I'm Still Alive

The Culture Commando has taken a hiatus for some time to deal with a family illness, but she came out of hiding Thursday night to take her daughter to Jiffy Lube Live (horrors!) to see Pearl Jam in concert.

Anyone who knows me well knows I've never liked Pearl Jam much. While I've enjoyed the music of other bands from the Grunge era, the music of Pearl Jam has left me cold. But my teenage daughter is a fan, and--big surprise--her friends aren't, so I was drafted to take her to the show at the reputed traffic nightmare once known as the Nissan Pavilion.

Turns out Live Nation, the promoter, seems to have some of the kinks worked out that made the venue a living hell. Parking was logical, trash was minimal, bathrooms were plentiful and almost clean. Concessions were limited and beer all too plentiful, but we could enjoy $4 bottles of water while we waited for the show to start.

I was pleasantly surprised by Band of Horses, who, though moody and almost depressing, played a type of Thought Pop that blended well with the headlining act--low-key, almost Phish-cum-REM-cum-Pearl Jam.

The promoter seem to have a tight schedule they follow: Band of Horses played a neat and tidy 40 minutes, and then the crews of the opening and headlining acts swiftly switched out gear so Pearl Jam could hit the stage at precisely 9:00 pm.

"Whatever," I thought to myself as Pearl Jam launched into "Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town." I've always liked the lyrics to this song, and the PA system, unlike so many others at rock concerts, did not distort them more than Eddie Vedder's singing style did. So I started to warm up to his rich vocals, which sounded so much richer and more soulful live than any car radio could produce.

A couple of interesting notes: Eddie Vedder is my age. Most guys my age don't look so, well, vigorous. They've earned the potbellies, wrinkles, soft flesh, and receding hairlines, but Vedder, while he doesn't look young and never did, is bursting with energy, vitality, and pure muscular strength, even when he's seated with a guitar and singing a ballad. It's the strength of a lion in repose, awaiting the next pounce. His voice hasn't changed at all ("I changed by not changing at all"), the famed baritone sturdy and raspy as ever, powerful in the screams, barely contained in the ballads. It's amazing to me it's lasted this long, but I worry that 20 years from now he'll be Roger Daltrey embarrassing himself at the Super Bowl.

Their new material, in my humble is opinion might be vocally less challenging, which I see as a good thing. He needs to preserve those pipes. It is, however, driving and urgent, which you don't always expect from a band in their comfortable middle years. The urge to move with the music was strong, and some did--though not well. Pearl Jam's complicated rhythms (well, for rock) make dance problematic for novices. There's a retro feel to these new songs, however, as though the band is going back to the future, not of their own music but that of others, to find their muse.

Of course, the retro sound fit the audience perfectly. I had been afraid I would be the oldest person in the audience, but that turned out to be a totally irrational fear. The pavilion was packed with people just about my age, people who'd left their teenage kids at home because they didn't like Pearl Jam. And I smelled something I haven't smelled at a concert probably since 1980, and you know what I mean. While it annoyed me that anyone would do that in front of my teenage daughter, I hope it served as an important lesson to her. Smoke dope when you're young, and 20 years from now you'll be old, hairy, and overweight, trying to look cool by smoking dope in public.

But some things have changed over those pot-laced concerts of my youth--this one had a bedtime. At precisely 10 o'clock, the band retired to the backstage area to wipe off the sweat, kick back an Aquafina or two, and pretend that they were done for the evening until the screams of the fans lured them back. But when they came back, they didn't play the reluctant, half-hearted encore sets some bands do--they played for another hour as vigorously as they'd played the first. There were the typical exaggerated solo guitar stances that leave me cold, as well as the dreaded "rock star interface" and the party trick of picking out a solo with the guitar held over the head, but whatever, they're legends. They did it well.

In what should have been the last song of the evening because it would have been a great way to cap the  show, the band launched the crowd favorite "Alive." Even in my non-Pearl Jam-loving days, I loved this song. I never knew what it was about, but it sounded life-affirming. (Apparently I was way off, and so are the crowds.) All around me, the audience was waving their hands in the air in testimony to rock and roll truth, closing their eyes and affirming to everyone that yes, they were still alive, praise be. Pearl Jam is still alive. Their Gen-X followers, after years of drugs, alcohol, nihilism, and a lack of faith in anything around them, are still alive. And beside me, my teenage daughter, in the most dangerous years of life, is still alive.

It's impossible to keep turning up my nose. They've earned their status. Now, if only they'll continue to grow old gracefully.