In Too Deep: My Journey With Pearl Jam (Part 6 - It’s Not In My Past To Presume)

I day after my 20th birthday, Pearl Jam released a new single. It was a five minute atmospheric piece by Jeff Ament called Nothing As It Seems. The song was very much in keeping with Peal Jam’s penchant for dropping atypical singles. While certainly not as baffling and unexpected as No Code’s lead single, Who You Are, Nothing As It Seems was still something of a shock. However, the thing I most remember about hearing the song for the first time? It had a guitar solo!

My love for Nothing As It Seems was immediate. The lyrics are enigmatic in an inviting way. The sound of the song is somehow uplifting and treacherous at the same time. Hearing Eddie Vedder, the prince of baritone, sing a line (that he didn’t write) like “It’s nothing like your baritone” makes me want to cry. The song is blistering in its drone. “All that he needs, it’s home.”

Holy shit.

It was such a wonderful gift, Nothing As It Seems. Dropping the day after my birthday made if feel like a private gift for me. Especially after having struggled somewhat with Yield. I was certain this was destiny. Binaural would be my favorite Pearl Jam album. How could it not be?

Binaural was released May 16th 2000. I was in school at Johnson County Community College. The morning of the 16th, before class, I drove to Best Buy to purchase the album. Unlike the previous records, I decided to start the album on the drive from the store to school, even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish before class started. I listened to the first three songs: Breakerfall, Gods’ Dice, and Evacuation.

These are arguably the three worst songs on the record.

It wasn’t a great first impression. The songs felt half-finished. The lyrics were either opaque or cheesy. The sound of the thing had a kind of lifeless quality — hollow and far away.

Three songs in. That was as far as I got before I arrived at school and had to put the album away. I decided not to listen to any more of the album until I could finish it. And if I’m honest, I was also hesitant and a little worried. Was I about to experience a bad Pearl Jam album?

Binaural gets way better after that opening run. Light Years is fantastic and the run of songs from track five (Nothing As It Seems) through eleven (Sleight of Hand) is outstanding. Thin Air was the song my wife and I walked down the aisle to after being pronounced husband and wife! These songs (Thin Air, Insignificance, and Sleight of Hand) are still to this day are top 10 Pearl Jam songs for me. I adore them.

Overall, I liked Binaural when it first dropped. After a worrying start, the album came together and largely redeemed itself. I think the closing tracks are weaker than I’d like. The album starts wonky and ends wonky but everything in between is wonderful and varied and nuanced. However, for a long time (until 2009’s Backspacer, actually) it was my least favorite Pearl Jam album.

It’s grown on me a lot since. Those first three tracks, especially. I’m still an album guy. I prefer listening front to back rather than skipping around. That’s still true of Binaural. As such I’ve had a lot of time and a lot of time spent with every song. It’s enough to reveal the quirks and lovely nooks in each.

The overall sound and production is probably the thing that’s aged the best about the album. It no longer sounds hollow and far away to me. It sounds like infinite space. Like every possibility. Like bathing in light and drying in the open air. The album is much warmer than I feared it would be upon first listen. And though it’s dark, like the best Pearl Jam, it’s the light in unexpected places that allows for the darkness.

On Rival, maybe the darkest song on the record, Ed says “and this nation’s about to explode.” And every time I hear it, I shiver a bit. It’s profound and haunting. Even a little scary. The album ends with a break-up song; devastating in it’s easy frankness. Ed’s delivery in Parting Ways is neutral, almost emotionless — which, coming from the guy who sang Release is really something. But the album also contains lines like: “we were but stones, your light made us stars,” and “how to be happy and true is the quest we’re taking on together.”

And that’s purest Pearl Jam. The search. The observation and acknowledgement of difficulty and ugliness but all the while keeping head up and eyes wide and focused on the search for empathy and humanity. The quest for the best of us. And Binaural is an important, necessary part of that forever quest.

Others have written tomes about the lyrical content of Binaural. I’ll leave that to my betters. I’ve said enough already there. And I’m not educated enough to dive into the music theory or compositional discussion of this album. But there is a ton out there in that arena as well. This series isn’t about the albums themselves as much as my experiences with them. And to that end, Binaural is an album that took a long time to get me. In that way, though it sounds light years away from their first album, it actually has much in common with Ten. Which isn’t something I’ve ever really thought about in those terms before… huh.

