perhaps, from the band who gave us Vs. and Ten. But unlike those albums, there was a weariness, a fatigue, an utter lack of redemption, that would have been foreign to the Pearl Jam of 1991. Gone are the anthemic choruses, the singalong riffs, the epic persona. Instead, Vitalogy offers cold comfort: songs about suicide (“Last Exit,” “Immortality”); paranoia (“Bugs,” “Pry, To”); resignation (“Better Man,” “Nothingman”); exclusion (“Not for You”); violence (“Tremor Christ,” “Whipping”); commodification (“Satan’s Bed,” “Corduroy”); and whatever it is “Aye Davanita” is about. This is where the great division came in. Some of us appreciated the weird stuff: the random interludes; the seven-minute noise collage; the tenuous accordion song. Most people picked out the classics—“Better Man” and “Corduroy,” in particular—and never made it to the end of “Hey Foxymophandlemama, That’s Me.” And then there were those—like Stone and Mike—who felt that Pearl Jam had been doing something right, and maybe should have stuck with it. *** It is a time of animosity, division, and discord. In November, an astounding election will explode the balance of power in Washington. A transformational figure—whose rhetoric inclines toward adjectives like “despicable,” “pathetic,” and “sick”—is elected by a broadly disgruntled minority, and a campaign describing its opponents as “the enemy of normal Americans.” According to voters, the deciding issues are law enforcement, the economy, and health care— along with job security, government spending, and illegal immigration.

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Vanquished—if not humiliated—the young Democrat in the Oval Office reaches out across the aisle. In response, the incoming leader calls the Democrats “left-wing elitists” who would be “very, very dumb” to oppose his agenda. In January, the New York Daily News reports that the Republican leader met with Rupert Murdoch, to discuss a $4.5 million book advance; and, incidentally, Murdoch’s media holdings, including the soon-to-be-founded, 24-hour Fox News. It was in this context—on January 8, 1995—that Pearl Jam produced SelfPollution Radio: the unofficial release party for Vitalogy, whose title and recent release are mentioned not even once during the four-hour broadcast. Here is Ed’s welcome. (The audio is on YouTube. I can’t recommend it enough.) Hey. Am I on? Hey, ho—let’s go. Uh: self-pollution. Air pollution. Noise pollution. Pre-pollution. Post-pollution. Face pollution. Hair pollution. Solution pollution. I don’t think so. Not enough—solutions, to our many complex—dilemmas these days. So here we are, broadcasting out from a little place—uh, here in Seattle. Uh—I don’t know if we’ve got—proven answers, to any of the—issues we might, uh— bring up tonight, but perhaps you can take ’em home, and—sort ’em out—think about how you feel. Perhaps, the beginning of change—begins right in your head. Letting your attitudes evolve. And this—evolution takes place, when there’s input. And the reason we bring this up—well, uh—we’ve noticed that our society here in America is opening up their homes to some folks who are overflowing— with input. And we’ve seen potentially dangerous attitudes embraced, and— we’re seeing blatant mistruths, treated like the gospel—and, uh—we’re just doing our little bit here—uh, far from equal time—maybe, to remind, a few of you out there, that you are not alone in your opposition—and that you are not in the minority, when you vote for—change. Now, perhaps, the silent majority is going to have to make some noise. I’ve never claimed to be a—sociopolitical—expert. I guess I feel compelled to speak out on—some issues, for no other reason than the fact that I’ve lived through them. Uh. You know, “live through this”? Well, I have. [laughs] And it’s tough. It’s tough out there. And, uh—a lot of people are just trying to do their best—to survive. And I think, some of the situations being created—or that there are situations being created—that can make that impossible. Again—I can sound like—a politician—and I’m—not. I’m just—a guy. [laughs] And, uh—we’ve got—politicians, behaving like rock stars, and—rock stars, behaving like—well, rock stars will always be rock stars, but—fuck rock

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stars. Tonight—here, we’ve got, musicians. All local, neighbors, and friends. And, uh—we’re going to play for you. They’re going to play for you, live. Uh— in fact, uh—what, uh—what you’ve just endured—is probably the longest I’ll speak, all evening. Uh—a couple issues might resurface—like, protection of women’s—reproductive rights, and even the safety of women, in our society: our mothers, our sisters—girlfriends, wives. But, uh, everyone came to play. And I’m not going to tell you—or divulge just yet, who is playing. But—I’d say you’re pretty lucky. Uh, we’re—glad, you tuned in. Uh—we’ll just spin records, kind of, in between the bands. And— make calls, and take calls, and, uh—Jeff and Stone will come through, and— should be a real interesting night. Anyways, uh—I got a record player, in front of me. And, uh—I’m going to start playing some songs. I’m going to play a song—now, that probably didn’t get much airplay, back in the day—uh, but it’s off the Daydream Nation record, by Sonic Youth, and it’s track one—side one. It’s called “Teenage Riot.” Talk to you guys in a bit.

*** From “Days Between Stations: The Pearl Jam Radio Show,” by Greil Marcus, Interview magazine (April 1995): The strange radio show Pearl Jam put on the air January 8 was the anti-Letterman, the anti-Limbaugh. Still battling the huge fees the Ticketmaster monopoly tacks on to tickets for national tours, and thus not touring with its recent Vitalogy (Epic), the band wired up Eddie Vedder’s practice studio in Seattle, bought four and a half hours of satellite time, invited their friends over, dug out favorite records, and offered whatever might come of it to whatever stations might be willing to broadcast it. Hundreds of outlets picked up the free transmission; you could call it a giant Vitalogy ad, and Pearl Jam did play live from the house, along with Mudhoney, Soundgarden, and the Fastbacks … but if the word Vitalogy passed anyone’s lips, I missed it. There was a lot of ordinary, un-bleeped obscenity (“I don’t know what the fuck I …,” as opposed to “Fuck you”), the main crusades were for vinyl and abortion rights (the former handled as a fetish, the latter as a matter of life and death), and the theme, or undertone, was friendship. Or an imagined community— not “a city on a hill,” more like a city inside it, burrowed in against the enemy outside. “This is just a way,” Vedder said as the night began, in words that may read vaguely but sounded as if he knew, or anyway trusted, that those who were listening would know just what he meant, “for you to express your opposition.” He wasn’t talking about Ticketmaster.

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Vedder played DJ, spinning old favorites … and unreleased tapes (led by two thrilling pieces of hard-core dream-pop by former Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl’s new one-man band, Foo Fighters). There were telephone calls, dropins, a hilarious parody of talk­show-guest groveling. (“Eddie,” said a member of Soundgarden, “I spilled some coffee in the kitchen. I’m sorry. I’m apologizing now.”) On the phone or in the flesh or via answering machine, people sounded completely at home. Any emotion made sense. Val Agnew of 7 Year Bitch talked about Home Alive, an escort service started after Mia Zapata of the Gits was raped and killed on her way home from a show. Kim Warnick of the Fastbacks mused about listening to Dave Grohl’s tapes as she sat beneath a Mayan pyramid in Guatemala. Kathleen Hanna of Bikini Kill needled Mike Watt on his answering machine. (“A twenty-seven-year-old rock star and a thirteen-year-old girl—I don’t know if the phrase ‘power imbalance’ means anything to you … The music coming out by guys right now is—yawn. Like, superfucking yawn.”) Then she demanded he return the Annie soundtrack album he’d borrowed from her, which she knew he’d never played anyway. Eddie Vedder sounded like the mayor of this imaginary town, floating over its real Seattle terrain like the author of this few hours’ Utopia of good conversation, easy banter, great or decent music. He seemed to be the right man in the right place at the right time in this house of inclusion, electronically opened to the country at large, a place where millionaires like Pearl Jam spoke with no more authority in their voices than the Fastbacks, who after fifteen years get by on day jobs. Whatever house Vitalogy takes place in, though, it isn’t this one. Maybe one of the reasons Vedder is so convincing as a public man is that he can be, in his music, so private. And the word private is not strong enough—the right word needs distance, fear, inner reserves of tension and will, drawn on one song at a time, reserves of emotion that may not be there the next time you need them. It’s not just “Not for You,” probably the most powerful recording—certainly the most mysterious—Pearl Jam has made, with its bending inner rhythms, its rejections at times coming across like failed embraces. In “Corduroy,” “Better Man,” and “Immortality,” the band, these guys with their guitars, this bydefinition superfucking yawn, find ways to build upon their melodies and beats until each structure seems implacable—and then, with a power surge, with notes and riffs that barely seem to belong, they find ways to break the clichés of these structures, to call them into question. The music is open, in a way not all that dissimilar to the way the Pearl Jam broadcast was open, but Eddie Vedder is out of this house. When the music is at its most powerful, at its most grounded, he is drifting, alive to the joy of talking to himself, which in moments can feel like

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despair over the chance of finding anyone else to talk to. Which is truer, the broadcast or the album? Is there a contradiction between one and the other? Obviously not, as far as Pearl Jam goes; for those who listen, the metaphors of the open house and the drifting solitary may not be so easy to merge, because they may not be choices, not in life.

*** And Ed’s sign-off: Anyways, uh—I’m gonna go ahead and read you—a memo from, uh—Voters for Choice. Now this was written on, uh—December 30, 1994, from Julie Burton, who’s the national director. I’m just gonna read it here. You can turn this off, if you want, or whatever. It’s no big deal. I’m not preaching. I don’t—[laughs]—I don’t give a fuck. I’m just gonna—read it. “I can’t believe it happened again. How much, do we have to bear? And the sad thing is—it’s not going away. There are fanatics out there who will stop at nothing—including murder—to force their views on us all. Today”—again, this is December 30—“seven people—were the victims of yet another brutal, antichoice attack. Two women are dead. Five are wounded. The assassin entered the—[extended pause]—the assassin entered the Planned Parenthood Clinic of Greater Boston shortly after 10 a.m., pulled a .22-caliber, semi-automatic rifle from a duffel bag, killed the receptionist, and wounded three other people. He continued the carnage a mile down the road, at the Preterm Health Services clinic, where he killed one person, and wounded two more. “The women killed today join an ever-growing list of individuals assaulted for providing critical—and legal—health services to women: Dr. David Gunn— murdered—shot in the back—3/10/93; Dr. George Tiller—attempted murder— shot in both arms—8/19/93; Dr. John Britton—murdered—shot in the head— 7/29/94; James Barrett—murdered—died, escorting Dr. John Britton—7/29/94; June Barrett, attempted m-murder—uh, widowed, and wounded—7/29/94— that was her husband that was killed; and, uh—Dr. Gary Romales—attempted murder—shot in the legs, 11/8/94.” That’s besides the, uh—the seven people last week, or a week and a half ago. “How many more victims will there be, before patients, personnel, and doctors won’t have to face the intimidation of terrorists? Pro-choice forces long have contended that there is a national strategy of murder within the anti-choice community. Recently, we discovered a how-to, terrorist handbook—the third edition in three years—published by the Army of God—and distributed

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nationally. The book provides step-by-step instructions on how to assault clinics with bombs, chemical agents, and other violent means. Since it was first published, attacks at clinics have tripled. “Many anti-choice leaders continue to refuse to take responsibility for their rhetoric, and the violence it encourages.” (If you can, listen close to this part.) “Operation Rescue’s Reverend Pat Mahoney blamed today’s violence on the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances law”—that’s the FACE law—“for opening the doorway to vigilante actions by harassing and intimidating peaceful protesters. As you know, the FACE law is the only law on the books to protect family planning clinics from violence. The solution is not to take away the one small protection afforded clinics.” What they’re saying is, that by protecting them, they’re—[scoffs]—they’re urging them to protest in a more violent way. By not letting them walk in the front door—they’re saying that they create a more violent situation—on the sidewalk. “Now more than ever, we must fight the conservative tide that has taken over Congress. We must elect progressive leaders who will vote for federal funding of US marshals at all clinics.” This is our—we’re protecting what we voted for. “Who will push for more clinic protections, and will—who will advocate [for] better and swifter investigations of anti-choice, criminal extremists.” Um—it’s kinda heavy. I mean—you know, we’re having a good time on the radio, and whatever, but—it’s, it’s good to take care of this stuff, and—you guys should know. And, uh—anyway, here was a quote from, uh—Gloria [Steinem]. “Nothing could be more clear, than this”—and this—this takes it to another level here, so—if you’re still with me, listen close. “Nothing could make more clear—than this Massachusetts massacre—that the deepest message of the antiabortion movement—the deepest message of the anti-abortion movement—is not pro-life, but anti-women. Not mutual respect, but terrorist control. These anti-abortion terrorists continue to show us what they will do. The question is, what the US government, and its voters, will do. Will we finally make clear that the lives and freedom of women of all races are as important as the airlines, the World Trade Center, and other targets that threaten male, as well as female, life—or business as usual?” What they’re saying is, uh—we’ve totally, uh—there were problems at the World Trade Center, we took care of it. There were problems at the airlines, with terrorist activity—we took care of it. Nothing’s been done so far. And there’s—these clinics are obvious targets. It goes on to say, “Will crimes against women finally be taken as seriously as others? Until we see culprits punished

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and crimes prevented, every man and woman in America must make the protection of our community and our clinics a personal priority. If we have to stand guard outside their doors ourselves—we must make sure this never happens again. I pledge myself to that, and I send my deepest sympathy to all who have suffered from this terrorism and my support to all who will protect freedom in spite of it.” Well, there you have it. So we’re gonna, uh—we’re gonna go play next week and see what we can do. Do a little press conference. You know, we—it’s something we all—it’s—it’s just a right. And—we voted on it, it was taken care of, and— uh—I don’t know. It’s hard stuff to think about. Well, I think we’re, uh—I think we’re just about outta here. I’m gonna play one more song, and say goodbye. Thanks for listening and, uh—I’ll try to end it on a better note … Oh, and I’m gonna—uh—like I said, we’ll answer phones tonight, and I’ll answer ’em tomorrow, and I’ll answer ’em Tuesday. Uh, I’ll spend some time, just— seeing how you guys are doing. Uh—area code—206–283–63–53. Call me with your opinions. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you think of us—talking about this kind of stuff. Tell me—tell me real stuff. Don’t—don’t get all nervous when I pick up the phone. Okay?

*** From the February 18, 1995 issue of Melody Maker: Eddie Vedder’s home was recently broken into by a crazed Pearl Jam fan— according to Mike Watt, whose Ball-hog or Tugboat? album features a guest appearance from Vedder among many other celebrities. During his Maker interview last week, Watt claimed: “Eddie told me that a lady broke into his house a few days ago—burned the front door, raided the refrigerator and wouldn’t get out. He had to call the police. Most punk rockers don’t have to deal with that! But Eddie got on the phone with her psychiatrist before he called the police. That’s the kind of guy Eddie is, but people aren’t going to know that unless they meet him. He’s really a down-to-earth guy who kind of won the lottery. His band got all big, but I think he’d still be the same kind of guy if his band hadn’t gotten big.” However, spokesmen for both Seattle police and Pearl Jam’s label, Epic, denied all knowledge of the incident last week.

***

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From Keith Cameron’s Mudhoney: The Sound and the Fury from Seattle: Seattle’s magnetic appeal for grunge rubberneckers—as Steve [Turner] puts it, “all these bozos suddenly walking around looking like Chris Cornell”—took on more sinister aspects. Eddie Vedder became an increasingly reclusive figure, living with 24-hour security. He had issues with stalkers. One day, a woman drove a car at 50 miles per hour into the wall of his house (she survived). Vedder wrote a song about the situation, wherein he loses his house keys, walks to the supermarket, but finds people staring at him; having found his keys, he returns home to find his door open and inside there’s a woman who claims he raped her and fathered her son. The song was called “Lukin”; in order to escape the madness, Vedder would go to Matt Lukin’s house, sit on a stool in the kitchen, and drink beer. Lukin’s was his safe haven. “He was too afraid to go home because that girl might be there,” says Matt. “We’d get drunk in the kitchen and goof off. And I don’t know if he likes me because I flip him shit once in a while—y’know, he’s a big rock star and I’ll give him shit about him and his band or whatever. Maybe he appreciates the honesty. You never quite know where everyone stands when you’re in a position like him—are they being nice to me because I’m famous? Or are they genuinely being nice to me? He realizes I’m somewhat genuine, because I don’t kiss his ass.”

*** From “Do the Evolution,” by Anthony DeCurtis, in Revolver magazine (1999): Vedder is about to continue when, distracted, he comes to a halt. “Someone’s ringing the bell, and I can’t see who it is. Can you hang on a second?” He assumes a theatrical whisper. “It might be a stalker. This might be really good, if we get this on tape.” It occurs to me that when I asked the band in New York to identify the single most unsettling thing about their success, Vedder instantly replied: “Death threats—that’s one little thing.” He’s quiet now, so I ask what he’s doing. “I’m peeking through a little porthole.” He’s silent again. “It’s no one I know, so okay, I don’t think I’m required to answer it.” I start asking another question, but Vedder, unable to get the intruders out of his head, blurts out gleefully, “I know, it’s the ATF!” It’s a reference to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the governmental agency whose 1993 attack on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas, resulted in at least four deaths and 16 injuries. “I should hide the bong really quick,” he jokes.

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In a more serious tone, Vedder starts talking about PJ’s upcoming tour, about being in a rock and roll band on the road in a time when rock and roll is nowhere near the dominant musical force it once was … The doorbell rings again. “So I’m ready to go,” he says, trying to focus and coming back to the tour. “Anything to get me away from these crazy people at my door!” He laughs again, a little too loud, then calms himself. “Actually, these folks look fine. I’m sure we’d have a decent conversation, but I’d rather not have it take place at my house. I’ve had problems in the past.” The bell rings again. “Boy, tenacious, aren’t they?” Vedder says. “Should I call the cops? Maybe I should invite them in and have them throw away some of these wet tissues.” We continue talking for a while, and the ringing finally seems to stop for good. As we exchange pleasantries and start to say goodbye, Vedder suddenly suggests, “Hey, those people probably left a note. Shall we go read it?” Then he adds, “Cover me.” I hear him trot down the stairs, walk to the door and undo the lock. “Aw, see, now I feel terrible. ‘I’ve walked about ten miles today hoping to see you,’” he reads aloud. “‘We came all the way from England. Please, could you call us at our hotel so we could have your autograph before we go home?’” “Oh well,” he concludes, sighing. “You just never know, you see? But this is where I live. I gotta … I don’t know. Maybe next time.”

*** It was an eventful spring and summer. On March 31, 1995, in Corpus Christi, Texas, Selena, the 23-year-old singersongwriter, was shot and killed by her fan-club president, Yolanda Saldivar. On April 3rd, tens of thousands paid their respects; and nine days later, Texas governor George W. Bush declares Selena’s birthday a state holiday. That same evening, in Tempe, Arizona, Ed will embark on a tour—unannounced—playing guitar with the legendary Mike Watt, in a band that also includes Dave Grohl. After a few days, the word gets out. The shows are bombarded by Pearl Jam people—and the crusty old punks who despise them. According to Watt: “It was kind of naïve, maybe, for us to think that people would just take it as dudes playing. The hype was something I wasn’t used to.” After a few shows, Ed comes off the tour. In April, the Oklahoma City bombing took over 160 lives, and injured almost 700 others. The country was still recovering when a new crisis erupted in June.

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A letter to the San Francisco Chronicle, threatening to place a bomb on an airliner flying out of Los Angeles, single-handedly disrupted the postal service. In a letter to The New York Times, the writer said he would resume sending package bombs unless the paper published a 35,000-word manifesto. In July, Bosnian Serbs overtook UN forces in the town of Srebrenica, and eventually massacred over 7,000 men and boys. A debilitating heatwave takes the lives of over 700 people in Chicago. And in Washington, a young intern by the name of Monica Lewinsky would start her first day at the White House.

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Soldier Field, Chicago (July 11, 1995) If you want a long career, you have to drive people away now and again, so they realize they miss you. Elvis Costello

If there’s a low point in the band’s professional life—that is, before Roskilde, in 2000—it begins in 1995. In April, they announce a fourteen-date, three-and-a-half-week tour— using ETM, a ticketing startup—that opens in Boise, Idaho, on June 16th. The summer tour will be the first by a major group to play non-Ticketmaster venues, exclusively, from Red Rocks, outside Denver (9,000 capacity), up to Golden Gate Park, in San Francisco (54,000). The itinerary has them playing in unconventional venues—a ski resort in Lake Tahoe; an amphitheater in Utah; an arena in Las Cruces, New Mexico. That was the idea, at least. (The first is moved, to Sacramento; the second, rained out; and the third, eventually canceled.) “Pearl Jam is back and we’re trying something new,” Kelly Curtis told the L.A. Times. “I hope the fans will be patient because we’re bound to have a few hiccups with this new ticketing system as the tour unfolds,” a statement that would prove itself prophetic. “But if things work out the way we plan, we’ll probably announce more shows before the summer is over.” On April 10th, the L.A. Times offers Ticketmaster the chance to respond to Pearl Jam’s independent tour. In a feisty editorial—entitled “Pearl Jam’s ‘Crusade’ Was Pointless”—Alan Citron, a senior vice president, pointed out that ETM was charging service fees that were essentially identical: $2 to $2.50, compared to “Ticketmaster’s offer of $2.25 to $2.50.” That was a stretch. (Ticketmaster had insisted on $3.75, the previous year—and resisted all efforts to identify that service charge.) He pointed out, as well, that the band was able to set up

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a national tour without Ticketmaster—thereby invalidating their complaint about a monopoly. (He did have a point there.) “This is like watching the GIs trying to plant the flag on Iwo Jima,” said Scott Stewart, manager for Stone Temple Pilots. “It’s nearly impossible for a band to mount a national tour in 1995 without using Ticketmaster or the promoters and venue operators it has tied to exclusive contracts. If Pearl Jam pulls this thing off, it could kick the door open for us and a bunch of other bands to follow.” It was only a few weeks before the first hiccup. On April 22nd, the band cancels  its first show, in Boise. The issue was their insistence on ETM, when the venue in Boise had an exclusive in place—with a different Ticketmaster competitor—and was charging even less. “We’re frustrated and disappointed,” an official told Variety. “Long before Pearl Jam made affordable ticket prices fashionable, we’ve worked hard to bring concertgoers the lowest ticket price possible. I’m surprised that Pearl Jam professed a certain ideology and then veered off from that stance.” The show would be moved to Casper, Wyoming. In early June, the San Diego sheriff ’s department drafts an eight-page report, urging cancellation of the band’s two shows at the end of the month. Citing a “history of disturbances,” including a recent concert in Florida, captain Chuck Wood told the Associated Press: “I have some very significant concerns that Pearl Jam has had problems at other places. I’m not saying it will happen here. We are being very conservative about this.” To prepare, the San Diego riot squad was rehearsing crowd-control maneuvers at the county fairgrounds. On June 13th—having learned of the sheriff ’s concerns not directly, but through the network news—the band decides to cancel their shows in San Diego. “Why is it so difficult to see Pearl Jam?” asked a fan, not unreasonably. “After this tour, we are going to reassess everything,” Kelly Curtis told a reporter. “We did want to make a point on how difficult it is to tour without Ticketmaster, and we made the point. I think you’ll find that the band is going to do whatever it takes to just play. And if that means they’re going to have to play some Ticketmaster shows, they’re going to play Ticketmaster shows.” Two days later, they decide to reschedule, at the San Diego Sports Arena—a Ticketmaster venue. “I regret to say that it’s impossible for a major rock group to put on a national tour under the current circumstances without Ticketmaster,” Curtis  told the L.A. Times. “In the end, you just have to face the fact that Ticketmaster calls the shots and give in to it. Pearl Jam is living proof that Ticketmaster can’t be beat. If the government doesn’t want to see the problem or take action at this point, I don’t know what else a rock band can do to change it.”

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*** A few North American newspaper headlines from June 15, 1995: “Pearl Jam admits defeat in ticket war” (Springfield News-Leader, Missouri) “Pearl Jam bows to Ticketmaster” (The New York Times) “Pearl Jam calling off its rock ‘n’ roll rebellion” (Rochester Democrat) “Pearl Jam caves in, to the displeasure of many” (The Record, Hackensack, NJ) “Pearl Jam cries ‘uncle’ in dispute with Ticketmaster” (Chicago Tribune) “Pearl Jam gives up crusade; canceled dates rescheduled” (L.A. Times) “Pearl Jam may use Ticketmaster venue” (Hattiesburg American, Mississippi) “Pearl Jam realigns with Ticketmaster” (Quad-City Times, Davenport, Iowa) “Pearl Jam surrenders in ticket war” (Edmonton Journal) “Boycott unjammed” (Honolulu Star-Bulletin) “Group jams at alternative venues” (The Tribune, Seymour, Indiana) “Jam World” (Atlanta Constitution) “Those tickets for Pearl Jam good after all” (Escondido Times-Advocate) “Ticket jam forcing Pearl Jam to work with Ticketmaster” (Arizona Republic) “Ticket truce: Pearl Jam agrees to use Ticketmaster” (Detroit Free Press) “The Jam is back [sic]” (Manhattan Mercury, Kansas) “TicketMaster of Pearl Jam’s fortunes [sic]” (Vancouver Sun) “BOOYAH: Getting out of a jam” (Green Bay Press-Gazette) “Just can’t beat ’em” (Hartford Courant)

*** The Jam was back, indeed; but not with Ticketmaster—contrary to reports (and, apparently, the band’s own manager). On June 16, 1995—having released Vitalogy almost seven months ago—Pearl Jam opens its belated US tour in Wyoming, at the Casper Events Center. Here is Ed’s welcome: Hey. [Applause.] Alright, you all got in. The tickets worked. [Cheering.] It’s nice to be here. I don’t know if you heard—in New York and Los Angeles, they’re uh—in the papers, they’re sayin’ that we, uh—uh—we surrendered to Ticketmaster, and all that kind of thing. That’s—that didn’t happen. [Booing.] Take my word, that’s a lie. [Applause.] So, uh—that’s New York and Los Angeles. We’re in Casper, so we don’t give a fuck about any of that stuff. [Widespread approval.] So anyway, we’ll play some music for ya. Songs you never heard, and uh—some you’ve heard, like, 100,000 times. I guess we’ll begin now.

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With much of the national media in Wyoming—including Robert Hilburn, of the L.A. Times—it would have been easy, and perhaps wise, for them to open with a surefire favorite. As it happened, they would open with an elegiac ballad, recorded in late January, and being played for the first time, entitled “Long Road.” *** “Long Road”—along with its companion, “I Got Shit”—is from a period when the band can do no wrong. (Aside from going on tour.) The two songs are recorded during the sessions for Mirror Ball, with Neil Young; and, aside from one or two efforts by Neil—“I’m the Ocean,” in particular—are easily the best of the bunch. Call it the hot hand, or the conclusion of three albums in four years. In the Merkin Ball songs, Ed is working with an authority and instinct beyond even that of Vitalogy. (It doesn’t hurt that he’s playing with Jack Irons, Brendan O’Brien, and Neil Young.) Unlike Vitalogy, however, the songs on Merkin Ball are deeply confessional, and exposed; the lyrics, first-person; and the music, alternately resolute and resigned. At a show in San Diego, in July 2006—during a tour in which the war in Iraq is never far from the surface—Ed introduces “Long Road” as such: Think about your lives, will ya? And, uh—if you have one teacher—that really meant something in your life—and it changed your life—raise your hand—let me see. Keely, let’s see the lights. [Lots of hands and applause.] So—not that I was expecting that—that’s actually a higher percentage—than to be expected—but, really, if you see that around you—you think of all the billions of dollars spent on other efforts, and you think that education should probably be first off—[cheering]—to create a better—more intelligent, loving, caring— especially, here in the US, where we have the opportunity to lead. And if we can do it with an artistic, and intelligent sensibility, you can only imagine—the way things would be different. So anyways—I just wanted to tell you a story—about, uh—my experience, if I may. And, uh—I had—I had—a teacher—who, uh—who got me through some things, and taught me so much, and—a lot of us were touched by him. And, uh—it was a hard touch. He’s still with us today. Through a campaign of letter-writing—there was a small campaign that came together—and we are getting now a theater in Encinitas, in North County, named after my teacher. [Cheering.] So there’s going to be a theater—in North County, up in Encinitas, called the Clayton E. Liggett Theater. And some of the money from tonight’s

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tickets go to that—and we’re really proud of it—and thank you for participating— [applause]—in making me proud. Now, uh—my friend—and, uh—and mentor, Clayton—he’s no longer with us. But he still lives inside of all those that he touched. And—I just wanted to— ’cause, I remember, when I got the call, that he had passed. We were actually in the studio with Neil Young. We were recording a record called Mirror Ball. And we were in the back room. We were having dinner. I think it was Japanese food. And, um—and it was Neil, and the guys. And we got this phone call. And as soon as I heard who it was—I knew what it was. And, uh—after I heard the news—even though it was Neil—and the guys—I just had to leave the room. And I left the room. And I went into the studio. This empty studio. And, uh—I picked up a guitar. I think I was looking for someone else to talk to—outside of the conversation—but there was no one—but this guitar. So I picked it up—and I hit a chord—[plays the start of “Long Road”]—and I hit the chord again. [Plays it again.] And I think I was trying to, like—ring a bell, right? [Plays it again.] I was trying to ring a bell—to—to say that, uh—we lost one of the good ones. This is an important moment—in history, and we lost one of the good ones. So I kept hitting the bell. For, like, eight minutes. Ten minutes. Then the other guys, and Neil, they came into the room. Without saying anything—or anything. They just picked up their instruments. And started hitting the bell with me. We were all recognizing—we were all ringing the bell. And I went up to the mic and then this song happened, yeah?

*** The version of “Long Road” that was released on December 5, 1995, on the second side of Merkin Ball, is one of Pearl Jam’s all-time great recordings; and yet, it’s not even the best recording of the song. In 1995, Ed gets a letter from the actor, Tim Robbins, about a film he intends to direct. Based on the true story of Helen Prejean, who ministered to prisoners on Death Row, in Louisiana, Dead Man Walking was released in late December, starring Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon. The film was well received, grossing $80 million at the box office, and winning Oscar nominations for Penn and Robbins, along with an award for Best Actress to Sarandon. But for this listener, at least, the real interest is the soundtrack—namely, the sixteen-minute version of “Long Road” (!) that Ed records with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (!!). Not many singers would make short work of Ed’s abilities as a vocalist. As Ed would be the first to admit, Nusrat was one. Born into a family of musicians

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dating back over six centuries, he was the preeminent singer of the religious music known as Qawwali—in which performers would ecstatically chant, keen, and wail, for hours at a time. Famously perspiring, morbidly obese, Ali Khan performed at a music festival in London in 1985, and became an instant phenomenon. In 1988, he was featured on the soundtrack to Martin Scorsese’s Last Temptation of Christ, during the climactic moments of the Passion. But it was the two songs he recorded with Ed—“The Face of Love” and “Long Road”— that brought him to the awareness of a new generation. On a segment for NPR, in 2010, Bilal Qureshi, a journalist, would write: I still remember buying my first album. I was eight and living in Islamabad. It was a bootleg cassette that opened with a guitar riff, and then came that voice … What he did with that curiosity made his songs the anthems of Pakistani life. But when my family moved to the US two years after I bought my first Nusrat album, I remember stashing it away in a drawer. I wasn’t planning to pass around this “native” music among the high school crew. But then Nusrat resurfaced in my American life. Oliver Stone featured his music in a film. He sang with Eddie Vedder and Peter Gabriel. And when he performed in New York and Houston, he was met with rapturous reviews. His success defied my assumptions about what someone from that part of the world could mean to listeners here.

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan died in London on August 16, 1997. The following year, at the Shrine Auditorium, in LA, Tim Robbins organized a benefit for an anti-death penalty group, at which Ani DiFranco, Tom Waits, and Lyle Lovett perform. Last to take the stage was Ed, who came out solo, playing two songs: “Trouble,” by Cat Stevens, and “Dead Man,” from the soundtrack, the latter joined by Jeff. For the next two songs, they would play with a few very special guests—a term easily abused, but quite appropriate here—including Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, Nusrat’s nephew; tabla virtuoso Dildar Hussain; and only slightly out of place, John Densmore, drummer for The Doors. They play “The Face of Love” and “Long Road.” The video is on YouTube. The music speaks for itself. In September 2001—when many were looking askance at their neighbors from the Middle East—it was not a coincidence that Ed and Mike would play “Long Road,” at the concert for September 11, America: A Tribute to Heroes. Aside from being their most mournful and meditative song, it was the rare authentically popular effort to expand awareness of Islamic music. ***

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Casper is a triumph—and one the band gets to enjoy for all of an afternoon, before their show in Park City, Utah. From the local sheriff report: Wolf Mountain’s first concert of the year, which was to have featured Pearl Jam on June 17, was rained out, but the event still attracted a crowd which kept the Summit County Sheriff ’s Department busy. In all, 18 incident reports were filed in the area that night including two drug arrests, the recovery of a wanted person, two DUI arrests, two assaults, one hit-and-run car accident, five other traffic accidents, two arrests for ticket scalping, two lewdness incidents, and one recovered stolen vehicle.

Who said Pearl Jam people aren’t fun? The fan-directed chronology adds a few details: “Show canceled due to a bad hail, rain and lightning storm. PJ promised to return and play twice as long. Sadly, the storm cleared not too long after being canceled.” After Park City, they play two memorable shows, at Red Rocks; another one, in Sacramento; and then, the worst day of their career—for the next half-decade. *** On June 23, 1995, the San Francisco Examiner reports: “Presidents, Nobel laureates, a world-famous rock band and 2,000 bowling alley owners. Everybody who’s anybody is coming to San Francisco this weekend, and all they need is a place to park.” Celebrations marking the fiftieth anniversary of the UN Charter would bring politicians, diplomats, and ambassadors to town—President Clinton, Princess Margaret, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, among others. Adding to the mobs of tourists were 12,000 conventioneers from the Pacific Coast Builders Conference; 4,000 from the National Association of Drug Stores; and another 2,000 from the Bowling Proprietors Association of America. The Examiner added: “Those fortunate enough to have tickets to Pearl Jam’s much-anticipated concert Saturday at San Francisco’s Polo Field must now steel themselves for what promises to be a logistical nightmare: getting to and from the show.” With no parking to speak of, officials suggested taking public transportation. The gates were scheduled to open at 10:00 a.m. “But there won’t be any big video screens, so if you’re far away, that tiny little guy bouncing around at the other end of the field might be Eddie Vedder.” The paper continued: “With Bad Religion slated to begin playing at noon, Pearl Jam will likely take the stage somewhere near 2 p.m. There may be ‘surprises’ in store, according to one report, but the nature of such treats is a well-guarded secret.” ***

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Newsweek, July 9th: When Pearl Jam played San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park on June 24, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, except for the little black one above Eddie Vedder’s head. Looking gaunt in a baggy gray T-shirt, seemingly weighed down by his electric guitar, Vedder led the band through seven songs from their third album, Vitalogy, before announcing that he had a stomach flu and was leaving the stage. “This has been the worst 24 hours of my life,” he said. “I went to the restroom this morning, puking and shitting. That’s it for me. Lucky for you Neil Young’s here.” And with that he left. People simply blinked at each other. For 20 minutes, nothing happened. Then Neil Young showed up. His new album, Mirror Ball, recorded with Pearl Jam, was about to be released, and for the next two hours he played mostly material the audience had never heard. Then Pearl Jam bassist Jeff Ament announced that Vedder would not return, and the crowd, polite until then, booed. Young leapt to Vedder’s defense: “The last time I saw Eddie he was laying on his face.” “He should stay laying on his face,” growled one fan.

*** Philadelphia Inquirer, June 27th: The on-again, off-again Pearl Jam tour is off again. After performing only four full concerts, the Seattle band announced Sunday that it would not finish the much-ballyhooed Ticketmaster-less tour it began June 16 in Casper, Wyoming. Ten dates remained on the group’s 15-concert itinerary. The official reason: the “pressure” of trying to pull together a tour that utilized alternative venues and ticketing. The announcement came a day after singer Eddie Vedder, suffering from severe stomach flu, walked off stage at San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park after seven songs. Neil Young took Vedder’s place and performed with the band for nearly 90 minutes. In a news release issued Sunday by its management, Pearl Jam said that it had hoped “to focus on … music, but instead, has been faced with continued controversies associated with attempting to schedule and perform at alternative venues.” No mention was made of Vedder’s illness. Some in the music industry were skeptical about the real reason for the cancellation. “Whatever the real reason was, it’s probably not in that press

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release,” Gary Bongiovanni, editor of the concert-industry magazine Pollstar said yesterday. “The reasons given … don’t seem valid.” Amy Stevens, promotions director at KIOZ-FM in San Diego, where Pearl Jam was to perform yesterday and today, said fans were not taking the cancellation well. “Disappointment. Disbelief. Disillusionment,” she said, characterizing the mood. Late yesterday afternoon, there were indications that Pearl Jam might change its mind yet again. According to the Los Angeles Times, a source backstage in San Francisco on Sunday said that the band felt that the stress of mounting an alternative tour “would ultimately destroy the band if not dealt with.” The source predicted that Pearl Jam wouldn’t tour for a “long time.” But yesterday, other industry sources speculated that the band could change its mind yet again. “It’s tough being a rock star, I guess,” said Bongiovanni. “Maybe these guys should talk to some of their fans who work flipping burgers so they can go to the shows.”

*** It was true: on June 25th—the day after a riot is averted, narrowly, in San Francisco—the band announced the remaining ten dates of the tour had been canceled. Twenty-four hours later, they reversed themselves, again, and announced that three of the shows—one in Chicago and two in Milwaukee— were back on. Tickets for Milwaukee are handled through Ticketmaster. (The other dates, in the Southwest, are rescheduled for November.) “I’m beginning to think we’re the only band in the world that’s spontaneous,” Kelly Curtis tells the Chicago Tribune. One week later—adding insult to injury—the Justice Department announced it was ending its investigation. At least they have a sense of humor. In Milwaukee, before “Not for You,” Ed addresses the crowd: “I gotta tell ya, my stomach hurts like hell right now.” He puts the episode in Golden Gate Park to good use, in a lyric: “Red Mosquito.” In costume and wig, he joins The Frogs—Milwaukee’s finest—for a pair of songs: “Star Boy,” and “I Only Play for Money,” along with a few offbeat covers—“Maggot Brain” and “Little Wing,” among them. Later on, it’s reported that Mike would go to the hospital after these two shows for dehydration. ***

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It was in this context—on July 11, 1995, two days after Milwaukee—that Pearl Jam played the most important show of its career, in Chicago, at Soldier Field, for 47,000 fans. As is often the case—when the stakes couldn’t be higher; when the band is becoming infamous, if not irrational; and not least, when the show is being broadcast live—the group pulls out a transcendent performance, and a reminder of why we were all going to such trouble in the first place. Among the collectors, this show is treasured: songs from every album, including Merkin Ball and No Code (still a year away); quotations of “Little Wing,” “The Real Me,” and “Another Brick in the Wall.” They play for almost three hours—twenty-nine songs—as is only appropriate: they’re borrowing the Grateful Dead’s stage. (The Dead plays its last show with Jerry Garcia on July 9th at Soldier Field.) In a symbolic passing of the torch, so to speak, Ed will thank the elder group—“there were still joints [on the stage] from last night”— and then perform at least a few songs Jerry would have enjoyed. With Brendan O’Brien on keyboards, the band plays two covers, one an OTOTO (one-time, one-time-only): “Everyday People,” by Sly & the Family Stone; and then— even better, somehow—“Let My Love Open the Door,” by Pete Townshend. (Also appropriate—being in Chicago—the two covers show the range of Ed’s artistic background: the British influence, of The Who, Pink Floyd, and The Beatles; and the African American influence of Sly Stone, the Jackson Five, and Motown.) After “Not for You,” the crowd breaks out in a chant, unprompted: “Ticketmaster sucks! Ticketmaster sucks! Ticketmaster sucks! Ticketmaster sucks!” Ed joins in: It’s up to you guys. We tried our bit. We went for it. [Applause.] That whole thing—I don’t know. Kinda—[pause]—kinda scary. I hate to think that’s the wave of the future. Where—corporate giants, who—I don’t know—some of them can’t be toppled, I guess. But you talk about voting, or whatever. You’re a consumer. You vote every day. [Lengthy pause.] Oh, God. Now you got me all fuckin’ depressed. Thinkin’ about that shit. [Cheering.] The whole band is over that whole fuckin’ thing. We’re just moving on. [EDDIE! EDDIE! EDDIE! EDDIE!] Okay, okay. We didn’t get a lot of support from other—bands on that thing. There was a few. But most of them were kinda—scared to get in the ring. But I gotta say, it seemed like a lot of people were behind us, and for that, we appreciate it. Okay, too much talking. I’m gonna play.

***

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Having played at Soldier Field, the night before—for almost three hours; for more than forty thousand people; and in 90-degree weather—most groups would give themselves the afternoon off. But then, most groups aren’t Pearl Jam. “I was sort of bummed,” recalled Jack Irons. “I was like, ‘Don’t you guys chill out? Man, I’m tired!’ Those guys were really into working at the time. To them, they could pound it on that stage, and the next day they’d be in the studio. I was like, ‘How do you guys keep up?’” On July 12, 1995—amidst a devastating heat wave in the Midwest—the band went back into the studio with Brendan O’Brien in Chicago. In September, a second week of recording would follow, in New Orleans; and in early ’96, in Seattle, a third. It would be the longest Pearl Jam spent on any album their first decade—and the results were obvious. *** Pearl Jam’s entire ’90s catalog—and for some time after—is very good indeed. For me, though, their apex isn’t one of the usual—Vitalogy, or Vs.—but No Code. It has everything: their best love song (“Hail, Hail”); hate song (“Lukin”); ballad (“Off He Goes”); nocturne (“Around the Bend”); parody (“Mankind”); irony (“Smile”); philosophy (“Present Tense”); wit and wisdom; miniature and epic; tenderness and terror. What is most striking about the album is its singularity. They made nothing that sounded like it before; and with only a few exceptions— “Of the Girl,” “Can’t Keep,” “Unthought Known,” “Parachutes”—they would make nothing like it again. My favorites vary, though “Off He Goes,” “In My Tree,” and “Around the Bend” have yet to disappoint. It’s worth considering the range of styles that Pearl Jam would explore with No Code—if only because the albums that come before and after often tend to obscure this period. The sheer breadth is eye-opening. In the span of forty-nine minutes, Pearl Jam offers an encyclopedia of styles, genres, and moods: psychedelia (“In My Tree”), prog (“Present Tense”), power pop (“Mankind”), and pretentious spoken word (“I’m Open”); not to mention garage (“Habit”), blues (“Red Mosquito”), country (“Around the Bend”), hardcore (“Lukin”), and, er, new age (“Who You Are”). Every song on No Code shows a different side of Pearl Jam’s sound. From the opening notes, it was clear that on their fourth album, the band was attempting something new. It’s hardly a coincidence that the opener, “Sometimes,” is the one and only quiet song to open a Pearl Jam record—and the first of a half-dozen mid-tempo arrangements, on their most leisurely collection of songs. The lyrics attracted some flak—“See if you can avoid muttering a yeah, right when, on ‘Sometimes,’ he starts talking about ‘My small self / Like a book

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amongst the many on the shelf.’ Like in what universe?”—and they may have had a point. (Another line, from “Who You Are”—“that’s the moss / in the aforementioned verse”—wasn’t much improvement.) The second song, “Hail, Hail,” is simply one of Pearl Jam’s most exhilarating moments, and Ed’s foremost love letter, “Black” included. There’s a bit of a detour, with “Who You Are”: a song that many assumed to be inspired by Nusrat; but in fact was a Jack Irons composition, from years earlier. And then there was “In My Tree.” “I asked my drum guy to set up my little drum set in a vocal booth,” Irons remembered. I said, “I just want to practice in my own room.” I sat in there, and all of a sudden I started working on this thing … It was a teeny little room, with just enough room for me and this drum set, which was a toy bass drum and some Rototoms. It was a practice set I would use backstage. Then, all of a sudden, something cool was happening in there. I thought, can we put some mics in here? I recorded a bunch of me doing it and sat with it. Then when we came back to Seattle, we put it up and worked the song up from that opening drum bit. Eddie’s the one who took it to the next level.

With its frantic, continuous, accelerating rhythm, “In My Tree” was a breakthrough, and evidence of Jack’s immediate contribution to the band. It was Ed’s most virtuosic vocal, starting in the lower register, and then ascending, vertiginously, toward the climax. It was also one of his better lyrics, with odd syntax (“newspapers matter not to me”), diction (“no more crowbars to my head”), alliteration (“sidewalk cigarettes and scenes”), and imagery (“I’m trading stories with the leaves instead”)—often, in one syllable (“up here so high the sky I scrape”). In this regard, it was the opposite of “Smile,” a Jeff Ament composition, and another fan favorite, whose lyrics are taken verbatim from a letter left in Ed’s dressing room. Of all the tracks on No Code, the most captivating and mature was “Off He Goes.” Ed had written in this mode before—“Nothingman,” “Footsteps,” “Hard to Imagine”—but never so honest and exposed. We all know someone like the protagonist in “Off He Goes.” More than any other song on the album, it’s a lyric that feels like it’s been around forever, and one of only a few Pearl Jam songs whose studio version is superior to the bootlegs. You could imagine Ed in the studio: the chair, the cigarettes, the bottle of wine, the acoustic guitar. With “Around the Bend,” it marks a new level in Ed’s ballad writing, and one that he will extend in the coming year, with a song called “Parting Ways.”

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Another milestone was “Present Tense,” a Mike composition, set to one of Ed’s most affecting lyrics. The song prescribes a faintly Buddhist outlook on life that is—characteristically—both quotidian and magical: “Do you see the way that tree bends? / Does it inspire? / Leaning out to catch the sun’s rays / A lesson to be applied.” The ghost of Pete Townshend hovers over it—from the initials of the title, to the self-searching lyric, to the multipart arrangement. Of the thirteen songs on No Code, only “Hail, Hail” and “Lukin” would become concert staples, with “Off He Goes,” “In My Tree,” and “Present Tense” on special occasions. But No Code is an album best heard start to finish—from the delicate whisper of “Sometimes,” all the way to the dark double meaning of “Around the Bend”—an album that captures in its breadth and range the quality of continuous exploration that their fans most treasure in their music. At its best, No Code is the sound of adults putting childish things away—a radical reimagining of their place in the musical cosmos. It’s the first Pearl Jam album where it sounds as though Nirvana might have never existed. When Ed arrives at the rousing climax of “Present Tense”—“You can spend your time alone / re-digesting past regrets”—Pearl Jam has never sounded more worldly or wise. And when the masterly finale of “Around the Bend” brings the album to  its  windswept conclusion—the band’s potential for greatness seems unbounded. *** Not that you would have known it from the reviews. Writing for the newly founded Pitchfork, Ryan Schreiber said: The opening track, “Sometimes,” a Neil Young-inspired dramafest, is boring beyond the point of sleep, and the Grateful Deadly campfire singalong, “Who You Are,” makes me gag with hatred. I can’t remember the rest of the songs. That’s ’cause there’s a ton of filler here. In fact, it’s almost all filler.

In the L.A. Times, Robert Hilburn put it more politely: The question throughout the rock world: Are Pearl Jam’s days as a multi-platinum act over? With album sales slumping and its credibility being questioned, Pearl Jam is the subject of widespread discussion. Quipped one industry veteran: “Pearl Jam always said they didn’t want to be stars. Well, it looks like they may soon have their wish.”

***

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No Code is regarded as an album that underperformed with the public and the critics. In retrospect, the commotion seems a little overblown. It’s true that, next to Ten, Vs., and Vitalogy, selling “only” 600,000 copies in its first year was a steep decline. While No Code would never attain the popularity of Vs. or Vitalogy, let alone Ten, it could be argued that the album allowed them to escape from its predecessors’ shadow. At the same time, it would represent the summit of Ed’s writing for the band on his own, without the active input of others. Whereas on their first album, only “Porch” was written by Ed, on No Code, they’re pretty much all his. The album would eventually sell 1.3 million copies—a little bit less than Yield. “I have a hard time seeing that as a failure,” Jeff told a reporter, justifiably. And yet: it was quickly apparent that No Code would be dwarfed by its predecessors—and its follow-up, for that matter. In the years to come, Ed would say that many seemed unaware the band had even released No Code. This was not quite accurate: people were aware; they had simply moved on. *** In truth, many of us had formed our opinions about No Code before even opening the CD. The climate had shifted. We were no longer the slack-jawed superfans who had galloped to stores in 1993—or even 1994. Rock was on life support from its three-year dash out of Seattle. Compromised by imitation, grunge had been neutered, corporatized, and made kitsch. The young intelligentsia now disdains rock music as commercial and crude. Presented a new set of sound worlds, the youth culture shifts, conclusively, from guitar music and flannel to electronic music and hip-hop. It was a moment for almost anything but Seattle: Britpop (What’s the Story Morning Glory?); hip-hop (All Eyez on Me); indie (If You’re Feeling Sinister); altcountry (Being There); rap-rock (Evil Empire); and a dozen varieties of electronic music. There was Odelay and Pinkerton; The Score and Reasonable Doubt; Feed Me Weird Things and Endtroducing. There was music from Cat Power, SleaterKinney, Fiona Apple, Mazzy Star, Tori Amos, Luscious Jackson, and Bikini Kill. There was Hanson, Rent, Dave Matthews, Alanis Morissette, Matchbox Twenty, and the Spice Girls. On August 17, 1996—a week and a half before the release of No Code—more than 50,000 Yankee fans set a record, dancing to the “Macarena.” The year’s number two single, “Because You Loved Me,” became an instant blockbuster, as Celine Dion affirmed: “You were my strength when I was weak / You saw the best there was in me.” “We didn’t mind if our entertainment was overproduced and phony, as long as it admitted it was,” wrote the critic Joel Stein. “Camp lost all meaning, as we

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admitted that kitsch was just a front for guilty pleasure. Give us our 90210, our boy bands, our Britney clones, our Spice Girls, our saline-filled music videos, our Macarenas, our US magazine, and yes, our Regis Philbin, and let us enjoy them like adults at Disney World, fully knowing the thrills are cynically calculated and loving them anyway.” *** Like almost everyone, I gave up on Pearl Jam between Vitalogy and No Code. Part of it was discovering new music—namely, punk—whose outlook held bands like Pearl Jam to be embarrassing, or worse. Part of it was the misery of post-grunge—Silverchair, Collective Soul, Seven Mary Three—which, in hindsight,  can’t be blamed on Pearl Jam. Part of it was graduating from high school, and going to college, and all the parts of your childhood that you think you can leave behind. But really, the truth is that the bands were exhausted by then. Besides No Code, every surviving grunge band, it seemed, had an album in ’96, though none made much impression: Alice in Chains (Unplugged), Soundgarden (Down on the Upside), Screaming Trees (Dust), Stone Temple Pilots (Tiny Music). Even Nirvana came out with a superfluous live album: From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah. By then, Seattle’s contribution to the culture had shifted—from “Jeremy” and “Lithium” to “Peaches” and “Lump”—while the city’s most visible band was The Presidents of the United States of America. As big as they were, Pearl Jam—like everyone else—were subject to the spin cycle of fame. *** What I was devoting my attention to—instead of listening to Pearl Jam—was politics. I was sixteen years old, and a junior in high school; I lived in the suburbs;  and of course, I knew everything. I subscribed to The Nation—don’t laugh!—and also The Progressive, Dollars and Sense, and Mother Jones. My favorite band was Propagandhi—in their own words, an “anti-fascist, animal-friendly, pro-feminist, gay-positive” punk band from Winnipeg. My favorite album was their 26-minute masterpiece, Less Talk, More Rock—which, characteristically, included several spoken-word selections, one by Noam Chomsky. (Sample titles: “Resisting Tyrannical Government”; “A Public Dis-service Announcement From Shell.”) The liner notes listed books that weren’t in my local library—The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Feminist-Vegetarian Critical Theory, by Carol Adams—and the address for activist groups, like Food Not Bombs. I mention all this, by way of explanation, for how I ended up knocking on doors in Florida for Ralph Nader.

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38th Annual Grammy Awards (February 28, 1996) He’d go, “Our record is number one, so I should be happy, but what if it wasn’t number  one? Should I be unhappy? What does it mean? It’s the same record. I’m the same guy.” Bobby Susser, childhood friend of Paul Simon

It is—unfortunately—one of their more infamous moments. The 38th Annual Grammy Awards—also known as the year that TLC, Alanis Morissette, and Seal win multiple statues; and Mariah Carey is repeatedly snubbed—are held at the Shrine Auditorium, in LA, at the end of February. In a series of only-in-the-mid-’90s moments, Tupac is joined onstage—I’m not making this up—by the members of KISS—to present an award—to Hootie & the Blowfish. The rapper Coolio wins a Grammy for “Gangsta’s Paradise,” but has some words for “Weird Al” Yankovic, and the recent parody, “Amish Paradise.” The women of TLC say they have yet to see any earnings, despite selling ten million albums. And Ellen DeGeneres observes: “This is not your father’s Grammys.” It was hardly surprising, amid this tableau, that Pearl Jam would be blasé about winning a Grammy for “Spin the Black Circle,” now two years old— much less, up against “Wynona’s Big Brown Beaver,” by Primus. What was more surprising—mystifying, even—was why they decided to go in the first place. *** “I don’t know what this means” is what most people remember—and really, it’s all you need: the indifference, entitlement, and scorn are encapsulated nicely. Here it is in full: We just came to relax. I just wanted to watch the show. Uh—I hate to start off with a bang. I’m going to say something typically “me,” on behalf of all of us.

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“I don’t know what this means …” I don’t know what this means [pointing to the award]. I don’t think it means anything. That’s just how I feel. There’s too many bands, and you’ve heard it all before. But, um—my dad would have liked it. My dad died before I got to know him, and he would have liked it. So, that’s why I’m here. Thanks, I guess.

If you had to show, in under a minute, what people disliked about Ed—it would be hard to surpass this. The utter lack of gratitude; the affected confusion; the determination to be miserable. It’s every awful stereotype of Generation X, bundled into one party-pooper package. Seeing the look of hostility on his face, you can understand why Rolling Stone would devote 5,000 words to a brutal takedown later that year. Let’s be honest: it would have been far easier—if less of a statement—to say thank you, and good night. (To his credit, this is what Stone attempts to do—and he remembers to thank Dave Abbruzzese.) I mean, it’s only the Grammys; but in hindsight, it was this sort of thing that made people despise Pearl Jam. *** But wait a minute. A month before the Grammys—at the 23rd Annual American Music Awards—incidentally, at the Shrine, in LA—Garth Brooks wins three awards, one of which—for Artist of the Year—he declines, respectfully, onstage: Thank you very much. Um—so you’ll know, right off the bat—I cannot—agree with this. Music is made up of a lot of people. And if we’re one artist short, then we all become—a lesser music. So—without any disrespect to the American

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Music Awards—and without any disrespect to any fans who voted—for all the people who should be honored, with this award—I’m gonna leave it right here. Thank you very much.

And with that, Garth Brooks walked off the stage, leaving the award on the podium. (Pearl Jam wins twice, as well—over Green Day, for Favorite Alternative Artist, and, over Green Day again, oddly enough, for Favorite Heavy Metal/Hard Rock Artist. They sent their regrets.) *** But wait another minute. The night before the Grammy Awards—on February 27th—Ed is in New York, where he makes an appearance on the David Letterman show. That year, it had been a running joke, between the host and his sidekick, Paul Schaffer: “When are we gonna get Eddie and the guys on the show?” Dave is in earnest for once. As he explained, in his speech inducting Pearl Jam into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: You know, the song “Black”—there was a period in my life when I couldn’t stop doing this: “Doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo.” Great, now we owe them a lot of money. Honest-to-God, that’s all I could hear running through my head, and I kept wondering, “How many times does this refrain occur in the song?” I finally had to go to a hypnotist to get it to stop “Doo-doodoo doo-doo-doo-doo.”

That day in February, during his monologue—not for the first time—Letterman keeps singing “Black,” in the voice of an ailing lounge singer. Whyyyyyy—can’t it be? Whyyyyyy—can’t it be? Whyyyyyy?

Cigar in hand, he tells Paul: “Later tonight, get a clock on the ‘neh-neh-neh, nehneh-neh-neh.’” “How long that section is,” says Paul. “Yeah,” says Dave. “Neh-neh-neh, neh-neh-neh-neh.” The band starts playing “Black,” in the style of Phantom of the Opera, and Dave’s grin gets even bigger. Paul: You know what? [cutting the band off] Dave: Huh.

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Paul: Do you want to—really know how that’s done? Dave: Yeah. Paul: Have it done right? Dave: Do it for me. Do it for me. Paul: Okay. Eddie? Dave: Huh? Paul: Eddie? Dave: Wait a minute. Paul: Eddie? Dave: [in disbelief] No.

The camera cuts to a door, stage-right. It opens—and there he is. The audience explodes, instantly, in screams. There’s a handful of guys who approach Ed for a handshake—and then think better of it. Ed is in a black leather coat, over a T-shirt and dark pants—with a (gay-friendly) pink triangle on his lapel. He approaches the bandstand—and, in the ultimate star turn—pulls a cordless mic from his jacket—and belts out the verse that Letterman was singing, a few seconds earlier: I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life, I know you’ll be a star In somebody else’s sky, but why? Why? Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Can’t it be-eee-eee miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine?

He holds the last note for a comical amount of time—maybe eleven or twelve seconds longer than he would with Pearl Jam—hamming it up, like a pro. The audience goes wild—the band is playing with a gigantic grin—and just like that, Ed is out the door. (The bros in baseball caps can’t help but accost him, once again.) “Eddie! Eddie!” says Dave, coming over from his desk. He opens the door that Ed appeared from. The camera cuts to Dave, in the hallway. “He’s gone! Eddie! He’s vanished. He’s history. He’s in a cab. Wow. Pretty cool,” says Dave. Ed comes back for a handshake, almost painfully shy. It’s the first of at least a dozen appearances he’ll make on the show, including Letterman’s retirement week, in 2015. It’s also a universe away from the guy you see onstage at the Grammys the following night. *** When the election results came back on November 5, 1996, it was little surprise that Americans had turned out in smaller numbers than for any presidential

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election since the Second World War—the sharpest possible counterpoint to 1992’s Rock the Vote record-breaker. Despite the phenomenal growth spurt of the internet; despite an economy that had finally turned around, and a federal budget that was heading to a surplus, Clinton was reelected with 49 percent of the vote. (Even the most gifted Democrat of his generation would never win more than a plurality in a national election.) It was the ultimate expression of a decade characterized by consensus, consumption, apathy, affluence, and frivolity. *** “The toppling of idols has always been a popular sport,” wrote the critic David Dalton. “Boccaccio’s De Casibus Virorum Illustrium (On the Fall of Famous Men) was a best-seller in the Renaissance … That’s the price of admission. You can’t just be a celebrity; you need to have something terrible happen to you.” In November 1980, the writer Laurence Shames published a story in Esquire magazine, depicting John Lennon as a compromised fraud, who had let his admirers down. Formerly “the emblem and conscience of his age,” Lennon had abandoned his ideals to embrace the life of a millionaire. Laurence Shames could hardly have anticipated the effect his words would have on Mark David Chapman—a 25-year-old security guard who would read the Esquire story on his way to New York, to assassinate John Lennon. Asked about the article in Esquire, Lennon said: That guy is the kind of person who used to be in love with you and now hates you—a rejected lover … What they want is dead heroes, like Sid Vicious and James Dean. I’m not interested in being a dead fucking hero … so forget ’em. Forget ’em.

Three days later, John Lennon was dead. *** A whiff of weakness, and they pounced. In late November, Rolling Stone published a vitriolic, 5,000-word ad hominem, entitled “Eddie Vedder: Who Are You?” The article exhibits palpable malice—presumably, because Ed had been avoiding the magazine’s requests for an interview for years. It opens with Pearl Jam’s 1996 shows in Seattle. (“Stone Gossard, who hasn’t bothered to remove his glasses for this gig, works away at his guitar with all the passion of a man digging a ditch.”) It considers, at length, the divergence between Ed’s public statements—the troubled family; the painful

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adolescence—and what actually occurred, according to people who knew him. In forensic detail, the writers catalog Ed’s numerous failings as a person. “He knows what this whole biz is all about,” says one of countless anonymous sources. “He’s not some kind of little, lost soul who writes great songs.” “He was very popular,” recalls Annette Szymanski-Gomez, a friend who was a grade ahead of Vedder. “He was outgoing. He’d go out of his way to be nice to everyone.” Another schoolmate concurs: “He was so nice to everyone and took the time to chat. That’s why I don’t understand this stuff about him being miserable. He didn’t seem miserable to me! He was also doggone cute.” “All the girls had a major crush on him,” says another friend who fondly recalls engaging in wholesome teenage fun with “Little Eddie Mueller,” as he’d been affectionately dubbed because of his diminutive stature. “We’d play football, climb around in this abandoned building. I remember going to his house and hearing him play guitar with his best friend.” The Muellers lived in a solid middle-class neighborhood in the San Diego suburb of Encinitas. “It was a nice house,” says one friend. “It had two floors. They had a piano. It was not at all a deprived childhood. I remember that there was a darling picture of Eddie as a kid. He was about three years old. His mother said he’d been in some TV commercial.”

(Two floors!) Last February, Pearl Jam made their first television appearance in two years at the Grammy Awards … After winning the night’s first statuette, for Best Hard Rock Performance, the singer took the opportunity not to thank fans for remaining loyal to the band but to mumble that the honor “doesn’t mean anything.” The quip might have been a clumsy attempt to play down the competitive nature of awards shows. But to some viewers it came across as the stereotypical musings of a rock star. Among those who felt that way were his old high-school friends. “I get angry with him when I see him on these awards shows,” says one former drama classmate, “and see that horrible image he put out.” “I don’t know what’s happened to him,” says another former schoolmate. “He just seemed like some Van Halener dude.” Bacchanal manager Billy Buhrkuhl was also watching that night and did not recognize the singer he’d known back in San Diego. “If you’d known him ten years ago, you just wouldn’t believe he’d ever say anything like that. Back in the old days, Eddie was grateful for everything and anything.”

And so on. (“Some Van Halener dude” is pretty great, though.) ***

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And an epilogue—from Ed’s induction, twenty-one years later, into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: And speaking of Daves—Dave Abbruzzese, Dave Krusen—I really want to thank Dave Letterman for being part of our honor tonight. He doesn’t know, but when I used to work a midnight shift—four years, midnight shifts—I’d get there eleven to seven, and there was a small red TV. I was a security guard, there was a small red TV and Dave was my copilot every weekday, every night I worked for four years. And, to have him be up here, it’s an honor to be honored by him. Also, he did have so many great bands on his show. I saw so many bands that later became influences for the first time on the Letterman show. And I’m just gonna tell you my side of that quick story, when I came into his studio and took the mic and sang “Black.” He was doing that “Doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo—” He was doing that every night for about three months. And I was always watching the show and it was starting to make me fucking crazy. And then it started getting weird. At one point I remember I smoked a little something, I’m sitting there, end of the night. I’m kind of relaxing. And, and he kept asking, “Paul, when … when is this band gonna be on the show? When are they gonna be on the show?” He goes, “I don’t know. I haven’t—” “Have you called them?” “I haven’t.” And he starts looking in the TV—now I’m stoned to the bejeezus and Dave Letterman, who is my copilot back in the security thing, he just looks into the camera, which is looking into my bedroom, “Eddie … Eddie … Come here, Eddie.” It was fucked. I thought the TV was talking to me. I lost my mind. Seriously thought, like, you know, you might have to go to rehab. You’re tripping balls right now.

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From “The Truth About Ed and Dogs,” by Janeane Garofalo, CMJ New Music Monthly, April 1998: JG: When I look at you, I see more of a soft-spoken, gentle-type spirit. And then the vocals are manly-man, almost, somewhat aggressive in a way. Not even in a way. They are actually aggressive. And it just doesn’t fit your physicality. There’s nothing to say to that, I guess. EV: But with a song, I would say that I would feel free to interpret and sing a song, if I’m writing something in the third person, sing it, like, first person. Even [“Do the Evolution,”] which I happen to like … JG: [laughs] “The first mammal to wear pants.” EV: Yeah. And still doing it. Yeah, I feel like I’m not singing as me. In fact, I’m not. It’s not about the way I feel. I’m singing as a guy who’s completely drunk with technology and man’s control, and excited by it, and just ignorant and drunk … JG: When you write a lot of songs, do you find that it’s easier to write about yourself or to write in the third person? EV: I have to admit that when the focus starts coming at you and you don’t feel worthy of the focus and you want to continue writing songs and getting a point across, that you might tend to write more in the third person, even if it might have something to do with you in the song, just because you don’t want it to be about you. You really want to create an ambiguous story where the moods fit, kind of everyone can relate to and it’s not just about me and how I feel. Yeah, I think even if I wrote a song in the first person, I would change it to the third, for protection. And again, I just don’t want the focus. It’s not about me. It’s not about who I was in high school. It’s really not … me. It’s an art form where you can transmit …

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JG: I always suspect when I hear a love song written by Bono, or somebody, Billy Joel, who-the-fuck-ever, I don’t know. But how do they know anymore? They don’t experience anything in a natural way anymore, ever. So, are they writing to gear toward the record-buyer or do they honestly feel … EV: Somebody was asked a similar question. It might have been Bonnie Raitt or something. They said, “How can you still sing the blues? I mean, you’ve won Grammy Awards and your concerts are sold out or whatever.” And she said, “I’m singing about things that I didn’t forget.” I thought that was a really good answer. JG: And if you didn’t hear what he said because he’s so soft-spoken, he said, “I’m singing about things I didn’t forget.” In a nutshell. But don’t nutshell it, because that’s not fair. EV: I’m trying to let go of stuff that I didn’t forget. Things that I’m kind of beyond. I just want to not live with all that still floating around in my head. So I’m thinking that, if it remains that I’m still kind of getting it out in songs, then it’s actually healthy … But I’m really sensitive to anything that’s manufactured and if I were doing it then I would know that someone else knew I was doing it and I would just move on and just start writing really happy songs or something. Which, I think we’re writing happier songs.

*** Pearl Jam takes most of ’97 off. In early June, Ed and Mike play the Tibetan Freedom Concert, at Randalls Island, in New York, along with Bjork, the Beastie Boys, and U2. In November, Pearl Jam opens a week of shows in Oakland for The Rolling Stones. And at the end of the year, they become enmeshed—inadvertently—in a matter that will soon confront the music industry at large. On December 3, 1997, Pearl Jam became the first major band to see how the future of music might look, when a radio station in upstate New York played the entirety of their new album, Yield, on the air—two months before it was out in stores. An engineering student at Syracuse University was tuning in; and by the end of the week, one full song and several excerpts were online. “This is the first incident of its kind,” an Epic staffer told MTV. “That’s why we didn’t know how to deal with it at first.” “It came off the radio, so I put it up,” said Josh Wardell, then a sophomore at Syracuse, who hosted a fan site with live recordings. “This was a preview. I never

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had any intention of stopping people from buying the full album. I wouldn’t put full versions of the songs up there, even if I had the full CD. I don’t want to hurt the band.” On December 10th, Epic “called and asked me politely to take the songs off, and I did so immediately,” he said. “I figured it was coming. But I guarantee you now that the songs have been up there, they’ll be everywhere.” He knew what he was talking about. “Radio stations for years have been ignoring release dates,” said Hilary Rosen, the president of the Recording Industry Association of America. “The difference now is, you don’t just have one potentially lucky kid at home with his finger on the record button. You have one person who can then translate that work to thousands or potentially millions of others.” “It’s not fair,” Kelly Curtis told a reporter. “The band should at least have an opportunity to release its piece of work before people do what they want to do with it. After it’s out, I don’t think we care what happens … It’s kind of a new phenomenon and we’re still figuring out the scope of it all and how far reaching it might be.” For their part, the radio station was less repentant. “I had no ethical concerns whatsoever,” said the programming director. “This was my scoop. I don’t understand what damage I can do to Pearl Jam by promoting its album two months before it’s going to come out … If Eddie Vedder wants to call and tell me, I’ll take his call, but I don’t see how it could hurt.” On Australia’s JJJ Radio, Stone Gossard weighed in: “I’m flattered that somebody cares enough to put it on the internet.” *** 1997 is the year Bill Clinton is sworn in for his second term; the year Tony Blair becomes prime minister of the UK; the year Biggie Smalls and Princess Diana are killed, and the first Harry Potter book is published. It’s the year the chess master, Garry Kasparov, lost a match to an IBM supercomputer, Deep Blue, and also the year the world’s first mammal—Dolly, the sheep—is cloned. That summer, the earliest tremors of the coming financial crisis will surface in Asia, and in November, a one-day freefall will cause the stock exchange in New York to halt trading. But for many, it is a time of dizzying prosperity. Microsoft is the world’s most profitable company, valued at $261 billion. In the US, both unemployment and the price of gas are at historic lows. If there is a model artifact for the moment, it can only be the movie Titanic, also

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released in that year: a budget-busting panorama of glamour, decadence, and triviality that ends in unforeseen disaster. *** The band released its fifth album, Yield, on February 3, 1998. That same month, they announced a 33-date US tour, starting in June—one in which they would play Ticketmaster venues, with tickets starting at $23 before fees. The fight was officially over. On January 31st, they hosted a three-and-a-half-hour broadcast from their warehouse in Seattle—Monkeywrench Radio—with performances and conversations with local bands (Zeke, Mudhoney, Tuatara) and allies (Gloria Steinem, Corin Tucker, and a delightfully profane Matt Lukin). That same week, at the White House, Bill Clinton maintained: “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.” The planets aligned for Yield. It is their fourth masterpiece. From the boisterous count-off that precedes “Brain of J”—one of Pearl Jam’s finest compositions—to the magnificent chorus at the end of “All Those Yesterdays,” the overall effect is of a group at the peak of their creative power. Such was the alignment of the band’s artistic energy that, to this day, the album is viewed by a number of fans— perhaps even the majority of diehards—as being Pearl Jam’s high-water mark. Even if one is reluctant to go that far, it’s easy to see why the fans hold it in such esteem. Much like No Code—people who know these albums tend to know every lyric and note. Of the eleven album titles, Yield is by far the most richly descriptive and apt. On one level, it affirms their concession to an industry they had long held at arm’s length. For the first time since the early ’90s, the band would sit for interviews; produce a video (“Do the Evolution”), and a short documentary (Single Video Theory); and perform in regular venues. It represented a ceasefire, of sorts; a coming of age; an acknowledgment that their battle with Ticketmaster had been a distraction, at best; and a willingness to concentrate on music again. It signified the yield, or harvest, of almost a decade together as a band; a mastery of perspective, and scale, that is hinted at in the cover: a landscape framed in cinematic widescreen. But it also marks the band’s acceptance of a melodic sense that they had once camouflaged with aggression, opacity, and art for art’s sake. The pleasure in listening to Yield comes from its variety, exuberance, and good humor. The songs are agile, expansive, and swinging—“No Way,” “Pilate,” and “All Those Yesterdays,” in particular—thanks to a more radio-friendly

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production; textured, substantial arrangements; and a newfound ease in collaboration. By the time Pearl Jam started recording, in 1997, they were a much more unified band. Previously, the songs had been written in isolation, by one or two members. Yield is their most harmonious effort, and perhaps their most accessible, “Push Me, Pull Me” notwithstanding. The lyrics were less opaque and more straightforward than on any preceding record. “In Hiding” is about being in hiding. “Wishlist” was exactly that. For better or worse, Yield came exactly as advertised. In place of the druggy psychedelia of “In My Tree,” there was the undemanding crowd favorite, “Given to Fly”: one of Ed’s most abysmal lyrics, over one of Mike’s most enticing arrangements. In place of dyspeptic miniatures like “Lukin” and “Habit,” there was the mannered, inoffensive “MFC,” or “RVM” in a Prius. And in place of the hallucinatory “Off He Goes”; the romanticism of “Hail, Hail”; or the soul-searching of “Present Tense”; there were the cinematic platitudes of “Wishlist,” “In Hiding,” and “Low Light.” It’s not that Pearl Jam doesn’t gets weird on their fifth album—the spirited surrealism of “Pilate”; the indecipherable “War, I’m crazy,” entitled “Red Dot”; and the heroically perverse “Push Me, Pull Me”—it’s simply a bit buried. With Yield, Pearl Jam made the album many had been awaiting. But the overall impression is more conservative than Vitalogy, Vs., or No Code. To a certain type of fan, this was all welcome news, after the conscious miscellany of the last two albums, and the considerable hassle—now dating back to 1992—of seeing the band in concert. To a different kind of fan, though, Yield would signify something different: the onset of Pearl Jam’s inevitable decline. *** The first three songs are as perfect as any they ever recorded. Taken together, “Brain of J,” “Faithfull,” and “No Way” are a series of sorts, unique in their songbook—if not a mini-opera, then a concerto in three movements. The songs are in three different tempos—forceful, festive, and leisurely—with overlapping lyrical themes: fidelity; mutability; and self-knowledge. The optimism inherent in the choruses alone shows how far we are from, say, “Indifference”: “The whole world will be different soon”; “We’re faithful / we all believe it”; “I stopped trying to make a difference / no way.” First among equals is “Brain of J,” which, along with the documentary released in August—Single Video Theory—reflects a certain stubborn interest in the Kennedy assassination. (Is it commonly known that the brain of JFK is missing from the National Archives in Washington?) “Brain of J” is the first

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song from Yield to be played in concert, and might well have been recorded for No Code. It debuts in November ’95, with alternate lyrics—only a day after “Red Mosquito” premieres—then disappears during 1996. As with Vitalogy and Vs., the first thing we hear is a false start. The band enters in sections: a jagged guitar line; a frenetic drum fill; and Ed, positively shredding his throat. But the sentiment of the lyrics is distinctly new. How is “Brain of J” a reflection of Pearl Jam at the end of the ’90s? The answer comes after the anxious, unsettled bridge: And by name, the name they gave me The name I’m letting go

Only a handful of Pearl Jam songs can be identified in concert by their opening drumbeat: “In My Tree,” “Why Go,” and “Last Exit,” to name a few. All are fan favorites; but only “Faithfull,” I would guess, is greeted with unanimous approval: for its ebullient, anthemic chorus; for its swooping, ecstatic vocal range; and for its inimitable wordplay—metronomic, simple, and serpentine at once. No one would confuse Pearl Jam for a conservative group; but “Faithfull” is very much a conservative song, romantically, and ethically—far closer to the 1950s in sentiment than the year of Monica Lewinsky. It’s the rare open tribute in rock music to monogamy and commitment, as well as a complement to “Hail, Hail” in its proudly old-fashioned view of relationships and romance. It’s slightly disarming to hear the Pearl Jam of 1998, in a song that declares— without irony, and with utter conviction—“We’re faithful,” and “we all believe.” The more familiar Pearl Jam—of ambivalence, or self-doubt—can be found in “No Way,” being by Stone—and easily one of their best deep cuts. (Inexcusably, it’s been performed in concert all of a dozen times—less than even “Push Me, Pull Me.”) On first hearing, you could be excused for assuming this lyric to be written by Ed: “Here’s a token of my openness / Of my need to not disappear.” Much like “Breath,” and almost like Motown—there’s a groove, a swing, and a sensuality in this song that is basically absent from the band’s catalog. The lyrics advance in a regular cadence, and almost overwhelm us with internal rhyme: “openness” and “token”; “feeling” and “revealing”; “too clear” and “disappear”; “platitudes” and “latitudes.” The rhyming gives a playfulness: the singsong “All the static in my attic-a.” This quality—of childlike naivete—is both its subject and prescription. Even as we hear Ed insist, implausibly, “I’m not trying to make a difference,” there’s an impishness in the music, undermining the lyric. ***

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In February and March of 1998, the band begins its first rigorous touring in almost four years—if by rigorous, you mean concerts in Hawaii, Australia, and New Zealand. These shows are remembered, fondly, by the serious collectors: for their jaw-dropping setlists, which emphasize No Code, Yield, and Vitalogy; for the preponderance of improvisation; and, sadly, for being the last with perhaps their most innovative drummer. Jack Irons leaves Pearl Jam in April, upon their return from Australia. He’s been a member of the band for three-and-a-half years—a few months longer than Dave Abbruzzese. With Yield newly in stores; a Pacific tour, recently concluded; and a lengthy US tour in the summer, it should have been a victory lap for him. Instead, he has a manic-depressive episode while on tour in Australia, and reluctantly decides to leave the band, for the sake of his health. About eight months prior to that tour, I had kind of decided to stop taking medications. I kind of was done with that. I felt like they weren’t doing me right. I made that decision and had to adapt my life. I had to take on spiritual practice and really become responsible for my behavior. I sort of cruised. I was living for the first time in ten years without taking it. I was doing okay until the tour, but when the tour came, my nervous system went haywire. I just literally couldn’t sleep. I stopped sleeping. I was just so overwhelmed that I had to go out and play every night. I thought I was having a heart attack and all kinds of things. It was like a panic attack that wouldn’t come down. I completed the tour, but it was really hard for me. I knew I was in the middle of something really big when I got to that point. It has only happened a few times, but it lasts a long time. I knew there was no way for me to tour, but I also knew there was no way I’d start taking medications again, because I’d already been off for seven months. I just fully believed there was a way to live without them. I stuck to my guns, but, unfortunately, that meant not being in Pearl Jam anymore. It wasn’t that simple. I was really not well.

To state the obvious, it couldn’t have been easy. Besides the necessity of providing for his family, Jack had leaned on his friendship with Ed to win an audition and ultimately the job. He was disappointing the band, but also an old friend—possibly his closest. It’s a setback that even someone healthy would have struggled with. That Jack had been reeling from a newly resurgent bipolar disorder must have made this one of the darker periods of his life. Ironically, in June, Modern Drummer prints an interview from back in January, where he expresses excitement about the coming year of touring.

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In his 1990 memoir Darkness Visible, William Styron writes of his own lifelong struggle with depression. He begins with a quote from the Book of Job: “For the thing which / I greatly feared is come upon me, / and that which I was afraid of / Is come unto me.” His account bears a strong resemblance to Jack’s: I felt a kind of numbness, an enervation, but more particularly an odd fragility— as if my body had actually become frail, hypersensitive, and somehow disjointed and clumsy, lacking normal coordination. And soon I was in the throes of a pervasive hypochondria. Nothing felt quite right with my corporeal self; there were twitches and pains, sometimes intermittent, often seemingly constant, that seemed to presage all sorts of dire infirmities … In my case, the overall effect was immensely disturbing, augmenting the anxiety that was by now never quite absent from my waking hours and fueling still another strange behavior pattern—a fidgety restlessness that kept me on the move, somewhat to the perplexity of my family and friends.

This is not a claim I can demonstrate with a footnote, but Jack Irons’s time with Pearl Jam is remembered reverently by the fans. It’s fair to say that he brought a freedom, a restlessness, and an originality to songs you wouldn’t have thought could be played much different: “Even Flow,” or “State of Love and Trust.” It’s fair to say that their two most intrepid, percussive, musically unorthodox offerings— No Code and Yield—would have been impossible without him. And it’s fair to say that Pearl Jam would have been a far less interesting band, in the time from Merkin Ball to “Red Dot,” without his contribution. *** And so—with a three-month, 33-date tour starting two months away, a replacement for Jack is enlisted on desperately short notice. Once again, the band is absurdly fortunate in their timing. In April 1997, their old friends in Soundgarden break up, after thirteen years and six albums. Stone and Ed reach out to Matt Cameron—the human metronome—who, as it happens, is newly unemployed. (In an exquisite irony, Matt had played on the original Stone Gossard demos, back in 1990; as well as “Hunger Strike,” on Ed’s first day in town.) Matt spends a couple of weeks learning the band’s catalog in his basement. (The titles  take longer than the parts.) He sits in with Pearl Jam for the first time on May 1, 1998—on national TV, no less, when the band plays “Wishlist” on Letterman. It was a masterstroke of timing—and without question, the event that made it possible for Pearl Jam to endure for another twenty-two years (and counting).

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*** The North American tour for Yield unofficially kicks off with a benefit appearance at the third Tibetan Freedom Concert, at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC. It’s an historic lineup: R.E.M., Radiohead, A Tribe Called Quest, Herbie Hancock, Kraftwerk, Pulp, and—you guessed it—the Red Hot Chili Peppers. After lightning causes multiple cancellations on the first day, Pearl Jam’s set is pushed back and shortened, slightly, but still impressive. They’ve gotten used to playing in stadiums, and for restive crowds: Ed gets nailed in the chest with a beverage right before “Brain of J,” smiles, and says, “Thank you. I already have one.” Mike smashes his guitar after a powerful “Hail, Hail,” and Ed asks: “You do know this is a nonviolent concert, don’t you?” A week after the benefit, Pearl Jam sets out for their first touring in earnest since the spring of 1994. They will play forty-seven shows in total, starting in Jeff ’s native Montana, going on to Utah, Colorado, South Dakota, the Midwest, the South, and both coasts. At all forty-seven, they play “Corduroy,” “Wishlist,” and “Given to Fly,” with “Brain of J” and “Do the Evolution” at all but one. The shows lean heavily on Yield and Vitalogy, then Vs. and Ten, with only “Hail, Hail” in frequent rotation from No Code. For some reason, numerous songs have fallen off completely: “Why Go,” “Garden,” “Deep,” “Blood,” “Leash,” “Who You Are,” “Around the Bend.” Other fan favorites—“Breath,” “Hard to Imagine,” “Rats”—are played only two or three times over the full run of dates. (Look up “Breath” at MSG.) Compared to the ’95 and ’96 tours, the band is playing fewer improvisations, and not as many cover songs. (This is sometimes for the best.) These being Matt’s first shows in the drum seat, there are songs he plays a certain way on this tour that won’t be heard the same way again: “Rearviewmirror,” “Long Road,” “Hail, Hail.” But the ’98 tour has something going for it that won’t be true of any future outing: they’re only playing songs up to Yield, and therefore a catalog of five largely impeccable albums. In these shows, the band’s best songs are played with an abandon and joy that’s been lacking or uneven for some time; and even the few middling to average songs sound pretty effing good. More significantly, the ’98 tour is when the band and the butterfly we know today finally breaks free of its cocoon. Dip into almost any bootleg from this tour, or the videos up on YouTube, and the change is startling—compared to the earliest shows in 1991, but also to tours as recent as ’95–’96. In their professionalism, but also in their banter, their body language, their visible smiles,

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and their unity as an ensemble, they are confident, relaxed, funny, humble, and vocally grateful for the loyalty and patience of the fans. It’s no coincidence that this is the tour from which Pearl Jam releases their first official live compilation, Live on Two Legs. When you see Pearl Jam in concert today, you’re seeing the band that really came together on this tour. *** It was a good time for Pearl Jam to regroup. As the ’90s gave way to the aughts, many of their peers were either disbanding, or functional antiques. Alice in Chains had been on hiatus since 1996. Soundgarden broke up in ’97. Screaming Trees took a break in 1998, and officially disbanded in 2000. Matt Lukin left Mudhoney in 1999. And Rage Against the Machine broke up, acrimoniously, not long after the fiasco that was Woodstock ’99. The mood was captured by James Iha, guitarist of Smashing Pumpkins, who themselves broke up in 2000: “The future is in electronic music. It really seems boring just to play rock music.” That same year, referring to the failure of his album, The Fragile, Trent Reznor would say: The Downward Spiral hit a nerve in popular culture. Now I don’t know if I’m becoming obsolete or if the generation I came from doesn’t exist anymore. It was a generation of music lovers who wanted some depth, who treated the music as art, and I include myself in that. I was a fan who loved the imports and wanted to get the B-side, and listened to an album twenty times to get something out of it. But if you put a gun to my head and said name ten great bands that have come out in the last five years, you’d be wiping my brains off the wall. The climate right now supports disposability.