These days I rank Binaural in the middle of the pack. Of eleven albums, I’d slot Binaural at #5. Not back for an album that used to live at the bottom of the pile.

Today is Binaural’s birthday. To celebrate I’ll be listening to the album on vinyl. Front to back, of course. And I’ll smile like an asshole when Eddie Vedder sings “But only love can break her fall!” And I’ll be grateful all over again for the loves in my life. For my love of Pearl Jam.

Binaural is available on vinyl, CD or digitally pretty much anywhere you like to buy music.

Yield’s Top 3 Tracks: “Sleight of Hand” “Insignificance” “Thin Air.”

Sketchbook #7: Bushkill

The last thing Amber remembered was standing barefoot on the beach as confetti rained down. Her arms wide, her head back, spinning in place, she laughed as the tide lapped at her painted toes. Blue, red, white, green, orange, and yellow dots caught in her loose hair, stuck to her wide smile. She felt was invigorated and strange, as if pure light was swimming through her entire body, making her bones glow. The frayed and stained vintage wedding dress she still wore was the furthest thing from her mind. She caught falling confetti on her tongue like rainbow snowflakes.

#

Sitting slack in a wooden chair surrounded by tall thin trees in the Poconos wasn’t the strangest place Amber had ever woken up. Rusted utility lines loomed large and high, humming. She followed them with her eyes while the feeling returned to her fingers. Her eyes lolled, sweeping left and then right. Her shoulders shook away the ache in the middle of her back. Limp, jelly in her knees, Amber stood, fighting for balance. Pins and needles raced through her blood. Was it a hangover or just the biting brightness of the naked morning sun that confused her? Either way, focus was elusive. Her wet eyes blinked and blinked. She was still barefoot. That was good. However, now she sprouted wings. She tucked her arm behind her back. Reaching up until it hurt, her fingers felt feathers.

Amber walked east toward the rising sun. She was cold and rubbed her arms for warmth. Her fingers were black, stained with mud. At least, she hoped it was mud. It certainly wasn’t sand or confetti.

Oh dear . . .

Sketchbook #6: Spenno

Umbrellas were useless. They buckled and flipped inside out in the brutal rain. More than a few passersby were knocked off balance by surprising gusts of wind. How quickly a day could change. Spenno retreated from the elements into a small Italian restaurant.

There were few others inside. The light was low. Spenno sat at the bar, his back to the front door, facing the intimate curl of the place. There were several empty seats between him and the only other patrons — two men laughing with their hands. One of the men was tall and tan in a denim jacket with various flag patches on the sleeves. His hair was well groomed. His beard was thick and long but manicured. The man’s companion was much smaller, bald, and squirrely. Both men drank Fernet and spoke Portuguese. When one man raised his class, the other teared up. They drank and hugged. Spenno wanted to be them.

Spenno wanted a glass of pinot noir but was intimidated by his hip, Portuguese neighbors and ordered a Negroni instead. The bartender applauded his choice, which made him feel sophisticated. How many times had his server seemed judgmental of his choice? It was rare to feel validated by restaurant staff. As such, Spenno grinned and sat up straighter. When the Negroni was delivered, the Portuguese men nodded and raised their Fernet to him.

On his third Negroni, Spenno, with pen in hand, found himself meditating on the nature of True Love. He ruminated on his darkest moments. He pondered ridicule and rejection and re-lived standing before lovers in the face of laughter and doubt. He wrote about all of it. Tears threatened but never fell onto the page like they used to fall onto Jessica’s abdomen.

#

After one of their minor breaks, before the final official split, they wrestled on his floor. When Spenno pinned Jessica down, he grabbed her breast in hopes of recapturing the spark they’d lost. He knew immediately he’d made a mistake. Those aren’t yours anymore, she said. She was laughing but there was seriousness in her eyes. He let go. Jessica was right. They weren’t together, he had no right. But was that the way he wanted it? Her breasts felt so comfortable, almost inevitable, in his hand.