Rock music was on the ropes. By 1998, hip-hop was the top-selling genre in the US, outpacing rock and country for the first time. That year, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill was nominated for ten Grammys, winning five, and selling nineteen million worldwide. Brandy, Mariah Carey, and the Dixie Chicks would sell over ten million records each. With the ascendancy of rap-rock, nu-metal, and other monstrosities, it became clear that the immediate inheritance of Seattle was not—as briefly glimpsed—consciousness, commitment, and idealism—but rather misogyny, machismo, and faux rebellion. A new wave of bands claimed the mantle once occupied by Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and their peers, each worse than the last. Korn was arguably the most original, or least offensive; their album Follow the Leader sold five million, or three-and-a-half times as many as Yield.

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Limp Bizkit’s Significant Other sold seven million. And the unspeakable Kid Rock sold eleven million copies of Devil Without a Cause. In the late ’90s, boy bands and Lolita-like pinups conquered American pop culture. Representing the cultural shift from Seattle, the Backstreet Boys’ Millennium (thirty million sold, worldwide); Britney Spears’ … Baby One More Time (twenty-five million); the Spice Girls’ Spice and Spiceworld (thirtysix million, combined); Ricky Martin’s self-titled (fifteen million); Christina Aguilera (fourteen million); and NSYNC (thirteen million) were half of the response: the embodiment of artificial beauty and the American dream. Representing the vulgarity, ostentation, and gaudiness of the Clinton second term, there was Celine Dion’s Falling Into You and Let’s Talk About Love (sixty million, inexplicably); Santana’s Supernatural (thirty million); and, as ever, the Chili Peppers’ Californication (sixteen million). Where grunge was a reflection of class division, family dysfunction, and personal alienation, a period of obscene prosperity was entertained in kind at the end of the century. *** In 1989, the US Supreme Court ruled in favor of Gregory Johnson, who had been convicted in Texas for burning an American flag. The decision would strike down the laws of forty-eight states, and establish that flag burning was a protected form of free speech. In response, Congress passed the Flag Protection Act, in 1990, enabling the punishment of anyone who “knowingly mutilates, defaces, physically defiles, burns, maintains on the floor or ground, or tramples upon any US flag.” When that, too, was struck down, Congress made seven different attempts to pass an amendment prohibiting the desecration of the flag. On July 9, 1998, representatives in Congress took up the matter, once again. Appearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee was an improbable witness: Tommy Lasorda, general manager of the LA Dodgers. Lasorda recalled an incident at Dodger Stadium, when a player snatched a flag from two protesters who had doused it with lighter fluid and were ready to ignite it. Calling it “one of the most heroic acts ever to take place on the field during a major league baseball game,” Lasorda testified that he was equally struck by the response of the fans, who stood up spontaneously and sang “God Bless America.” Lasorda was joined by a Harvard law professor, a disabled veteran, and actor John Schneider, of The Dukes of Hazzard. The following day, Pearl Jam is playing in San Diego. It’s a Yield show, and therefore, one classic after another. They open with “Long Road,” into “Corduroy,”

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and “Hail, Hail” to close the main set. The “Daughter” tag is from “Roam,” by The B-52s. It’s not until they get to the unavoidable “Rockin’ in the Free World” that Ed tells the crowd: You know, it’s so good to know—when you read in the paper—it’s so good to know that there’s a lot of high-paid representatives that you and I and a bunch of other people voted into office. Gave them good jobs and nice offices and nice leather chairs and a limo to drive ’em around, and vacations for their wives and kids. That’s all fine and good. I’d like them to have a clear head making decisions. And I’m so glad to read that right now, once again, they’re talking about the problem—of—the burning of the flag. [Applause.] ’Cause you know, if there’s one thing that pisses me off, every day of my life, it’s walking down the street, and seeing all these flags burning. Everywhere I turn. This is the biggest fucking problem I’ve ever seen. And I’m fucking sick of it. [Cheering.] I can’t go out to get a cup of coffee and a paper without seeing a fucking flag burning. I can’t go to a stadium—there’s a flag burning, everywhere! Flag burning, here! Flag burning, there! It doesn’t matter that the oceans are going to complete shit. And you get sick every time you go surfing. THERE’S FLAGS BURNING! I don’t care about the environment. Let it go to shit. Let’s save the flag. LET’S SAVE THE FLAG!!! THERE’S A THOUSAND POINTS OF LIGHT FOR THE POLICE MAN THERE’S A KINDER GENTLER POLICE MAN’S HAND

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Binaural and the Battle of Seattle (1999)

This was the age not of Henry Ford but of Benetton.

Eric Hobsbawm, Age of Extremes

For a city better known as the home of Microsoft, Amazon, and Boeing, Seattle has a proud history of radical protest. In 1897, utopians founded a colony on Puget Sound, and christened it Equality—from which the concept of socialism, they believed, would spread throughout the state, and then the country as a whole. On February 6, 1919, the first general strike anywhere in the US took place in Seattle, ending on February 11th: “five working days in which nothing moved in the city except by special order of the General Strike Committee,” in the words of a participant. In 1931, in the midst of the Great Depression, the first unemployed self-help league in the country was founded; and in 1936, the Postmaster General, James Farley, offered a toast: “To the American Union—47 states and the Soviet of Washington.”* *** Depending on your perspective, the events of 1999—when 40,000 protesters shut down a meeting of the World Trade Organization (WTO), and much of Seattle, in the process—dated back either months or years. In 1994, a group of thirty-five organizations—including Oxfam, Greenpeace, and Friends of the Earth—started 50 Years is Enough. The name referred to the structure established at Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, in 1944, with the founding of two institutions: the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank. In 1949, a third provision was added—the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT)—which would serve as a template for the European Union in 1993, and NAFTA in 1994. A year later, GATT became the WTO. It

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was responsible for setting international trade policy, whereby member states could be sanctioned for violating free-trade rules, including protections for the environment, public health, and organized labor. Critics such as 50 Years is Enough argued the WTO was an instrument of unchecked capitalism, serving the interests of Wall Street and the First World. They identified the WTO as part of a model that trapped poor countries in a “race to the bottom,” as capital exploited unrestricted labor. They criticized it for weakening organized labor, climate change, and environmental safeguards at the national level. In January 1999, Seattle was announced as the host city for the next WTO ministerial, and by February, word was making its way through activist circles. It was the first meeting of its kind to be held on US soil, and therefore, a unique occasion for public visibility. By late summer, a call had gone out, largely over the internet: Tens of thousands of people will converge on Seattle and transform it into a festival of resistance. The events include mass nonviolent direct action, reclaiming our streets with giant puppets, street theater, celebration, music, and pleasure. Vibrant sounds of community, creativity and resistance will provide a glimpse of life as it might be while confronting hundreds of deadening businessmen, bureaucrats and politicians. A NEW WORLD IS POSSIBLE and a global movement of resistance is rising to make it happen.

It’s important to remember: for much of the ’90s—and especially in 1999—anyone who questioned the logic of free trade and globalization was tilting at windmills. The neoliberal worldview was personified by Thomas Friedman, the globetrotting New York Times columnist. “Is there anything more ridiculous in the news today than the protests against the World Trade Organization in Seattle? I doubt it,” Friedman wrote, on December 1st, in a column titled “Senseless in Seattle.” With mockery and disdain—and ironically, only a few years before his book, The Earth is Flat—Friedman railed: “These anti-WTO protesters—who are a Noah’s ark of flat-earth advocates, protectionist trade unions and yuppies looking for their 1960’s fix—are protesting against the wrong target with the wrong tools.” Hey, I want to save Flipper too. It’s a question of how. If the protesters in Seattle stopped yapping, they would realize that they have been duped by knaves like Pat Buchanan—duped into thinking that power lies with the WTO. It doesn’t. There’s never going to be a global government to impose the rules the protesters want. But there can be better global governance—on the environment, intellectual property and labor. You achieve that not by adopting 1960’s tactics in a Web-based world—not by blocking trade, choking globalization or getting the WTO to put up more walls. That’s a fool’s errand.

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Asked about Friedman’s column, Noam Chomsky responded: “From the point of view of slave owners, people opposed to slavery probably looked that way. For the one percent of the population that he’s thinking about and representing, the people who are opposing this are flat-earthers.” From the novel Your Heart is a Muscle the Size of a Fist, by Sunil Yapa: When he imagined the economic ministers in headphones and suits sitting at long brown tables; voices translating Portuguese, Russian, Mandarin, negotiating the tax on French cheese; British beef imports; how many Toyotas will be assembled in Ohio. When he imagined the great container ships cruising the seas, saw the steel hulls riding the ocean swells, the rough burlap of bagged coffee, the netted mounds of bananas; crates of strawberries grown fat under the summer sun of the southern hemisphere. When he imagined the container ships sailing from port to port, when he imagined the cables spanning the ocean floor, the twenty-four-hour financial markets, the satellites in orbit—why would someone want to stop this? It was free trade; it was global capitalism; it was the world.

On November 16, 1999, twenty-seven protesters entered the WTO’s headquarters, in Geneva, posing as students on a tour. Once inside, the activists chained themselves across the front entrance, while others dropped a banner from the roof. Meanwhile, live video of the protest was being sent around the world. Days later, in Seattle, the Direct Action Network (DAN) offered training in civil disobedience—and for the time that many would spend in jail. In the middle of the night, on November 27th, activists put a fake front page on 25,000 issues of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, satirizing its coverage of the WTO. Within fortyeight hours, representatives from 135 countries would be arriving in the city. *** On Tuesday, November 30th—the ceremonial opening day—hundreds of protesters converge in the early morning on Seattle’s downtown. They include members of religious, student, and activist groups; labor unions; indigenous rights activists; family farmers; environmentalists; anti-sweatshop advocates; and at least a few trigger-happy anarchist-types. Newsweek reported: Disparate isn’t the word; those on the streets included steelworkers, animalrights activists, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, Pat Buchanan, French makers of Roquefort cheese, anarchists, fans of a Free Tibet, students against sweatshopped sweatshirts, grandmas, and a fine turnout of local folk, too.

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Seattle, 1999. Photograph by Harley Soltes/The Seattle Times.

DAN had organized two public meeting locations, on opposite sides of downtown. The protesters were to gather in “affinity groups” of five to fifteen, who would then devise their own plans for blockading the intersections around the convention center. Some of the groups had assigned roles: legal support (avoids arrest); medics; supplies. There were also mobile groups that could take the place of those who had been arrested, beaten, or gassed. By 7:00 a.m., there were police cars present on every block of Seattle’s downtown. By 7:30, the crowd had swelled to several thousand, many in carnival dress. A participant recalled: Looking around, there was a group of activist Santa Clauses; many returning sea turtles; a sprinkling of expert stilt-walkers; a jubilant crowd of radical cheerleaders; an indescribable number of puppets; an anarchist marching band, complete with matching pink gas masks; and hordes of regular-looking folks, ranging from steelworkers to yuppies.

Writing for The New Yorker, William Finnegan called it “polymorphous protest”: “dancers on vans, hundreds of children dressed as sea turtles and monarch butterflies, Korean priests in white robes playing flutes and drums to protest genetically modified food.”

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Tess at WTO Anniversary, 2000. Photograph by Alice Wheeler.

From the north end of downtown came a student walkout; from the south, activists from the developing world. They would meet, in a symbolic convergence of hemispheres. Meanwhile, the affinity groups had stopped all traffic at intersections by making human blockades. Some locked their arms inside pipe and plastic tubing. Some simply sat in the road, linking their arms. Some locked their necks together with U-locks. By 8:00 a.m., every intersection, alleyway, and hotel entrance in downtown Seattle was blocked by protesters. At the Westin Hotel, Madeleine Albright, Secretary of State, was told that the streets were too dangerous to travel, even a few blocks. By mid-morning, word started circulating that the opening ceremony was canceled. Vastly outnumbered, and outmaneuvered, the police were growing anxious. At 10:00 a.m., they chose an intersection with a lightly defended blockade, to make a corridor. They gave a quick warning—and then started shooting canisters of tear gas and rubber bullets at close range. Anyone remaining was arrested, pepper-sprayed, or both. Elsewhere, the police resorted to the truncheon, or concussion grenades. As the day went on, the vast majority of protesters were nonviolent. The ones near the major blockades were caught in clouds of tear gas. Hundreds of people would need their eyes flushed by volunteer medics. Around 11:00 a.m., the different marches from north and south had met at the

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convention center. By this point, there were an estimated 10,000 people gathered, and the energy in the crowd was high. While the protests were convulsing downtown, a labor union rally, at Memorial Stadium, was attended by 25,000 people. Seattle’s taxi drivers went on strike, as did the longshoremen, closing ports from Alaska to LA. In Athens, Paris, and London, sister marches took place. At the union rally in Seattle, a speaker from Barbados said: “This demonstration is not a demonstration of United States. It is a demonstration of all working-class people all over the world: rich country, poor country, white country, black country—all country!” The Seattle Post-Intelligencer observed that the rally brought onstage “dozens of US workers … who had lost work when their plants moved to poor countries. Beside them were workers from third world countries who have won jobs in US-owned factories but are making less than a dollar an hour and are desperate to organize unions in their countries.” By early afternoon, the protest was heading down Pine Street, on its way to the blockades. It takes the police nearly all day to clear the streets. By mid-afternoon, there were hundreds of arrests. The police had run low on ammunition, and a few protesters were throwing canisters back at the cops. Handing a gift to authority, a hundred or so “black bloc” anarchists were breaking shop windows at Nike, Starbucks, and Bank of America. A few blocks away, protesters set the contents of a dumpster on fire. Naturally, it was the window-smashing that would dominate the news coverage and the official response. That night, the mayor declared a civil emergency, and imposed a curfew, with a fifty-block “no-protest zone,” while the governor called in the National Guard. An activist himself, the mayor reminded journalists of his roots in the ’60s, protesting the Vietnam War. He then said it would be illegal for the next two days to enter downtown wearing a gas mask. As it happened, the only protesters unmolested by police were the ones breaking windows. On Wednesday morning—with a curfew being lifted at 7:30 a.m.—the protesters marched downtown, only to find the riot police waiting for them. Entering the “no-protest” zone without a “legitimate reason” would be punishable by fines and arrest. Some were arrested on the spot. Others continued to march, and entered nearby Westlake Park. Their numbers grew to several hundred. It was then that the riot police surrounded the park. They fired tear gas, and ordered people to get on the ground. Then the police started arresting people. They were put onto dozens of waiting buses, while a crowd cheered them on. Back at the “no-protest zone,” a crowd of 2,000 had gathered for a march. They encountered

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some 400 troops from the National Guard. A protester’s sign was appropriate: “Welcome to 1984.” It would eerily foreshadow the military-style presence seen fifteen years later in Ferguson, and again after the killing of George Floyd: We were hardly a threatening bunch, mainly made up of older union activists, students, and even parents with their kids. Yet, over two blocks from the noprotest zone, we were assaulted by a mob of police who tossed in multiple teargas canisters and concussion grenades without warning. This wasn’t the regular tear gas that we had grown used to the day before—we would later learn that the police had switched to “military-grade.” The results were obvious. One man went into shock; a young woman passed out, landing on her face and fracturing her jaw in three places, after a canister exploded at her feet; and an older woman was hit in the face with a rubber bullet and temporarily blinded in one eye. The lines between protesters and downtown shoppers blurred as everyone tried to escape. Still, the police relentlessly chased the scattered groups of protesters. At Seattle’s famous Pike Place Market, some activists sat down to try to de-escalate the situation. Nearby, police reacted by pepper-spraying medics, shoppers, and marchers alike. One particularly panicked officer pointed a rubber-bullet gun directly at a protester’s head, less than five feet away.

That night, helicopters with searchlights circled the city, punctuated by gunfire and tear gas. More than 500 people are jailed on Wednesday alone. According to one witness, the police only stopped arresting people when they ran out of buses. An official from Britain told his hosts that “this was the most incompetent police operation I have ever seen.” A physician who treated the injured would say: “What I have seen yesterday is the behavior consistent with someone who is insane.” *** Recalling the events of late November, the journalist Fred Moody would write: Utterly disbelieving, I made my way through exuberant rioting throngs to the corner of Fourth and Union, near the heart of downtown Seattle. When I turned east there, to go up Union, I came face-to-face-mask with a wall of policemen in black riot gear, standing behind huge shields and wielding massive batons, guns, and tear-gas launchers. They looked like mannequins in a wall-to-wall Darth Vader display.

Watching these same events, from their studio in Seattle, Pearl Jam wrote two of their all-time best songs: “Insignificance” and “Grievance.”

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*** The Binaural sessions begin at the end of 1999. It’s the first album since Ten not to be recorded with producer Brendan O’Brien—their de facto sixth member— and, to be honest, it shows. In addition, it’s the first album where Ed will own up to having writer’s block, and to rewriting certain songs three and four times— and that shows, as well. Where Yield had ended with an unlisted, good-natured instrumental—“Hummus”—Binaural ended, all too literally, with the sound of typewriter keys, in a track entitled “Writer’s Block.” In fairness, you wonder if even Brendan O’Brien could have salvaged Binaural—their most schizophrenic record, by a comfortable distance. The first three tracks are as unfortunate as any they ever wrote, up to then. The entire first half, in fact—six out of thirteen songs—was one error of judgment after the next, “Light Years” excepted. There were times when you wondered if side A of Binaural was meant to be enjoyed, or simply endured. And then, weirdly— starting with “Insignificance”—the second half of the album was immaculate— among Pearl Jam’s best material since No Code. For all that it disappointed those missing good old-fashioned songcraft, one accusation that cannot be leveled at Binaural is that the band opted to play it safe. From its abstract, asymmetrical cover—an image from the Hubble Telescope—to its esoteric production values, Binaural was Pearl Jam’s farewell to the ’90s, both in content and form. (The word “binaural” refers to a spatial recording technique that attempts to replicate the way human hearing understands sound. More recently, “binaural beats” would become a minor fad in the use of sleep therapy, along the lines of “peaceful piano.”) In typical fashion, the band was about a decade or two ahead of the curve. With the iPod about be introduced, in a little over a year, Pearl Jam was recording binaurally for the age of plastic earbuds. *** In the year 2000, Google was thirteen months old. AOL and Time Warner were planning to merge. The iPhone was seven years away; YouTube, five; Facebook, four. Yahoo! was the dominant search engine. Amazon mainly sold books. Early that same year, in an interview with NY Rock, Ed says the following: Q: You still use a typewriter instead of a computer to write your lyrics and from what you say, it seems as if you’re vehemently anti-technology. A: I think technology went wrong somewhere. It just went into the wrong direction. Instead of helping us and freeing us, it seems to enslave us.

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That’s what I talk about in “Grievance,” about the dangers and what a lot of people don’t see or don’t want to see. There’s the line: “For every tool they lend us, a loss of independence.” And it’s true. Everything happens so fast. The technology is supposed to make everything simple, easy. It tries to make us believe that it’s some sort of freedom we have. Of course, it’s easy and comfortable if you can do all your shopping via the internet, if you don’t need to leave the house to do anything. But, on the other hand, what is going to happen? You lose touch with people. You don’t meet new people except on the internet and whatever you do can be traced. They know everything about you; they know what you buy; they know which papers you read, how long you stay on a page and they look at your statistics and they’re going to offer you the products they think you might buy—most of them you don’t really need anyway. What is going to happen to individuality?

*** “If you want a picture of the future,” says the antagonist O’Brien, in George Orwell’s 1984, “imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.” O’Brien’s soliloquy would be familiar to the writer of “Grievance,” Pearl Jam’s depiction of the clampdown in Seattle. The song premieres on the April 12, 2000 broadcast of the David Letterman show. It’s an effective use of network TV to promote one of their most seditious songs. Like a trumpet at reveille, “Grievance” compels our attention from an imperious drum fill. The guitars are inviting, deceptively, in line with the lyric: “Have a drink, they’re buying.” Only seconds in, though, there’s a series of staccato phrases, alternately monosyllabic: “Big guy / big eye / watching me”; “Progress / laced with / ramifications”; “Freedom’s big plunge.” Even without the context of November ’99, it’s not difficult to infer the song’s allegiances: “Pull the innocent from a crowd / Raise the sticks then bring ’em down / If they fail to obey—oh, if they fail to obey.” On first encounter, this would seem to be a largely favorable response to the events of late November. There’s a four-word outline of the late Clinton years—“Champagne breakfast for everyone”—and a prophetic vision of what the new century would bring: “For every tool they lend us / a loss of independence.” In a little over three minutes, Pearl Jam condenses more activity in a short composition than on any song since “Go,” from Vs. If there’s any reason for ambiguity, or doubt, it’s only because of the song’s counterpart: “Insignificance.”

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*** On August 7, 1998, US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania were attacked in simultaneous truck-bomb explosions, which would kill more than 200 people, and injure some 4,000 others. The attacks—which were claimed by a little-known terrorist group, by the name of al-Qaeda—took place eight years to the day after US troops arrived in Saudi Arabia, from Kuwait. The mastermind, Osama bin Laden, would initially claim the bombings as revenge for the US intervention in Somalia. In his book, The Looming Tower, Lawrence Wright suggests that bin Laden’s goal was to lure the US into Afghanistan: “the graveyard of empires.” Thirteen days later, Clinton ordered missile attacks on targets in Afghanistan and Sudan. The strikes were an embarrassing failure, missing all major targets; killing a few Pakistani recruits; and destroying a pharmaceutical factory— at a cost of more than $50 million. In mid-December—owing, allegedly, to its interference with inspectors—a four-day bombing campaign would begin in Iraq. The following  year, an almost three-month intervention, led by NATO, would commence in the former Yugoslavia. The one thing they all had in common? They were enabled—in no small part—by the state of Washington’s biggest employer: Boeing. *** Long before it became synonymous with Starbucks and Silicon Valley, Seattle was home to a lucrative defense industry, anchored by the world’s largest commercial aircraft maker. Founded in 1916—with almost 70,000 employees in Washington alone, and over $100 billion in annual revenue—Boeing is the second-largest defense contractor in the world. In addition to allies overseas, the US Navy, Air Force, and Marines have used its Harpoon Weapon System for over forty years. Its missiles are carried, proudly, on “twelve different types of aircraft and land-based launch vehicles; more than 600 ships; and 180 submarines.” More than 400,000 munition kits have been “extensively combat-proven” by US forces; and the company has made over 25,000 smalldiameter bombs. (This is all under “Quick Facts,” on their website.) Boeing also makes the Apache attack helicopter, the Chinook transport helicopter, the B-52 bomber, and the F-15 Eagle and F/A-18 Super Hornet fighter jets. In 2018, the company reported over $34 billion in weapons sales—second to only Lockheed Martin. Along with the 45,000 active personnel stationed at Fort Lewis-McChord—a joint Army-Air Force base, south of Seattle, and the

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fourth-largest military facility worldwide—the region is a major component of US defense forces, as well as a hub of the military-industrial complex. These facts are the subject of Binaural’s most important song: “Insignificance.” *** If “Grievance” is an expression of support for the WTO protest, then “Insignificance” is the ambivalent response. It’s where the expression of dissent reaches a toxic pitch. When things are this bleak, it’s no longer a matter of which side are you on; everyone is contaminated. Artists like Bad Religion had been saying that life in America was compromised by complicity: “I don’t need to be a global citizen / ’Cause I’m blessed by nationality.” “Insignificance” is an account of daily life from within the war machine. It’s Ed’s treatment of a decade-old dilemma—both theirs, and a generation’s: the opposing instincts of passivity and protest. It’s also a response to a decade in which everyone seemed to agree—as James Carville once asked—“What didn’t you like about the Clinton years: the peace, or the prosperity?” While its ideology is more ambiguous than, say, “Revolution,” by The Beatles (“don’t you know that you can count me out”), or “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” by The Who (“the party on the left / is now the party on the right”), it can hardly be described as a call to arms: “The swallowed seeds of arrogance / Breeding in the thoughts of ten / Thousand fools that fight irreverence.” It’s a tricky set of lines. The “swallowed seeds” are an allusion to the myth of Persephone, who unwisely accepts a pomegranate seed, and is abducted to the underworld as a result. The next lines, in fancy terms, are enjambed—running over, unpunctuated, so as to give us a jolt—or a double, with the word “fools.” We know better, by now, than to impute these words to Ed, as opposed to a persona. Either way: there’s only so many ways to interpret “ten / thousand fools,” even in solidarity. “Turn the jukebox up, he said / Dancing in irreverence / Play C-3. Let the song protest.” You can see why Ed chose to make this opaque. It’s one thing to question the worth of protest. It’s another thing to repudiate the very idea of dissent—abdicating from society, for the opiating comfort of music. You can call this defeatism—“let the song protest”—or, perhaps, stoicism, amid the police crackdown. Then again—with long-range missiles and munitions being produced only a few miles from downtown—it may well be the one sane gesture: “Bombs, dropping down / Please forgive our hometown / In our insignificance.” ***

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“Grievance” and “Insignificance” were only two of the topical songs on Binaural. Equally as impressive was “Rival”—one of Stone’s most infectious, hard-hitting riffs—which was given a subtitle: “Growing Up Gay in Littleton.” Along with Gus Van Sant’s movie, Elephant (2003), it is the only persuasive treatment of the Columbine massacre in fiction that I know. Much like its predecessor, “Jeremy,” “Rival” is an act of imaginative empathy: a foreboding, metaphorical vision, and one that stands at odds with the story’s treatment in the news media. Line after line, the speaker of “Rival” uses poetic language, imagery, and alliteration: “Your disciples are riddled with metaphors”; “pony up, bring both your barrels full”; the Homeric conceit of “harboring fleets in this reservoir,” illumined, ominously, by “red sun.” Being a Stone song, it has a masterly, indestructible bridge: “Every grain of sand equals / all the stars and everyone.” I’m equally partial to another Stone song on Binaural, “Of the Girl,” which shows him in a completely different mode, musically—and less so, to say the least, of “Thin Air.” Second-to-last on the album was “Soon Forget,” an underrated Ed solo, played on the ukulele. It’s an homage—or another one—to Pete Townshend, whose “Blue, Red and Grey,” also played on ukulele, is a clear model, if a lesser song. At a minute forty-seven—shorter than any Pearl Jam song except “Lukin”—“Soon Forget” is an easy track to overlook, between the ponderous “Sleight of Hand,” and the majestic “Parting Ways.” But there’s more humanity in this unassuming miniature than almost every lyric on Binaural before it. The real problem faced by Pearl Jam during the period of Binaural was not that the band had forgotten their talent for writing memorable songs, but rather that the sheer volume of material recorded meant that the forest was lost for the trees. When the track listing for the album was announced, on March 31, 2000, it was substantially different from the one they would release in May. “Breakerfall” was still first, for some reason; but then came “Insignificance,” “Rival,” and “Grievance,” all on the first half. There were a number of B-sides they would relegate to the shelf—“Fatal,” “Education,” “In the Moonlight,” “Sad”—none quite a revelation, but an improvement, nonetheless. “Parting Ways” was a hidden gem—but it was first played four years earlier. You hardly had to be a pessimist to wonder if the tank was running dry.

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Roskilde Festival, Denmark (June 30, 2000) I thought a voice had to be about your fluency, your dexterity, your virtuosity. But in fact your voice could be about your failings, your falterings, your physical limits. The voices that ring hardest in our heads are not the perfect voices. They are the voices with an additional dimension, which is pain. Patricia Lockwood, Priestdaddy

Let’s talk about The Who. Formed in 1964, in London, The Who consisted of Roger Daltrey, front man, pugilist, and Adonis-type; John “The Ox” Entwistle, the stoical, virtuoso bassist; Keith Moon, the greatest drummer in rock; and Pete Townshend, their tireless, ill-tempered, undisputed genius of a songwriter, guitarist, and band leader. In the early years, The Who were a singles band. Like most groups of the time, they initially played other people’s music, mainly African American—R  &  B, blues, and Motown—and didn’t write their first single until 1965. It would end up being a classic (“I Can’t Explain”), and a blueprint for groups from The Clash to U2. In songs like “Tattoo,” “Pictures of Lily,” and “Happy Jack,” they sang about weakness, isolation, and shame. Their breakthrough, “My Generation,” was phrased in the stutter of a pilled-up hipster on speed. It became the final number of their legendary stage act, in which Townshend would theatrically lay waste to his amplifier and guitar—often, several per night. In 1966—facing a lack of original material—Townshend was encouraged by his manager, Kit Lambert, the son of a composer, to try writing a “mini-opera.” Pete told his manager that rock songs were two-and-a-half minutes long—and then realized he could string together a series. The result was “A Quick One, While He’s Away,” in six movements, with a plot “that is halfway between a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and a stag film,” in the words of a critic. Nevertheless, Townshend had discovered his method—one he would perfect, two years later, with Tommy.

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“I Can’t Explain,” Townshend once said, was “a desperate copy of The Kinks. I just thought, ‘This’ll pay the rent for a while and then I’ll go back and be a [visual] artist.’” His obsessive fans insisted otherwise. The critic, Ira Robbins: An endless stream of you’re-the-only-person-who-really-understands-mewhat-should-l-do-with-the-rest-of-my-life? letters arrived at Pete’s easily obtainable address in the London suburb of Twickenham, sent by sensitive, alienated teens who could identify with the angry characters in his songs and the insightful intelligence he regularly expressed through the media. (Many received patient, considerate replies from their idol.)

That year, Townshend would fully commandeer the band’s songwriting—and by extension, leadership. “I took the band over when they asked me to write for them,” he said, “and used them as a mouthpiece, hitting out at anyone who tried to have a say in what the group said and then grumbling when they didn’t appreciate my dictatorship.” 1967: the year of Are You Experienced?, Sgt. Pepper’s, and Forever Changes. Townshend writes a new classic—“I Can See for Miles”—but not much else of substance. I needed an idea that would transform what I regarded as a weak collection of occasionally cheesy songs into something with teeth. Suddenly I hit on it: we would turn the entire album into a pirate radio segment and actually sell advertising space to manufacturers and fashion houses. My intention was not only to lampoon corporate advertising, but also to get our share of the revenue.

The result was The Who Sell Out—not one of their best. Townshend’s “rock opera,” Tommy, would be next. The story was set between the First World War and the late 1960s. It was about a young boy, who sees his father, an army captain, killing his wife’s lover. Tommy is brainwashed, by his mother, making him catatonic—deaf, dumb, and blind—through a kind of trauma. He develops a self, and a psyche; plays a mean pinball; and eventually regains his senses. Tommy’s cure wins him a cult of disciples, whom he rejects, in a messianic finale (“See Me, Feel Me”). It was a plot that made absolutely no sense—and yet, an ending that would prove remarkably prescient. The album was a smash. Even in the year of Woodstock and Abbey Road, Tommy was received as an event. The Who played the album in full at the Concertgebouw, in Amsterdam, and the Metropolitan Opera, in New York, where Jacqueline Kennedy and Leonard Bernstein attend. Tommy earned the band wealth and fame, but at a cost. In the United States, where The Who had

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once struggled, many thought the group was named Tommy. As Pete explained to the NME—in a sentiment that will sound familiar: … it was the whole thing of it being taken up in the States as a musical masterpiece that threw us. From selling 1500 copies of Who Sell Out, right, we were suddenly selling 20 million, or whatever it was, of Tommy. It was ridiculous from the sublime. It had to have repercussions. Christ almighty, we thought, here we are being told we are musical geniuses and all we are is a bunch of scumbags.

*** By the end of the ’60s, The Who had become one of the best live acts on earth. They were a highlight at Woodstock, where they played during the sunrise, to an estimated 500,000. On May 23, 1970, they released Live at Leeds, from a show three months earlier. It was the first recording that approached the spectacle of The Who in concert. Especially of note were their extended medleys and improvisations—a fourteen-minute “My Generation,” with sections from Tommy in between—and their unabashed fondness for covers: three, on side one alone. The album’s plain brown cover—meant to resemble a bootleg—will be imitated by many, none more devotedly than Pearl Jam. After Live at Leeds came Who’s Next (1971), often considered their summit. (Not by Ed, I’m guessing.) Who’s Next opens with Townshend’s masterpiece, or one of them: “Baba O’Riley,” dedicated to Meher Baba, Townshend’s religious guru, and a tribute to composer Terry Riley. It started with a two-minute synthesizer pattern that was unprecedented then, and remains so, fifty years later. Another favorite was “Bargain,” once introduced as “a song about what you get from being here. If you’re alive—whether you’re rich or you’re poor, whether you’re up or you’re down—if you’re alive, you’re getting a bargain.” Lyrically, the apex of Who’s Next was the closer: “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which commences with its own epic synthesizer solo. “Won’t Get Fooled” was a thrilling, devious, subversive song, which offered not protest, or rebellion—this, in the midst of the Vietnam War, and a year after Kent State—but skepticism. Much like The Beatles’ “Revolution,” the song interrogates the logic of ideology; conveys ambivalence about the means and ends of protest; underlines the importance of self-enlightenment; and observes that radicals and reactionaries have much in common. It was an outlook that sat uneasily with the optimism of the late ’60s—and would be corroborated many times over. ***

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It’s been well-documented, how the teenage Ed found solace in Quadrophenia: The Who’s 1973 song cycle about England’s alienated youth. “I was going through a really tough time, and the Quadrophenia album saved my life,” he said in 1992. “I thought it was so amazing that Pete Townshend, this guy who lived thousands of miles away in another country, could totally explain my life. It was really intense, and obviously I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.” Writing in 2018—in the foreword to a book of Who photography—he says much the same: Somehow through my worst trials and tribulations, when there was no one to turn to and a troubled adolescence had me drowning alone at sea, their music came along like a Coast Guard ship with a searchlight beacon and pulled me out of numerous desperate predicaments that would have been otherwise unsurvivable. Their music and words infused strength enough in me to combat the complete powerlessness I was feeling at the time, and set me on course toward a life beyond one’s imagination or dreams.

Quadrophenia—like Tommy, before it—was about a young man suffering from abuse. It was a theme Townshend would return to his whole life. In a 1989 interview for his musical, The Iron Man, he said: What is at the center of Iron Man is a little boy who is isolated and afraid. It’s the Tommy story, it’s the Quadrophenia story, it’s my story, which is why I was attracted to it in the first place. What I found when I got deep into it, it’s also about that little boy taking power, taking control of his own life and doing it with such a vengeance that he actually overcomes fear by taking control of the very things that are threatening him.

On the one hand, it’s a basic story: a young man has a bad day. Jimmy—a mod, or hipster—recounts his exploits: getting in fights, chasing women, scoring pills, and seeing The Who. In the town of Brighton, Jimmy has an epiphany, and decides to leave his youthful morbidity behind. On the other hand, it’s a study of coercion—from friends, family, doctors, and employers—and about people who are prohibited from becoming themselves. (See: “Better Man,” “Jeremy,” “Daughter,” “Alive.”) “It’s a series of events,” Pete explained. “He just realized that all he has in his life is himself and some spiritual future … I’ve had kids come up to me like Eddie Vedder and say, ‘I used to listen to Quadrophenia because it was my childhood. I could see my childhood in it.’” It’s the story of a young person and a generation, at once.

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In keeping with its operatic structure, Quadrophenia was laden with recurring motifs, both lyrical and musical—solitude; identity; the ocean— starting with the overture, and its insistent question: “Can you see the real me?” The album was packaged with an elaborate, 44-page booklet, with black-andwhite pictures of the protagonist, and a luxurious, double-gatefold LP. But after Tommy, the Quadrophenia material left many Who fans unmoved. In concert, the complicated playback made many of the songs impossible to play live. More often than not, the crowd would sit politely—and then explode at the first song from Tommy. *** If I had to guess—I would wager that Ed’s favorite is The Who by Numbers, from 1975. Like Vitalogy, it’s almost a solo record, about the frustration of fame: “what people politely call a transitional album,” in the words of a Who biographer. “All the songs were different, somehow more aggressive than others, but they were all somehow negative in direction. I felt empty,” Townshend wrote. Ed first mentions it in 1994, in one of his less chipper moments: It’s not that Eddie Vedder is antisocial. Like his equally silent Pearl Jam band mates, Vedder is simply being careful; Pearl Jam has become one of rock’s hottest commodities. He has to be, if only for his own sanity. Suddenly everybody wants a piece of you; everybody wants to be your friend. Suddenly actresses want to date him. Vedder’s not buying into it. “I was listening to an old Who record yesterday while chopping some wood,” Vedder said backstage at the MTV Video Awards last year. “Pete Townshend was definitely talking about some industry stuff. Pete tells the truth.” The song, “How Many Friends,” from 1975’s The Who by Numbers, has long been a Vedder favorite. “I remember relating to that song when I was fourteen, before all this,” he said, gesturing to the MTV hullabaloo all around him. He shook his head and quoted a couple of lines from the song: “How many friends have I really got?” He looked down and spread his fingers. “I can count them on one hand.”

If you know The Who by Numbers, it’s probably because of its hit single: “Squeeze Box,” a goofy, good-natured, lightly X-rated accordion shuffle, played on an instrument Pete had just learned. He explained:

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Intended as a poorly aimed dirty joke. I had bought myself an accordion and learned to play it one afternoon. The polka-esque rhythm I managed to produce from it brought forth this song. Amazingly recorded by The Who to my disbelief. Further incredulity was caused when it became a hit for us in the USA.

Here is Ed discussing his own amateur, good-natured polka, “Bugs,” in an interview with Spin: Q: Are some of the goofier songs on Vitalogy, like “Bugs,” where you play the accordion, attempts to debunk that [persona]? A: I don’t think you can really say that, because that would mean the guys and I would have sat down and discussed it. Before I went in the studio, I was walking around some little thrift shop, I found an accordion. And I went in with the accordion and played something, and then spoke some gibberish over the top. I remember laughing and saying, “That’s the first single.”

*** It’s appropriate that Pete and Ed first meet on the tour for Psychoderelict (1993): yet another concept album, about a reclusive rock star. Having suffered a nervous breakdown, the protagonist, Ray High, has withdrawn from society. Through an improbable series of events, the old rock star offers his wisdom and life lessons to a younger musician. The album repurposes “Who Are You,” from the album

Royal Albert Hall, London, 2000.

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of the same name—the last one made with Keith Moon before his death, in 1978, at thirty-two years old. In 2009, Ed recalled: People always say you should never meet your heroes, and for a while I tried to stick to that, to not meet Pete. Because he was the one guy, you know? If it went sideways, if he’d been an asshole or something, I wouldn’t have known what the meaning of my life was [laughs]. Then I went to see two shows down in Berkeley, where Pete was playing solo after the Psychoderelict album came out. I was standing somewhere around fifth row, and a woman came up to me and said, I work for Pete, and he’d love to meet you after the show. And that was right as the lights went down. It was a little nerve-wracking. The first or second song was “Rough Boys,” and all of a sudden he stops singing and is staring right at me, missing out a whole line or two of the song. And then he comes back in with the line, “I want to bite and kiss you” [laughs]. And I thought, This is terrifying! And then I was brought backstage, and he couldn’t have been kinder or gentler. And at that time, I was a little wigged out, and looking back I feel bad about it, but he asked me, How are you? And that opened a whole can of worms, because I wanted to be honest with him. “I dunno Pete, this is hard right now.”

Here is Pete’s version, from his memoir, Who I Am: After a show in San Francisco I talked to Eddie Vedder, the lead singer of Pearl Jam. He was having problems adjusting to fame and was thinking about going back to being a surfer. I gave him my philosophy: we don’t make the choice, the public does. We are elected by them, even if we never stood for office. Accept it.

*** It’s one of the most tragic ironies in music history. On December 3, 1979, at Riverfront Coliseum, at a Who show in Cincinnati, the audience began lining up in the early part of the day, in the midst of winter, hours before the 8:00 p.m. start. By 6:30 p.m., there were eight thousand people impatiently waiting, and hundreds jostling for position around a single set of doors. Despite the buildup, and the warnings of police, promoters declined to open the doors, even when the crowd began shoving, during The Who’s soundcheck. The temperature was 36 degrees, but the wind from the Ohio River

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made it feel much colder. At 7:00 p.m., the doors were finally opened, and the crowd raced in. Rolling Stone would write the following month: A few of those thousands of young people—the youngest known was four years old—had blood on their shoes as they ran happily down the concrete steps into the “pit,” the seatless area in front of the stage where the true fanatics stand throughout the show. But no one noticed. Some of the people who paused— dazed—beside the green and white pizza stand just past the nine turnstiles at the main entrance had no shoes on at all, and some had lost other bits of clothing. But other than that, inside the hall, it just seemed to be business as usual: the familiar ragtag rock & roll army staggering into the hall after five or six hours of waiting outside in the cold for the doors to open and keeping warm and happy with herbs and beer and wine and each other.