When Jessica left that day, she was smiling but the corners were jagged. Spenno watched her walk down the street and around the corner. He went to his bedroom, picked up his phone, and stared at the screen. He thought about calling her, thought about inviting her to dinner, thought maybe she could spend the night. He put the phone to his ear but he didn’t call.

He thought of the first time they’d made love. The following morning, Jessica dug the French press from the depths of Spenno’s overcrowded cabinet. The smell woke him but he pretended to sleep. She carried a cup to him. Still, he pretended. She set the cup on his nightstand and went to take a shower. He didn’t touch the coffee. She left him a note on the table and tip-toed off to work. After she left, Spenno got out of bed and poured the coffee down the sink.

#

“What are you writing?” The bartender asked.

Spenno blinked, taken aback. He cleared his dry throat. “Nothing. Just working out a scene for a story.”

“Exciting. What’s it about?”

“Uh, don’t really know yet. But maybe it’s about this really shitty guy who can’t decide what he wants.”

“Ha! Let me know if you need any help. That’s the only type of guy I know.”

Spenno’s cell vibrated. He checked the number. “Can I grab the check please?” The waitress nodded and went to get his bill. Spenno answered his phone.

Here’s Something About Me: Shoes

So, I’m at this work meeting the other day. It was a fantastic presentation about EDI (Equality, Diversity, Inclusion) and the workplace. At one point one of the guest lecturers mentioned an exercise they do where they ask the participants to bring in their favorite pair of shoes.

This exercise allows people to share something incredibly personal with their co-workers. The shoes are a not only a representation of one’s style and taste but also an illustration of how one moves through the world. What is your chosen way to experience life, to travel the world? What shoes do you want with you on your journey?

These sorts of questions are meant to illuminate.

Of course, this got me thinking about my theater studies. In theater there’s a thing called “character shoes.” The idea is that actors need to fully inhabit the character you’re playing. And one of the fastest and best ways to do so is to wear the shoes that your character would wear during rehearsals. Every actor I’ve ever known does this. Every director advocates for it. And it makes sense. Shoes change your posture, the way you stand and move, and how comfortable you are in any given seat of circumstances.

Okay, but, so, here’s a thing about me . . . I don’t give a shit about shoes.

I don’t have a favorite pair. I don’t think I’ve ever had a favorite pair. Maybe back in the fifth/sixth grade when I rocked those Chuck Taylor’s with the Batman logo all over them. Those were pretty rad. I wore the hell out of those.

When I was studying to be an actor I never gave a second thought to character shoes, If my designers and/or directors insisted I’d wear them. But I didn’t need them or want them. I never felt like shoes unlocked anything about a character to me. Maybe that’s because I’ve never had any real-life preference for footwear. Shoes are never on my mind.

As a runner, I found a pair of Asics in my size and I’ve never tried another brand. I just switch up to the newest version of the Nimbus when my old pair blows out. They feel good on my feet and I like the way I run in them. I’ve seen no need to switch up.

I walk. Like, a lot. It’s not uncommon for me to get 100,000 + steps per week. When I have a day off from work, I wear four or five different pairs of shoes to walk in. When I have to go into work, there’s another three or four pairs of work/dress shoes that I rotate into the mix. I walk at least 5 miles in any of those various pairs. Dress shoes, sneakers, slip-ons, casual, it doesn’t matter. I move through the world in all of them and I find them all … just fine.

We were not asked to bring in our favorite pair to the EDI seminar I attended. But if I had been, I’m really not sure what I would have done. All of this to say, I’m learning a lot about myself these days. I’ve had multiple self-discovery moments in the last few weeks and they’ve each been fascinating. What do any of these discoveries say about me?

Whatever it says, it can’t be good. Right?

I mentioned this to a co-worker, thinking she would commiserate with me and share a friendly laugh about our flaws. But she surprised me by saying that she didn’t think it was a bad thing that I didn’t have a favorite pair of shoes. She said maybe it meant that I was adaptive and open. Maybe I was comfortable, not only in any situation, but in my own skin (insert mind-blown gif here). Maybe I was empathetic, able to walk a mile in anyone’s shoes.

Another thing about me . . . I’m too negative.

Thankfully, my perspective isn’t the only perspective.

In Too Deep: My Journey With Pearl Jam (Part 5 - I’ll Stop Trying To Make A Difference, No Way)

I graduated from high school in May of 1998.

A long standing tradition: after class but before play rehearsals began (usually about an hour and a half), I’d go down to the empty cafeteria, insert my money, and get a small bag of Bugles and a Diet Coke from the vending machines.

On the final day of classes, as we gathered in what we called The Blue Room (a sort of lobby outside the auditorium) my friend gave me a graduation gift. It was a very used, very real, road sign. He’d taken it down himself and gifted it to me.

Of course, it was a Yield sign. And, of course, I hung it on my wall in my basement bedroom where it remained until I moved away to college at Kansas State in 2002.

#

Pearl Jam’s Yield was released in February of 1998. I bought it the day it came out. Class ended at 3pm. I hopped in my car and raced to the Best Buy about 20 minutes north. I bought the CD. I didn’t listen to it though because I knew I didn’t have enough time to listen to the whole thing before I had to be at rehearsal. I wasn’t in the show, I was Assistant Directing a production of The Wizard of Oz. Really, I shouldn’t have ducked out to grab the album. I should have gone immediately to the Director’s office to start prepping rehearsal. But I was in the building by 4pm. The CD remained in my car (insert perfect Pete Martell impression here) “wrapped in plastic” and waiting in the glove compartment.

As soon as I got home I threw the disc into my CD player. I closed my bedroom door and dove in. I listened to the album, front to back, while taking in the liner notes. This was (and still is) my preferred first listening experience. It’s harder now that so much of my content is first consumed via Spotify. But when I have a physical record or CD or whatever in front of me, I still like to put it on, sit back, and devour the liner notes, the lyrics and artwork, as I listen.

48 minutes and 37 seconds later, I set the sleeve aside and listened to the CD player whine the end of the the disc. I thought, “that was awesome… now what?”

Yield is a great album. It contains some of my all time favorite Pearl Jam songs. But when it first dropped, I felt exactly neutral about it as an album. The great songs were instantly great. And there are genuinely no bad or “filler” tracks on the album. It’s as cohesive and elegant a piece of art as you’re likely to find. The artwork both accentuates and mystifies the album. It’s straight forward and enigmatic. “Who’s got the Brain of JFK / What’s it mean to us now” is blunt and curious, powerful in both it’s obvious impact and it’s nested meaning. “The whole world will be different soon” is Nostradamus: powerful in its potential, it’s scope, in the pull of prophecy. But also, it’s vague enough to be melodramatic and trite.

The entire album is a jumble of juxtaposition and contradiction. And I do not mean that as a slight. It’s what makes the album timeless, captivating, and relevant 20+ years later. But that also makes the album feel completely digested after one listen. It’s the album’s greatest trick: to be both timeless and disposable.

It’s famously known among music fans as a “return to form.” This has become a joke, a meme, among the Pearl Jam faithful. The music is more instantly accessible than the previous two records. The band feels ready, finally, for the fame thrust upon them when they burst unto the scene (again, the album maybe should have been titled, “Dichotomy”). Yield is more immediate and catchier, more (main)streamlined than both Vitalogy and No Code. Honestly, there’s an ease to it, a lack of aggression and angst that makes it maybe even more accessible than Vs. Which isn’t to say there isn’t some heavy lifting going on. “Do The Evolution” is as aggressive and nihilistic as Pearl Jam gets. “Faithfull” is razor sharp and toothy (even through it’s ethereal breeziness).

My issue with the album is that there isn’t much… depth. The album felt completely consumed after just one listen. Each song revealed itself immediately. The lyrics aren’t obvious but the aren’t opaque. Unlike the previous record, there seemed not only to be nothing to decode, but also, no pretense otherwise. Yield is fully formed. It is a fact. Boom! Here it is, take it or leave it.

After just one listen, I was ready for the next Pearl Jam album. And that was a strange and rattling experience. I called my friend Travis (you’ll remember him from previous installments of this series) and asked what he thought. He was far more excited than I was. He liked it much more than the last couple albums (though, over time, he would discover he didn’t reach for the record often; it didn’t have the replay value for him that the first three albums had). I didn’t know what to make of my reaction. I liked the record! I thought it was good, maybe even great. But I was still hungry. I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more. Since I didn’t have another new Pearl Jam album to listen to, I put on No Code while I finished up my homework.