In the wake of the stampede, eleven young people—the youngest, fifteen; the oldest, twenty-seven—were trampled or suffocated. At about twenty past eight, The Who went onstage, unaware of anything amiss. They were alerted only after the show, by their tour manager. (If there’s an ounce of consolation, it’s that there wasn’t another stampede on the way out.) Perhaps unwisely, The Who finished out their tour—nine cities, with one cancellation—and spent the rest of the spring and summer touring the US, when Ed first sees them in concert. *** On the last day of June, in the year 2000, the inconceivable occurred, when nine young people were trampled to death only an hour into Pearl Jam’s performance at the Roskilde Festival, in Denmark. It had been raining all day, and an estimated crowd of 70,000 had flattened the festival grounds into mud. It was Pearl Jam’s first tour of Europe since 1996; their first time back in Denmark since 1992; and the twenty-sixth show of an otherwise triumphant tour, scheduled to end three days later. They were one of almost 200 acts to play during the festival’s four days, and were onstage at 10:30 p.m., after the Swedish band, Kent. The electronic group, Underworld, were about to play one of the dance venues. The English group, Travis, were playing nearby. Minutes before walking onstage, Ed gets a call from Chris Cornell, in Seattle, saying that he and his wife had given birth to their first child. Ninety minutes later, Ed is back in the same room, utterly distraught. The Danish journalist Henrik Tuxen was watching from the side of the stage. He would later write a book about the incident, its aftermath, and his efforts to connect the Roskilde families with the members of Pearl Jam—in particular, Stone, who takes it upon himself to visit the families in Denmark and Sweden

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several times. The accounts from concertgoers and festival security are in some dispute as to where and when in the performance things started going wrong. But the band stops playing at some point during “Daughter,” their twelfth song, when somebody gets word to Ed. At the start of their performance—as he had done onstage, countless times before—he asked the crowd to take two steps back. He now addressed the audience again: What will happen in the next five minutes has nothing to do with music. But it is important. Imagine that I am your friend and that you must step back so as not to hurt me. You all have friends up front. I will now count to three, and you will all take three steps back. All who agree say “Yes” now.

After a few seconds of movement, he asked everyone to step back again. From London, Daltrey and Townshend reached out, with whatever wisdom they could summon. Pearl Jam canceled their remaining European dates, and issued a statement: This is so painful. I think we are all waiting for someone to wake us and say it was just a horrible nightmare. And there are absolutely no words to express our anguish in regard to the parents and loved ones of these precious lives that were lost. We have not yet been told what actually occurred, but it seemed to be random and sickeningly quick. It doesn’t make sense. When you agree to play at a festival of this size and reputation, it is impossible to imagine such a heart-wrenching scenario. Our lives will never be the same, but we know that is nothing compared to the grief of the families and friends of those involved. It is so tragic. There are no words. Devastated.

On July 20th, police investigating the disaster submitted a report to the Danish parliament, finding Pearl Jam, rather than the festival organizers, “morally responsible” for the incident. A police spokesman said: “We have spoken to numerous witnesses who have told us that Pearl Jam are well-known for almost appealing for violent behavior.” Another added: “Whipping a crowd into a frenzy is appalling under conditions like those at the festival, where the ground was slippery and visibility was poor due to vapor in the air from many thousand people sweating.” The band issued a second statement: It is our feeling that what happened at the Roskilde Festival cannot be written off entirely as a “freak accident” or “bad luck,” as some have called it. When something this disastrous occurs, when this many lives are lost, it is essential that every aspect be examined thoroughly and from all angles. To date, we don’t feel this has been done.

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It is our understanding that at least fifteen minutes passed between the time a member of the festival security team identified a potential problem and the time we were informed. We stopped the show immediately upon being informed that there might be a problem, even though we were asked to wait until the nature of the problem could be determined. It is our belief that if we had been informed of a potential problem at the moment that it was first identified by security, we could have stopped the show earlier and lives could have been saved.

The following month—ironically, during the band’s two-night visit to south Florida—Danish police would meet with the band, and attend a show in West Palm Beach, to learn about the band’s security measures. Ed himself is questioned by investigators for more than six hours. Toward the end of 2000, the Ministry of Justice in Denmark announced that the festival would not be held responsible for the concertgoers’ deaths, which it said were caused by “a combination of unfortunate circumstances and violent audience behavior.” The Roskilde victims will be eulogized in two songs on the band’s next album: “Love Boat Captain,” which invokes them explicitly (“lost nine friends we’ll never  know / two years ago today”); and “Arc,” a wordless instrumental built from nine vocal loops, which has been performed live, but never included on a bootleg. They also figure, in a way, on “Light Years”: a lyric written well before the events of June 30, 2000; but like “Immortality,” a song that almost seems to anticipate it. Their names are Marco Peschel, from Germany, twenty-six years old; Anthony Hurley, from Australia, twenty-four years old; Frank Nouwens, from Holland, twenty-two years old; Fredrik Thuresson, from Sweden, twenty-two years old; Henrik Bondebjer, from Sweden, twenty-two years old; Lennart Nielsen, from Denmark, twenty-two years old; Carl-Johan Gustafsson, from Sweden, twenty years old; Allan Tonnesen, from Denmark, seventeen years old; and Jakob Folke Svensson, from Denmark, seventeen years old. It could have been any one of us. It’s not my place to do so—but this chapter is dedicated to them.

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Madison Square Garden, New York (October 13, 2000) History is about to crack wide open. Millennium approaches. Tony Kushner, Angels in America

In 1972, the talk-show host, Mike Douglas, offered his show for a full week in February to Yoko Ono and John Lennon. The idea, Ono explained, was to bridge the generation gap, by reaching out to older, more conservative viewers: Because this is a show that really communicates more with the older generation, we wanted to reach our hands out to them and say, “Don’t be afraid of us. And we shouldn’t be hostile to you either. Let’s work it together, because we have to work it together.”

Over five programs, they invited several of their heroes, past and present— George Carlin, Bobby Seale, and Jerry Rubin, among them—and performed on every episode. Lennon joined his idol, Chuck Berry, on “Memphis, Tennessee,” and “Johnny B. Goode,” then donned an apron to make macrobiotic eggrolls. Yoko staged performance art, such as “Mend Piece,” in which a broken tea cup was repaired over five days. Every show included “love calls,” made to people at random, just to say “I love you.” On February 14, 1972, their guests were Louis Nye, the comedian; musical guests, Elephant’s Memory, and The Chambers Brothers; and—in between the bands—a 38-year-old Ralph Nader. (If you needed proof of how TV has evolved in the last fifty years, the fifteen minutes, continuous, of Yoko sitting next to Ralph Nader is a good place to start.) By 1972, Nader had been a public figure for nearly a decade, having written Unsafe at Any Speed—his exposé of the car industry—at the age of thirty-one. Sitting between Ono and Douglas, Nader talks about his work for the environment: clear air, clean water, and contamination by

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lead. He mentions organizing fishermen, for ocean conservation; retired people; and industrial workers. During the interview, Nader is asked about his book, Action for Change, published in 1971: a manual for young people to develop their own advocacy groups. Lennon asks if the book mentions voting: That’s been a great change in the whole—movement. Our people were saying that—voting is irrelevant—a few years ago. And a lot of movement people have decided that voting is relevant, ’cause it’s the only chance they’re gonna get. Like, if you want to beat the establishment, you’ve got to know how it works.

Nader says: “You’ll be more likely to want to vote—particularly, at a younger age—if you know what the issues are, and if you can—push for real choice, between different candidates.” The host, Mike Douglas, asks: “What are your feelings about young people—during the last election—they didn’t care for either candidate, so they didn’t vote at all. What are your feelings about that?” Nader answers: Well—that I think is a mistake. First of all—in order to see that there is a Tweedledum, Tweedledee distinction between many candidates—you’ve got to involve yourself. And, if you don’t vote—you don’t go through the first step of involvement in the political structure—to build up the kind of democratic forces that on the next election round—two years, or four years later—you have a more meaningful choice. And then a more meaningful choice.

Toward the end, Nader is asked: “Would you ever consider running for President?” Without hesitating, he says no. When asked why, he says: There’s a good reason. I think that—the political system, the country today, is so encrusted with bureaucracy, special interest, and waste, and inefficiency, that— what you have to do is step back and start by trying to help organize people. And trying to get them—to see citizenship as a profession. As an expertise. And to develop this kind of thing—with retired professionals, with students, with fishermen, and with workers on industrial health and safety. And then— out of this grassroots effort—will come better candidates, better politics, better Congress, better legislature. I think what we’ve seen is: you can’t graft anymore onto the institutions. They’re not responding. They’re not working. I mean, the idea that we provide more food than any other, umpteen countries in the world, and they’re stored in warehouses, we’ve got 23 million hungry Americans—some of them, in a semi-severe starvation and malnutrition—is an example that we can’t rely on

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these governments. The Department of Agriculture is supposed to feed these children, and feed the poor with all these surplus stocks that are rotting. When you get these kinds of phenomena, you’ve got to ask yourself: what’s left? And the only thing left—is to go to people. And say to ’em: this is what’s happening. This is what you can do. And this can be a great country. And it can contribute to the world in magnificent ways. Because we’ve got the affluence. And we’ve got the intelligence and the know-how. But we’re not, in effect, letting people control their destinies.

*** In 1976, Nader supporters in Massachusetts put his name on the ballot as a presidential candidate. He demanded that it be removed. By 1992, he had changed his mind. “What he saw happening was that everything he stood for was being taken away piece by piece,” said a former colleague. “Whether it was health and welfare, social legislation, consumer protection—it was all going down the tubes. I think there were some public policy reasons to [run]. There may have been personal reasons, too.” That year, in New Hampshire, Nader ran in the Democratic primary on issues of campaign finance reform, and a “none-of-the-above” option, for voters to demand new candidates. For three weeks, he traveled the state, urging supporters to write in his name, if they were unhappy with his rivals: Tom Harkin, Paul Tsongas, John Kerry, and Bill Clinton. He ended up with 6,311 votes. Clinton won the election with 43 percent of the vote—less than Michael Dukakis had earned in his defeat four years earlier. His win was made possible by Ross Perot, the billionaire from Texas, who siphoned off almost 19 percent of the vote. Clinton became the second Democrat in six elections to win the presidency. It was the flush of victory—along with his Kennedy-like charisma, intellect, and youth—that produced a momentary optimism, in young and old alike. It was wishful thinking. In his first two years alone, Clinton would backtrack on comprehensive health care reform, and abandon his pledge to gays in the military. As a governor in Arkansas, he became a leading figure in the Democratic Leadership Council, underwritten by tech, finance, and defense companies, whose agenda would be responsible for the party’s ongoing swing to the right. In 1994, Clinton signed a $30 billion crime bill, setting aside $8 billion to build prisons; $1.8 billion for the jailing of undocumented immigrants; and $1.2 billion for the Border Patrol. In 1996—having lost his majority in both houses of Congress—he signed a bill that fulfilled a pledge to “end welfare as we know it.” During his second term, Clinton would deregulate the financial

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and telecommunications industries, to disastrous effect; sign the Defense of Marriage Act, barring same-sex couples from federal benefits; and eliminate the Aid to Families with Dependent Children program. In 1996, Nader was approached by the California Green Party about a run in the primary. Overtures from Alaska, Oregon, and Colorado soon followed. He neither registered as a Green, nor adopted their platform, but would end up on the ballot in twenty-one states, despite running an ambivalent campaign. Nader visited only a dozen states; took no contributions; and paid for no advertising. Still, the Clinton campaign took him seriously—far more so than the Gore team, four years later. That summer, Nader was polling at 8 percent in California. When he was asked by a journalist about tipping the election, Nader said: “Nobody but Clinton can beat Clinton.” Some 580,000 people voted for Nader in 1996—about 0.6 percent of the electorate. It was more than respectable—not least, for someone who had barely campaigned. This is probably when the idea for a more serious run first started. *** On February 21, 2000, Nader announced his candidacy in Washington, DC. “A crisis of democracy in our country convinces me to take this action,” he said. This campaign will challenge all Americans who are concerned with systemic imbalances of power and the undermining of our democracy, whether they consider themselves progressives, liberals, conservatives, or others … Up against the corporate government, voters find themselves asked to choose between lookalike candidates from two parties vying to see who takes the marching orders from their campaign paymasters and their future employers.

Nader concluded his speech with a series of questions: Are we reversing the disinvestment in our distressed inner cities and rural areas and using creatively some of the huge capital pools in the economy to make these areas more livable, productive and safe? Are we able to end homelessness and wretched housing conditions with modern materials, designs, and financing mechanisms, without bank and insurance company red-lining, to meet the affordable housing needs of millions of Americans? Can we extend overseas the best examples of our country’s democratic processes and achievements instead of annually using billions in tax dollars to subsidize corporate munitions exports?

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It was an election in which George W. Bush said the United States would do no more nation-building. That same month, in New York, Al Gore was the narrator in Aaron Copland’s Lincoln Portrait, reading from the Gettysburg Address: “that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the Earth.” With the primaries underway, Nader’s campaign began collecting signatures and paperwork to get his name on the ballot—a byzantine task, for anyone but a billionaire. (In 1996, Ross Perot spent $10 million on the task—a figure that now looks quaint.) Compared to their second goal, that would be the easy part. That year, the Commission on Presidential Debates had ruled that candidates needed 15 percent in the polls to qualify. Nader’s goal was 5 percent of the vote: enough to qualify for matching funds, and—in theory—enough to worry Al Gore. Nader challenged the legitimacy of the commission itself—a private corporation, led by former party officials. (The debates themselves were sponsored by corporations like AT&T and Philip Morris.) He filed a lawsuit in federal court, and hit the campaign trail in the meantime. On March 1st—traveling by rental car, or in coach; and staying, when possible, at budget hotels, much to the amusement of the press—he embarked on a fiftystate tour. The last stop would be the Green Party convention, in Denver, in late June, where he was challenged by three other candidates. (One of them was Jello Biafra, from Dead Kennedys, who promised to appoint Marilyn Manson to his cabinet.) As he had done in ’96, Nader chose as his running mate Winona LaDuke, a writer and American Indian activist, who was pregnant at the time, and lived on the White Earth Indian Reservation in Minnesota. *** On June 30, 2000—as Pearl Jam is arriving at Roskilde—The New York Times ran an unsigned editorial, entitled “Mr. Nader’s Misguided Crusade.” It began by acknowledging his long history of service on behalf of the environment, consumers, and economic justice. It continued: But in running for president as the nominee of the Green Party, he is engaging in a self-indulgent exercise that will distract voters from the clear-cut choice represented by the major-party candidates, Vice President Al Gore and Gov. George W. Bush. His candidacy will be especially harmful for Mr. Gore, the contender closest to Mr. Nader on the environment and other issues. This political reality casts doubt on Mr. Nader’s claim to be driven by policy differences rather than ego.

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Nader was unrepentant. Unlike his feelings toward Bush—who was merely “a major corporation disguised as a human being”—there seemed to be a personal dimension in his hatred of Gore, who was described, variously, as an “environmental poseur,” a “political coward,” and “more reprehensible” than Bush. “He knows so much and refuses to act on his knowledge,” Nader said. “George W. Bush can plead ignorant, but Al Gore cannot.” He may have had a point. In August, Nader crashed the Republican National Convention, in Philadelphia. He was asked: “Sir, some stations are saying 7 or 8 percent. Would you be the spoiler if this race is close?” Nader was consistent: “You can’t spoil a system that is rotted to the core.” At a fundraiser, three days later, he was challenged by a former colleague, Gary Sellers. “You cannot claim there’s no difference between the parties,” Sellers said. “Why is it that 95 percent of the time, we used to work with Democrats? We used to celebrate if a Republican signed on to one of your crusades … This is shaping up to be Ross Perot all over again. You’ll be the Perot of the left. It’s likely to be very destructive.” Nader replied: “Oh, Gary, I wish I could be as clairvoyant as you.” There was almost a Shakespearean quality—something out of King Lear—in his unwavering push toward the cliff. After the fundraiser, a group of former disciples started “Nader’s Raiders for Gore,” and drafted an open letter, imploring him to withdraw. In response, Nader said: “There are always a few who lose their zest and will to fight for progressive ideas and settle for moderate conservatives like Al Gore.” In mid-August, the National Stonewall Democrats adopted a statement, warning gays and lesbians about the dangers of a Nader vote. Soon after, the National Organization for Women signed a similar resolution, citing Nader’s position—or lack of one—on abortion and feminism. Also in August, Nader’s campaign held its inaugural “super rally,” at Memorial  Coliseum, in Portland. Local activists and Green Party candidates gave speeches. Nader’s running mate, Winona LaDuke, made a rare onstage appearance. In front of a capacity crowd—over 10,000 people, who had paid $7 each to attend—Nader talked about the environment, education, health care, democracy, free trade, and corporate control of the government. He received one ovation after another. A Republican strategist observed: “Gore has tremendous problems if [Nader] was able to get that many people to the stadium. That many people paid $7 to watch him. They paid to watch a politician speak. Think about it.” The event was being broadcast on regional cable, and up in Seattle, Ed happens to be watching.

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The success of the Portland event would inspire Nader to add “super rallies” in a dozen cities: Oakland, Austin, and Minneapolis among them. Ed himself gets  in touch with the campaign and offers to play a rally in Seattle, on September  23rd,  at Key Arena—where the band will end its US tour in November, on the day before the election. (He first mentions Nader’s candidacy onstage in Virginia Beach, in August—and again in Columbus, New York, and Boston.) After a rally in Madison, Wisconsin, Gail Collins will write, in The New York Times: “The Republican and Democratic tickets probably could not get this kind of youthful turnout if they paid the audience.” That month, a new single by OutKast, “Bombs Over Baghdad,” takes over the airwaves. In late September, in Seattle, Ed comes out with a ukulele, by himself, and says: “I’ve never been to one of these, and I think the reason why—is, uh—I’ve never had anyone that—I could believe in, before.” He strums the uke. “Um—there’s a couple—uh, local heroes—or, anti-heroes—that inspired me to do this little song. Which would be Paul—and Bill. My friends Paul and Bill. Are they here? If they’re not here, they should be.” He dedicates “Soon Forget”—“with all due respect”— to the founders of Microsoft; and then plays a deeply moving “Patriot,” before introducing the candidate: “An American, who is not for sale.” In his speech, Nader points out that Bill Gates’s wealth equaled that of 120 million Americans. “This is not a so-called banana republic,” he said. “This is the United States … Workers should not be making less than what they made in 1968. They should be making double what they made in 1968.” He added: voters shouldn’t have to choose between “the lesser of two evils and the evil of two lessers. Sometimes the safest thing to do is take a chance.” The crowd broke into a chant of “Let Ralph debate.” Two weeks later, in Chicago, Ed makes a short speech, before “Soon Forget.” Since everyone’s here—and, uh—[“EDDIE, I LOVE YOU!”]—you all seem, uh— would it be okay, if I just talk about, there’s a Ralph Nader thing—that’s gonna happen tomorrow. [Cheering.] Um—real quick—you know, I know that— people are saying that they’re hearing nothing—in the candidates. And nothing in the debates. They’re talking about issues that have nothing to do with them. And they’re not talking about—big issues, that—they’re not talking about— corporate globalization. They’re not talking about that. They’re not talking about all the same corporations that fund both candidates. [“PREACH IT, EDDIE!”] You know—if you think about it—you’ve got the one candidate here—on the right. And the other one—on the left. And they’re kind of puppets. And then they’re both—run by the same thing. Right at the same body. [Applause.] How did that happen? [“EDDIE!”] Anyways, uh—there is someone out there. It feels

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good in here tonight. It feels great. And, I guarantee you—it’s gonna feel great— tomorrow night. Michael Moore’s gonna be there. He’s a film director, and an activist. And, a great Chicagoan—one of the greatest—Studs Terkel. A writer. [Applause.] So it should be really exciting. And there’s one more that’s gonna take place, in New York. But I was at one in Seattle. And the feeling that you got in there—and the feeling, like you could make a difference. It’s a tremendous feeling, and I hadn’t—hadn’t been around that in a long time. So if you want a dose of that— tomorrow night, I think it’s at 7:30, or 7, at the UIC Pavilion. And there’s Green Party volunteers—it’s all kind of grassroots—that you can actually get these tickets from, on the way out. It’s seven bucks for tomorrow, at 7:30, and I really hope to see a lot of you there—just to get a feel—for what’s there. [Applause.] Trust me.

Writing for the Chicago Reader, the journalist Cara Jepsen was less enthused— pointing out, precisely, if redundantly, at the University of Illinois: “Almost everyone is young and white”—and the speakers, all white men: The scene outside the UIC Pavilion on the night of the Ralph Nader “super rally” is not unlike the one I encountered here a dozen years ago when the Grateful Dead were in town. White people with dreadlocks. Drumming. People walking zombielike in circles, asking for extra tickets. Others sitting on the ground in little groups. Only the devil sticks are missing.

(“Part pep rally, part talk show, part revival, and part rave,” said the Chicago Tribune.) During his speech, Michael Moore inquires: “What if Rosa Parks at the front of the bus had said, ‘I can’t win’? What if she’d said, ‘It’s just me on the bus; I can’t win’?” Less absurdly, he introduces Ed as “someone who has stood up for what he believes in, regardless of the consequences.” Ed shuffles on, a bit nervous. He says: I was really hoping that I could write a song for Ralph. I was at the one in Seattle, and it was just great. It’s been two weeks and I still haven’t really—come up with anything. And I think the reason why is, ’cause—somewhere, in the writing process, I came across this song. And, once there was this song—which was written thirty years ago—and, actually seems—more pertinent now—as pertinent now, today, as it’s ever been, and—I don’t think I could do one this good. It’s played—I’ll mention, it’s played, with permission of the author.

The crowd starts applauding at the very first words: “Come gather ’round people / Wherever you roam.” It’s the first time he’s played “The Times They

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Are A-Changin’”—a song written in the year he was born—and only his second Dylan cover, after “Masters of War.” (This one is better.) Truth be told, it’s not easy to watch—considering how all this will turn out. From the video on YouTube, he seems to be reading the lyrics off the ground. When he gets to the lines Come mothers and fathers, throughout the land And don’t criticize what you can’t understand Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

—there’s an eerie similarity between Ed and the young Dylan, in their haunted intensity. It’s not difficult to see why people wanted them both to be generational spokesmen. The writer Stevie Chick would say: It’s a performance so passionate, so seriously heartfelt, that you fear Vedder will tumble headfirst into the well of worthiness he teeters upon. But he doesn’t … Tonight, he silences the cynics who’ve labelled him a fake in the past; no bluster, no chest-beating, just an unassuming, honest intensity. He murmurs a final salute, “Vote proud,” and disappears into the wings.

“When I heard he was singing ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’,’ well, that just did it for me,” said the Eagles’ Don Henley. A fellow rocker added: “It just steams me when I see him strumming a guitar. That’s the instrument we used to end the war in Vietnam, to end segregation, to save the environment, and now he’s using it to wreck the Democratic Party.” Two days after the rally in Chicago, Nader announced he had raised nearly $5 million—without a penny from a corporation. Depending on your point of view, Friday the 13th was either the zenith, or—so to speak—the nadir. Like Pearl Jam, Nader had sold out Madison Square Garden. Unlike them, he had secured the venue only two weeks prior. (His last time in the building was 1979, for the famous “No Nukes” concerts, with Bruce Springsteen, et al.) Before an estimated 15,000—who had paid $20 each—Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, Bill Murray, and Ben Harper lend their talents. Phil Donahue serves as emcee. Ani DiFranco points out: “How surreal is this? We have a huge American flag, we have a bunch of guys in suits, and it’s good. It’s good.” Taking the stage, Patti Smith says her late father was an admirer of Ralph Nader, and performs “Over the Rainbow.” In the cadence of “LET’S go RAN-GERS,” Bill Murray leads the arena in “LET’S go NA-DER!” And Michael Moore inquires: “A vote for Gore is a vote for Bush. If they both believe in the same thing, wouldn’t you want the original rather than the copy? Wouldn’t you want Bush? Sirloin or hamburger? Which would you go for?”

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Salon wrote: “Eddie Vedder received an outrageous welcome from a group of young people who grew up on grunge. To see him amble on stage alone, guitar in  hand, was both awe-inspiring and strangely comforting.” As he did in Chicago, Ed plays two songs, acoustic: “Patriot” and “The Times They Are A-Changin’.” Characteristically, he apologizes for the $20 admission charge, and for not writing something new: I’ve had the good fortune to play to places that were full, and even this place. But tonight is absolutely different, and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen … All these other rallies with 10,000 people that Ralph has done haven’t gotten any [media] attention, and it’s going to stop tonight. They can’t ignore this.

That much was true. Unlike the other super rallies—owing, in no small part, to the guest list—“Nader Rocks the Garden” was reported widely in the news media. Suzy Hansen said: In an age of political fundraisers and conventions that pander to minorities, glitter ostentatiously with Hollywood’s influence and boast rhetoric toned down so as not to offend any corporate sponsors, Friday night did feel like a throwback. The four-hour Nader Rocks the Garden rally was sincere and proud. If anything, the night assured an audience of thousands, a great majority of them young people, that politicians can be real and impassioned—in fact, not really like most politicians at all.

“Welcome to the politics of joy and justice,” Nader said to the crowd, which erupted instantly. “We are building a historic, progressive, political movement in America, a movement for which November 7th is but one stopping place … and then on past November, for a major political revolution in our country.” He invoked the history of American social movements, including suffrage, abolition, and civil rights. “All these moments had one thing in common,” he said. “They had civic courage, with people who were willing to lift the standards of justice up and be an example to the world.” He asked them to imagine a world in which the public owned the airwaves; where corporations paid their share; where employees controlled their pensions; if they should allow their natural resources to be “pillaged and plundered”; if they didn’t deserve better than a country with 200,000 homeless. On the choice between George W. Bush and Al Gore, he said: “I used to have to demonstrate how similar the two political parties were. We called them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.” He ended with: In the final analysis, this election is about us … And it’s also about future generations, once called posterity. It’s about whether we’re going to be able to

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look forward to our descendants and hand this world, this tormented world, over to them in much better shape and much more democracy shape and much more justice shape, so they’ll look back on us, they’ll look back on us with kindness and praise, instead of cursing us for our apathy, for our narcissism, for our refusal to stand up tall for justice and freedom in the world.

Everyone came out to sing “People Have the Power.” The crowd chanted: “Let Ralph debate.” Susan Sarandon led a group to the post office across the street so they could register to vote. The crowd was philosophical: “My life is not going to change very much if Bush or Gore are elected,” a 29-year-old told The New York Times. On October 26th, the paper ran a second editorial: “Mr. Nader’s Electoral Mischief.” Back in June, we criticized Ralph Nader’s presidential bid as a self-indulgent crusade that could gull some voters into thinking that there were no clear policy choices between Al Gore and George Bush. As the election nears, what once seemed a speculative threat has become a very real danger to the Gore campaign, with polls suggesting that Mr. Nader’s meager share of the vote could nevertheless make the difference in eight states with 70 electoral votes … Mr. Nader has the luxury of taking free throws. In a recent interview with The Wall Street Journal he seemed almost excited by the idea that a Gore defeat could  lead to a “progressive convulsion”—a leftward shift among Democrats away from the Clinton administration’s centrist policies. Yet anyone who has followed the course of progressive politics over the last quarter-century knows that such a shift is a formula for defeat precisely because it does not reflect the mood of those voters inclined to support moderate or liberal candidates.

Nader wrote back: “You discredit our democracy by editorializing that the limited ground covered by the Gore and Bush candidacies should define political competition in this election.” Al Gore has furthered big-business control in America, letting companies decide whether we eat genetically engineered food, letting big agribusiness destroy family farms, and supporting concentration in the financial, telecommunications, cable and health care industries. Mr. Gore’s actual record on many environmental issues, in one industry after another, has been one of surrender. Similarities between these two candidates abound. They take millions in corporate campaign cash. They agree on the death penalty, on no universal health care coverage now, on more military spending, on the World Trade Organization and the North American Free Trade Agreement, on corporate welfare and on slashing the social safety net. They take no stand on repealing

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anti-union labor laws that keep many millions of workers earning nonliving wages or on fighting corporate crime. My candidacy not only provides the sole competition on these issues, but also prevents Mr. Gore from cornering votes on the environment simply by not being as bad as Mr. Bush. You miss the critical point: we seek long-term political reform through a growing party that pushes the two parties toward reforms that you have espoused over the years, thus far in vain.

In the final weeks of the campaign, Nader’s team gave him two choices: concentrate on “safe” states, where Bush or Gore were likely to win, or those that were still up for grabs. Nader chose to visit the most actively contested states: Wisconsin, Michigan, and Florida—the last, on November 4th, three days before the election. He ended up with 2.6 million votes—3 percent, roughly, of the electorate. He fell considerably short of the 5 percent he was hoping for, to qualify for matching funds. Gore would win the popular vote—but lost by under 600 votes in Florida. Nader’s final tally in the state was 97,488. (I would know: I was one of them.) It’s hard to forget: Gore was unable to win his own state of Tennessee; Democratic-leaning West Virginia; and even Bill Clinton’s native Arkansas, any one of which would have changed the result. For his part, Nader was pleased with the campaign. “I mean, what we know for sure, is that we’re building a longterm, progressive, reform movement,” he told his supporters on election night. “And above all, it took a commitment by people to no longer settle for the least of the worst or the lesser of two evils, where at the end of the day you’re stuck with worse and evil.” The following day, Nader was unbowed: I’ve always said that it was Al Gore’s election to lose, that only Al Gore could beat Al Gore. In the end, the Democratic Party must face the fact that it has become very good at electing very bad Republicans. Apparently, it can’t even win in Tennessee and Arkansas.

Manning Marable argued that Gore “was largely responsible for his own defeat,” for presenting himself as “the pro-death penalty, pro-globalization, procorporate poster boy of the Democratic Leadership Council.” A Nader supporter wrote: “Are they seriously going to blame us for this? They sold people out, and they’re paying for it.” Nader added one last twist of the knife: “By the way, I do think that Al Gore cost me the election, especially in Florida.” It’s the end of the world as we know it. And they feel fine.

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Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum, Uniondale (April 30, 2003) An indisputable fact is that you don’t choose your fans. You have no way of knowing what sparks them off. Gordon Burn, Alma Cogan

On August 16, 2001, I was at Liberty State Park, in New Jersey, in a circle of friends, in a crowd of 30,000, having our minds blown by Radiohead. It was the tour for Amnesiac, with Kid Koala and The Beta Band opening. We were directly across the waterway from lower Manhattan. Standing over us were the Twin Towers and the Statue of Liberty. It was ten months after the Supreme Court had ended the recount in Florida, and about two years before Hail to the Thief. After “The National Anthem,” “Karma Police,” and “Exit Music (For a Film),” Thom Yorke made a brief announcement. “This next song—is dedicated to the—building—monument thing—behind us.” The crowd was cracking up. “Statue of Liberty, isn’t it?” Then, after a pause: “The liberty to choose your own leader.” They played “No Surprises.” You look so tired, unhappy Bring down the government They don’t, they don’t speak for us

After the show, the park emptied out. Most people took the ferry back into New York. My friends and I were staying at a cheap hotel in Jersey City. Most of us had graduated just a few weeks before. After the second show, a day later, I went back to New Haven with my friends, and started packing up my apartment that same week. Twenty-five days later, I was sleeping in—later than I should have been—when my younger brother shook me awake. ***

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Around the world, the reactions were immediate. Within a day, the leaders of NATO had unanimously invoked Article Five of the North Atlantic Treaty, which describes an attack on one member as an attack on all. In Berlin, over 200,000 attended a service at the Brandenburg Gate. In Tehran, at a soccer match, 60,000 people observed a moment of silence. In Palestine, Argentina, Kuwait, South Korea, and Cuba, people gave blood and offered medical supplies. In Beijing, tens of thousands paid their respects at the US embassy. In London, at Buckingham Palace, the Queen’s Guard played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” In Rio de Janeiro, Christ the Redeemer was embracing New York. And in France, the newspaper Le Monde declared, “We are all Americans now.” (Would anyone write this today?) Of the days and weeks after September 11th, Rebecca Solnit would say: There are great ruptures when the world actually changes and no one yet is in control of the meaning of what has happened or what kind of a future it will lead to—and perhaps these two things are the same thing. In these great pauses, much is possible, including a change of mind on a broad scale. September 11 was one such occasion, and in the days before the Bush Administration framed the act by a little-known group as the opening overture of a war, a remarkable contemplative stillness blanketed much of the country. The meaning was up for grabs, and even after the war on Afghanistan began, people continued buying quantities of books on Islam and the Middle East, talking among themselves, and thinking for themselves about foreign policy, violence, and civil society.

*** In the days after 9/11, a program director at Clear Channel—the largest chain of radio stations in the country—began to circulate a list of 164 “questionable” songs that were potentially “inappropriate” for airplay. The list included Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move”; James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain”; and the Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian,” along with “all Rage Against the Machine songs.” As the US went to war against Iraq, Clear Channel would adopt a strategy that marked a new role for corporate radio. In Atlanta, Cincinnati, San Antonio, and Cleveland, a series of pro-administration rallies bearing the name “Rally for America” attracted up to 20,000 participants each. It was later revealed that the rallies were sponsored and organized by Clear Channel. As Paul Krugman pointed out, the company’s vice chairman, Tom Hicks, had purchased the Texas Rangers three years earlier, in a deal that made George W. Bush a multimillionaire.

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Eight days after September 11th, The Wall Street Journal observed: “the bloody attacks have created a unique political moment when Americans of all stripes are uniting behind their president.” The Journal advised the president to enact a series of policy changes, including approval for drilling in the Arctic; accelerated tax cuts; and confirming conservative judges. In a Gallup poll taken on September 15th, the president’s approval rating stood at 86 percent, where it would stay for the rest of the year. *** On September 21st, twenty-one performers—Stevie Wonder, Alicia Keys, Mariah Carey, Paul Simon, and the Dixie Chicks, among them—take part in a benefit entitled America: A Tribute to Heroes. The event, which is broadcast live on the four major networks and over thirty cable outlets simultaneously, raises $200 million for 9/11 victims and their families. Approximately sixty million people tune in. It was moving, understated, and respectful—the cover of “Wish You Were Here” by Limp Bizkit, notwithstanding—and only more so, by comparison with the coming two years.

Neil, Ed, and Mike play “Long Road,” 2001. Screen grab from America: A Tribute to Heroes.

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On a candlelit stage, Bruce Springsteen opens with “My City of Ruins.” Stevie Wonder and Take 6 play “Love’s in Need of Love Today.” From London, U2 does “Peace on Earth,” into “Walk On.” Along with a gospel choir, Faith Hill performs “There Will Come a Day.” And in the evening’s most poignant gesture, Neil Young will play John Lennon’s “Imagine.” (I defy you to watch this and keep it together.) The song was yet another that Clear Channel had removed from the airwaves. It’s not every artist who will go on national TV after 9/11 and say, “Imagine there’s no heaven,” but that’s Neil for you. Toward the end—after a grim stretch, with Bon Jovi, Sheryl Crow, and Sting—Ed and Mike play a somber version of “Long Road,” with Neil Young on electric organ. It’s easily the most appropriate song of theirs for the occasion. Ed sings most of the song with his eyes closed, or looking down. The camera shows Neil and Ed, sharing the frame. According to Pearl Jam Twenty, it was Ed’s idea to play “Gimme Some Truth,” by John Lennon: a rollicking takedown of “neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians.” Pearl Jam would play it a few times the following month, and again during the start of the war, in 2003. It was probably the right move—on September 21, 2001—to play “Long Road” instead. *** A mere fourteen months later—on November 12, 2002—Riot Act was released. It’s a record principally known for its pessimism, its confessional quality, and its molten outrage. It’s Pearl Jam’s most explicitly political album, couched in sentiments ranging from indignation (“Green Disease”) to despair (“Help Help”), and points in between. But it is also an album suffused with personal drama: a mediation on survival, aging, and innocence; an elegy, in multiple parts, for the Roskilde victims; and a naked, undisguised appeal for strength: the questioning, openly referential “Love Boat Captain”; the reflective, pastoral “Thumbing My Way”; the tenuous fan favorite, “I am Mine”; the moody, cinematic album closer, “All or None.” The first two songs were a welcome return to form—and between them, encapsulate Riot Act’s two competing impulses: convention and experiment. The album opens with “Can’t Keep,” a slow-burning, psychedelic shuffle that was first played solo in early 2002—on ukulele, no less—and considerably faster than the version heard here. In its full-band arrangement, it was syncopated, offcenter, like a song that Jack Irons might have written. “Save You,” on the other hand, was a classic Matt Cameron production—feral, relentless, a defiant act of spleen—with a series of explosive, irregular drum fills; an athletic bass line; and

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a hair-raising vocal from Ed. It was an anthem of solidarity—but it was really an anthem, first and foremost. “Green Disease” was another clear highlight. Just as “Jeremy” and “W.M.A.” showed how subject matter that was ostensibly moralistic could be rendered in effortless singalong, “Green Disease” will manage a similar act of stealth, casting the avarice of Enron and Halliburton into irresistible pop. It’s inspired in no small part by Fugazi, and their swan song, The Argument, from 2001. (The same indebtedness should be noted to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, for the devotional “Arc.”) There’s no fewer than four songs credited in part or in full to Matt—the best of which (“You Are”) was constructed around a guitar loop, filtered through a drum machine, and only partly defiled by a purple-prose lyric; and another three songs that are credited to Jeff—the best of which (“Help Help” and “1/2 Full”) would have sounded right at home on No Code. The album also boasts strong narrative cohesion: songs about romantic longing (“You Are,” “Thumbing My Way”), avarice (“Green Disease,” “1/2 Full”), and, as always, freedom (“Can’t Keep,” “All or None”). It isn’t all entirely convincing. “I am Mine” and “Love Boat Captain” both contain sublime turns of phrase next to some of the most hackneyed lyrics imaginable. (“The ocean is full ’cause everyone’s crying”?) The verses of “Bushleaguer” are overrun with mixed metaphors and perplexing turns of phrase. (“A nicotine wish and a Columbus decanter”?) There’s a discouraging reliance on other people’s words, throughout. (“It’s already been sung, but it can’t be said enough / all you need is love.”) The remaining songs are mediocre, at best: the indifferent “Cropduster,” where a promising Matt Cameron arrangement is wedded to an insipid lyric; the confounding “Ghost,” where Ed revives both his driving and flying metaphors, failing miserably; and the underwhelming “Get Right,” which would augur a series of forgettable stoner songs to come. Ultimately, Riot Act feels less convincing than more. “Green Disease,” “Can’t Keep,” and “Save You” aside, the album is one near-miss after another. The overall impression is of a document from 2002, not only in its subject matter, but in its very sequence—its tension between the art rock of No Code and the more populist albums to come. Once again, Pearl Jam would relegate some of their best material to the shelf, as B-sides or worse: “Other Side” and “Undone,” later released on Lost Dogs, either one of which would have been a huge improvement; “Last Solider,” written by Mike and Ed in the aftermath of 9/11, and played live only three times; and one of the band’s indestructible power-pop efforts, “Down,”

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which doubled as a tribute to the historian Howard Zinn. These were songs that should have been singles—not track three on a rarities compilation. *** In early 2001, California suffered from a crippling energy crisis. Across the state, hundreds of thousands were affected by a series of localized blackouts, exacerbated by drought, and a dependence on electricity from outside the state. California had deregulated its utilities in the mid-’90s, and had failed to invest in new infrastructure during that time, leading to higher energy rates for many consumers. Over six days in January, residents of the country’s largest state went through involuntary blackouts, following a tenfold increase in energy prices. On January 17th, Governor Gray Davis declared a state of emergency, calling on the legislature to appropriate funds for additional power. Davis was forced to buy from energy providers on highly unfavorable terms, since the California utilities were technically bankrupt. The following year, the culprit would emerge: speculators, led by Enron, were manipulating prices in the wholesale market, and thereby reaping huge profits. Davis laid the blame for the crisis on his predecessor, Pete Wilson, but the voters had seen enough. On October 7, 2003, Davis was officially recalled, by ballot, and replaced by Arnold Schwarzenegger. *** Little did Stone Gossard know when he wrote the foreboding lyric, “Blackout weaves its way / through the city,” where it would ultimately end up. Not many Pearl Jam songs can be described as divisive within the fanbase— but “Bushleaguer” is one of them. It’s a song that Pearl Jam people either love or hate, without much room in the middle, not unlike “Last Kiss.” It’s also the rare song that can be called infamous—for its reception, its tone, and its form. To be honest, it’s not their best work—on a level, I would say, with “Glorified G,” “World Wide Suicide,” and their more one-dimensional manifestos. We can say that it doesn’t do itself many favors: between the laborious spoken verses; the confused metaphors (“a keyboard reaffirmation”); and the almost total absence of humor. The song is partially redeemed by the chorus—a high point of Riot Act—but unlike any other political song by Pearl Jam, its audience is essentially limited to the choir and the converted. Still, for those of us who were wondering where the voices of protest were, at the end of 2002—it was hard not to take some pride in Pearl Jam, for taking a stand. ***

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From “Babes in the Woods: Eddie Vedder Interviews Sleater-Kinney,” in Magnet (April/May 2005): Ed: OK, I wanted to share something with you. It’s 2003, a year before the elections. This is when it’s not so popular to be wearing a peace sign on your sleeve or speaking out against the war in Iraq. And you saw the Dixie Chicks and then us thrown on the fire as not being patriotic. All of a sudden, Pearl Jam was part of the “activists of evil.” As Pearl Jam and Sleater-Kinney were going through Oklahoma, or wherever we were, at the end of the show we’d play “Rockin’ in the Free World.” I remember the music still going and I was holding hands with Corin, and with our other hands we were flaring out the peace sign. There were a lot of people in the crowd who seemed offended by it, and I remember—and Corin, I never told you this at the time, because I wanted to keep doing it—being afraid that something bad was going to happen. That you would be assassinated, or you’d be holding the hand of someone being assassinated. I felt really incredibly vulnerable up there. Do you remember how you were feeling at the time? Corin: I remember being so blown away at our first show with you guys in Denver. And it was the first week of the war. We got up in Denver and blabbed about the war and were booed by about 10,000 people. It was really shocking. I felt like I was suddenly six years old and taking a really hard, cold slap to the face. But it made me really angry, and anger for me can override anything. The fear is secondary to that feeling of “shut up.” That’s what I felt like at that moment: someone saying “shut up” to me. And I was like, “OK, now you’re really asking for it.” I would try to think about creative ways to say something during those shows when things were so tense. And there’s also the feeling of, “OK, we’re going to get fired. Someone’s going to fire us.” [laughter] Not you. Ed: Someone higher up. [laughter] Corin: But what was going on in the world was so awful that I can’t imagine performing in front of all those people and not saying something. And I couldn’t imagine you not doing it, either. And you did it every night to people who were so angry. It just has to come up, because you are relating to these people honestly. Ed: I was particularly energized by the solidarity. It wouldn’t have been the same without all you guys up there, and to be able to hold your hand and stand together, it was like, “Fuck it. I’ll take the bullet. This is important.” So Sleater-Kinney will be on tour before Pearl Jam is, and

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you’ll be facing a country that failed to do its civic duty to educate itself and vote properly in this last election. Do you hold it against a certain state, like Ohio, before you even get there? Corin: I think the people who come to see us are the ones who are like, “Man, this country is fucked.” There’s not gonna be a lot of Republicans coming to see Sleater-Kinney. Maybe a few, and they might write on the Internet, “We’re so annoyed that you’re so vocal about these things. But we still like your music.” Carrie: At a Sleater-Kinney show, there’s a slightly more homogenous political atmosphere. Which, in some ways, is frustrating. At a Pearl Jam show, there is that danger of playing and talking in front of people who have different views than you. That really drove the writing on [The Woods]. It’s scary to get bigger, but there’s something exciting about realizing that maybe your music is transcending something and you’re not just preaching to the converted. If you say something pro- or anti- a certain politician, you might be met with resistance. Resistance isn’t necessarily a bad thing for art. In some ways, it fuels it. Corin: That’s what’s so great about Pearl Jam: You actually have the possibility of asking someone to think in a different way than they might. That’s what rock ‘n’ roll used to be. People would do things that were crazy and would upset people.