#

The previous summer (summer of ‘97) I’d attended a Christian Youth Group retreat with a good friend of mine. He’d been with the church for years and he wanted me to come with him to this thing they called “Recharge.” It was essentially a long weekend out in the woods. There was camping, games, food, and bible study. Each night there was a service designed to bring us all closer to God.

I watched the kids around me overcome. There were tears and testimonials. A lot of people were “saved.” Kids said they heard Jesus talking to them. They went to the front of the room, weeping, waving their arms in the air, and accepted Christ. I felt something, too. I felt part of a group. I did not hear or feel Christ but I did feel connected. I did feel empathy. I did feel acceptance. And I liked it. This Youth Group was a community that I could see myself participating in, joyfully, selflessly.

I was never popular in high school. Even among my tribe, the theater kids, I was an outsider because I was a big fish. I got the leads. I was good at it. The faculty liked me and made allowances. There was jealousy on their part and there was arrogance on mine. But at Recharge it wasn’t about us. It wasn’t about me. I could believe, or at least believe in the idea of something bigger.

So, I joined the youth group. Every Wednesday we’d go to meetings and then hit up a nearby Taco Bell after to just hangout and discuss what we’d learned or experienced. To extend the fellowship. For a full year, this was a real part of the person I’d become.

Recharge ‘98 was a different experience. It felt… fake. There was a lot more drama and affectation. It felt like those that “found Jesus” only did so because it was expected. A real splintering happened. There were somehow “cool” kids and “nerds” at the fucking Christian Youth Group retreat! We played the same games. Sang the same songs. Hiked the same trails. And witnessed the same services. This time it felt hollow and rote, like a magic trick but somehow menacing. It felt like a willful deception. Whatever it was, it felt icky. I could feel myself pulling back, watching the show and seeing the practicality behind the scenes. What once was a promising, mystical wizard was now just a befuddled old dude behind a frayed green curtain.

#

The final Youth Group meeting I went to was after the Recharge retreat in August of ‘98. It was like any other Wednesday evening. We sat in uncomfortable chairs in a loose semicircle while the Youth Pastor preached. However, the sermon that night was about Satan’s influence on us via Pop-Culture. One of the key examples used to illuminate this point was… wait for it…. Pearl Jam.

The Youth Pastor started quoting lyrics from Pearl Jam’s “Do The Evolution.” Apparently, the biggest issue was in the line “I can kill ‘cuz in God I trust.” Now, clearly, this is satirical, ironic. But the Youth Pastor took the line literally — not only as an indictment, but as BLASPHEMY!

I couldn’t take it. I stood up and began to argue. Whatever I’d gotten from being part of this church community was valuable but not as valuable as what I’d gotten from Pearl Jam. I explained what I thought the lyrics meant. I explained that Pearl Jam was in no way Satanic. I explained what the band meant to me, how their music had literally saved me in a way that Jesus had not (nor ever could). I did this while trying not to tear down the beliefs of those around me. I tried to be respectful. I’m not sure I succeeded. But I was angry.

After pleading my case and trying to debate the issue for well over twenty minutes, the Youth Pastor just looked at me with tremendous pity in his eyes. Shaking his head and putting his hand on his heart, he said to me, “Looks like you have a lot to think about. It hurts me to see you so lost. Everyone, let’s pray for Joe, pray for God’s grace and enlightenment.”

AND THEN THEY FUCKING DID!

They prayed for me right then and there. I’d love to tell you what happened next but I couldn’t wait around to find out. I walked out. There was no debating, no discussing, no getting through. So I left. And I never went back.

#

So that’s the story of how Pearl Jam (and the album Yield specifically) helped me quit religion and find my own way. It turns out that Yield might be one of the most important albums of my life. It altered my path in profound ways. Maybe I was wrong about it. Maybe the album was much deeper and expansive than I’d given it credit for upon first listen.