*** Pearl Jam is beloved by athletes, actuaries, bartenders, businessmen, flight attendants, pharmacists, freelance photographers, gas-station attendants, historians of science, international diplomats, junior members of Congress, Kiwanis Club officials, legal aid attorneys, motorcycle salesmen, orthopedic surgeons, dental hygienists, nurse practitioners, venture capitalists, veterinarians, science-fiction fantasists, tuba virtuosos, and sanitation experts. At the unmistakable opening of “Long Road,” “Better Man,” or “Alive”—that single, solitary chord—all of these become instantly transported to an idealized portrait of our awkward, adolescent selves. The phenomenon spans borders, languages, income levels, education, sexual orientation, political parties, religions, and all other aspects of adult identity, demarcating a distinct microgeneration. Never was this more clear than on April 30, 2003, in Uniondale, Long Island.* ***

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In 2003, Pearl Jam went on their longest tour of North America since 1991. Over eleven weeks in April, June, and July, they played fifty-eight shows, in almost every state, and their first in Mexico City. A few of these recordings are classics: Mansfield, Massachusetts, where the band attempts to play every song they had recorded, over three nights; Madison Square Garden, which was released as a DVD; State College, Pennsylvania, where they play thirty-six songs over three hours. These are their first shows with Boom Gaspar, the affable keyboard player, from  Hawaii—who, according to legend, had never even heard of the band when Ed asked him to join. They’re also when the group starts coming out early, to play an acoustic set, and some of their most beloved covers: “I Believe in Miracles,” by  the Ramones; “Gimme Some Truth” and “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away,” by John Lennon. But the tour for Riot Act will be remembered— characteristically—for something essentially non-musical. You can call it the first instance of backlash—or, perhaps, the first time Pearl Jam’s audience took its mask off, so to speak. *** On February 15, 2003—days after Colin Powell told the UN there was “no doubt” Iraq possessed and was prepared to use weapons of mass destruction— the biggest protest in world history took place on all seven continents, including Antarctica, and in over 100 countries. The BBC estimates that between six and ten million people march against the coming war in Iraq. On the day of the protests, Pearl Jam is in Adelaide, Australia. They join an afternoon crowd of 100,000 in Victoria Square—10 percent of the city’s population. As Ed tells the audience, only hours later: Hello, Adelaide! What a great day. I don’t know if you feel it, but—I think it’s one of the—maybe the greatest weekends, in my lifetime, that I can remember—in our lifetimes. This weekend, the biggest protest since the Vietnam War went down. I was too young to remember that. You’ve got millions, millions, and millions—maybe, eight million people … coming out to protest the war. That’s something to be toasted to, and thankful for. [Applause.] And you should be very proud of yourselves, Australia, for such good showings in Melbourne, Sydney, and today, in Adelaide. We were down there. It just looked great. You should be really proud. And we come as representatives of dirty seppos [slang for Americans], to tell you that we’re not all cowboys, and we’re not

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John Wayne. And that—don’t believe the news. We don’t all believe in supporting our president.

The crowd eats it up; as they did (and do again) in Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, and Perth, where they add a few topical covers: “Fortunate Son,” by Creedence Clearwater Revival; “Know Your Rights,” by The Clash; and, only slightly on the nose, “Give Peace a Chance.” These are the first shows where Pearl Jam is regularly playing “Bushleaguer”; and with George W. Bush at historic lows in popularity overseas, it’s not a surprise that they go over without controversy. Less than a month later, on March 10th, the lead singer of the Dixie Chicks, Natalie Maines, told a small crowd in London, where hundreds of thousands had  protested only weeks before: “Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the President  of  the United States is from Texas.” At the time, the Dixie Chicks were the biggest-selling female act in history, having sold twenty-three million albums. They had played the Super Bowl, in January, and a few weeks later, on Saturday Night Live. In a term that had yet to be popularized, they would end up being the first major performers in the twenty-first century to be canceled. Back in the US, country radio pulled the Dixie Chicks’ music from the air, prompted by listener complaints. In Shreveport, Louisiana, a station rented a 33,000-pound bulldozer to demolish the band’s merchandise. Both the band’s sponsor, Lipton, and the company’s owner, Unilever, were threatened with boycotts. On March 12th, Maines attempts to clarify her comment, and on March 14th, she issues a defeated apology: “As a concerned American citizen, I apologize to President Bush because my remark was disrespectful. I feel that whoever holds that office should be treated with the utmost respect.” In the meantime, the Dixie Chicks were banned on some seventy-four country-radio stations in the US. The message was clear: it was not an option to criticize the president during a time of encroaching war. On March 17th, the US announced it would abandon its attempt to get a second Security Council vote, and the president gave Saddam Hussein an ultimatum: leave the country within forty-eight hours, or else. On March 19th, the first bombs started falling on Baghdad. ***

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A week and a half later, the band opens the first leg of the US tour in Denver. It’s their first time playing with one of Ed’s favorite groups, Sleater-Kinney. In her memoir, Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl, Carrie Brownstein recalled: Our first show with Pearl Jam was in Denver, on April Fools’ Day. We’d been playing the fist-raising, call-to-arms songs off One Beat on our own tours in clubs and theaters around the world, but now we would perform in sports stadiums and arenas. Without giving it a second thought, Corin [Tucker] criticized George W. Bush from the stage. It was almost the first thing she said to a crowd of over 15,000, at the Pepsi Center, people who had little or no idea who we were. To fans in the nosebleed section, we probably looked like ants, which was also how significant we were to most of these Pearl Jam listeners. Pearl Jam, it turned out, played music to all kinds of people. Their fans were both rural and urban, Republicans and Democrats, and everything in between. The band was touring with their album Riot Act, which featured an excoriating song called “Bushleaguer.” In Denver the song, or perhaps it was the George W. Bush rubber mask that Eddie pulled on, drew boos from the crowd. Yet five minutes later, that same sports-cap-wearing man with upper-arm hair and a cross around his neck who had booed Eddie would be tearing up, enacting a human seat belt on his eyelinered girlfriend and singing along to “Black.” Here was the mainstream. We had a lot to learn.

*** After “Insignificance,” in Denver: Alright, I just want to say one thing before the next song. Uh—you know, about all, uh, what’s going on with—with the world these days. We all know what’s going on. We know some of what’s going on. We know what they tell us. We know some of what we find out on our own. Uh—you got a minute for this? [Applause.] ’Cause I won’t even take that. But I talked to someone—a guy who served—this guy who flew helicopters in Vietnam. I figured, he—he knows more about this—than a lot of people. He was over there. He probably knows more than—a lot of our representatives, who were never over there. [Applause.] And this guy has got his shit together to this day. Uh—now he flies—I mean, but—he’d been through this experience that he’s carried with him. I asked him: what do you feel? What do you feel about this? And, uh, he says—[a few jeers from the crowd]—did someone just say shut up?

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There’s a pause of five or six uncomfortable seconds, and then some scattered boos. I don’t know if you heard about this thing, it’s called freedom of speech, man. [Applause.] It’s worth thinking about it, ’cause it’s going away. [Cheers and jeers.] So—you know, in the last year of being able to use it—we’re sure as fuck going to use it, and I apologize—I’m not going to apologize.

After a memorable “Porch,” there’s the first of two encores. That’s when Pearl Jam first plays the song “Bushleaguer”—not known for its nuance—in post9/11 America, outside Seattle. Unwisely, perhaps, in the state of Colorado, Ed pulls out a mask, with a distinctly simian visage of George W. Bush. He sets it onto a microphone stand. Then he sings, or spits out, the song, whose best lyric is borrowed from the Texas populist, Jim Hightower, and was first used in 1988 to describe the elder George Bush: “born on third / thinks he got a triple.” From the bootleg, at least, there’s nothing amiss. They play another two songs— “Daughter,” then “Go”—then another three songs in the encore. Two days later, on April 3rd, the Scripps Howard News Service reports: Incensed fans walked out of Pearl Jam’s concert in Denver Tuesday after lead singer Eddie Vedder impaled a mask of President Bush on a microphone stand, then slammed it to the stage. Most of Vedder’s anti-war remarks earlier in the Pepsi Center show were greeted with mixed cheers and scattered boos. But dozens of angry fans walked out during the encore because of the macabre display with the Bush mask, which he wore for the song “Bushleaguer,” a Bush-taunting song from the band’s latest album, Riot Act.

The incident is reported widely, in newspapers across North America. That same day, Pearl Jam issues a statement: There were close to 12,000 people at the April 1st Denver show. It’s possible two dozen left during the encore but it was not noticeable amongst the 11,976 who were loudly applauding and enjoying the evening’s music. It just made a better headline to report otherwise. (You’ll note the writer doesn’t mention this in his review of the show from the day prior. See “Pearl Jam Show Will Make a Great CD” by Mark Brown, Rocky Mountain News. And it is little more than a mention in any of the show reviews.) Dissension is nothing we shy away from—it should just be reported about more accurately. Ed’s talk from the stage centered on the importance of freedom of

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speech and the importance of supporting our soldiers as well as an expression of sadness over the public being made to feel as though the two sentiments can’t occur simultaneously.

It would be nice to say that the Rocky Mountain News got it wrong: that, in fact, the 11,976 people who stayed through the end were more representative of American opinion, in April of 2003. It was a different country from the one they had last toured, in 1998 or 2000. In Oklahoma City—their very next show—Ed brings up the Denver incident; as he does again in Houston, West Palm Beach, and Pittsburgh. In Charlotte, North Carolina, after “Grievance,” he delivers a four-minute monologue: “I just can’t imagine living in a place where you couldn’t sing any song that you wanted to, or say anything you wanted to,” he starts. But lately, it feels real easy to imagine. In fact, it’s shockingly real … It’s just interesting to think that for as long as we’ve been alive, fifty percent of the federal money has gone just to military. Fifty percent, my friends.” [Scattered jeers and cheers.] And we gotta keep ourselves safe, you know? And that’s on top of the $90 billion that they get extra—when something comes up and the shit hits the fan.

The reception is lukewarm at best. He continues, talking about the low salaries paid to the military. The guys who are over there fighting this war—and the guys that we care about— and the guys that we want to come home safe—[applause]—I don’t know if you know any of them, or you are any of ’em—it’s pretty interesting to learn that there’s that much money going to the military, and that these guys are getting just above minimum wage, if that … So let’s make sure these guys are paid a living wage. Where they can raise a good family. And get an education for their kids. [Applause.]

The band keeps noodling, nervously. “And one last thing. While we’re talking numbers. Another thing, if you haven’t heard it before. The same time we’re giving $90 billion to fight this war—” Someone from the crowd interjects: “THAT WE WON!” (So much for one last thing.) It’s not over yet, my friend. [“PLAY ROCK AND ROLL!”] And it’s not all about winning and losing. This is the world. And it keeps turning. And it keeps going around. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about—what step are we taking next and where are we going with this thing. If we’re in control, we’d better do

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it responsibly. And if we’re the people, we’d better make sure the leaders do it responsibly. ’Cos it’s our ass they’re putting on the line, not theirs.

The following night, in Nashville—after the band plays “Bushleaguer,” for only the second time on the US tour—the song is again received with boos. (“The freedom of speech—is still alive,” Ed says, by way of introducing “Alive,” unconvincingly.) That’s presumably the reason it’s not played at the next eight shows—not even in Philadelphia, or at the University of Illinois. In Albany—one of the better shows of the tour—after the main set, the band comes out for the encore and sees a number of people with printed peace signs. “That’s peace of mind right there. Let’s see … we don’t know what we’re going to do.” Ed looks through his book of lyrics, and the band starts noodling. “Alright … Alright. I got one. I’m gonna need some help though. This woman, with the peace sign—will you pull her out? Right there.” Pointing into the front row. The band confers; Ed picks up a guitar. After a minute, a young woman comes on stage. As she enters the spotlight, she and Ed shake hands. She tells him her name. She’s wearing a sweater, tied around her waist, and has the printed peace sign in her hand. She walks over to Stone; gives him a hug; shakes hands with Matt; and then stands next to Ed, holding the lyrics. “This is Rachel. She’s the—human music stand, tonight.” (You can find this on YouTube.) If you want to be critical—it’s probably not the best version of the song. (Buffalo—May 2nd—is a bit more polished.) Still: I challenge you to watch this— and not be moved. The date is April 29, 2003, and Ed starts to sing Patti Smith’s “People Have the Power.” After it’s over—and a lengthy round of applause—he improvises: Oh Rachel, was a girl, she sat in the front row, Next thing that you know, she’s part of the fuckin’ show Rachel was a girl, she wished peace on the world She came all dressed in white, he said, “Hey man, that’s right” ’Cause peace is the way, peace could be the way, Peace is not far away, if you believe it today. Rachel!

You can see why they had no idea what they’d walked into, just a few hours later, and a short drive from Ground Zero. *** Looking at the Uniondale setlist—it fair’s to say they had a special evening in mind. Even on a run of unorthodox shows—with everything from “Of the Girl,”

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“Present Tense,” and “Crazy Mary” as openers—this one stands out. How can we tell? Well, for one thing: there’s “Rearviewmirror” second—after “Long Road”— when it would normally be toward the end. There’s two middle-period rarities— “In Hiding” and “Present Tense”—right in a row, followed by an incendiary “Even Flow”; then two more (“Patriot” and “Blood”), all during the main set. This arrangement of “Patriot” is slowed-down; there’s an audible cheer at the lyrics, “And I ain’t no Democrat / Sure as fuck ain’t no Republican either,” suggesting there’s at least a few people who don’t take part in what follows. There’s a bit of a dreary stretch, with “Last Kiss,” into “Thumbing My Way”; and the familiar second-set favorites: “Do the Evolution,” “Crazy Mary,” “Alive.” All in all—two hours in—there’s not the faintest indication that the crowd is anything but with the band. And then—well, that’s when it gets interesting. *** As far as I’m aware, it’s only happened once—here, in Uniondale: almost an entire crowd, turning on the band. (It was close, a few times: Golden Gate Park, for one; the shows with U2, for another. Still, this was different: 14,000 New Yorkers, many of them firefighters and policemen who had lost loved ones on September 11th, eighteen months prior. It must have been at least a little frightening—if only, the mood.)

Uniondale, Long Island, 2003. Screen grab from Pearl Jam Twenty.

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After a lengthy, seven-song encore—which includes both a fragment of “W.M.A.” and their tribute to Howard Zinn, “Down”—the band walks out for the second encore. They start playing “Bushleaguer.” Ed comes out, wearing a silver suit, and the Bush mask, smoking a cigarette. He does a little dance, and motions to the crowd. For most of the song—only its third performance in the US, outside Seattle—there’s nothing immediately awry. Watching the video, on YouTube, the boos become deafening at about five minutes. But you can already hear the audience voicing displeasure, well before the end of the song: BOOO!! Ed starts out with sarcasm—and rapidly moves to contempt. Ed: I busted out the nice suit for you, yeah? Crowd: BOOO!!! BOOO!!! Ed: Ahhh, yeah. Crowd: BOOO!!! BOOO!!! Ed: You didn’t like that one. Crowd: BOOO!!! BOOO!!! BOOO!!! USA! USA! USA! USA! BOOO!!! Ed: I don’t understand. Maybe—maybe you like him, ’cause he’s gonna give you—a tax cut. Crowd: PLAY ROCK ‘N’ ROLL! BOOO!! BOOO!!! PLAY ROCK ‘N’ ROLL! Ed: Maybe you like him [BOOO!!!] ’cause he’s a real guy— Crowd: BOOO!!! BOOO!!! Ed: —that relates to you—’cause he’s so down home … Crowd: BOOO!!! USA! USA! PLAY ROCK ‘N’ ROLL! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! Ed: I’m with ya. USA.

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Crowd: PLAY ROCK ‘N’ ROLL! Ed: I just think—that all of us in this room—should have a voice— Crowd: SHUT THE FUCK UP!! Ed: —in how the USA—is represented. [Applause.] And he didn’t allow us our voice. [BOO!!!] That’s all I’m saying. [BOO!!!] We love America. [BOO!!!] I’m standing up on a stage, in front of a big crowd. [BOO!!!] I worked at a goddamn drug store. I love America, right? Crowd: PLAY ROCK AND ROLL! PLAY ROCK AND ROLL! PLAY SOME FUCKING ROCK AND ROLL! Ed: This is good. This is open, honest debate. And that’s what it should be. [Applause.] We keep this back and forth—keep this back and forth—good things will happen. If you don’t say anything—you don’t know what’ll happen. Crowd: PLAY SOME ROCK AND ROLL! Ed: ’Cause we—are on—the brink—of—forever. And if we don’t participate —on where this thing is going—when we’re the number-one superpower in the world— Crowd: PLAY ROCK AND ROLL! Ed: —you want to have a part in it, and make sure it’s a good thing, yeah? [Applause.] Plus or minus, be active. This is a good thing. [Nervous laugh.]

With that—with several thousand of New York City’s finest, middle fingers raised—the band counts off for “Know Your Rights,” by The Clash. “This is a public service announcement—with guitar!” It’s one of Pearl Jam’s finest moments: defiant, unrepentant, and proud. “You have the right not to be killed,” Ed sings, innocently. “MURDER! is a crime,” he continues. “Unless it was done / by a policeman.” (How’s that for open debate?) Then it’s “Rockin’ in the Free World”; and if you’ve ever understood the lyrics “Don’t feel like Satan / but I am to them,” it’s this moment. Not surprisingly, there’s no third encore. *** From Deep, the official fanzine, winter/spring 2006: Howdy Fellas, My name is Bill. I just got back from Iraq. I’m writing to say thanks. I’m a 24-year-old medic in the Iowa National Guard. I was deployed with my unit for fifteen months.

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Of the 25 or so CDs I brought overseas with me, three were yours. Since I was thirteen years old I have listened to Vs. every year on my birthday, May 3rd. Last year was a little different. My unit was pulling out of Camp Dogwood, just south of Baghdad. I was waiting until we got the ambulance onto the highway before I listened to Vs. But just outside of Baghdad my ambulance self-destructed. It had apparently had a defective crank shaft for the last three years but nobody had time to fix it. We lurched to a stop near two blown-up Russian T-72 tanks. I radioed up for help but since I was the convoy’s last vehicle, nobody saw me. I kept calling and finally got ahold of someone. It took 45 minutes, hunkered down behind that tank, watching for trouble, before the tow truck had me hooked up. I prayed every minute that I wouldn’t have to kill anyone. I told God that if he’d save me from killing and dying that he could have one leg and one arm, just leave my mental facilities, eyesight, hearing, and man parts. And while I was there I also thought of how fucked-up it all was. Just because some asshole from Texas couldn’t use his ambassadors, I might die or kill someone. I made it through the year with no purple hearts. I lived in Mosul, the Syrian border, Balad, and even three hellish months in Abu-Ghraib. Thankfully my unit left before the abuses began. When I got back to the States I saw your May 3rd State College PA concert for sale at the Ft. McCoy PX. I listened to it on the bus ride from McCoy to Iowa City. The last three songs got a few tears out of me but since we were just getting into I.C. everybody else was crying too. I hope Sarge is okay. I haven’t heard otherwise. Your May 3rd State College PA concert has now replaced Vs. as my birthday album. Every time I hear it I smell the burnt oil smell of that tank and see the village children I prayed I wouldn’t kill. So, I’ve thrown in a little Saddam money for the guys. But mostly, thank you for speaking out, thank you for giving me something to listen to, and thank you for writing something that can speak directly to a person’s soul. Thanks, Bill PS: That’s me in the two photos. The one with all the gear on is at Nineveh, at Mosul. It’s a biblical city from 2 Kings. Say hi to Ichiro if you see him.

***

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On November 11, 2003, Pearl Jam released Live at the Garden—a three-hour double DVD, bursting with bonus features, from a memorable show in early July. That same day, they released Lost Dogs, a two-CD compilation, gathering most of their B-sides and rarities, with the conspicuous exception of “Angel,” “I Got Shit,” and “Long Road.” The album includes the unlisted “4/20/02,” a eulogy for Alice in Chains’ Layne Staley. More questionably, the band decided to re-record some of their finest B-sides, none to the better: “Wash,” “Alone,” and a personal favorite, “U.” The feelings of Pearl Jam people then and now with regard to this most exasperating of collections were captured in the Antiquiet Podcast, episode fifty-three: “Pearl Jam Fan Life, Part II (2003–2020).” Musically, it really was an insane time of indulgence. Live at the Garden came out just a few days later, after the Santa Barbara Bowl show. And so did Lost Dogs, which—was just too goddamn much to process at one time. Lost Dogs was an album I breathlessly anticipated. But at the same time, completely dreaded, because I knew that there were re-recorded songs—or at least parts of songs that I loved on there—and they kicked so much ass on the originals—I knew that if they fucked with some of my favorites, it was gonna be a hard time, no matter what … But with Lost Dogs, this album began with “All Night,” and then went into “Sad,” and then “Down,” and “Hitchhiker,” and—shit, it was just all so good that I forgot about the stupid concerns that I’d had, especially listening to Stone barking along with Ed, on the chorus to “Don’t Gimme No Lip”—before taking the lead on the verses, obviously—and really, that’s where I went wrong. Um—I let my guard down. And so—“Alone” started. And I was excited. And I celebrated. And then they fucked with it. That surprise, mind-blowing motherfucker B-side to “Go”— which was a total shocker at the time—it was so awesome, and so passionate—it got new vocals, it got changed lyrics, a little more mumbly, and it sounds like Ed smoked a fuckin’ joint before singing it. Like—what the fuck, man? [laughing] Like, what was the point? But, alright. Onward. It’s still a great goddamn song. Even this version. Even though we totally skip the whole “myself ” part, I—just— [sigh]. “In the Moonlight” sucked me right out of that, and into a great spot, once again. And then you had “Black, Red, Yellow”—awesome. “U,” with new vocals, for no goddamn reason, again—like, c’mon, man. The weird Ten-ny thing, in the bridge, it just—it doesn’t work. I don’t know why it was done. Um—but, onward. Yes! “Leavin’ Here,” into “Gremmie Out of Control.” Such a fantastic turn of

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sound. And, holy shit. The fact that “Hold On” just crept up on the tail end of that disc one—just made it so much sweeter. That line—“Gave her life away / put it in my pocket when it should have been framed”—um, the way that line hits—so full of regret, it just fuckin’ ruins me, every time. In the best way, though. There’s a bittersweetness to it. I love it. I love it. And then side two—Jesus. It’s just a Mike-Tyson-in-the-first-round-level shit show. Like, 1988-to-’90-kind-of-level, Mike Tyson, before he started biting people’s ears off and assaulting people outside the ring. Just fuckin’ so hard. I mean: “Fatal.” “Other Side.” “Hard to Imagine.” “Footsteps.” “Wash.” “Strangest Tribe.” “Dead Man.” “Driftin’.” I mean—I might as well read the whole fuckin’ tracklist. Jesus. It’s so good. It’s still, to this day, so fucking good. And if it weren’t for the missing vocals on “Brother”—or the goddamn harmonica on “Footsteps”—it would be perfect. With a capital P. That harmonica did not exist on the “Jeremy” B-side. And it was nails on chalkboard when it was added for me. I still feel that way. The song isn’t some folksy singalong, or hymn, you know? It’s a crushing, isolated, condemnation and confession. And, um—the harmonica just doesn’t work for me. Sorry. I’m not sorry. No!

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Thin Air (2006–13) That bad music is played, is sung more often and more passionately than good, is why it has also gradually become more infused with men’s dreams and tears. Treat it therefore with respect. Its place, insignificant in the history of art, is immense in the sentimental history of social groups. Marcel Proust

Every few years—almost on schedule—a succession of writers will recycle a familiar finding: Now, Pearl Jam are in the process of reclaiming their long-abandoned place at rock’s forefront. In May, they released Pearl Jam, an album bristling with anti-Bush, punkrock energy. It is, by universal acclaim, their best work since 1994’s Vitalogy—and the first one in a long while to demand attention with unabashed enthusiasm. One reason Pearl Jam’s ninth album is their best since 1994’s Vitalogy? It flies by. Without any of the plodding, moody ruminations and self-serious space fillers that have weighed down the band’s records for the past decade, Backspacer— clocking in at a breezy 36 minutes—hits the ground running and plows through its 11 songs with a raging spirit that hasn’t been heard since the band got all serious a decade or so ago. For its 10th album, Lightning Bolt … Pearl Jam revisits the themes of its debut Ten as older, wiser, craftier rockers … The result is Pearl Jam’s best, mostcohesive album since Yield and a fitting bookend with Ten for the band’s first twenty years. As reported by Variety, yesterday a group of journalists listened for the first time to the new, highly anticipated Pearl Jam album. Gigaton, clocking in at 57  minutes, will be the longest album Pearl Jam ever released. It has been described … as “the band’s strongest and most diverse work since 1998’s Yield.”

***

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If Pearl Jam had disappeared in 1998, they would have left one of the all-time great discographies. Ten to Vitalogy, Merkin Ball to Yield: an eight-year sequence of insistent and intensifying artistry. In those years, Pearl Jam was—with Rage Against the Machine—the most exhilarating rock band alive. A volatile, spontaneous, uncompromising outfit, that could navigate expertly between experiment and pop. An obstinate, intensely principled colossus, which sought to participate in the political arena; to keep ticket prices affordable; to raise social consciousness; and to renounce much in the way of celebrity. An effortlessly staggering live act, which almost had to be seen in person, multiple times, making believers of one and all. Alas—in the way of all good things—it had to come to an end. They would make half a great album, with Binaural; a third of one, with Riot Act; and something progressively lesser, with each one after that. *** In 2003—after seven studio albums, and at least 150 live recordings—the band fulfilled its contract with Epic, and became free agents. It was a chaotic time in the industry. In April 2000, Metallica filed suit against three universities— including the one that rhymes with jail—along with the illegal file-sharing service, Napster. That summer, Radiohead’s new album, Kid A, found its way onto the internet, several weeks before its release date, and would still end up as their first number one. Just a week after September 11th, Wilco put Yankee Hotel Foxtrot—with an eerie cover, of two twin towers—on its website, in full. Finally, on October 23, 2001, after eight months of secrecy, Apple introduced a new product—“the Walkman of the twenty-first century”—which, with its fivegigabyte storage, could put as many as “1,000 songs in your pocket.” For their part, Pearl Jam eyed the new landscape with curiosity. “I think the goal ultimately would be to go completely independent, and look into the future of music distribution,” Ed told a reporter. “I think we’d like to be able to control as much of it as we can, just because we have a different way of doing and saying things. There are some cool, independent approaches we’d like to take in the future. We’d love to structure something that way.” The band’s first single after leaving Epic was promising. “Man of the Hour” is one of Ed’s most poignant efforts: a brittle, introspective ballad, with a hypnotic guitar melody. Like many of his most expressive songs—“Release,” “Long Road,” “Footsteps”—it’s an elegy, for an absent father; unlike them, it almost can’t sustain the atmosphere of its opening chorus and verse. It was written for director Tim Burton, and his movie, Big Fish, about an estranged father and son. According

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to Mike, Ed goes home and writes the song right after a screening. It’s demoed the following day; recorded, four days later; and premiered live, the day after that. It’s also—unfortunately—one of the very last times such a thing can be said. *** Like every band, Pearl Jam has peaks and valleys: periods of miraculous brilliance, and longer periods of treading water. The early to mid-2000s, especially— Binaural, Riot Act, and Pearl Jam—are inconsistent, at best, and diminished by the preponderance of filler. A certain sameness, stodginess, and routine sets in. The recent albums—Backspacer, Lightning Bolt, and Gigaton—are depressing at times: a sequence of underwhelming misfires whose defenders tend toward a version of, “Well, at least they’re trying.” From Pearl Jam to Lightning Bolt, the proportions are identical: one-third melodramatic power ballads; two-thirds arena-ready rock songs, with the obligatory singalong (“yeah, yeah, yeah”). The first three to five songs will be high-energy, or their attempt; the last one to three, avuncular ballads. There will be lyrics about driving; the ocean; and vinyl. You could argue that the band went awry when they abandoned their experimental streak: either after Riot Act or No Code, depending who you ask. You could argue that something subtly changed with the band after Binaural— some inner equilibrium of endurance, ambition, and self-confidence. These were the years of Roskilde, when they found their future in question; Ed’s divorce in September 2000; and the 2000 election—with September 11th, Afghanistan, and the invasion of Iraq, soon to follow. You could argue that they lost something important with Jack, or Dave, or both. Or you could argue that even the best bands are lucky to have one superlative album in them, let alone five. It’s not merely that the band who wrote “In My Tree,” “Off He Goes,” and “Immortality” had written “Johnny Guitar.” It’s not merely that the band who wrote “Faithfull,” “Hard to Imagine,” and “Blood” had recorded “Big Wave.” It’s not merely that the songs took on titles like “Mind Your Manners” (which they did); “Wasted Reprise” (exactly); or “Buckle Up” (if we must); not merely that the band who had crafted protest songs in the form of “Yellow Ledbetter” and “Garden” had recorded a turkey like “World Wide Suicide”; or, God help us, “Can’t Deny Me.” It’s not merely that the band who made Vs., Vitalogy, and No Code in less than three years is phoning it in. It’s that most of the songs on these albums wouldn’t have merited inclusion as B-sides in the past. Again, it’s possible I’m being unfair—and maybe five great albums is enough to ask from anyone. (Outside of Fugazi and R.E.M., it’s hard to think of another

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group from the ’90s with that many.) It’s also possible that, after everything— Roskilde; Uniondale; the unsuccessful Vote for Change tour; and the death of Layne Staley, in 2002—something vital was lost. The unwelcome but undeniable impression made post-Avocado is that, somewhere around 2006, most of the magic goes out of their music. *** In the end, Pearl Jam announced in February 2006 that they had signed a deal with Clive Davis, and his imprint, J Records—home to Barry Manilow, Rod Stewart, and Alicia Keys. “I think the [record label] conversation is boring to someone who is interested in music,” Ed clarified. “We’d like to be creative with the business side, but we’re not good at using both sides of our brain at once. I might work on a bridge part of a song for three weeks, but I can’t imagine listening to anything about the business ideas of what we do for more than an hour without taking a hammer to my head.” So said the band who took themselves off the road for nearly four years, out of principle. Pearl Jam, Pearl Jam’s indifferently entitled eighth album, was released on May 2, 2006. (It soon takes the name Avocado, after its unsightly cover.) Was it a clever idea, to use an ambiguous, egg-shaped piece of produce for the artwork? The band clearly thought so. This was a release of such a chaotic nature that it could not be dismissed with merely a grimace. In one sense, Avocado is almost novelistic in its scope: a would-be concept album, in multiple voices, about life in the Bush era—with songs that were prescient about economics (“Unemployable”), opioid abuse (“Severed Hand”), military families (“Army Reserve”), fundamentalism (“Marker in the Sand”), and the American dream (“Gone”). These lyrics empathize with the plight of the abandoned (“World Wide Suicide”); the remorseful (“Life Wasted”); the oblivion seeker (“Comatose”); and the broken-hearted (“Come Back”). But in another sense, the songs that Pearl Jam deemed worthy of inclusion are dismayingly wide of the mark—making Avocado, regrettably, the noblest of failures. At its best—the effervescent “Parachutes”; the expansive, Pink Floyd-inspired “Inside Job”; the heart-rending “Come Back”—Avocado offers glimpses of the band’s former greatness. “Parachutes” is a classic Stone and Ed composition— sensual, eloquent, irresistible. “Inside Job” is the first lyrical effort by Mike—the album’s MVP—and a song whose instrumental structure is adapted from Pink Floyd’s Animals. The most compelling song on the album is easily “Come Back,” a ballad of longing so expressive it borders on overwhelming. The song, which the

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band would perform on only special occasions—such as the tenth anniversary of Roskilde—stands with “Hail, Hail” and “Black” in their canon of love songs. When Ed employs his falsetto in “Parachutes”; or when the band coalesces, at the final chorus of “Come Back”—Pearl Jam sound like nothing so much as the group we knew in the ’90s. But these moments are few and far between. The problem with Avocado is that these middle-period gems are surrounded by much that is mediocre and mundane. “World Wide Suicide” was Pearl Jam’s most overtly pop single since “Even Flow,” and representative of the album as a whole—agreeable, straightforward, largely forgettable. “Life Wasted” was Pearl Jam’s worst opener since “Breakerfall,” and soon to be outdone by “Gonna See My Friend.” The plodding “Gone” and “Marker in the Sand” were some of Ed’s most dispiriting lyrics. Even more shameful was “Big Wave,” the continuation of a series (“Amongst the Waves,” etc.) with no prospect of resolution in sight. For some fans—and the group seems to have felt this way—Avocado was a long-awaited homecoming. The tiresome spoken-word business was out. The leftfield arrangements and time signatures of Riot Act and Binaural were supplanted with elementary rock riffs. To others, it was the beginning of—if not the end, then a decade and a half where the band wandered directionless through one discouraging album after the next. Up to now, their music had been a continuous forward march—an attempt to expand the possibilities of their art. Sometime around the year 2006—as far as their career in the studio was concerned—this would come to an end. The curiosity and restlessness that marked Vitalogy have been replaced with a monochrome, repetitive monotony. At a time when rock found itself newly resurgent, thanks to a very Seattle-like scene, in New York— Animal Collective, Dirty Projectors, LCD Soundsystem, TV on the Radio, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, among others—Pearl Jam was releasing the least substantial music of their career. *** In 2009, the world was entering the most precipitous economic downturn since the Great Depression. First was the collapse of Lehman Brothers; the $85 billion bailout of AIG; and the stock market crash, in late 2008. Citigroup, General Motors, Chrysler, and Bank of America were next to be rescued, receiving a $700 billion lifeline. Then came the freefall: joblessness, bankruptcies, foreclosures. In the summer of 2009, the economy hemorrhaged half a million jobs a month. For the first time in a quarter century, the unemployment rate in America hits 10 percent. That same year, the excitement among Democrats over Barack Obama’s election was equaled by the discomfort in parts of the country that did not

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identify with the first black president. On Fox News, the Glenn Beck show attracts over three million viewers a day, astounding even the network. “I’ve never seen anyone build an audience this fast,” Fox chairman Roger Ailes told executives. In early February, Beck encouraged his audience to set up viewing parties: “There are more of you out there than you know.” By the end of the year, the gatherings will develop into a full-fledged rebellion, with targeted candidates; organized protests; and elected officials being shouted down in town hall meetings. Clearly, what was required—what we desperately needed—was a new Pearl Jam studio album, in the spirit of Vs., to reflect the contradictory time we were entering: one that laid bare the intolerance, paranoia, and willful ignorance of American society. What we needed was honesty, and imagination, and a willingness to face uncomfortable facts. What we got, instead, was Backspacer. *** It is not their finest hour—or thirty-six minutes, as the case might be. It was their first album in a decade with Brendan O’Brien, who had been spending the interim with the likes of Incubus, Papa Roach, and Train—and he wasn’t much help. An endurance test, in eleven songs, the album extends, on the one hand, from the merely unfortunate (“Got Some”) to the frankly inexcusable (“Johnny Guitar”); from innocuous (“Just Breathe”) to indifferent (“Supersonic”); well meaning (“Force of Nature”) to pure folly (“Gonna See My Friend”). The urgency, ambiguity, variation, and complexity are gone. The metaphors—surfing as life; baseball as life—are stale. And the insights—such as they are—incline toward bathos and cliché (“Is it so wrong to think that love can keep us safe?”). Not that any of this mattered to the fans. Aided by an exclusive with Target, countless interviews, and a leisurely world tour, Backspacer opened at number one—their first, since No Code—in September 2009. That the album debuted at the top of the charts with 189,000 sales says more about the state of the music industry, pre-Spotify, than the quality of the release itself. Backspacer stinks to high heaven. It was the sound of barrels being scraped. It was an insult to everything the band once stood for. If ever proof existed that Pearl Jam were spinning their wheels, this was it. Since when did Ed write lyrics like “I’m not the paper, I’m more like the fold”? “Now Johnny he be having lots of women”? “Have you heard of diplomatic resolve?” Since when did he ask questions like, “Precipitation, which side are you on?” Since when did the band take pride in an album so forgettable? The Pearl Jam of 1993 had managed to generate a righteous indignation on far less outrage than this.

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For a writer as rigorous and self-aware as Ed, the triviality of Backspacer was confounding. It was as if he’d been dealt a limited set of words—mainly, “yeah, yeah, yeah”—and told, do your best. It’s not that the album doesn’t deal with important themes—relationships, enlightenment, mortality—but that their treatment is consistently underwhelming. As an album, Backspacer is obviously inferior to every Pearl Jam album before it. Of eleven originals, more than half can be called filler at best. These are not merely cosmetic flaws. It is the skimpiest album they ever made. There was one superlative song—“Unthought Known”— and one that found an immediate popular audience, along with a cover by Willie Nelson: “Just Breathe,” a.k.a., the poor man’s “Come Back.” From here on in, there would be only the live show, the bootlegs, the officially sanctioned “Vault” releases—and almost nothing of the band that had once premiered a song a night, in 1994. Indeed, barely had the release date of Backspacer been announced, when the reissue campaign for Ten would commence in earnest. *** Pearl Jam played continually in their second decade. It hardly mattered that after Binaural, the studio albums became patchy—not without their moments, but largely unbecoming. The band had stopped pretending the recording studio was their focus. On the road was where they belonged, and where they would always shine—playing when and where they chose: Canada, in 2005; Europe, Australia, and the US, in 2006; the summer festivals, in, 2007; New Zealand and Australia, in 2009; Latin America, in 2011, and again in 2015. It was an old paradox: the more established a band gets, and the more of an institution it becomes, the less anyone cares about the new material. Was there anyone who’d complain to hear nothing after 1998? But with songs like “Johnny Guitar” and “World Wide Suicide”—could you really blame them? Pearl Jam understood this—which is why their sets over the years would draw largely from Ten, Vs., and Yield, and maybe three or four tracks from whatever album had just been released. That Pearl Jam’s fans regard the band’s recent output with less enthusiasm than in the ’90s is hardly a surprise. Almost every artist who makes it beyond their first few albums reaches this point eventually. But few come into it with the unique reputation of curiosity and restlessness that characterized Pearl Jam—a band whose focus had always been fixed on the future. It was depressing to think that their best days as a band were a decade behind them—and moreover, that they were fine with it.

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And so Pearl Jam became, in essence, a touring band. Studios didn’t interest them. Writing new material as a group didn’t interest them. What engaged their imagination was becoming the world’s best live band—which is what they became. Their twenty-year career was kept afloat almost entirely by the fans. People knew what to expect from a Pearl Jam show: the singalongs; the dramatic opener; the insistent barrage of hard-charging rock songs, in the first hour; the obligatory sequence from the most recent album; the exhausting covers; the interminable solos; the much-anticipated wild cards, in the first and second encore; Mike and Stone, at opposite sides of the stage, like yin and yang; Ed hunched over the microphone, in his unmistakable posture; Matt, the consummate showman in the back; Jeff, holding down the ensemble; “Better Man,” “Even Flow,” “Given to Fly,” and “Alive”; the inevitable Neil Young cover; and either “Baba O’Riley” or “Yellow Ledbetter”—or most likely, both—with the lights up, to close. You could hardly accuse Pearl Jam of not putting the fans first. In 2003, seventy-seven shows. In 2006, eighty-two shows. In 2009, thirtythree shows, not counting Ed solo. In 2011, twenty-two shows—including Pearl Jam 20, a two-day anniversary, held—naturally—in Wisconsin. In 2012, eighteen shows, and another Ed solo outing. In 2013, thirty-one shows, including Wrigley Field and Santa Barbara. In 2014, thirty-two shows, including front-to-back performances of Yield and No Code (!). In 2016, twenty-five shows, with Ten, Vs., and Binaural, all played in entirety. *** In 2012, Ed contributes a forward to a book of satirical cartoons by the artist Dan Perkins, a.k.a. Tom Tomorrow—who had done the cover art for Backspacer. He writes: It has been quite remarkable to have a compatriot who works so hard in the trenches. One who is outspoken and true to all the ideas that you both share. Sometimes in conversation we will compare jobs. I write a song or piece of music when I feel the need. Or when the song comes. In comparison, Dan digs in at it every week without fail. Compiling thought and information, all current and immaculately precise. And thus, prolific!