These days, Yield is one of my favorite Pearl Jam albums. I rank it even above No Code. I reach for it often. It still breezes by when I listen but I also find myself quoting lyrics from various songs in my head frequently. It seems like I think about something from Yield almost every day. A song like “In Hiding” has certainly taken on new depths of meaning in a post-pandemic NYC.

But really, what I think about most, what holds the tightest grip on me from this era of Pearl Jam is a single. “Given To Fly” isn’t one of those songs that resonates with me like it does the majority of the fanbase. Like “Corduroy” it seems to mean a lot more to others than it does to me. But like “Corduroy” I still think it’s a solid song and I enjoy the hell out of it, especially when played live.

The “Given to Fly” single was released in December of 1997, two months before the album dropped. The US CD version contains two other songs: “Pilate” and “Leatherman.” “Pilate” in on the album proper but “Leatherman” is an outtake. I must have listened to this single a hundred times in anticipation of Yield. I may have an even deeper fondness for the single than the album proper. To this day “Leatherman” remains one of my favorite Pearl Jam outtakes, and a song that I long to hear live. I imagine, if they ever do play it while I’m in the room, I’ll have a wide smile on my face the entire time and maybe even a tear in my eye.

But that’s the magic of Pearl Jam. To paraphrase the late, great, Tom Petty (RIP!) … I love Pearl Jam, like some love Jesus / They do the same thing to my soul.

Yield is available on vinyl, CD or digitally pretty much anywhere you like to buy music.

Yield’s Top 3 Tracks: “No Way” “Low Light” “Do The Evolution”

Alignment

At the beach, sun-soaked, salty, and stretched wide to dry. I see men with metabolisms. Men without breasts. Without belly flab. Men who do not bounce and jiggle. I am jealous. Losing my inner glow. Losing my earned calm. I wonder at them. I marvel. I cover up, curl, make myself small even as I wish to join them. To be among such men. I want to desire my body the way I desire theirs.

My relationship to men is antagonistic, skeptical. I am other. I am straight. I am cis. I identify as male. I identify with the feminine. Masculinity is an affront. I cannot relate. A man bikes uphill smiling, gasping, using what little breath he has to chant: “MASCULINE! MAS-CU-LINE! That’s masculine work ethic! MASCULINE!” And I’m embarrassed. Embarrassed for him, but also for me. Will others see me, a man, and think I’m #TeamThatGuy?

Alanis Morissette wrote a song called “Sister Blister.” A snippet:

Such tragedy to trample on each other
With how much we've endured
With the state this land is in

You and me feel joined only by gender
We are not all for one and one for all

Sister blister, we fight to please the brothers
We think their acceptance is how we win
They're happy we're climbing over each other
To beg the club of boys to let us in

“Sister Blister” is my favorite Alanis song. It’s one of my favorite songs of all time. I feel the song in my marrow. It makes my heart pump with empathy and power. I said as much to a friend of mine years ago, a woman, and she replied, “But that song is ours, it isn’t for you.”

I’m unaware of the right word. Feminist works well enough. I use that word as an identifier but it’s not a perfect word. There should be a better word for my experience. A word that matches how I feel inside and experience the world around me. Maybe the word is feminine. I’m proud to be called feminine.

One of the most exciting, liberating, and joyful things about being alive in this current era, this ambivalent moment, is watching the breakdown of gender stereotypes, of our archaic understanding of “gender” overall. The myth, the illusion, shattering.

There is much work. There is (and will continue to be) much pain. The destination is still too far way. But what a joy, nonetheless. Witnessing these necessary changes. Seeing people free themselves and become. I’m humbled with fist raised. My tears (joyous or otherwise) are not just mine. They are yours, too. And even still I understand that yours are not mine. They never could be. But I am on your side.

You and me, in alignment until the end.

In Too Deep: My Journey With Pearl Jam (Part 4 - Growing Up, just Like Me)

We’re driving along I-435 toward Worlds of Fun. My girlfriend is driving her red, Honda CR-V. Travis is curled up, quite uncomfortably, in the hatchback. It’s late July in Missouri. It’s hot and humid. The car’s a/c is cranked. And the three of us are chattering away, laughing and screaming at each other like… well, like teenagers on a perfect, sun-bleached, summer afternoon on their way to an amusement park where they will eat junk food, drink sugar water, and ride rollercoasters well into the night without any parents or youngers siblings around to crush the good feelings. It’s 1996. I’m sixteen. And this is freedom.