Did he have to put it so plainly? Lightning Bolt was released in the US on October 11, 2013. It was the fifth Pearl Jam album to debut at number one, with first-week sales of 166,000 copies in the

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United States—edging out the offspring of Billy Ray Cyrus and her magnum opus, Bangerz. The band’s tenth album was promoted with a series of interviews, conducted by the likes of Carrie Brownstein, Mark Turner, Steve Gleason, and Judd Apatow. It was followed by a 25-date tour of North America. “Mind Your Manners,” “Lightning Bolt,” and “Sirens” became early-set staples; “Pendulum,” “Infallible,” and “Yellow Moon” were also regulars. Opinions as to what this all added up to were divided, however; more than any other Pearl Jam album to date, Lightning Bolt was what you made of it. There were those who took a listen to “Getaway,” “Mind Your Manners,” and “Lightning Bolt,” and concluded that Pearl Jam had made a respectable record—no more, no less. There were those who listened to the more frightful efforts (“My Father’s Son,” “Let the Records Play”) and promptly moved on. And then there were those who looked at even the better songs (“Pendulum,” “Infallible,” “Sleeping by Myself ”) and concluded that the band had sold themselves short. If Lightning Bolt sounds uneven, or imbalanced—an album of unexpected mood swings—that’s because it was. In a first, the band would record over two different sessions, separated by a year. Moreover, the album’s best efforts were essentially leftovers: “Pendulum” had been recorded four years earlier, for Backspacer; “Sleeping by Myself ” had been released on Ukulele Songs, an Ed solo album, in 2011. Lightning Bolt includes nothing as appalling or acutely misjudged as “Got Some,” “Johnny Guitar,” or “Gonna See My Friend.” But it does feature moments so ill-advised, you wonder if their heart was really in it, or merely a deadline. That its overall feel is more unified than its predecessor means it doesn’t merit comparison with Nickelback; this is offset, however, by the fact that it has only one above-average song. Only with the benefit of hindsight would it become apparent that, with Lightning Bolt, Pearl Jam reached a point in their career when their best days in the studio were fifteen years in the past.

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Tomas Young and Body of War (2007–16) War tends to remove the poetic content from our lives and from our sanity—we brood,  we plan, we worry, we hate, and we destroy—and all mental activity  of this nature is unpoetical since poetry is dreams and love and simple melancholy. E.B. White

He was born on November 30, 1979, in Boise, Idaho. I was born on November 7, 1978, in North Miami, Florida. His grandmother was an immigrant, from Germany, who moved to the US after the Second World War. My parents were first-generation immigrants, from Israel; and my grandparents, immigrants too.* His parents got divorced when he was two years old; mine got divorced when I was twelve. His mother moved the family from Idaho to Nebraska, and then to Kansas City, Missouri. My parents moved every other year, it seemed, mostly around south Florida. I have two younger brothers, one of whom was briefly in the army, in Israel. He had a sister and two younger brothers, one of whom served two tours of duty in Iraq. We were raised by selfless, single mothers. His remarried, to a conservative Republican, as did mine. When he was ten, he spent a year in California with his grandparents. When I was thirteen, I spent a year living by myself. Our fathers were essentially absent: mine, in spirit; his, in the flesh. Growing up, we read the same books: Choose Your Own Adventure and Encyclopedia Brown. In middle school, it was dubious biographies, like Bo Knows Bo, and Stephen King; in high school, Kurt Vonnegut, The Catcher in the Rye, and Fahrenheit 451. Our tastes in music were more or less identical: Pearl Jam, Bad Religion, Rage Against the Machine. (Needless to say, we were both W.M.A.)

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He was a quiet, introspective teenager, but also self-deprecating, and intelligent, with a dark sense of humor. His interest in books made him want to pursue journalism, or creative writing in college; the problem was how to pay the tuition. His hope was to go to school in Oregon, and never to see Missouri again—a feeling I can understand. His grandfathers had both served in Korea, and his stepfather was a Navy SEAL in Vietnam. During his senior year of high school—at seventeen years old—he enlisted in the Army Reserve, to qualify for the GI Bill, but was medically discharged for tendonitis. In 1998, he graduated from high school, and went to work at a local convenience store. On the morning of September 11, 2001, we were both sleeping in. That day— that entire week, month, and whole next year—we were glued to our TVs. He was working at a Kansas City Kmart. I couldn’t even say that much. It was one of those weeks when you know that nothing will ever be the same. I had spent the last four years as a student—reading about years like 1848, 1914, 1968; how artists had responded to life during wartime; how the First World War had compelled writers to think differently: modernism. It was eerie, on September 12th, to think: this is day one of the twenty-first century. Within forty-eight hours, CNN shifted its tagline from “America Attacked” to “America’s New War,” while CBS opted for “America Rising.” Tomas Young’s employer, Kmart, printed a full-page version of the flag in the Sunday New York Times. ABC’s website offered American flags for download. On September 14th, we saw the president, megaphone in hand, standing on a pile of rubble. It would be an appropriate image, for the eight years to come. “I can’t hear you!” someone said. With a firefighter to his left, and a crowd of first responders, looking on, the president seized his moment. “I can hear you! I can hear you! The rest of the world hears you! And the people—and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon!” The rescue workers chanted: “USA! USA! USA! USA!” A few days after the attacks, Tomas Young called the local Army recruiter. “When I saw the president stand on top of the World Trade Center rubble and make his megaphone declaration, I was moved, in a way,” he told the writer Mark Wilkerson. “Yeah, I’m normally not that type of guy, but I sat there like everybody else did on September 11 for that whole day watching coverage. I’m sure there are a lot of people who weren’t that type of guy in December of 1941 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, but yet they felt moved to act in that

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way because of events that just unfolded.” His tendonitis was no longer an issue. He was twenty-two years old. That week, Dan Rather appeared on The Late Show with David Letterman. “I couldn’t feel stronger, David, that this is a time for us—and I’m not preaching about it—George Bush is the President,” Rather said. “He makes the decisions, and, you know, it’s just one American, wherever he wants me to line up, just tell me where. And he’ll make the call.” The president announced the invasion of Afghanistan on October 7th, from the White House Treaty Room. Explaining the choice of venue, he said, “The only way to pursue peace is to pursue those who threaten it.” The bombing began later that same day; and within months, the Taliban were deposed. In early 2002, the US functioned in a climate of worldwide solidarity. A wide range of allies supported the war in Afghanistan. The president was still being celebrated, both abroad and at home. Fewer than 10,000 US soldiers were deployed in the war on terror, and a dozen Americans had died in combat. The United States had yet to capture Osama bin Laden, but it had routed the Taliban, and it seemed to have al-Qaeda on the run. By the end of the year, some 200,000 members of the US Armed Forces were on their way to staging areas surrounding Iraq. It would later emerge that the idea was first put forward in early 2001. On January 29, 2002, in his first State of the Union, President Bush made his first major statement about foreign policy after 9/11. The president said that Iran, Iraq, and North Korea comprised an “axis of evil.” “By seeking weapons of mass destruction, these regimes pose a grave and growing danger. They could provide these arms to terrorists, giving them the means to match their hatred. They could attack our allies or attempt to blackmail the United States.” In February, he ordered the Central Command to shift forces from Afghanistan to the Gulf. In March, he interrupted a meeting between his national security adviser, Condoleezza Rice, and three senators: “Fuck Saddam. We’re taking him out.” By spring 2002—a full year before the invasion—the White House was determined to go to war. In early February, Tomas Young arrived for basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. A further five weeks of infantry training followed. In June, he was sent to Fort Hood, Texas, and assigned to an infantry unit. He quickly earned the disdain of his commanding officers for questioning orders. That same month, President Bush delivered a graduation speech at West Point in which he outlined a new policy for “preemptive war.” Neither Iraq nor

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Saddam Hussein were mentioned, but his meaning was clear. “We cannot put our faith in the word of tyrants who solemnly sign non-proliferation treaties and then systematically break them. If we wait for threats to fully materialize, we will have waited too long.” A few weeks later, Dick Cheney hammered home his point that Saddam Hussein had, beyond all doubt, acquired weapons of mass destruction. At a news conference, Donald Rumsfeld said that the link between al-Qaeda and Saddam Hussein was “not debatable.” In October—with the president’s approval rating at over 80 percent—the Senate passed a resolution, authorizing the use of force against Iraq. With the midterm elections in November, the Democrats were desperate to be seen as supporting the president. Tom Daschle, the majority leader, joined fellow Democrats Joe Biden, John Kerry, and Hillary Clinton—twenty-six in all—in voting to authorize the war. Soon after the vote, the Pentagon’s bureaus were told to be ready for combat at any point between then and next April. A fellow recruit, Riley Soden, told Wilkerson: We talked about it a bunch and how we kind of expected to go to Afghanistan at first, and then when all the stuff started coming out on Iraq we realized that we were going to be going there, and there was kind of a double-edged sword, ’cause you want to go where you think the people who attacked you came from, but you signed this contract with the military and they kind of own you at that point. So I wanted to do the right thing and support my fellow soldiers but neither one of us were real pleased about where we were going. Tomas was very vocal about it. I just kind of realized that I didn’t have much of a choice.

Increasingly distraught, Young started self-medicating with alcohol. He went to the battalion doctor. He was told he could be prescribed anti-depressants after he’d talked to the chaplain. When he went to see the chaplain, he was advised: “Son, you’ll feel better when you get over to Iraq and start killing Iraqis.” That winter, Americans lived in a state of limbo. In Washington, war fever, testosterone, and hysterical rhetoric reigned. In the Capitol cafeteria, French fries were now freedom fries. Anyone who questioned the war was a “cheeseeating surrender monkey.” In February 2003, Eric Shinseki, the Army chief of staff, was asked by Congress about deployments. He said that, based on his experience, Iraq would require “something on the order of several hundred thousand soldiers.” Paul Wolfowitz would clarify: “It’s hard to conceive that it would take more forces to provide stability in post-Saddam Iraq than it would take to conduct the war itself and to secure the surrender of Saddam’s security forces and his army. Hard to imagine.”

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On February 8, 2004, the president appeared on Meet the Press. Tim Russert: The night you took the country to war, March 17, you said this: “Intelligence gathered by this and other governments leaves no doubt that the Iraq regime continues to possess and conceal some of the most lethal weapons ever devised. President Bush: Right. Russert: That apparently is not the case. President Bush: Correct.

Tomas Young was deployed to the Middle East in March 2004. It coincided, roughly, with Muharram: the first lunar month of the Muslim calendar. For Shiites, it was considered a tragic, unlucky month, when no religious Muslim would get married. (It was on the tenth day of Muharram, in the year 680 ce, when a massacre in the city of Karbala would lead to centuries under the Sunni caliphate.) It coincided as well with the one-year anniversary of the war, and ten months since “mission accomplished.” From Fort Hood, in Texas, he was flown to Kuwait, where he would spend several weeks, waiting on equipment, and adjusting to the heat. Soden remembered a briefing on improvised explosive devices (IEDs): They showed us a bunch of pictures of what the IEDs could look like, and it was—it turned out to be everything. Like, anything you could think of was an IED. It really just kind of made you more nervous, really—they could have just left that out.

On March 31, 2004, Tomas Young arrived in Baghdad. That same day, four Americans working for a private security company were ambushed in Fallujah, then mutilated, torched, and lynched by a delirious mob, from a bridge over the Euphrates. The images were ubiquitous within hours. His assigned location was Camp War Eagle, next to Sadr City: a densely populated Shiite neighborhood, whose two million residents lived in tenements and without sanitation. Sadr City was a stronghold of the popular cleric, Moqtada al-Sadr, whose followers—young, poor, dispossessed Shiites, known as the al-Mahdi Army—would spend most of the spring attacking US forces. In little time, they rendered the major supply lines to the capital unnavigable. The camp was still under construction when he arrived. In the first week of April, violence exploded all over Iraq. The precipitating event was the US decision, on March 28th, to suspend Sadr’s newspaper, al-Hawza, for incitement. No one seemed to anticipate the consequences.

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That night, thousands of militiamen took to the streets. It was the start of an insurrection that would last for nearly two months, and leave much of the reconstruction in ruins. On April 2nd, in his weekly sermon, Sadr told his followers to take up arms against the occupation. On April 3rd, one of Sadr’s top lieutenants was arrested for a standing warrant. The arrest sparked a massive rebellion, which Sadr had planned in advance. By nightfall, the Mahdi Army had set up checkpoints; overrun police stations; and begun pouring into cities across southern Iraq. At that same moment, the Sunni insurgency developed into full-scale combat. At the White House, the president ordered the Marines to surround Fallujah, saying: “I want heads to roll.” Three days after the incursion began, the order came in from the Pentagon to stop. Reports on Arab TV of hundreds of civilian deaths were inflaming opinion all over the world. The fighting had created for the first time a Shia-Sunni alliance. In the first two weeks of April alone, fortyeight American soldiers were killed. On April 4th, Sadr issued another statement: There is no use for demonstrations, as your enemy loves to terrify and suppress opinions, and despises people. I ask you not to resort to demonstrations because they have become a losing card and we should seek other ways. Terrorize your enemy, as we cannot remain silent over its violations.

That same day, Tomas Young’s unit—Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Cavalry Regiment—would take part in a ceremony, marking their assumption of command. Soden remembered: Having been in the city earlier, it was real busy, but then we turned a corner to be on that main road, there was nobody. And that’s when I knew it was bad. When all the civilians are gone, you realize that something bad’s about to happen.

It was in the early evening when a patrol from Young’s company was ambushed, and started taking fire. Several were dead, or wounded; others were trapped, and needed support. Back at Camp War Eagle, a call went out for all available hands. Young had been assigned to guard duty, but was told by a sergeant: “You’ve got to get your gear and go do this mission.” When he said that he had been assigned to stand guard, the squad leader said to get going. Tomas stepped into the back of an exposed, unarmored Humvee, without even a canvas covering. He was one of a dozen soldiers in the vehicle—“ducks in a barrel.” He remembered:

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The truck I was in wasn’t supposed to be out on missions. It was on water and food detail, to bring water and food to the soldiers inside the wire, and it overheated several times—and in fact that day it was scheduled to be in maintenance because of the radiator.

They began taking fire almost immediately. “When I tried to shoot out of the side of the truck, I couldn’t maneuver my weapon very well and so therefore didn’t fire a shot,” he told Wilkerson, “because all I saw were women and children who were running from the firefight. But I did see guys with AK-47s go down, so I knew that my guys were doing what they were supposed to.” At around 7:00 p.m., on April 4, 2004, Tomas Young was hit by an AK-47 just below his left collarbone, puncturing his spinal cord and lung. He was instantly paralyzed. He had been in Iraq for five days and had not fired a single shot. On its way back to the camp, the supply truck broke down. Young was still unconscious when they made it to Camp War Eagle. All but three of the soldiers in the vehicle were injured, many seriously. In total, eight US soldiers died on April 4, 2004, and more than fifty were wounded. The New York Times called it “one of the worst single losses for the American forces in any firefight since Baghdad was captured.” Cathy Young, Tomas’s mother, was at work the next day when she found out that her son had been injured. The call was from someone at Fort Hood, in Texas. For the next eight days, she sat by the phone, amid conflicting information. Tomas had been shot and then transferred to Kuwait. Everything else was unclear. It was likely she would meet him in Germany, they said. The next day, another call. They believed he had been shot in the knee. The next five days, “he went from being severely injured, to not severely injured, back to severely injured.” Finally, she reached someone at a base in Germany, who said Tomas had been there a full week. He was now on his way to Walter Reed, in Washington, DC. Cathy flew there the moment she heard. “That’s when they had just removed him from his medical coma,” she said, “and I still didn’t know the extent of his injuries. I just remember walking across and seeing him, all just a million tubes and everything, just … instruments and … here’s my 24-year-old baby, says ‘Mommy’ and starts crying.” Wilkerson: When Tomas awoke from his medically induced coma, he had pneumonia and weighed only seventy-five pounds. His shattered left knee was grotesquely swollen from the gunshot wound and the subsequent surgery to remove bullet and bone fragments. His upper torso bore the fresh scars of the bullet’s entry and

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exit wounds, the surgery to clean the debris from the bullet’s trajectory, and the pressure-relieving laminectomy. A feeding tube provided nutrition directly into his stomach, a tracheostomy aided breathing, and an IV provided the necessary medications, including a heavy dose of morphine for pain.

No one at the hospital would tell them the extent of the injury. The following day, a nurse—not a doctor—told them that his spinal cord had been completely severed. For the rest of his life, he would be paralyzed from the chest down. In the hospital, his first response was despair, and thoughts of suicide. “Every day, all day long,” his mother said, “that’s all he talked about. He cried and cried and cried—he hated me because I wouldn’t kill him, and hated the nurse because they were doing this, and hated the doctor.” It was while Tomas was recuperating at Walter Reed—as a way of improving his spirits—that his mother asked if there was anyone he wanted to meet. His first thought was Ralph Nader, whom he admired for his anti-war views. Young would later say: Before they showed up at the hospital, it was like pulling teeth to get a doctor to come around. But the minute Ralph and Phil stepped into my room, I was besieged by doctors. They all wanted to meet these two celebrities, so their visit improved my care—at least for fifteen minutes. When I was lying in the hospital bed in the heat of the 2004 presidential campaign, I could barely move and so watched a lot of news on television. The only candidate who was serious about pulling the soldiers out of Iraq was Ralph Nader. So when my mom asked me if I wanted to meet any leader in DC, I said I‘d like to see Ralph. So she contacted Ralph’s office and arranged him to visit.

Nader agreed to pay a visit—and even brought along a friend: the talk-show host Phil Donahue, who remembered: He was as white as the sheets. He was whacked out on morphine, you could see his cheekbones, and as I stood next to the bed, his mother explained his injuries to me—that Tomas is a T4, he’s paralyzed from the nipples down, and twentyfour years old, he’s impotent, prime-of-life male—and I thought, people should see this. This is the most sanitized war of my life. The president said, “You can’t take pictures of the coffins,” and the whole press corps said, “Okay.” Less than 5 percent of us made a personal sacrifice for the Iraq war. We did not see the pain. I was speechless, and that’s not a usual thing for a talk-show host.

Body of War—the documentary that Donahue and Ellen Spiro would spend two years producing—had its world premiere on September 11, 2007, at the

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Toronto Film Festival. The movie shows Young and his fiancée, Brie Townsend, getting married and later divorced. In unblinking detail, it depicts his struggle to perform basic bodily functions; his impotence; and the couple’s halting attempts at intimacy. On their honeymoon, Brie and Tomas visit Camp Casey, near the president’s vacation home, in Crawford, Texas. It was here, in the summer of 2005, that the 48-year-old Cindy Sheehan sparked a new anti-war movement, in memory of her son, Casey, who had been shot in Sadr City, on the same day as Tomas Young. It was also at Camp Casey that Young discovered his gift for public activism. We soon see Tomas finding his purpose and voice. He started giving interviews to the press—among others, for 60 Minutes. He started working with Iraq Veterans Against War, and appearing at anti-war rallies. In the movie, we see Tomas’s stepfather, a conservative, defending the integrity of the war. We see his brother, Nathan—himself a soldier—shipping off to Iraq. In one especially wrenching scene, the cameras show Tomas and his mother at a rally in Washington. This is Donahue’s description: It’s where they roll Tomas up to a rope, behind which are Gold Star Mothers and people who’ve lost loved ones to the war. Husbands, brothers, sons, daughters, and they’re standing there holding pictures of their loved ones who came home in a pine box. One woman—and it’s clearly her husband, they’re young, they could be late twenties—she’s holding up a picture of her husband in uniform and they roll Tomas up, and they all lean over the rope and touch him, they stroke his cheek and they lean over the rope to kiss him, and Tomas leans forward to give them his cheek. Because he knows that, for a vicarious moment, they are allowing themselves to believe that they are touching and kissing the loved one that they will never kiss again. He was there in the same war and somehow he became, in that moment, a surrogate.

In early 2007, during a chance encounter—I’m not making this up—at a Chicago Cubs fantasy camp—Donahue will ask Ed to write a song for the film. He ends up writing two—“Long Nights” and “No More” —and performing at the premiere in Toronto. For Tomas—who had seen Pearl Jam play in Kansas City, only a year before 9/11—it was faintly surreal. “I just remember thinking, ‘Wow, I’m on a stage with Eddie Vedder while he’s performing,’ which I had to say a couple of times to make that sink in,” he said. “‘I’m onstage with Eddie Vedder’—if you had told me this when I was thirteen, I would have said, ‘That wouldn’t happen—I’m not going to know Eddie Vedder.’” How do we know Tomas was a hardcore Pearl Jam person? He tells Ed—correctly—that “Long Nights” was more successful.

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Body of War was selected for a few film festivals, and named Best Documentary of 2007 by the National Board of Review. It was also shortlisted for an Academy Award nomination. But the film would struggle to attract media attention, or even a distributor. “It was hard for us, for example, to get on daytime talk shows, because a wheelchair is a turnoff,” Donahue said. Disability is ratings death. The wounded stories you see on CNN almost always feature veterans who’ve lost limbs and now have prostheses—who now run in marathons. That’s a story of hope and resurrection, a story of coming out of the ashes of a terrible injury. The subject of our documentary would love to have a prosthesis.

“We thought we had a hit single,” Ed said. That this message and this film were going to cut through, even though it wasn’t the usual glamorization of war, it was quite the opposite, and it really felt like it was a rocket, ready to take off. And it kind of did—there was lift-off, you know? And all the reviews were good, and the press was good, the interviews were great … but it was just hard to get people in the theaters to see a documentary about a wounded vet.

Ed will play “No More” at a handful of shows in the summer of 2007—the last of which is on August 5th, in Chicago, at Lollapalooza. Tomas Young watches from stage left. The performance is being webcast, live, by AT&T, one of the festival sponsors. After “World Wide Suicide,” Ed makes a statement about the oil company, British Petroleum, and their plans to dump pollutants into Lake Michigan. “Think of it as like a boyfriend or girlfriend who never brushes their teeth,” he says. “So don’t show BP Amoco any kind of love, until they clean up their act.” They even play a Ramones-style rave-up: Don’t go! BP Amoco! Don’t go! BP Amoco! Don’t! Don’t! No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

A few songs later, during “Daughter,” there’s a quotation of “Another Brick in the Wall, Part II,” modified to “George Bush, leave this world alone.” Alarmingly, the audio would be cut from the webcast at this exact moment. A minor uproar ensued. In a statement, AT&T explained: The editing of the Pearl Jam performance on Sunday night was not intended, but rather a mistake by a webcast vendor and contrary to our policy. We have

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policies in place with respect to editing excessive profanity, but AT&T does not edit or censor performances. We regret the mistake and are trying to work with the band to post the song in its entirety.

The band issues its own statement: This, of course, troubles us as artists but also as citizens concerned with the issue of censorship and the increasingly consolidated control of the media. AT&T’s actions strike at the heart of the public’s concerns over the power that corporations have when it comes to determining what the public sees and hears through communications media. If a company that is controlling a webcast is cutting out bits of our performance—not based on laws, but on their own preferences and interpretations—fans have little choice but to watch the censored version. What happened to us this weekend was a wake-up call, and it’s about something much bigger than the censorship of a rock band.

In September 2007, Nathan Young finished his first deployment, and was due to be sent home to Missouri. He found himself subjected to a “stop-loss” order— an involuntary extension—and put right back on the plane to Iraq. The policy had been implemented in the first Gulf War, and again in 2004, to maintain minimum troop levels abroad. Nathan’s second deployment would begin only ten months after his first, and keep him in harm’s way until 2009. After Body of War, Tomas’s health would deteriorate further. In May of 2008, he  suffered a pulmonary embolism, at home, by himself, and was found unconscious the next morning. After four days in a coma, he regained consciousness, only to find he had difficulties with his speech. He would soon be transferred to a rehabilitation center in Chicago. It was while Tomas was recovering, that Cathy’s marriage—already strained—fell apart. That summer, after months of physical therapy, Tomas was well enough to attend a concert: Ed, solo, at the Auditorium Theatre. It was where Ed had seen his first concert, in 1977. The two developed a friendship, mainly by phone. “We would have threehour conversations about music, everything from Public Enemy and Whodini to Disposable Heroes and Michael Franti,” Ed told Mark Wilkerson. It would be one o’clock my time and three o’clock his, and we were still going strong … When we’d see each other there would always be a bit of a crowd around, and it was always a little tricky, and then it would be like, alright, grab a couple of photos to document the night and then take a few photos with this friend and that friend, but then it was like, “I’ll call you after the show,” or “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Then I got a day off, and we’d talk for three hours again.

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According to Tomas Young’s War—Wilkerson’s harrowing biography, published in 2016—Ed offered to buy the veteran an improved wheelchair, shortly before Lollapalooza. Ed said: It was such a big concern around that weekend in Chicago, knowing that he was going to be doing press, and knowing that he was going to have to be moving around and navigating through these situations, and theaters, and speaking engagements, and interviews, and TV stations … I just wanted him to have a wheelchair that worked. And I told him I’d talked to the band about it, that it wasn’t just me, but that we were going to take it on as a group and we were all going to pitch in, and it was important, and please accept this gift.

Tomas said he’d like to think it over. After a few days, he respectfully declined. “He came back and said, ‘When I go out and speak, and people see me, I want them to see what we get,’” Ed recalled. “He said, ‘I want them to see that this is the janky wheelchair that’—you know, the brakes were always failing on it, it was just this janky wheelchair—‘I want them to see how we’re taken care of. That’s part of what I’m representing.’” “That was the way I felt, because I don’t respect people who take advantage of their situation,” Tomas said. “I mean, there are a lot of handicapped veterans who don’t know Eddie Vedder or Tom Morello or Phil Donahue.” A few months later, in Kansas City, Tomas had an accident, after his wheelchair flipped backward, in the driveway of his home. He was admitted to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with bleeding in his brain. He had hit his head on the concrete—an accident that Wilkerson and Ed both say a better wheelchair could have prevented. That year, Ed and Tomas collaborate on Body of War: Songs that Inspired an Iraq Veteran. They draft a letter to a long list of artists that Tomas himself had selected, from Roger Waters, Neil Young, and Tori Amos to Public Enemy, Kimya Dawson, and Rage Against the Machine. They had counted on approvals from half the artists. In the end, almost everyone agreed. The compilation would span two CDs and thirty tracks, including “No More,” from Lollapalooza, and “Bushonomics,” by Talib Kweli and Cornel West. Tomas went home to Kansas City in November 2008. In Chicago, he had met a volunteer, by the name of Claudia Cuellar. She started visiting, almost daily, and the couple fell in love. In December, Nathan Young returned from his second deployment in Iraq. Ninety days later, he was finally discharged—just in time for the economic crisis. “I got out in February 2009, and that’s when the economy pretty much took a crap and I couldn’t get a job,” he told Wilkerson. “I was on

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unemployment for a little over a year. Mainly I just hung out with [Tomas]. We sat back in his room and smoked pot and watched movies. I was going through a rough time, just because my second deployment was pretty rough on me.” He had spent twenty-seven of his last thirty-eight months in the military, and he was twenty-eight years old. Tomas now required 24-hour care at home. The injuries he had sustained from the embolism would make a recovery impossible. “They were trying to get him back to where he was before, but I think it became apparent over time that he wasn’t going back to being like a manual chair paraplegic,” Claudia said. “Before, he lived independently, he clothed himself, transferred himself, bedded himself, did his own bowel regimen … He had a year where he was on his own. He had kind of rolled that boulder up the mountain, he had learned how to be a para, and he was independent and functioning and living alone and enjoying it, having his home life—and then.” Claudia moved with him to Kansas City, and assumed the work of Tomas’s daily care. Later, his mom would say: “To be a paraplegic, deal with that. And then wake up and you’re quadriplegic … and you can’t use your voice, which is what you were learning to use. So many people wanted him to speak, and he couldn’t speak anymore.” On April 20, 2012, Tomas and Claudia were married, in a civil ceremony. He would spend the next few months in excruciating pain, and almost the entire year in the hospital. In July, the regular visits at the VA hospital began. “The VA was—is—one of the worst places to go in all of Kansas City,” he would say. “It’s just—the care I received, I felt like they were treating me like I was just another statistic, just a number, not a person.” In October, Tomas had surgery to remove his bowel, and create an opening in the abdominal wall. A second procedure— to dilate his stomach, which had shrunk—soon followed. By December, he was back home, after more than two months in the hospital. He had multiple pressure sores, from lack of circulation, and could no longer eat by mouth. At the end of the year, he was back in the hospital; and in early 2013, he decided to end his life. His plan was to celebrate his one-year anniversary with Claudia, and to say his goodbyes. His mom told Wilkerson: He said, “I just can’t do it anymore, and so I’ve decided to just—stop. Everything. Stop my feeding tube.” We talked about it, and I told him how painful it was going to be, ’cause starvation and dehydration is one of the most painful forms of dying. And he just said, “It’s no more painful than living.”

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Claudia Cuellar and Tomas Young, 2014. Photograph by Jill Toyoshiba/Kansas City Star, via Associated Press.

You know, it’s hard to say we had this conversation, because most average people can’t wrap their head around having this conversation, but most average people haven’t already arranged their son’s funeral years ago. You know, that’s the first thing you do when you send your sons off to war, you find out through them who they want to officiate, what music they want—that’s something they do when they go off to Iraq. Most average people haven’t spent every other day telling their son, you know, “You’re not going to kill yourself—this is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” It wasn’t like he had told me this and it was all a surprise. We had talked about it and talked about it and talked about it.

Tomas announced his decision on February 1, 2013, after a screening of Body of War in Ridgefield, Connecticut. “I’ve been doing this for nine years. The last four of those have been post-pulmonary embolism/anoxic brain injury, where I lost a lot of dexterity and upper-body power,” he told the audience via Skype. “And so I can’t do things that I used to do even when I was first paralyzed. I’m so limited in the things that I can do a daily basis that I feel essentially helpless, and I’m just tired of doing that every day.” That same week, a hacker posted images from three watercolor paintings by George W. Bush. One is of the former president with his feet in a bathtub;

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another, of him in the shower. “I love to paint,” he told Diane Sawyer. “Painting has changed my life in an unbelievably positive way.” In early March, the reporter Chris Hedges published a profile, “The Crucifixion  of Tomas Young,” on the website, Truthdig. Young said he was relieved to be ending his life. I finally saw an end to this four-and-a-half-year fight. If I were in the same condition I was in during the filming of Body of War, in a manual chair, able to feed and dress myself and transfer from my bed to the wheelchair, you and I would not be having this discussion. I can’t even watch the movie anymore because it makes me sad to see how I was, compared to how I am … Viewing the deterioration, I decided it was best to go out now rather than regress more.

In his article, Hedges wrote: Young will die for our sins. He will die for a war that should never have been fought. He will die for the lies of politicians. He will die for war profiteers. He will die for the careers of generals. He will die for a cheerleader press. He will die for a complacent public that made war possible. He bore all this upon his body. He was crucified. And there are hundreds of thousands of other crucified bodies like his in Baghdad and Kandahar and Peshawar and Walter Reed medical center. Mangled bodies and corpses, broken dreams, unending grief, betrayal, corporate profit, these are the true products of war. Tomas Young is the face of war they do not want you to see.

On March 19, 2013—the ten-year anniversary of the war in Iraq—Truthdig published Tomas Young’s last letter. It was addressed to Dick Cheney and George W. Bush: I write this letter on behalf of the 4,488 soldiers and Marines who died in Iraq. I write this letter on behalf of the hundreds of thousands of veterans who have been wounded and on behalf of those whose wounds, physical and psychological, have destroyed their lives. I am one of those gravely wounded. I write this letter, my last letter, to you, Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney. I write not because I think you grasp the terrible human and moral consequences of your lies, manipulation and thirst for wealth and power. I write this letter because, before my own death, I want to make it clear that I, and hundreds of thousands of my fellow veterans, along with millions of my fellow citizens, along with hundreds of millions more in Iraq and the Middle East, know fully who you are and what you have done. You may evade justice but in our eyes you are each

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guilty of egregious war crimes, of plunder and, finally, of murder, including the murder of thousands of young Americans—my fellow veterans—whose future you stole. I have, like many other disabled veterans, suffered from the inadequate and often inept care provided by the Veterans Administration. I have, like many other disabled veterans, come to realize that our mental and physical wounds are of no interest to you, perhaps of no interest to any politician. We were used. We were betrayed. And we have been abandoned. My day of reckoning is upon me. Yours will come. I hope you will be put on trial. But mostly I hope, for your sakes, that you find the moral courage to face what you have done to me and to many, many others who deserved to live. I hope that before your time on earth ends, as mine is now ending, you will find the strength of character to stand before the American public and the world, and in particular the Iraqi people, and beg for forgiveness.

In August 2013, Tomas and Claudia moved to Portland, Oregon—one of three states with an assisted suicide law. In the last months of his life, he would regain his ability to speak. He eventually decided against suicide. In late November, he would see Pearl Jam play in Portland, and spend Thanksgiving Day with Ed. After a year in Oregon, Tomas and Claudia moved up to Seattle. It was there—at the age of thirty-four—that he died, at home, on November 10, 2014. In The New York Times, his mother, Cathy, was asked the cause of death. “His body just wore out,” she said. A little over a year after Tomas Young’s death, in early 2016, Mark Wilkerson was joined by Ed and Phil Donahue at a bookstore in New York. They were on hand to promote the biography, Tomas Young’s War, which had recently been published. Most of the conversation is done, perhaps unavoidably, by Donahue. Ed—who had played two shows at Madison Square Garden that week— mostly listens, choosing his words carefully. Toward the end, he talks about his friendship with Tomas, and their marathon phone calls. His dream, Ed recalled, was to debate Bill O’Reilly: “Because he knew he had him. There was nothing that Bill O’Reilly could say to Tomas—after what he had been through—about the Iraq war. A war of choice. A war of choice that shouldn’t have happened.” When he talks about Dick Cheney and the Bush administration, Ed gets visibly upset, and starts losing his temper. We have to remember—the planet protested. That February, before the Iraq war. We’ve never seen a protest—globally—millions of people—all on one day.

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The Bush administration? What was their reaction? How did they handle that? There was a quote—about focus groups. “We don’t pay attention to focus groups.” When it comes to foreign policy. That’s all they had to do? That was the red flag, that the bull went away after that? And so—to help Tomas—and to have people—to have this film—where people can experience—the reality—how it affects the community—how it affects his family—[cracking]—his brother’s nephew—and now the book. If people don’t pay attention to this—it will happen over, and over again. And when I see Dick Cheney—who, in my opinion—and, I do, I get angry about this—I think he should have been—in the streets—on a pillory, and given a Mussolini head kick. I’m sorry. I’m fuckin’ angry. And when he goes on and has the nerve—and the wherewithal—and the gall—and the unmitigated assholishness—to come out and criticize Obama’s foreign policy, when he’s trying to be diplomatic? He’s gonna come out and have an opinion on this? Disgraceful. It upsets me to no end. And it upsets me that George Bush has taken up painting. And has time to oil paint. I don’t have time to oil paint. I have paints. I’ve painted before. I’d love to. I do not have time—to oil paint. To get better at painting. Pictures of my feet, in the bathtub. It disgusts me. And then come out and have an opinion. He should apologize to Tomas. He should—they should be coming out and making sure that, anybody—based on their mistakes—be very, very careful, before they send men and women over there, and put them in harm’s way, against an enemy that you can’t even see.

America’s wars—of choice, and necessity—are fought by people like Nathan and Tomas Young. For most of us, they’re barely an abstraction. They serve because they believe in their country—and to improve their own lives. It’s people who get to attend places like Yale—like George W. Bush, and like me—who can take up oil painting. Body of War is not a perfect film. It is, however, one that every American should be compelled to see. In 2017, veterans died by suicide at oneand-a-half times the rate of the population. Less than 0.5 percent of Americans currently serve in the military, as compared to 4 percent during Vietnam, and 12 percent in the Second World War. More than 6,000 veterans a year took their own lives between 2008 and 2017. In The Other America, Michael Harrington wrote: “The  millions who are poor in the United States tend to become increasingly invisible. Here is a great mass of people, yet it takes an effort of the intellect and will even to see them.”

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Altice Arena, Lisbon (June 20, 2019) My story starts with me as a fan. And to be a fan is to know that loving trumps being beloved. Carrie Brownstein

I’ve seen Pearl Jam people in Berlin, queueing up eleven hours early, to ensure themselves a spot on the rail. I’ve seen Pearl Jam people in Chicago, renting out the brownstones cattycorner from Wrigley Field, for the sake of proximity. I’ve seen Pearl Jam people in Mexico City, belting out the guitar part from “Given to Fly.” I’ve seen Pearl Jam people in Miami, haggling over the price of nitrous oxide in the parking lot. I’ve seen a kilometer-long procession of punters, walking down a highway in Italy, to the nearest public transportation, forty-five minutes away. I’ve seen tens of thousands of Chileans, Argentines, and Brazilians, singing every single word, in a language they don’t normally speak. I’ve seen veterans from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in wheelchairs, pumping their fists to “Rockin’ in the Free World” onstage. I’ve seen an all-Filipino cover band, playing a respectable “Better Man,” on a cruise ship outside Jamaica—if, unfortunately, without “Save it for Later.” I’ve had somewhat tipsy conversations with strangers who revere Vitalogy in Estonia, Tokyo, and Amsterdam. I’ve seen grown men and women reduced to a puddle at the end of “Small Town,” “Black,” and “Release.” I’ve seen Pearl Jam people wearing Vs.-era vintage in Jakarta, asking about extra tickets to the Garden. I’ve seen Pearl Jam people in the old town square of Kraków, inquiring about gluten-free pierogi.

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I’ve seen Pearl Jam people in the baggage claim, executive lounge, and departure terminal at Missoula international airport. I’ve seen nothing. But really, fans—regardless of where they’re from—are all pretty much identical. *** It would require some ingenuity, to give an idea of the investment, the emotion, the insanity, even, of loyalty and love, in Pearl Jam’s fan base. The fact that Pearl Jam have sustained a following thirty years into their career makes a certain sense. They were a band built for the persistent, the besotted, the obsessive-compulsive. There are no longer casual Pearl Jam fans; it’s an allor-nothing proposition. Pearl Jam people don’t just follow the group. They organize auctions and benefit events for the band’s favorite charities. They compile their accumulated setlists on the Pearl Jam Stat Tracker app. They buy and sell collectible posters, merchandise, and vinyl; argue over the setlists and statistics; conduct extensive polling as to the most distinctive shows; subscribe to the Live on 4 Legs podcast (each episode, a different setlist); and compile their own bespoke anthologies: the best of the 2003 tour in Japan, say. Being a Pearl Jam person means having opinions about the year 2006, as opposed to 1995, as opposed to 1993. Being a Pearl Jam person means knowing what happened in Zurich, Atlanta, St. Louis, Las Vegas, Jones Beach, Randalls Island, Alpine Valley, Santa Barbara, Key Arena, the Spectrum, Katowice, and Moline. (Especially Moline.) Being a Pearl Jam person is not about cool. It’s not a diversion, or a passing interest, or elitist grandstanding to impress people. It’s neither ironic nor remotely fashionable. Being a Pearl Jam person is a calling, a compulsion, an allegiance, a life choice—and if you don’t believe it, ask the people in line at eight in the morning to secure a spot on the rail. These are people who will defend Lightning Bolt, and enjoy Avocado as much as anything from the ’90s, and don’t really listen to anyone other than Pearl Jam. These are people who see Pearl Jam as completely relevant artists—no less so than Beyoncé or Kendrick Lamar—and in no way antiquated or obsolete. Being a Pearl Jam person requires a belief both durable and blind. *** If someone says they’re really into—for example—Dave Matthews, Barbara Streisand, or Insane Clown Posse, we’re often tempted to make sweeping

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generalizations about their personality, intelligence, personal hygiene, taste, class, education, and sobriety.* (The comedians Key & Peele: “When dudes get into Phish, they don’t come back.”) But the Pearl Jam community—to oversimplify, wantonly—bears little resemblance to the Beyhive, Beliebers, and their kin. Intermittent involvement, unavoidably, is the rule rather than the exception—rather like the band itself—and even the most slack-jawed partisans must go months and years in hibernation, necessarily, while the next tour is being plotted. Pearl Jam fandom proceeds from a different set of assumptions about commitment, community, and performance, than the ones that govern the traditional fanbase. Unlike the more fanatical subcultures in music, you wouldn’t say of Pearl Jam people that their fandom defines who they are, fifty-two weeks of the year. Even among the serious collectors, you’re unlikely to find, say, withering abuse, online; people painting their faces, Juggalostyle; or dividing themselves—as Phish people are wont to do—into generational categories. In truth, Pearl Jam people are probably less akin to Phish followers than they are the many jazz obsessives, audiophiles, orchid collectors, stamp and coin enthusiasts, and anyone who puts devotion at the center of their lives. In Pearl Jam culture, the setlist is everything. By choosing one song over another—“Hard to Imagine” over “Long Road”; “Crown of Thorns” over “Crazy Mary”; “Tremor Christ” over “Last Exit”—Pearl Jam establishes their sense of occasion: their tailor-made understanding and impression of the audience, the location, and the evening. There’s an art and a science involved, on both ends: on the part of the crowd, in lending a mood—and on the part of the band, in keeping things spontaneous. There is instinct involved, but also intellect—i.e., research. (“I believe this is our fourteenth time in Toronto,” etc.) In general, Pearl Jam has two shows—one for sad songs, and one for uplifting— and even the former will eventually pick up. Much like the conventions of classical music and jazz, there’s a canon of time-tested standards—“Even Flow,” “Corduroy,” “Better Man,” and “Alive”—that you can practically set your watch by. There are the songs that they pull out a little too often (“Given to Fly,” “Do the Evolution”); the songs you could go the rest of your life without hearing again (“Jeremy,” “Small Town”); and the songs that automatically make it a special night (“Breath,” “Off He Goes,” “Footsteps”). In the cities where they’re able to play two or more nights, it’s usually a crapshoot as to which will get the edge. (Usually, it’s the one you’re not at.) These days, the band offers something for everyone. Partial to Ten, Vs., or Vitalogy? You won’t be disappointed. Hoping for something from Yield,

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Binaural, or No Code? You’ll hear it eventually. Whether you’re in the audience, or following along on your phone, you can take your best guess: will they open with a slow song—or several—or will they get down to the task at hand? Will they drop in a mid-set rarity—something from Lost Dogs, say—or will they save them for the encore? The serious collector—understanding that many around him have been hoping for “Small Town” or “Last Kiss”—sits patiently, expectantly, anticipating the variables: the songs reserved for the really special occasions—the Easter eggs, the impromptu audibles, and requests. How many shows has it been since “Rats,” or “W.M.A.,” and not just the tag? When was the last time they played “Garden,” or “Save You,” or “Satan’s Bed”? And how many covers from The Who did they play, instead of “All Those Yesterdays”? Every collector—and it’s almost always a him—has their own curious obsessions. For some, it’s the Yield songs, from the spring (not summer) tour of 1998, as performed by Jack Irons. For some, it’s their shows in South America, where the crowds are unfailingly spectacular. In candor, I’ve spent more time in search of bootlegs with “Around the Bend” than I’ve spent reading Tolstoy and Dostoevsky combined. This is not a happy statistic, but there it is. For the fans—and this is the best part—the experience is almost entirely subjective. After all: one man’s white whale is another dude’s bathroom break. I was heartbroken to miss “Out of My Mind” and “All Those Yesterdays” in successive shows at Fenway Park, in Boston, only to have my friend who was there (both times!) say it was nothing great. I was convinced that the first of Pearl Jam’s two shows at Safeco Field in 2018 was one for the ages, only to find that most people preferred night two. I was standing next to a friend who was beside himself when the band played Ten in its entirety, in Philly; only to find myself wishing, like a depraved person, that they were playing No Code instead. *** When the Apollo space program ended in 1972, The New York Times asked various people to reflect on what the launches had meant to them. The anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss replied: “I never look at TV except when there’s a moonshot,” he said: And then I am glued to my seat, even though it’s boring, always the same and lasts a long time … The Apollo shots open a little window. It is the one experience— vicarious, but we can follow it on TV—the one moment when the prison opens on something other than the world in which we are condemned to live.

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A Pearl Jam show is both an enactment—an improbable, labor-intensive production in the age of instant communication—and at the same time a reenactment: a communal retrospective, and a collective reminder, of all that the band—and by extension, all of us—have seen. It suggests, over and over, that we do not live in a world completely drained of community and connection, that the principles of harmony and convergence are to be found near to hand. It’s at a Pearl Jam show where you find the sort of openness, enthusiasm, attention, and honesty, that only the best relationships bring—an oath of affirmation played out with full heart. When the Pearl Jam show is firing on all cylinders—when every song is more astonishing than the last—life has admitted its potential to be extraordinary, if only for as long as the band is onstage. Now that Pearl Jam and its audience—i.e., us—are old, we want this to go on happening as often as possible. We almost don’t want to think about it, but there may come a day when the Pearl Jam show vanishes from the earth. In contrast to the illusion of effortlessness that so many musicians present, as a matter of routine, Pearl Jam makes the exhausting show of effort one of the defining features of their art. It’s not merely the five (or six) guys onstage; and it’s not merely the production crew behind them. It’s the ticketing office, and the fan club, and the artists who make every single poster. It’s the people who work in the venue year-round. It’s the fans who have traveled, and rearranged their schedules for the year. It’s a particular form of connection that exists only when people are experiencing the unique stimulation of live music. It is the model of an ideal society, incumbent on everyone working together. It doesn’t always happen—but it has happened often enough to know that it’s possible. The fact that absorbing music in this way is a nineteenth-century invention—in an age of instantaneous, atomized listening—is beside the point. Being in the moment is what it’s about; experiencing it secondhand violates the concept. When the band is onstage, it’s a matter of right now, us and them—not later, but right now. The experience is one of giving and receiving; of being in the moment; of exposing oneself to uncertainty; of prose, in tandem with poetry; and of existing in the present tense. *** When I was thirteen, my favorite Pearl Jam songs were “Black,” “Footsteps,” and “Porch” from Unplugged. When I was sixteen, my favorite songs were “Corduroy,” “Rearviewmirror,” and “Not for You.”

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When I was twenty-five, it was “Parting Ways,” “Faithfull,” and “Daughter” from Jones Beach. When I was thirty-five, it was “Present Tense,” “Hard to Imagine,” and “Off He Goes.” And as of this morning, I would have to say, without much hesitation, that my favorite Pearl Jam songs are definitely “In My Tree,” “Come Back,” and “Breath.” *** One of the nice things about loving a band your whole life is changing your mind. There was a time when I was certain Ed had written his best song with “Small Town,” which today seems like one of their worst. There was a time when I was certain Pearl Jam had never written a song as horrendous as “Blood,” which I’m now pretty sure is one of their best. And there was a time, inexplicably, when “Tremor Christ,” “Immortality,” and “Lukin” were entirely unlistenable. Pearl Jam is one of those bands that are always giving you an occasion to say: “You were right; I was wrong.” In that spirit: here are three songs that I changed my mind about—songs I didn’t care for, or actively disliked, at one time, and came to understand, each through one specific show. *** On April 7, 2017, Pearl Jam was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. At the induction ceremony, like the other nominees, the band is asked to play three songs. There are few sure things in life. But just as the sun will rise tomorrow in the east, it’s a given that one of the songs Pearl Jam plays will be “Alive,” and that the second will be “Better Man.” Both are popular favorites, to state the obvious. But “Better Man” was written when Ed was a teenager, and “Alive” was the band’s first finished recording. That leaves one selection to stand in for twenty-five years of music. What song does Pearl Jam choose to represent the last third of their legacy? It’s a tough call. You don’t want to play something too early, which would only incite the haters; but then, you don’t want to play something too obscure. That still leaves a large body of work: “Corduroy,” “Man of the Hour,” “Come Back.” Maybe one of the unlikely hits: “Yellow Ledbetter,” “Do the Evolution,” “Last Kiss.” This being Pearl Jam, there was always the chance of a curveball—“Love Boat Captain,” “Off He Goes,” “State of Love and Trust”—or even for the serious collector, an Easter egg like “Of the Earth.”

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Their choice of “Given to Fly” is both brave and bewildering: brave, because few inductees play a song from midway through their career; and yet bewildering, because—I’ve put this off as long as possible—“Given to Fly” is not a good song, despite its attempts at sincerity; at a stretch, it only works if you can block out ninety percent of the lyrics. I struggle to articulate why I find this song so dreadful. I’m no songwriter; but I have to assume that a lyric such as “Well, fuckers, he still stands” would have been rewritten in the Vs. era. It is not his best moment; but one of his real masterpieces, “In My Tree,” gives exactly the same narrative, though much more impressively. I have never been able to hear the chorus—“He’s … flying!”— without embarrassment. At first, I was sure I had to be mishearing. It’s corny; it leaves nothing to the imagination. To be fair, “Given to Fly” has its moments: the drum part is another signature Jack production, and the arrangement is one of Mike’s most alluring, in spite or because of its debts to Led Zeppelin. Further, Ed’s lyrics are not completely unconvincing: “the sea as his floor”; “he still gives his love, he just gives it away”; “sometimes is seen a strange spot in the sky.” It’s just that these lines are onedimensional and engulfed by melodrama. At a show, there are times when I can nearly drop my resistance, when Ed sings the first line of the chorus. But if I allow an iota of thought as to how a wave can lead to a set of wings, or how there are people who find a chorus like “He’s … flying!” to be persuasive, it’s over. Why do people love “Given to Fly”? What are they hearing that I’m not? In Let’s Talk About Love, Carl Wilson attempts to understand Celine Dion. How can it be, Wilson writes, that everyone he knows hates her music, and yet she continues to sell millions of albums? How can it be that a singer so artless, so painful, is beloved the world over? What are Celine’s millions of fans hearing that he and his friends are not? “Given to Fly” isn’t Celine Dion. But they do share qualities. Wilson puts Celine in a genre he calls schmaltz—harmless, well-meaning, consciously sentimental, with no pretensions to cool—and this is how I think of “Given to Fly.” Like Celine, the song seems to believe that just because it wants to set our hearts aflame, it can make it so. But saying “He’s … flying!!” doesn’t make it so, and only reinforces how quickly a would-be anthem can nose-dive. There is, however, an exception: a version of “Given to Fly” that I’m a little obsessed with—and if you’ve seen it, you already know which one I’m talking about.

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*** The performance of “Given to Fly” on the Touring Band 2000 DVD is routine, with one difference. It’s filmed on October 11, 2000, in St. Louis: one of the tour’s better shows. As the band is about to start, Ed notices something in front of the stage, on Stone’s side. It’s not a crowd chant, or a sign, per usual, but a young woman: a sign-language interpreter, who is signing with her hands, unobtrusively, to every word being spoken and sung. Ed points this out to the crowd, and walks over, to help her up on stage. She’s wearing a black dress, with black pants, blonde hair, and a big smile. Ed walks back to the mic. “Everybody, this is Kim. St. Louis, Kim.” The audience applauds. The band starts playing. And that’s when something extraordinary happens. For the next three and a half minutes, the band plays the same cheesy song we’ve heard hundreds of times. There’s the same cringe-worthy lyrics—“Well, fuckers,” “Hey, look at me now,” and “He’s … flying!”—but this time, the camera is cutting between Ed and Kim. Like the other people in the amphitheater, she knows every word, and every transition. But unlike everyone else, she is translating the song, and the sentiment, for those who are unable to hear. She’s moving in time to the music, still relaying every word, and dancing more beautifully than you thought this ridiculous song would allow. There’s a shot of Kim from stage left, where you see thousands of people with their eyes planted on Ed, just like always. But Ed’s line of sight is pointing unmistakably at Kim, as she continues signing and translating his lyrics. He’s singing to her just as much as to the rest of St. Louis, and you would be doing the same. When the final lyric is sung, and the song is winding down, Ed walks back to Kim’s side of the stage. She may well be the only person out of 20,000 in the venue not to notice, as she is not looking in Ed’s direction, or taking advantage of her ultra-VIP stage position at all, but still moving in time to the music—a consummate professional. When Ed is a few steps away, she finally happens to look up, and sees one of the world’s few remaining rock stars, reaching for her hand. They dance together, for just a few seconds, and “Given to Fly” sounds like it could have been written by Mozart. I’ve seen this clip—I don’t know how many times. I’ve exhausted my friends with it, when they would rather be watching anything else. I watch it when it starts to feel like too long since a work of music moved me. I watch it and think about the people who weren’t born with the privileges I was—the people for whom interpreters are provided at concerts, or who never make it to the concert in the first place.

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There’s only a fraction of difference between the words “signing” and “singing,” just as there’s only a fraction between deafness and hearing. It took Kim from St. Louis for me to understand this song—the way she sang it—and what Ed was getting at, about a human being, given to fly. *** From the May 17, 2016 edition of Pearl Jam Radio, on Sirius XM: Rob: There were so many cool things happening throughout this tour between the band, and the fans, at so many levels. I want to bring someone on now—another Philadelphia moment, here. Let’s get our friend, Christina Swanson, on the phone. Christina, are you there? Christina: Hi, hello. [laughs] Rob: Hi, how you doin’? Christina: Good, how are you? Rob: I’m really good. Thanks for joining us today. You—brought your son, Joshua, to the show in Philadelphia— Christina: Correct. Rob: —and had a little, um—pretty incredible moment, but—we spoke yesterday, and got to know each other a little bit. I wanted to know a bit of the backstory. So—if you could, briefly—just—tell us about your son, Joshua, and—your relationship with—Pearl Jam, and, and—just how everything came about, at this Philadelphia concert. Christina: Well, Joshua has cerebral palsy. He’s got some pretty severe developmental delays. He’s definitely impaired, physically. He can do some assisted standing and stuff, but he really doesn’t walk, so he’s pretty dependent on a wheelchair. Um—his love for Pearl Jam pretty much started—well, that we noticed—started when he was about six months old. I had gotten the Live at the Garden DVD—put it in—and, he—just, kind of, like, stopped, and was mesmerized by it. And, um—at that point, you know—with, some of his issues—he was really fussy and inconsolable—and, so—all of a sudden, I was noticing—that was like, the one thing that would calm him down. And, um—his love, just has—pretty much evolved over the years. Learning to talk—he didn’t start learning to talk until he was five. Pretty much he learned—by mimicking a lot of—Eddie’s noises and sounds, and—he’s got—every bootleg that he listens to, completely memorized. Everything Ed says, he pretty much— mimics—which is kind of funny, at times. ’Cause you’ll hear him—

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Kim from St. Louis, 2000. Screen grab from Touring Band 2000.

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you know, yell out random things about—like, in the Garden, about popsicles, and where Eddie says people can put them. [laughs] All kinds of things. But, it’s just—he’s—really just—emulated—and he’s engrossed in the music. And, it’s his source of comfort. It’s—his source of entertainment. It’s really, like—his everything. So, in the fall—I knew there would be another tour coming up, and I really wanted to bring Joshua. And just felt—kind of insecure, about—what are people thinking? And, you know, just—wanted to feel comfortable—wanted him to feel comfortable. So, um—I put something on the Porch [message board]—just kind of—explaining his love, and some of his YouTube videos over the years—of him singing, or squawking, or screaming his favorite songs, and—you know, it really just kind of evolved, I guess, into a lot of people really caring about my son, and it was just—incredible. And, eventually, um—a really sweet person, um, nominated Joshua through the organization, Given to Live. And, um—I met with Tom [Pugh] on Skype, and we talked, and—he kind of got to know us—and, he, pretty much, him and his organization, sponsored our trip to Philly—so we could—go see the band. And, you know—we had—put some stuff out there—about, hopefully, getting him a “Love Boat Captain” shout-out, because— that’s his favorite song—which, coincidentally—probably, is because it’s the first song of Live at the Garden. We were just so excited—and I was ridiculously emotional, when they played it for him in Philly, ’cause—it was—it was incredible, because we actually knew he understood that it was for him, and—that was a milestone for us, you know? So, the dedication was—a lot to us, more than just even—you know, the song. It really—gave him a sense of confidence, that—you know, he didn’t have before. Rob: [audibly emotional] That’s just great. And to be able, to um—to see him up on the screen, during the song. It was really moving, and—it’s just great. You mentioned the Given to Live organization. Is there a website? Christina: It’s giventolive.com. They’re also on Facebook and Twitter, as well. Rob: Great. Really good. Um, well—is Joshua by chance listening right now? Christina: No, actually, ’cause he is—kind of preoccupied, rocking out to— Live at the Garden, at the moment. [laughing] And I didn’t know how he would be, um—if I turned it off—you know, being on the radio and stuff. That’s kind of his thing. He comes home from

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And that’s how I came to understand “Love Boat Captain.” The next time I heard the lyrics— It’s an art to live with pain, Mix the light into the grey.

—I was thinking about Joshua.

Joshua Swanson in Philadelphia, 2016. Photograph by Josh Swanson.

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*** The idea for this book came to me when I was sitting in Wrigley Field, in August of 2016. I kept thinking about it, during the show, and again, flying home, the next morning. I started writing a few days later. If it isn’t obvious, I was out of my league. I had written a book the year before, about a punk band that no one had heard of. They had released only four albums, and been active for under a decade; but the task had pretty much broken me. By comparison, Pearl Jam had recorded more than ten studio albums; had at least a thousand bootlegs; and was coming up on its thirtieth anniversary. At least, I thought, I know the story. After all: I had grown up with their music, quite literally: from being a teenager, and obsessed with Vs. and Ten; to a college student, who couldn’t be bothered; to an adult, with a textbook addiction. I had read the books, such as they were. And I had seen them fifty times. I knew the structure: Ten, and Vs.; the Vitalogy era; No Code and Yield; Binaural; Riot Act; and everything after. If I am being honest, I’m not sure I had even listened to Lightning Bolt, or Backspacer, or could name more than a few songs from the last decade; but I was sure it was nothing I couldn’t catch up with. There were books I would have to read: about the music of the ’90s; about Seattle; and about American history. There were documentaries, movies, and soundtracks; comic books; oral histories; and a whole museum exhibition in Seattle. Somewhere in the process, I realized I knew almost nothing about The Who; or, for that matter, Joe Strummer, Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Springsteen, or Neil Young—not to mention the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Being a neurotic, I tried to devour it all. I bought the books about Nirvana—a dozen, at least. I read the memoirs—God help me—of Anthony Kiedis; biographies of Soundgarden, Mudhoney, Alice in Chains; an oral history of Blind Melon, for crying out loud—but unless I was overlooking it, there didn’t seem to be much about Pearl Jam, at least in the last twenty years. There were countless articles, interviews, and profiles; but aside from Pearl Jam Twenty, and the dubious Five Against One, next to nothing. When I told my friends this, they said: “That can’t be right.” I made an outline: 1989 to the present. That was the easy part. I made a list of everything that came to mind, when I thought about Pearl Jam: “Off He Goes.” “Brain of J.” “Release.” “Daughter,” at Jones Beach. “Porch,” from Unplugged. “Immortality.” “Footsteps.” I had no idea where to start, so I just started writing. Sometimes, it’s better to plunge in. This was not one of them. In the course of a day, I would start in the Yield era; leapfrog, to Riot Act; backtrack, to Binaural;

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and end up, delirious, ranting about Ralph Nader. I studied the lyrics; the setlists; the interviews; and, I’m afraid, the message board. I wrote about the albums I liked; the albums I didn’t; and what the band was doing in between. The whole time, I was taking for granted that there were equally fanatical people for whom the band was important; that, even if I was struggling, at times, to articulate what they meant to me—why I was still incapable of quitting them, thirty years later—that it would come to me, sooner or later. I worked on it for most of 2017, and all of 2018. I finished a first draft, which went up to Avocado. It was not good. That summer, I went to see Pearl Jam in Europe. I saw them in Padua, where the Italian sitting next to me kept on buying beers for us both. I took video of Pearl Jam people losing their minds to “Rearviewmirror” in Rome, and mental notes in Kraków and Berlin. I came home, and kept writing. I wrote a second draft, and sent it off to a friend. He said: “This is pretty tedious.” I wrote to a few editors, and agents, to see if they would maybe a look. A few of them wrote back—“in all honesty”—that they weren’t really fans of Pearl Jam, but to send them what I had; everyone else, that they weren’t fans of Pearl Jam, but wished me all the best. There were a few meetings. There was one where I was asked about my animus toward the Chili Peppers. There was one where I was asked about my beef with Ten. There was another, where I was asked if I could write about the ’90s, in general, with Pearl Jam as one chapter; and there was one where I was cautioned against analyzing lyrics. I mention this, not from self-pity; but to illustrate why I was nervous about this entire project—if it hadn’t been a waste of time—when Ed announced a solo tour in 2019. It’s odd. For many Pearl Jam people—myself included—the chance to see Ed by himself provokes a lot less excitement than you’d think. After all: what were the odds of anything similar happening the ’90s? It’s not that the solo shows are bad—they’re simply not Pearl Jam. It’s one thing if you want Ukulele Songs, or Into the Wild—some of which is outstanding—or the unfortunate sing-alongs, like “Small Town.” That was what I thought, at any rate, the one time I saw him play solo, in New York, when, for some reason—maybe my seats; maybe just my mood—I was a bit underwhelmed. Why would it be any different eight years later? I had been working on this book for almost three years—and, depending on your outlook, I was making glacial progress, or none at all. On the one hand, I had written quite a few words. On the other hand, I had been politely declined by all thirty publishers my proposal had gone to. It was hardly the end of the world; but then, it was hardly reason to celebrate, in the form of a trip to Europe.

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I had finally gotten into a rhythm of writing, and revising, and doing research at night. I was probably on my third or fourth draft, at this point; but I was finally getting a sense of what I wanted the book to be. It seemed irresponsible to drop everything and go on vacation, when I had so little to show for it. Pearl Jam was one thing; but Ed solo, in Europe, was an indulgence, at best. In a moment of weakness—justified, under the principle of “you never know”—I bought a ticket to the June 20th show in Lisbon: a city I had always wanted to visit; and where a friend had recently moved, from Brazil. The date was March 23, 2019. In my head, even as I was researching flights, I thought: is this a mistake? Shouldn’t you be at home, working? It’s not as though you have a publisher, or even anyone interested. At the moment, I was just that: a guy who had spent almost three years writing a book no one wanted, about Pearl Jam. I thought it over, and came to an informed decision: Fuck it. I would arrive in Lisbon on the day of the show, in mid-June. I kept writing. April turned into May. I sent the book to a friend, who had seen at least 100 shows. When we met for a drink, she said: “I feel like I’m reading a dissertation.” I ordered another round. At the end of May, an email arrived. It was from the editor of my little punk book—the one that came out years ago—whom I had sent an excerpt, back in March. At the time, I received an auto-reply, saying she was out on maternity leave. She was writing back, about eight weeks later—to say hello, and thanks, and that she would take a look when she could. I knew better than to get my hopes up. She was being professional—she may even have said, “I’m not sure we’re the right place for Pearl Jam”—but I wrote to say thank you, either way, for taking the time. By now, I had been declined by almost forty publishers, and was at something of a low. It was with a certain lack of enthusiasm, then, that I opened up her reply to me, on June 14, 2019, saying she had read what I sent, and proposed the book to her colleagues; and would like to set up a time, as soon as possible, to talk about publishing it. That was Friday, June 14th. We spoke on Monday afternoon. She said her colleagues were enthusiastic—there was even a Pearl Jam person, in marketing— and asked when I could turn in the manuscript. Two days later, more or less by coincidence, I was boarding the plane for Lisbon. It was a decent journey—seven hours—and overnight. My friend and I were sitting in the same row. I put on Pearl Jam’s show in Lisbon, from 2000, and then the one from 1996. The woman in the middle seat asked if we were traveling for business or pleasure, and I said, a little bit of both.

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If you’ve ever been to Lisbon, you don’t need me to report that it’s one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. I was awake when we landed, at around half past ten, and listening to “Faithfull,” from May 23, 2000. From the window, Lisbon was laid out like a mosaic of orange, pink, and red-tile roof. From the airport to our hotel was a short drive. We ate lunch; took pictures, like American tourists; and arranged to meet up with my friend. I was a little bit sleepy, and wondering if the show would be worth all the trouble, or a letdown. Maybe, I thought, he’ll play the Cat Stevens song that I like, “Don’t Be Shy,” or “Off He Goes,” or “Around the Bend.” (Anything except “Small Town.”) My friends and I went out for a beer and something to eat. One of my favorites, Glen Hansard, was opening the show; but by the time we arrived at the venue, picked up our tickets, and located our seats, he was on his second-to-last song. Having seen Ed only once—at the 4,000-capacity Beacon Theater—I assumed, for some reason, that the venue in Lisbon would be similar. If I had been paying attention, and less of an astronaut, I would have noticed it was at the Altice Arena—which didn’t sound promising. It was a huge place—20,000 seats—and reminded me of Madison Square Garden. This was where Ed was playing? It seemed like a mistake. There were a few thousand chairs, where the court would be, and a stage, at the far end of the arena. There was a massive projection screen, with a lengthy set of rules: no photography; no cell phones; no recording—a change, from the usual. And everywhere around us, there were many thousands of fans, expectantly waiting. There was a brief intermission—and then, there was a string quartet, wearing black, playing “Alive,” or maybe “Jeremy.” My orchestra background notwithstanding,  I was hoping this part would be brief. Like the Beacon, the staging was minimal: a piano, a monitor, a few guitars. Ed came out, dressed down, to a hero’s welcome. From our seats, I took in the excitement, the energy, the anticipation. Twenty-four hours ago, I was in my apartment, trying to write; and today, I was in Lisbon—with Ed about to go on—as if nothing could be more natural. He opened with a song from Into the Wild—one whose name I was blanking on. (It was “Far Behind.”) Maybe this wasn’t the worst idea, I thought. It was vigorous, and loud, and got the audience engaged. From the opening note, there was something unusual happening—almost palpable—but the music was only part of it. There’s a reason why words like transcendence exist—and I have to assume that evenings like this are the reason. Looking around the arena—at

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the people sitting reverently, in every direction—it felt closer to a campfire, or Carnegie Hall, than it did to 20,000 people in a sports arena. I kept looking around. Not one person had their phone out. Not one person was being rowdy, or even drinking. Everyone was smiling, and singing along. (How did they know the lyrics from Into the Wild?) Was it real, or jet lag? I thought to myself: I never want to leave Portugal. After “Far Behind” was “Just Breathe,” with strings. It was a song I had always wanted to like—had tried, repeatedly, to like—and still came up short. Maybe it’s a song for couples; or maybe it’s just not for me. It seemed to be a song that even (or especially) civilians enjoyed. This version was not much different— except that it was different, there in Lisbon, with 20,000 strangers, who erupted at the opening notes. “I love this song,” I heard someone say. Who was I to say otherwise? I gave it another listen. I was trying to take it all in. For the better part of three years, I had been sitting at a desk, thinking about Pearl Jam. I had forgotten what it was like to be out in public—let alone, an arena show, in a foreign capital. I was trying to figure out why I still got embarrassed, when people asked what I was writing about; why I still couldn’t really say—for myself, or anyone else—why Pearl Jam was important, and not merely curdled nostalgia. I was trying to figure out why they still meant so much to me—and why I wasn’t always proud, or public, about this fact. The song ended. The crowd applauded, politely. I wondered what Ed would play next. Maybe a cover—or something with strings. Anything, really, was fine. Except “Small Town.” Inevitably—in waltz-time: “ONE-two-three-FOUR-two-three.” I seem to recognize your face Haunting, familiar, yet …

You can say that again. I looked over at my friend from New York, who was singing along. I looked over at my friend from Brazil, who was flirting with someone in his row. I looked around the arena—and saw 20,000 fans, singing a song—in a second language, no less—that I had first heard at fourteen; and the crowd knew every word, and I found myself joining in: “Cannot find the candle of thought / to light your name.” And that was when it all came out: all the years by myself; all the years on my own; all the pain I had gotten used to. And the crowd sang, “Lifetimes are catching up with me,” and I could barely get the words out. And I swear I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry, but there were tears

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coming down my face. There was no effort to it at all. They were just pouring, pouring. And when he got to the line that had always given me pause—“Hearts and thoughts, they fade”—I was fully in the tank—snot, tears, the whole thing— to the point of laughing at myself. And it was only in that moment that I knew who I had been writing for.

Afterword How do you finish a book about a group that shows no indication of powering down? In March 2020—as this book was going to press—the band released Gigaton, its eleventh studio album, and first in seven years, after the underwhelming Lightning Bolt. I’ve been listening to it off and on for the past few weeks. It’s hard to say, but it might be the first time I’ve done such a thing for a new Pearl Jam release since Vitalogy, I would guess—which is appropriate, in that the albums are equally confounding on first and subsequent listen. It’s almost not allowed to discuss a Pearl Jam album without first hearing the songs in concert—or at the very least, on a bootleg; but that’s apparently what I signed up for. One thing is certain: you can’t accuse them of repeating themselves. On first encounter, Gigaton is an album that should appeal to those who appreciate their experimental side. You can see why people have compared it to Yield, in its musical range—but in terms of being an abrupt detour, the better comparison is to No Code. (If, of course, you can call an album that took seven years an abrupt anything.) In places, it seems to have more to do with groups like Talking Heads and Midnight Oil than it does the straight-ahead riff-rock of Lightning Bolt and Backspacer. The first single, “Dance of the Clairvoyants,” was clearly unlike anything they had done before, and suggested that the band had been studying LCD Soundsystem. (There’s an especially good version online, by the Brazilian tribute group, Black Circle.) There were instruments and textures that were unusual for Pearl Jam: mbira, kalimba, drum loops, pump organ, and backing vocals in “Retrograde,” “Alright,” and “Take the Long Way.” In other places, there were songs that you could already tell were going to be interesting to hear live: “Never Destination,” or (especially) “Quick Escape.” This is to put the good news before the bad. The first half of the album is Binaural-like in its badness. The titles alone were mystifying—“Superblood Wolfmoon”?—suggesting a mis-translation from the Mandarin. “Who Ever Said,” “Seven O’Clock,” and “Buckle Up” were shamefully weak, even cringeworthy in places. Out of the gate, there were lyrics that almost beggared belief: “Crossed the border to Morocco / Kashmir then Marrakech / The lengths we

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had to go to then / To find a place Trump hadn’t fucked up yet.” “Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse come forged the north and west / Then there’s Sitting Bullshit as our sitting president.” “Off in the distance, Leviathans / Fifty foot and breaking on my innocence.” I could go on. But again—you really can’t appraise this sort of thing from the record alone. *** In December of 2019, Pearl Jam announced a summer European tour. Starting in late June, they would play a month of arena and festival shows, including their first in Budapest since 1996. A few weeks later, they announced a fourteen-date tour of North America, starting in Toronto, and ending with a run of shows on the West Coast. They would be playing The Forum, in LA; Madison Square Garden; and only their second-ever show in Baltimore. And if that couldn’t get any more wonderful—a few weeks later, they announced a super-VIP show at the Apollo Theater, in Harlem (!). So much for all that. Along with everything else in the world, in early March, the tour of North America was canceled, followed by the European tour, in April. Later that month, Ed took part in the “One World: Together at Home” concert, online—along with Billie Eilish, Kacey Musgraves, and Paul McCartney, among others—where he played “River Cross,” solo, on the electric organ. (The concert raised $127 million for COVID-19 relief.) In June, the band was announced as part of All in WA, a virtual benefit concert in support of COVID-19 relief in Washington state. Along with Sleater-Kinney, Brandi Carlile, Dave Matthews, and the estimable Sir Mix-a-Lot, the band raised $45 million, and played “Dance of the Clairvoyants,” somewhere in the middle of the show. In late May—conveniently enough, for the author of Not for You: Pearl Jam and the Present Tense—the ten-hour Michael Jordan documentary, The Last Dance, concluded with five and a half minutes of the magisterial fan favorite from No Code. It was hard not to suppress a smile, watching the youthful Michael Jordan, dazzling in his athleticism—or, alternately, the older Michael Jordan, smoking a cigar in his mansion—while the lyric from “Present Tense” played in the background: “Seems that needlessly it’s getting harder / To find an approach and a way to live.” (It becomes a little less easy to smile, at the sight of Kobe Bryant, and the persistent question: “Are we getting something out of this / allencompassing trip?”) About 5.4 million people were watching the final episode of the series—which had been almost universally acclaimed, in particular for its soundtrack.

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*** “You want your heroes to stay amazing, but the older they get, the more likely they are to fail you,” wrote Jimmy McDonough, in Shakey: Neil Young’s Biography. “Mortgages have to be paid, diapers changed; hunger gives way to complacency, chances don’t get taken.” The almost comically intense relationship between Pearl Jam and their fans continues uninterrupted today. In that sense, it doesn’t really matter—I mean, all that much—that it has now been over two decades since their last truly great album. These days, the band seems content to make music with a penchant for the anodyne, the uncontroversial, and the middle of the road. It’s almost like we’ve forgotten that this is the band that once wrote Vs. and Vitalogy, in under a year; that recorded No Code, when no one was watching; that routinely consigned minor classics (“Breath,” “Hard to Imagine,” “Yellow Ledbetter”) to B-sides, or worse. But for all the tragedies they’ve endured—not least, the death of Chris Cornell—you’d think they’d have something to tell their fans beyond platitudes. *** Pearl Jam has now been making music for five presidential administrations. They have outlasted the tenure of two popes and ten Supreme Court justices. They’re one of only a handful of bands to have had a number one album in each of the last three decades—and one of even fewer that can still sell out an arena almost anywhere in the world. Somehow, the group that always seemed on the verge of implosion has turned out to be one of America’s great renewable resources.* Pearl Jam’s position in the landscape of music today is harder to pinpoint. Do they belong with the now-ancient middlebrow bands of the early ’90s—the Smashing Pumpkins, Green Day, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Or do they properly belong with the decade’s more credible, chameleonic types—Nine Inch Nails, Jane’s Addiction, and Rage Against the Machine? Their catalog provides ammunition for both sides. For those of us who grew up admiring Pearl Jam and their music, the past decade has been especially concerning. It wasn’t just the frightful music, carelessly written and glacially composed. It was more that the group seemed to understand that their best days in the studio were well behind them—and more or less at peace with it. Similarly, for most musicians, Pearl Jam’s achievements seem less securely anchored than a decade ago. As Ezra Koenig of Vampire Weekend said in 2017—shortly before an article would describe his group, convincingly, as “The Only Living Band in New York”:

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I mean, if in my lifetime there comes a moment when rock and roll bands with electric guitars and drums become the dominant form of self-expression for young people in the English-speaking world, I will be shocked. I just don’t see that happening.

Why, then, do the bands of the early ’90s live on in the imagination? *** At the end of the 1996 documentary, Hype!, Ed makes a short statement: If all this influence—that this part of the country has—and this musical scene has—if it doesn’t do anything with it—that would be the tragedy. If it doesn’t— do something with it, like—make some kind of change, or make some kind of difference. This group of people who feels this certain way—this group of people who, like—thinks these things that the underdogs we’ve all met—and lived with, think—if they finally get to the forefront, and nothing comes of it—that would be the tragedy.

Did anything come of it? Did anything meaningful change? Did the artists from Seattle use their influence on behalf of the underdogs, or the elite? Is the landscape of contemporary music any different today? Or does it hardly register at all? Any assessment of the era as a whole would include some uncomfortable truths: Pearl Jam’s overwhelming defeat, in 1995, to a corporation, a fraction of its size today; their acquiescence—perhaps, unavoidably—to the Ticketmaster/Live Nation regime; the embarrassing loss, in 2004, with Vote for Change; the almost-total obsolescence of rock music in popular culture; and, not least, the untimely departure of countless young musicians, from Andy Wood to Chris Cornell. Juxtapose the American bands of the ’80s and early ’90s, and it’s the guys from the Sunset Strip—not Seattle—that are still here, and pulling them in on the reunion circuit. By most measures, sad to say, Pearl Jam has been old news for a while. As time takes us further away from the ’90s, it seems that the band and their peers are to be remembered as an aberration—an interregnum, of two and a half years: September ’91 to April ’94. (It’s appropriate, being the amount of time it took for punk to be born and self-combust.) To borrow a phrase from the writer Gershom Scholem, the early ’90s were one of history’s “plastic hours,” when inherited hierarchies and institutions seem to crumble, clearing a path for possibility. Writing of the first half of the decade, in the head-spinning KLF: Chaos Magic Music Money, J.M.R. Higgs would say:

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They are boundary years, comparable to what anthropologists call a liminal state. They were a period when the old rules were gone, but before the new order was formed. They were a period, in other words, when normal certainties did not apply, when anything was possible and the strange was commonplace. As John C. Calhoun, the seventh vice president of the United States once wrote, “The interval between the decay of the old and the formation and the establishment of the new, constitutes a period of transition which must always necessarily be one of uncertainty, confusion, error, and wild and fierce fanaticism.”

To many—if not most—Pearl Jam is the band of Ten, and maybe Vs.; “Jeremy,” “Even Flow,” “Better Man,” and “Alive”; MTV Unplugged; SNL after Kurt Cobain; and Ticketmaster. It’s anthemic choruses, triumphant riffs, and epic stage dives—acts of bravado that were deeply symbolic, for the bond of intimacy they implied. Altogether, it’s epitomized in the band’s coronation at Pinkpop, where they first assumed the mantle of greatness. It’s the moment that musician Barrett Martin captured perfectly, in his book The Singing Earth: Many years later I would meet a young man from Croatia who had moved to Seattle after the Balkan civil war, and he told me of how during that war, he and his friends would climb a hill above their village and listen to a very wornout bootleg cassette tape that had Pearl Jam’s Ten album on one side and the Screaming Trees Sweet Oblivion album on the other (I would record that Trees album the following year). He told me that he and his friends would climb that hill every day and watch the fighting in the city below, listening to the tape over and over again, imagining the musical revolution that was happening in Seattle, while a very real and bloody war was tearing his country apart. For me, that was one of the most poignant examples of the power of music—that it has the ability to help people mentally survive a war and find hope and possibility in the midst of chaos, destruction, and death.

In the mid-to-late ’90s, the grunge phenomenon ended with a whimper, followed by a backlash, from which the bands have never quite recovered. All that embarrassing flannel went to the back of the closet, or to Goodwill, and the grunge ethos evolved into the appalling operetta of Nickelback and Creed. This is probably as it should be. Rock is not a movement, or a monument; it’s intended to burn away, supplanted by something new. It doesn’t present a convincing (or even coherent) ideology or political platform. Its advocates don’t elect leaders, or enact legislation—try as they might. No less an authority than Johnny Ramone once pointed out that the life of a good rock band rarely extends longer than half a decade:

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You’re gonna do what you do in a five-year period. That’s it. You go on more than five years and you’re just treading water. You’re very dumb if you don’t see that. The Beatles were there from ’64 to ’69. Where’ve the Rolling Stones gone since Brian Jones has left the band? They’ve gotten bigger. David Bowie might’ve gotten bigger, but what has he done that’s any good since, say, Aladdin Sane?

*** But that doesn’t mean there was no impact. Far from it. There are still reminders of the permanent effects that Pearl Jam had on at least one generation of young people, in a period that lasted only a few years, and ended more than two decades ago. On January 10, 2017—at McCormick Place, in Chicago, in front of 18,000 people—Ed performed with a 24-piece children’s choir, just before the outgoing president gave his farewell address. As images from Barack Obama’s two terms in office were projected onto giant screens, Ed and the Chicago Children’s Choir—known for their collaboration with Chance the Rapper—took the stage for four songs. They played “Rise,” from Into the Wild; “People Have the Power,” by Patti Smith; “Something Inside So Strong,” by Labi Siffre; and, of course, “Rockin’ in the Free World,” by Neil Young. Pearl Jam and their contemporaries made idealism—caring—cool. It was music that believed, naively, in a shared public language; in conscience, and community; in aspiring to change people’s lives. It was an art form that couched itself—without embarrassment—in emotional honesty. It was music that seemed to say: if you could only be as resilient and intrepid as this, that courage would armor you enough to get you through anything. Its virtues were empathy; empowerment; and inclusion. (“It wasn’t only about music, and music wasn’t only about music,” as the late Mark Fisher wrote.) It questioned the meaning of spectators and stars. Uncommonly, it was music that said no—to the idea that a band existed solely to sell; to the notion that a band had to be as wealthy and ubiquitous as possible. Part of it was access to information: a time when things were less immediate, and  required a process of discovery—a certain effort, openness, entrepreneurialism, and curiosity. “The air was kind of clearer then: pre-‘ironic,’ as we know it now,” said Carrie Bradley, a musician. “Back then you had to show up, in person, and you had to represent yourself, your band, and support your local music scene,” wrote Barrett Martin. “There was almost a code of honor that you had to be at these shows, you had to show that you cared. Often you met

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your best friends at these shows, your girlfriends, and sometimes your future spouse. It was a very special time to be young, and the music had a mystical power over us because it happened in real time, with real people.” Grunge left behind it a few great bands—Screaming Trees, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and Nirvana—a few good movies (Hype!), soundtracks, singles, and side projects. More to the point, it empowered a whole generation to conceive of music as more than something you consumed. It was about tearing up boundaries; about having integrity; articulating common desires; channeling complexity; utopian ambitions; and aspiring toward an inclusive, ethical culture. “I was relatively young and didn’t have much to compare it to,” said Janet BilligRich, the manager of The Breeders. “I just assumed that this was how it worked. It was only in retrospect that I realized it was a revolution.” This wasn’t just an aberration, or a media event. Something had changed. Anyone who cared about music had changed, and would be hard pressed to forget. Writing in 1977, Lester Bangs said: “We will never again agree on anything as we agreed on Elvis.” But a mere fifteen years later, that would prove to be untrue. “We were going on our wits, which were sometimes diminished, and our luck, which was great, and our belief, first and foremost,” said Jonathan Poneman. “That’s the thing: we understood that bands like the Screaming Trees and Soundgarden and Nirvana were all world-class bands—that these were bands that in a just world should be the biggest bands in the world. The fact that the world became momentarily just was something that we never anticipated, but it was a great thing.” Today’s popular music is eons removed from the time when an album like Vitalogy could sell a million copies—let alone, in one week—and ages from when a new album by Pearl Jam broke sales records. It’s not just that album sales are down—but the very idea that an artist can bring people together—that’s increasingly extinct. Popular music was once a utopian, promethean, idealistic reaching-out. Today—like so much else—it is a retreat to our respective corners: an industry of spectators, algorithms, consumers, and playlists. Certainly, today, as ever, music still means a great deal, to a great many people. But ask me if we will ever see a moment like Pearl Jam on SNL in 1994; or the Video Music Awards, in ’93; or MTV Unplugged, writing PRO-CHOICE!!!; and I have to assume it’s unlikely. In the early ’90s, Pearl Jam went to war with the most powerful company in live music—and lost, badly. Just try and find an artist willing to do anything similar today.

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Almost three decades ago, in “Small Town,” Ed cast his dilemma in modest, self-effacing terms: “I changed by not changing at all.” More recently, on “Setting Forth,” from Into the Wild, he puts it in stark, stoical language: “Be it no concern / point of no return.” That message—of stubborn perseverance—has now proven its longevity for thirty years, and there’s no reason to doubt that they don’t have another ten or twenty left. Somewhere at this moment, someone is listening to a Pearl Jam bootleg, for the very first time. Somewhere at this moment, there are two people who met—spouses, partners, exes, or friends—owing to Pearl Jam. Somewhere at this moment—or with any luck, in the not-so-distant future—a Pearl Jam tour is being planned, in a world where we can once again congregate for live music. (I promise never to complain about a setlist again.) Pearl Jam are a part of the culture. Not only because their songs have come to soundtrack birthdays, bar mitzvahs, and weddings; and not only because they would shape so much of ’90s music, legend, and lore. Their public persona; their unabashed optimism; their social conscience, engagement, and activism; and the ethos that they helped to create were all radical, in the world of mainstream rock. But while central to their story, these are not why their music pulls us in. We’re still listening to Pearl Jam because, at their best—“Present Tense,” “Brain of J,” “Off He Goes,” “Tremor Christ,” “Parting Ways,” “Breath,” “Release”—they remind us of what music alone can offer, if only briefly: a better world. While an older generation will always associate Pearl Jam with the early ’90s, the group has done much to increase the sum of human happiness, collective connection, and great goodwill, for many millions of people. “If I knew where it was, I would take you there: there’s much more than this.”

Acknowledgments Thank you: Leah Babb-Rosenfeld, Jessie Bastos, Brian Bourque, Michelle Chen, Richie Clarke, Jonathan Cohen, Zan Emerson, Suzette Gerardi, Daniel Kurtz-Phelan, Jane Lerner, Jessica Letkemann, Demetrios Lyberopoulos, Lance Mercer, Piotr Orlov, David Prince, Tom Pugh, Jeff Ramsden, Tucker Rinehart, Brin Solomon, Matthew Taub, Diane Wilson, and Joseph Wong. This book is dedicated—redundantly—to my family and friends.

In Memoriam Malice Green (1957–1992)

David Gunn (1945–1993)

Trevor Wilson (1979–2016)

Tomas Young (1979–2014)

Notes Introduction * Apart, that is, from all being privileged W.M.A., which, needless to say, is no small thing to have in common.

Chapter 1 * So as not to burden the reader with hundreds of footnotes, I have tried to condense source material whenever possible. Timeline: Sub Pop zine (1987); Camden Courier-Post (1989); Seattle Times (1990); New York Times, L.A. Times (1991); Melody Maker, Rolling Stone (1992); Paper, Time (1993); Interview, L.A. Times, L.A. Times (1994); Spin, Associated Press (1995); Rolling Stone, Rolling Stone (1996); MTV (1997); Hartford Courant (1998); NME (1999); Boston Globe, ABC News, The Nation (2000); Palm Beach Post, Boston Globe (2001); E! News (2002); Scripps Howard (2003); Calgary Herald (2004); L.A. Times (2005); Pitchfork (2006); Chicago Tribune (2007); Pitchfork (2009); New York Times (2011); Rolling Stone (2012); Pitchfork (2013); The Guardian, New York Times (2014); Vulture (2017); Rolling Stone, Consequence of Sound, Washington Post (2018); Rolling Stone (2020).

Chapter 2 * This chapter title is taken from Robert Christgau’s “B.E.: A Dozen Moments in the Prehistory of Rock and Roll,” from Is It Still Good to Ya? Fifty Years of Rock Criticism, 1967–2017 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2018).

Chapter 3 * Everett True, “Seattle: Rock City,” Melody Maker, March 18, 1989; Art Chantry, quoted in Stephen Tow, The Strangest Tribe: How a Group of Seattle Rock Bands Invented Grunge; Jeff Gilbert, quoted in Mark Yarm, Everybody Loves Our Town:

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An Oral History of Grunge; Kent Morrill, quoted in Greg Prato, Grunge is Dead: The Oral History of Seattle Rock Music. Unless otherwise noted, all quotations are from secondary sources listed in the bibliography.

Chapter 4 * Or his second, if you want to count “Better Man.”

Chapter 5 * This section relies heavily on the research of Gil Kaufman in “Pearl Jam’s ‘Jeremy’: The Untold Story of Video Star Trevor Wilson’s Fascinating Life & Tragic Death,” Billboard, August 1, 2017.

Chapter 10 * When an Iraqi journalist did this to George W. Bush, in 2008, he became a hero, and rightly so. ** “After that, I got really good at writing in a way that only I could read. In case anybody ever wanted to look at my notebooks posthumously, they wouldn’t be able to know what I was thinking.” “In case” is a nice touch. *** It’s unclear who says this; the voice sounds like Mike’s, but not the gesture. In Pearl Jam Twenty, Jeff recalls that Mike might have been among those who jumped in after Ed. So it’s probably someone from Roskilde—and further proof of the festival’s heavy-handed approach, as opposed to Pinkpop’s.

Chapter 11 * The Singles soundtrack tribute happened on December 9, 2017, at Ghost Light, in Hamtramck, Michigan.

Chapter 12 * This paragraph is inspired by Sasha Frere-Jones on The Clash in The New Yorker (“1979”), October 25, 2004.

408

Notes

Chapter 13 * Before Ed, the last musicians to be chosen for the honor are Wynton Marsalis (October 1990); The Rolling Stones (September 1989); Andrew Lloyd Webber (January 1988); and U2 (April 1987). After him, the next are Jewel (July 1997); Lauryn Hill (February 1999); and Ricky Martin (May 1999). ** Improbably, Radiohead plays the same venue on October 28th, opening for—you can’t make this up—Tears for Fears.

Chapter 16 * This sentence is inspired by Jonathan Lethem’s Fear of Music (Bloomsbury, 2012).

Chapter 18 * This chapter is indebted to the analysis of Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped, by Dean Budnick and Josh Baron.

Chapter 24 * This chapter draws on accounts and analysis from The Battle of the Story of the “Battle of Seattle,” by David Solnit and Rebecca Solnit; and Revolution in Seattle, a memoir of the 1919 general strike, by Harvey O’Connor.

Chapter 27 * This paragraph is inspired by Caity Weaver’s “The Rise of the Spice Girls Generation,” in The New York Times, July 19, 2019.

Chapter 29 * This chapter draws heavily on the interviews of Mark Wilkerson in Tomas Young’s War.

Notes

409

Chapter 30 * This sentence is taken from Nathan Rabin, You Don’t Know Me But You Don’t Like Me: Phish, Insane Clown Posse, and My Misadventures with Two of Music’s Most Maligned Tribes (New York: Scribner, 2013).

Afterword * This paragraph was inspired by Sam Anderson, “The Weirdly Enduring Appeal of Weird Al Yankovic,” The New York Times, April 9, 2020.

Bibliography This book is indebted to several fan-directed resources: twofeetthick.com, maintained by Kathy Davis, Jessica Letkemann, and John Reynolds; fivehorizons.com, founded by Caryn Rose and Jean Bruns; livefootsteps.org, maintained by Dave JanTausch; and pearljam.com, the official site, for all lyrics. Primary Keith Cameron, Mudhoney: The Sound and the Fury from Seattle (Beverly, MA: Voyageur Press, 2014). Martin Clarke, Pearl Jam & Eddie Vedder: None Too Fragile (Medford, NJ: Plexus, 1998). Jonathan Cohen, Pearl Jam Twenty (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2011). Thomas Edward Harkins and Bernard M. Corbett, Pearl Jam FAQ (Montclair: Backbeat Books, 2016). Clark Humphrey, Loser: The Real Seattle Music Story (Seattle: MISCmedia, 2016). Allan Jones, Pearl Jam: The Illustrated History (London: Hamlyn, 1994). Jessica Letkemann, “Music for Rhinos 1990: The Making of Pearl Jam” (twofeetthick.com, 2010). Kim Neely, Five Against One: The Pearl Jam Story (New York: Penguin, 1998). Greg Prato, Grunge is Dead: The Oral History of Seattle Rock Music (Toronto: ECW Press, 2009). Stephen Tow, The Strangest Tribe: How a Group of Seattle Rock Bands Invented Grunge (Seattle: Sasquatch, 2011). Henrik Tuxen, Pearl Jam: The More You Need—The Less You Get (Copenhagen: Captain Kidd Books, 2018). Mick Wall, Pearl Jam (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1994). Mark Yarm, Everybody Loves Our Town: An Oral History of Grunge (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2011).

Secondary Paul de Barros, Jackson Street After Hours: The Roots of Jazz in Seattle (Seattle: Sasquatch, 1993). Carrie Brownstein, Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl (New York: Riverhead, 2015).

Bibliography

411

Dean Budnick and Josh Baron, Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped (New York: Plume, 2012). Charles Cross, Heavier Than Heaven: A Biography of Kurt Cobain (New York: Hyperion, 2001). E.J. Dionne Jr., Why the Right Went Wrong: Conservatism from Goldwater to Trump and Beyond (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2016). Donna Gaines, Teenage Wasteland: Suburbia’s Dead End Kids (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1991). Lizzy Goodman, Meet Me in the Bathroom (New York: Dey Street, 2017). John F. Harris, The Survivor: Bill Clinton in the White House (New York: Random House, 2006). Quincy Jones, Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2002). Greil Marcus, Double Trouble: Bill Clinton and Elvis Presley in a Land of No Alternatives (New York: Picador, 2000). Craig Marks and Rob Tannenbaum, I Want My MTV: The Uncensored Story of the Music Video Revolution (New York: Plume, 2011). Dave Marsh, Before I Get Old: The Story of The Who (Medford, NJ: Plexus, 1983). Barrett Martin, The Singing Earth: Adventures from a World of Music (Seattle: Sunyata Records & Books, 2017). Justin Martin, Nader: Crusader, Spoiler, Icon (New York: Basic Books, 2002). Harvey O’Connor, Revolution in Seattle: A Memoir (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1964). George Packer, The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2013). Samantha Power, A Problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide (New York: Basic Books, 2002). James Risen and Judy L. Thomas, Wrath of Angels: The American Abortion War (New York: Basic Books, 1998). David Solnit and Rebecca Solnit, The Battle of the Story of the “Battle of Seattle” (Chico, CA: AK Press, 2009). Gil Troy, The Age of Clinton: America in the 1990s (New York: Thomas Dunne Books, 2015). Everett True, Nirvana: The Biography (Boston: Da Capo, 2006). Sean Wilentz, The Age of Reagan: A History, 1974–2008 (New York: HarperCollins, 2009). Mark Wilkerson, Tomas Young’s War (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2016).

About the Author

The author’s nephew. Favorite album: No Code.

Ronen Givony is the author of 24 Hour Revenge Therapy (2018), also published by Bloomsbury. He is the founder of the Wordless Music series and orchestra (wordlessmusic.org), which was named by The New Yorker as the most inventive concert series in New York, and by the Village Voice as the “Best Moderately Snooty Concert Series.” Born in Miami, he has worked as a producer for concert venues and festivals in the United States and abroad.

Index Abbruzzese, Dave 84, 108–9, 158–9, 241–8, 278, 283 drumming style 108–9, 246–8 personality 107, 115, 137, 149, 226 dismissal from band 158–9, 241–8 abortion and the anti-abortion movement 84–5, 110–11, 177, 185–7, 255–6 Academy Awards 204 Adams, Carol 275 Ailes, Roger 356 Albini, Steve 171 Ali Khan, Nusrat Fateh 265–6 Alice in Chains 176, 294 “Alive” 1, 60–1, 87, 150, 386 Allen, Woody 126 “Alone” (song) 48, 57, 63, 83, 198, 349 al-Qaeda 306, 363–4 Ament, Jeff 13 role in founding of Pearl Jam 14–15, 42–47, 58–59 testifying against Ticketmaster 233–6 America: A Tribute to Heroes (concert, 2001) 266, 333 American Music Awards 136 “Angel” (song) 133, 163, 194, 349 announcement of tours 4 “Animal” (song) 48, 77, 136, 145, 146, 150, 154, 159, 193, 196, 209 “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2” (tag) 140, 195, 201, 270, 370 Apollo space program 382 Apple (corporation) 352 “Arc” (song) 9, 318, 335 Arizona University 160 Arm, Mark 36, 42–5, 52, 164, 226 Astbury, Ian 62 AT&T 370–1 Avocado (album) 354–5 “axis of evil” speech (2002) 363 Babbitt, Milton 182 Backspacer (album) 356–9

Bad Radio (San Diego) 50–3, 145 Bangs, Lester 216 Barrett, James 186, 255 Bayfront Park, Miami 198–203 Beatles, The 165, 182, 242 Beck, Glenn 355 Beecham, Thomas 41 Beethoven, L. van 123, 138 Bellow, Saul 12 Bennett, Tony 73 “Better Man” (song) 5, 13, 20, 35, 50, 61, 140, 179, 195, 251, 254, 312, 338, 358, 379, 381, 384, 401, 407 Beyoncé 118 Big Fish (film) 352 Billboard 89, 136 bin Laden, Osama 306, 363 Binaural (album) 11, 303, 306–7 “Black” (song) 63 Black Lives Matter 142 Blair, Tony 287 Bloch, Kurt 45 “Blood” (song) 13, 136, 138, 145, 146, 147, 150, 154, 159, 165, 180, 186, 191, 206, 248, 293, 345, 353, 384 Boccaccio, Giovanni 281 Body of War (film) 368–70, 377 Boeing (company) 31, 305 Bono 144–8, 286 Bon Jovi (band) 172 Bongiovanni, Gary 232, 269 Bono 144, 147 bootlegging 7, 19, 22, 82, 114, 183, 190, 293, 318 official bootlegs 4, 7, 22 Boston 230, 255 Bowie, David 166–7 boy bands 295 “Brain of J.” (song) 13, 196, 288–93, 391, 404 Bramson, Danny 127 Brando, Marlon 161

414

Index

“Breath” (song) 13, 48–9, 63, 138, 182, 209, 217, 293, 381, 384, 399, 404 Britton, John 186, 255 Brooks, Garth 11, 90, 101, 237, 278–9 Brownstein, Carrie 213, 341, 359, 379 B sides 8, 308, 335, 349, 353, 399 Buchanan, Pat 110–11, 298–9 Buck, Peter 237–8 Budzyn, Walter 142 “Bugs” (song) 9, 13, 251, 314 Burton, Julie 255 Burton, Tim 352 Bush (band) 171–2, 175 Bush, George H.W. 10, 67, 75, 85, 99, 143, 177 Bush, George W. 10, 23, 259, 323–4, 328– 9, 332, 340–2, 363–6, 370, 374–7 “Bushleaguer” (song) 23, 335, 336, 340, 341, 342, 344, 346 Butthole Surfers 160, 162 Byrne, David 35, 115 Cage, John 42 California energy crisis (2001) 336 Cameron, Keith 258 Cameron, Matt 13, 45, 47, 241, 247, 292, 334, 335 Campbell, Naomi 148 cancellation of appearances 164, 165, 293 Candlebox 175 Canty, Brendan 242 Carey, Mariah 106, 277 Casper (Wyoming) 237, 262, 263, 267, 268 the Cathouse, Hollywood 92 celebrity, concept of 182 Chamberlain, Matt 82–4, 247 Chapman, Mark David 281 Chappelle, Dave 182 Cheney, Dick 364, 375–6 Discussed by Eddie Vedder 376–7 Chicago Stadium 188–9 The Chicago Tribune 188 Chili Peppers, The 15, 93–4, 99 Chomsky, Noam 275, 299 Christgau, Robert 175, 242 Citron, Alan 261 Clapton, Eric 107 Clash, The 54, 61, 143, 155, 160, 340, 347

Clear Channel radio stations 332 Clemons, Clarence 33 Cleveland (Ohio) 93–4 clinic protections 256 Clinton, Bill 10–11, 20, 110–11, 135, 143, 177, 204, 225–9, 239, 267, 281, 287–8, 305–6, 321–2, 330 Clinton, Hillary 20, 226, 364 A Clockwork Orange (film) 71 Cobain, Kurt 10, 16, 42, 44, 68, 100–4, 120, 181, 206, 208, 211, 215–20, 223, 232 discussed by Eddie Vedder 97 opinions on Vedder and Pearl Jam 120 Collective Soul (band) 9, 170–1, 174 Collins, Tim 237 Colorado, State of 164–5 “Corduroy” (song) 13, 53, 77, 137, 195, 209, 251, 254, 381, 383–4 Condit, Gary 233–6 Cornell, Chris 37, 42, 46, 62–4, 75, 93, 95, 129–31, 316 death of 11, 129–31, 399–400 coronavirus 29 covers 5, 100, 198, 269–70 Cowell, Henry 41 Creed (band) 170, 175, 401 Cropper, Steve 198 crowd behavior 18, 148, 317–18, 345–7 Crowe, Cameron 25, 42–3, 124–30, 157–8 “Crown of Thorns” (song) 43, 381 Cuellar, Claudia 27, 372–6 Cuffaro, Chris 242 cult status of Pearl Jam 7, 21 Cunningham, Merce 42 Curtis, Kelly 137, 157, 245, 261–2, 269, 287 Dallas Morning News 69 Dalton, David 281 Daltrey, Roger 34, 309, 317 Danzig, Glenn 37 Darwin, Charles 170 Daschle, Tom 364 “Daughter” (song) 4, 13, 20, 24, 26, 61, 115, 117, 134, 136, 138–40, 146, 147, 158–9, 201–2, 215, 223, 317, 370, 384, 391

Index Davis, Clive 354 Davis, Miles 169 Dead Man Walking (film) 265 de Barros, Paul 41 DeCurtis, Anthony 258 “Deep” (song) 49, 61, 88, 98, 118–19, 293 Def Leppard 7 Delle, Jeremy 67–75 Democratic Party, US 21, 23 Denver 23, 179–80, 261, 337–43 Deranged Diction 35–6 DeRogatis, Jim 175 “Desert Storm” 75 Des Forges, Alison 204, 207 Diana, Princess of Wales 287 DiFranco, Ani 327 Dion, Celine 124, 295, 385 “Dissident” (song) 20, 138, 185, 197, 209, 215 Dixie Chicks, The 9, 25, 294, 333, 337, 340 “Do the Evolution” (song) 77, 285, 288, 293, 381, 384 Dolly the sheep 287 Donahue, Phil 27, 178–9, 368–70, 376 Doors, The 135 Douglas, Mike 319 Downs, Bertis 239 Dukakis, Michael 321 Dylan, Bob 63, 105, 133–4, 169, 327 Echols, Damien 25 economic downturn (2009) 355 Edgell, John 233 Edison, Thomas 170 Elden, Spencer 72 “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town” (song) 5, 138, 159, 210, 379, 381, 384, 392, 394–5, 404 Elephant (film) 308 Eno, Brian 123 Entwistle, John 34, 309 Estevez, Emilio 222 FACE law 256 “Faithfull” (song) 13, 289, 290, 353, 384, 394 Farley, Christopher John 156 feminism 103–4 Fenway Park, Boston 2, 382

415

Finch, Jennifer 184, 187 Finnegan, William 300 Finney, Joan 85 Finsbury Park, London 113–4, 148–9 Fitzgerald, F. Scott 113 Flanagan, Bill 147–8 Florida 183, 194, 201 “Footsteps” (song) 3, 46, 48, 57, 62, 108, 117, 134, 191, 217, 272, 350, 352, 381, 383, 291 Frank, Anne 69 Freston, Tom 148 Fricke, David 85 Friedman, Thomas 298–9 Friel, Chris 48 Frogs, The (band) 179–80, 189–92, 269 Fugazi 5, 190, 196, 238, 242 Furlong, Edward 72 Garbo, Greta 182 “Garden” (song) 67–79, 85, 353, 382 General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) 297–8 Gigaton (album) 29, 351–3, 397 Gill, Andy 154 Gingrich, Newt 10 “Given to Fly” (song) 134, 289, 293, 379, 381, 385–7 Glass, Philip 169 globalization 298 “Glorified G” (song) 146, 162, 183, 336 “Go” (song) 5, 13, 117, 136, 138, 145–6, 150, 154, 159, 166, 180, 201, 209, 215, 220, 223, 248, 305, 342, 349 Godard, Jean-Luc 39 Goldberg, Danny 157 Goldberg, Michael 19 Golden Gate Park, San Francisco 18, 261, 268–9, 345 Goldstone, Michael 57, 137 Gore, Al 323–4, 327–30 Gossard, Stone 13–14, 36, 42–4, 52, 54, 57–9, 62–5, 75, 97, 100, 103, 107, 119, 126, 133, 138–9, 147, 149–50, 158, 160, 165, 189, 222, 224, 226, 233–4, 236, 242–5, 251, 253, 278, 287, 290, 292, 308, 336, 344, 349, 354, 358

416 guitar-playing style and musicianship 45–9 Gould, Glenn 169 Graham, Bill 34 Grammy Awards 277–9, 282, 294 Grateful Dead, The 270 Great Recession (2008) 355 Green, Malice 141–2 Green River 14, 36–8, 41–4 “Grievance” (song) 13, 303–8, 343 Grohl, Dave 98, 248, 254, 259 grunge 10, 14, 16, 19, 22, 24, 69, 72, 157, 176, 275, 295 Gulf War (1991) 75 Gunn, David 177–9, 184–8, 191, 255, 405 Gunn, David Jr. 178, 186 Guthrie, Woody 88 “Habit” (song) 196, 271, 289 “Hail, Hail” (song) 4, 13, 271–3, 289–90, 293, 296, 355 Hanna, Kathleen 254 “Hard to Imagine” (song) 5, 13, 117, 138, 193, 195, 272, 293, 350, 353, 364, 381, 384, 399 Hanzsek, Chris 44, 48 Harrington, Michael 377 Hayes, Terrance 7 heavy metal 14 Hedges, Chris 375 Hemingway, Ernest 57 Hendrix, Jimi 41, 78 Henley, Don 21, 327 Hewson, Paul 147; see also Bono Hicks, Tom 332 Hilburn, Robert 220, 264, 273 Hill, Paul 178 Hobsbawm, Eric 297 Ho Chi Minh 169 Hochman, Steve 92 Horn, Stephen 235 Howe, Irving 12 “Hunger Strike” (song) 62–63, 92, 131, 180, 292 Hurricane Katrina 23 Hussein, Saddam 75, 340, 363–4 Hyden, Steven 214–15

Index “I Got Shit” (song) 196, 264, 349 Iha, James 294 “I’ve Got a Feeling” (song) 92, 116–17, 166 “Immortality” (song) 5, 13, 195, 216, 220–1, 248, 251, 254, 318, 353, 384, 391 “Indifference” (song) 9, 135, 154, 165, 289 “In My Tree” (song) 5, 13, 71, 134, 271–3, 289–90, 353, 384–5 “Insignificance” 13, 137, 303–8, 341, 404 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 297 Internet resources 287 Into the Wild (soundtrack) 27, 392, 394–5, 402, 404 Iraq War (2003) 27, 140, 264, 332, 337, 339, 347, 353, 361–77 Irons, Jack 49, 54–5, 57–8, 62, 241–3, 247, 264, 271–2, 291–2, 334, 353, 382, 385 Israel 26–7, 361 “It’s OK” (tag) 140 “I Won’t Back Down” (song) 140, 179, 184–5, 191 Jackson, Michael 11, 90–1, 101, 137, 161 Jacobs, Marc 16 Jane’s Addiction (band) 44, 210, 399 J.C. Dobbs, Philadelphia 79–85 Jepsen, Cara 326 “Jeremy” (song) 13, 19, 60–2, 67–78, 275, 308, 312, 335 Jerusalem Post, The 27 Johnson, Eric 118, 136‒7, 151 Jones Beach, NY. 115, 380, 384, 391 Jordan, Michael 189 Journey (band) 8 J Records 354 Kasparov, Garry 287 Katzenberg, Jeffrey 204 Kaufman, Gil 74 Kelly, Patrick 85 Kennedy, John F. 289 Kerry, John 23 Kid Rock 295

Index Kiedis, Anthony 51–3, 73, 103, 391 Kim from St. Louis 386–8 King, Rodney 140 Klosterman, Chuck 172 Knight, Etheridge 7 Koenig, Ezra 399 Kolbert, Kathryn 187 Korn 294 Krieger, Robby 135 Krugman, Paul 332 Krusen, Dave 65, 82, 247, 283 Lambert, Kit 309 Lasorda, Tommy 295 “Last Exit” (song) 4, 163, 195, 251, 290, 381 The Last Temptation of Christ (film) 266 latest releases 286–7 Laub, Michel 211 “Leash” (song) 13, 49, 88, 95, 100, 133, 136, 138, 151, 160, 182, 191, 198, 293 Leibniz, Gottfried 170 Lennon, John 39, 165–6, 214, 281, 319–20, 334, 339 Letterman, David 279–80, 283, 292, 305 Levi-Strauss, Claude 382 Lewinsky, Monica 10, 20, 260, 288, 290 Lightning Bolt (album) 26, 380, 391, 397 Liss, Ben 230–1 Liszt, Franz 182 Live at the Garden 349–50 live shows compared with albums 26 Lockwood, Patricia 309 Lollapalooza festival 24 “Long Road” 264–6 Los Angeles 127, 139–40, 260 Los Angeles Times 92, 169–70, 232, 264, 269, 273 Lost Dogs (album) 335, 349, 382 Loukasis, Barry 79 “Love Boat Captain” (song) 28, 318, 334–5, 384, 389–90 Love, Courtney 101, 215, 218–19, 224 Lowney, Shannon 187 “Lukin” (song) 13, 196, 258, 271, 273, 289, 308, 384 Lukin, Matt 294 Lydon, John 38

417

McDonough, Jimmy 399 McCready, Mike 13, 20, 37, 42, 44–5, 48, 54, 63–6, 92, 97–8, 100–2, 107, 116, 131, 134, 139, 149, 157–8, 163, 165, 177, 180, 185, 196, 202, 210, 222, 243–6, 250–1, 266, 269, 273, 286, 293, 333–5, 353–4, 358 playing style 76–8 MacKaye, Ian 95 McLean, Don 216 Madison Square Garden 5, 129, 175, 327, 339, 376, 394, 398 “Mahdi Army” 365–6 Maines, Natalie 340 Malick, Terrence 77 “Man of the Hour” 352–3 Mansfield, MA. 339 Manson, Marilyn 67 Marable, Manning 330 Marcus, Greil 224, 253 Marsh, Dave 182, 238 Martin, Barrett 250 Martin, Kevin 172–3 Martin, Ricky 295 Melody Maker 105, 120, 136, 154–5, 257 Merkin Ball (EP) 249, 264–5, 70, 292, 352 Miami 198–204 Miami Herald 201 Miami New Times 198 Microsoft 287 Miller, Bill 160 Mirror Ball (album) 249, 264–5, 268 Misskelley, Jessie Jr. 25 “Momma-Son” Trilogy 61–3, 165 Monkeywrench Radio 173, 288 Monk, Thelonious 182 Moody, Fred 303 Mookie Blaylock 15, 38, 64, 126 Moon, Keith 309, 314–15 Moore, Michael 326–7 Morrison, Van 148 Mother Love Bone 14, 38, 42–4, 46–8, 55, 57–8, 64–5, 83, 126, 156, 207 MTV 24, 70–1, 88, 90, 120, 128, 148, 160, 164, 167, 170, 175, 191, 247, 286, 313 MTV Unplugged 10, 53, 105–11, 248, 401, 403

418

Index

Mubarak, Suzanne 73 Mudhoney 42–3, 164, 173, 205, 207–8, 225, 228, 253, 258, 288, 294, 391 Mueller, Andrew 105 Murdoch, Rupert 252 Nader, Ralph 275, 319–30, 368 Napster 352 Native Americans 142, 160–1 Neely, Kim 42, 52–3, 60, 136, 193, 242–5 Nelson, Paul 8 neoliberalism 298 Nevermind (album) 72, 87, 90–1, 97–8, 101, 124, 127, 154, 157, 172 Nevers, Larry 142 New Musical Express (NME) 114, 311 New York Daily News 252 New York Dolls 8 New York Times 128, 154, 208, 239, 323, 329, 367, 382 Newsweek (magazine) 69, 177, 268, 299–300 Newton, Isaac 170 Newton-John, Olivia 34 Nichols, Lee Ann 187 Nirvana 1, 8–9, 15, 40, 69–70, 84, 88, 91, 95–104, 106–7, 119–21, 127, 154–7, 167, 173–6, 208, 217, 224, 248, 254, 273, 275, 294, 391, 403 No Code (album) 8, 10, 61, 90, 137, 240, 248, 270–5, 288–93, 304, 335, 353, 356, 358, 382, 391, 397–9, 404 Noonan, Peggy 11 North Atlantic Treaty 332 “Not for You” (song) 181–2, 254 “Nothingman” (song) 195, 251, 272 Novoselic, Krist 218 “No Way” (song) 13, 288–90 O’Brien, Brendan 82, 161, 172, 270–1, 356 “Oceans” (song) 3, 83, 87–8, 98, 107–8, 180 O’Leary, Chris 166 Obama, Barack 27, 355 “Of the Earth” (song) 384 “Off He Goes” (song) 3, 9, 13, 137, 271–3, 289, 353, 381, 384, 391, 394, 404

Off Ramp Café, Seattle 57, 59, 61, 63–6, 107, 126, 159 Oklahoma City 243–4, 259 “Once” (song) 48, 57, 61–2, 88, 100, 116, 133, 150, 162, 209 O’Reilly, Bill 376 Ortega y Gasset, Jose 249 Orwell, George 75, 303 Palmer, Tim 82 Parashar, Rick 76 Pareles, Jon 154 Parks, Rosa 326 “Parting Ways” 13, 272, 308, 384, 404 Pavement (band) 9, 196 Pearl Jam (album); see also, Avocado 354–5, 380, 392 Pearl Jam: changing status of 9, 84, 91, 99, 181–2, 196, 264, 271, 351–9, 399–400; concert programs given by 95, 186, 294, 381–3; critics of 8, 9; distinctiveness of 71; first television appearance 282; formation and earliest shows 45, 63–5, 102; influences on 143; origin of the name 45, 101; roots in classic rock 24, 78 “Pearl Jam people” 1, 82, 170, 241, 259, 267, 379–82, 392 Pearl Jam Twenty (book) 51, 54, 99, 126, 129, 167, 237, 245, 334, 391 Pearl Jam Twenty (film) 42, 47, 109, 129, 138, 345 Pellington, Mark 70–3 Pensacola, FL. 13, 177–94 performances, differences between 4–5 Perkins, Dan 358 Perot, Ross 321, 324 Peterson, Collin 234 Petty, Tom 34–5, 134, 184 Philadelphia 82–3 The Philadelphia Inquirer 268 Philadelphia Spectrum 79–80, 380 Philips, Chuck 232 “Pilate” (song) 13, 288–9 Pink Floyd 20, 216–17 Pinkpop (music festival) 113–21, 140, 148, 401 PJ20 (music festival) 358

Index Poncier, Cliff 130–1 “Porch” (song) 5, 13, 83, 87–8, 94–5, 99, 108, 119, 136, 145, 148, 151, 162–3, 191, 193, 215, 222, 229, 248, 274, 342 MTV Unplugged version 108–10, 115, 183, 383, 391 Powell, Colin 339 Power, Samantha 205 Pratt, Jane 185 “Present Tense” (song) 5, 13, 271, 273, 345, 384, 398 Princess, Margaret 267 propaganda 75 Proust, Marcel 351 Qawwali 266 Quadrophenia (album) 312–13 Rachtman, Riki 92 radio broadcasts 286–7 Radiohead 2, 6, 331 Rage Against the Machine 8, 294 Ramones 23, 35, 107, 143, 339, 370 Randalls Island, NY. 237, 286, 380 Raphael, Gordon 41 rarities 5 Rather, Dan 363 “Rats” (song) 5, 13, 136, 154, 159, 180, 198, 209, 220, 293, 382 Rayburn House 225, 233 “Rearviewmirror” (song) 5, 13, 134, 136, 138, 146, 163, 166, 191, 209, 222–4, 248, 293, 345, 383, 392 Red Hot Chili Peppers 15, 24, 49–50, 54–55, 58, 84, 88, 93–5, 99, 133, 243, 293, 295, 391–2, 399 “Red Mosquito” (song) 196, 269, 271, 290 Reed, Lou 115 reinvention of performers 5 “Release” (song) 5, 13, 61, 63, 65–6, 71, 87–9, 99, 108, 117, 138, 166, 189, 201, 210, 215, 352, 379, 391, 404 R.E.M. (band) 36, 144, 238 Reno, Janet 237 Republican Party, US 252 Reynolds, Simon 154, 159 Reznor, Trent 294 Rice, Condoleezza 363

419

Rich, Frank 208 Richards, Keith 133 Richter, Sviatoslav 2 Riley, Terry 311 Riot Act (album) 8, 23, 26, 334–6, 339, 341–2, 352–3, 355, 391 rioting 127, 198–203 “Rival” (song) 13, 308 Robbins, Ira 310 Robbins, Tim 265–6 Roberts, Julia 11 Robertson, Pat 85 Rock am Ring 113–14 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 82, 135, 249, 279, 283 Rock for Choice 183–4 Rock Hill (North Carolina) 221 “Rockin’ in the Free World” 27, 108, 215, 248, 296, 337, 347, 379, 402 rock music, long-term trends in 87, 174–5, 216, 294 Rolling Stone magazine 33–4, 38–9, 85, 89, 95, 124–5, 128, 171, 182, 193, 196, 316 October 1993 cover story about PJ 157–8 November 1996 piece about Eddie Vedder 278, 281–2 Rolling Stones, The 140, 154, 286, 402 Romales, Gary 255 Romney, Mitt 25 Rose, Axl 72 Rosen, Fred 34, 237–8 Rosen, Hilary 287 Roskilde (music festival) 1992 appearance 113, 117–18, 120, 143, 146 2000 appearance 20, 140, 261, 309–18, 323, 334, 353–5 Rossdale, Gavin 175 Rumsfeld, Donald 364 Rusk, Corey 37 Russert, Tim 365 Rwanda 204–5, 211 “Sad” (song) 308, 349 al-Sadr, Moqtada 365 Safeco Field 130 St Petersburg 198, 202

420 Selena (singer-songwriter) 259 San Diego, CA. 13, 33–4, 59–60, 92, 98–9, 103, 171–2, 197, 262, 264, 269, 282, 295–6 As home of Eddie Vedder and Bad Radio 39–55 San Francisco Examiner 267 Sanders, Bernie 2 Santana 295 Sarandon, Susan 265, 329 Saturday Night Live 114, 133, 171, 181, 221–4, 340, 401, 403 Saunier, Greg 242 “Save it for Later” (tag) 35, 379 “scenius” 123–4 Schaffer, Paul 279–80 Schindler’s List (film) 204, 208 school shootings 28, 67–9 Schreiber, Ryan 273 Schwarzkopf, Norman 10 Scott, Campbell 126 Screaming Trees 294 Seattle 10, 14–16, 20–1, 31, 40–1, 64, 91, 129, 141, 165–7, 171–5, 200, 208, 218, 229–30, 252, 254, 295, 297–302, 305, 325 Seattle Post-Intelligencer 302 security at concerts 91, 95, 118–19, 318 Sedgwick, Kyra 126 Self-Pollution, Radio 146, 249–60 September 11 attacks 22 Sex Pistols, The 63, 155, 182 SFX Broadcasting 239–40 Shames, Laurence 281 Sheehan, Cindy 369 Shteamer, Hank 11–12 Shumway, Alex 44 Sillerman, Robert 239 Simon, Paul 22 Singles (film and soundtrack) 7–8, 10–11, 82, 123–31, 133 Sleater-Kinney 8, 274, 337–8, 341, 398 Slovak, Hillel 49, 191 Smalls, Biggie 287 Smashing Pumpkins, The 84, 93, 100, 176, 248, 294, 399 “Smile” (song) 5, 13, 271–2

Index Smith, Patti 327 Smith, Will 199–200 Soden, Riley 364–6 Soldier Field, Chicago 261–75 Solnit, Rebecca 332 “Sometimes” (song) 271, 273 Sondheim, Stephen 169 Sonic Youth 206 Sontag, Susan 12 Soundgarden 13–14, 38, 62–4, 88, 91–3, 100, 128, 130–1, 156, 172, 174–5, 208, 253–4, 275, 292, 294, 391, 403 soundtracks 125 Spade, David 171 Spears, Britney 295 Spice Girls, The 295 Spielberg, Steven 204, 208 Spin magazine 97, 128, 179, 314 “Spin the Black Circle” (song) 5, 180, 193, 195, 250, 277 Spiro, Ellen 368 Springsteen, Bruce 23, 32–3, 50, 101, 143, 214, 327, 334, 391 Srebrenica 260 Staley, Layne 93, 250, 354 “State of Love and Trust” (song) 11, 83, 107, 114, 116, 128, 163, 166, 180, 190, 197, 209, 292, 384 Starr, Ringo 242 Steinem, Gloria 256, 288 Stephanopoulos, George 17 Stevens, Cat 266 Stewart, Scott 261–2 Stipe, Michael 36, 251 Stockholm Museum of Modern Art 116 Stone Temple Pilots (band) 169–71 Stringfellow, Ken 173–4 Strummer, Joe 49, 54, 58, 61, 391 Styron, William 292 “Suggestion” (tag) 100 suicides 69–70 Swanson, Joshua 390 Taft, Josh 171 Taliban regime 363 Talking Heads (band) 35, 63, 140, 144, 397

Index Temple of the Dog (band) 8, 38, 46, 48, 63, 124, 129, 250 Ten (album) 7–10, 48, 61, 66, 69–70, 76, 79–82, 87–91, 98, 106–7, 113, 124, 127, 133–6, 144–5, 154, 172, 182, 248, 251, 274, 293, 304, 349, 351–2, 357–8, 381–2, 391–2, 401 terrorism 177, 257 Tester, Jon 28–9 Thayil, Kim 175 Thoreau, Henry David 153 ticket prices 31–2, 230, 233 Ticketmaster 9–10, 34, 225, 240, 268–70, 288, 400–1 Boycott of 17, 25, 188–9, 229–39, 250, 253, 261–3 Tiller, George 84–5, 255 Time magazine 16, 155–7 “Times They Are A-Changin’” (song) 21, 327–8 Titanic (film) 287–8 Tommy (rock opera) 309–13 Tomorrow, Tom 358 touring 90, 93, 95, 99, 105, 159–61, 165, 198, 203, 232, 238–9, 249, 261–2, 269, 288–94, 339–41, 357–8 Touring Band 2000 386, 388 Kim from St. Louis 386–8 Townshend, Pete 33–5, 47, 62, 92, 102, 105–6, 143, 163, 198, 270, 273, 308–17 “Tremor Christ” (song) 13, 71, 162–5, 191, 195, 248, 251, 381, 384, 404 True, Everett 100, 103, 120 Trump, Donald 3, 28–9, 124, 398 Trump, Melania 28 Tucker, Corin 337–8 Turlington, Christy 148 Turner, Steve 164 Tutu, Desmond 267 Tuxen, Henrik 316 Ukulele Songs (album) 359, 392 Uniondale 344–5 United States: embassy attacks in Kenya and Tanzania (1998) 306: Flag Protection Act (1990) 295; Supreme Court 110, 295; Telecommunications Act (1996)

421

239, testifying in Congress 9, 234, 238 Unplugged (album) 106–10 unpredictability of live concerts 4–6 Urge Overkill 189 Us Festival 34 U2 5, 8, 15, 50, 87, 127, 140, 143–8, 182, 286, 309, 334, 345 Van Zandt, Steven 214 Vedder, Eddie 2, 9, 13 Joining Pearl Jam 58–64 Childhood 32–6, 312 Bad Radio 50–5 Relationship with Dave Abbruzzese 242–8 Relationship with Kurt Cobain 220–3 Vocal style 65–6 Political beliefs and activism 23–5, 27–9, 75–7, 104, 109–11, 181–6, 286, 324–8, 342–4, 346–7, 369–72, 404 Vitalogy (album) 8–10, 42, 76, 87, 137, 153, 155, 163–4, 167, 175, 195, 240, 243, 248–54, 263–4, 268, 271, 274–5, 289–91, 293, 313–14, 351–3, 355, 379, 381, 391, 397, 399, 403 Vs. (album) 4, 9–10, 48, 76, 98, 136–51, 153–9, 163, 167, 172, 179, 182, 196, 198, 222–3, 251, 274, 293, 305, 348, 385, 391, 399 Wakeling, Dave 34 Wall Street Journal 333 Wallace, Alfred Russel 170 Wal-Mart 157 Wardell, Josh 286 Warnick, Kim 38 “Wash” (song) 83, 91, 108, 138, 196, 208, 349–50 Watt, Mike 17, 254, 257, 259 weapons of mass destruction 339, 364 West Memphis Three 25 “Whipping” (song) 162, 195, 205, 251 White, E.B. 361 Whitewater 10 Whitman, Christine Todd 204 Who, The 34, 58, 92, 101, 140, 189, 270, 307, 309–16, 382, 391

422 “Who You Are” (song) 271–3, 293 “Why Go” (song) 4, 13, 49, 69, 83, 88, 95, 115, 118, 136, 138, 144, 146, 151, 159, 165, 180, 190, 209, 290, 293 Wilder, Billy 124 Wilk, Brad 82 Wilker, Deborah 200–3 Wilkerson, Mark 371–2, 376 Williams, Victoria 161 Wilson, Carl 385 Wilson, Trevor 70–4, 407 Winfrey, Oprah 204 “Wishlist” (song) 289, 292–3 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 210 “W.M.A.” (song) 2, 156 Wood, Andy 9, 35, 42–3, 46–7, 82, 125, 158, 172, 400 World Bank 297 World Trade Center bombing (1993) 177

Index World Trade Organization (WTO) 297–308 Wozniak, Steve 34 Wright, Lawrence 306 Wrigley Field, Chicago 2, 358, 379, 391 Yang, Wesley 174 Yapa, Sunil 299 “Yellow Ledbetter” 5, 76–8 Yield (album) 1, 4, 8, 10, 61, 172, 237, 274, 286–95, 304, 351–2, 357–8, 381–2, 391, 397 Young, Nathan 371–3, 377 Young, Neil 18, 22, 24, 27, 134, 140, 143–4, 148, 151, 206, 215–17, 224, 249, 264–5, 268, 273, 333–4, 358, 372, 391, 399, 402 Young, Tomas 27, 361–77, 408 Zinn, Howard 335–6, 346