“Shhh! Everyone shut up, they’re playing it!”

I turned up the radio. The three of us held our breath and leaned toward whichever shitty speaker was closest.

#

“Who You Are” was the first single from Pearl Jam’s fourth studio album, No Code. The first time I heard it was the first time I’d registered having an experience that would end up being repeated over and over again throughout my life — especially online in the internet age. Not to put too fine a point on it, I loved it and everyone else didn’t.

The song didn’t make any sense. Not as a lead single. Not as a Pearl Jam song. It’s about as far away as you can get from “Spin The Black Circle” (the band’s previous lead single). It was jolting to hear on the radio for the first time. But an invigorating sort of jolt. I loved it. I wanted to hear it again, immediately. My friends were not as excited. My girlfriend said it was fine but I could tell she didn’t like it but didn’t want to bring me down. Travis (the guy who’d gotten me into Pearl Jam in the first place all those years ago) said, “What the fuck was that?!” His face was scrunched, almost angry. Part of that was probably the discomfort of the Honda’s hatchback. But at least some of that twisted and indignant expression was “Who You Are.”

On Tuesday, August 27th, the day it dropped, I picked up No Code on CD from my local Best Buy as soon as class ended. Travis came with me. He also purchased a copy. We went back to my house and blasted the album in my basement bedroom. With each track I became more engaged, more excited. My head kept cocking to one side. My eyes went wide. My mind fired like I was solving a puzzle. But out of the corner of my eye, I watched Travis slip further away. We didn’t talk during, we just listened, front to back. When it was over, I hit play again, immediately. But I turned down the volume so we could chat.

Travis said, “It’s fine. There’s some good stuff, I guess. All of it’s better than that single.”

Over the years Travis would tell me that his fandom dipped by degrees with each new album. He said Ten was a perfect 10 out of 10. Vs was a 9. Vitalogy was an 8. No Code a 7. You get it.

While it is absolutely true that No Code was nowhere near my favorite Pearl Jam album, in fact, it was my least favorite, I still loved it. It was a great departure from the previous album. There were familiar themes but also fresh sounds. And the song craft is excellent. Many say the production and sound of the album is perfect. I find the sound a tad muddy at times. My favorite way to describe it is that No Code has an underwater quality. I still think that’s true. Though, I tend to think of that as a feature instead of a bug. And besides, I’m most at home, most myself in the water.

The first six tracks (‘Sometimes - Off He Goes’) might be my favorite run in the entire Pearl Jam catalogue. Those six songs are perfection. Look, art is only subjective, it can never be objective, but those first six tracks on No Code are objectively great. If that was the entire album, No Code would be my favorite record.

Within that opening run is ‘In My Tree.’ It’s a divisive song among the fandom at large but I think it’s the best pop/rock song ever written. All these years later and the song still moves me. Inspires me. Calls to me. Comforts me. Builds me up. Makes me believe.

A good friend of mine once said that if Eddie Vedder met and wrote a song about me, that song would be ‘Off He Goes.’ I take that as a tremendous compliment. And for better or worse the character depicted in that song does feel terribly familiar:

“Know a man his face seemed pulled and tense
Like he's riding on a motorbike in the strongest winds
So I approach with tact
Suggest that he should relax
But he's always movin' much too fast”

And

“And now he's home, and we're laughing, like we always did
My same old, same old friend
Until a quarter-to-ten

I saw the strain creep in
He seems distracted and I know just what is gonna happen next
Before his first step, he is off again”

When I was away at an out of town conference for a few weeks, years after No Code was released, another friend of mine told me she found great comfort in listening to ‘Smile.’ It made her think of me. “I miss you already” was a mantra to be sung out loud, repeated until peace of mind was achieved. Until we could meet again in person and trade laughs.

So much of me is wrapped up in No Code. Each song has a memory, a friend attached. Especially those first six perfect tracks.

#

There are a ton of theories and rumors and even band interviews about why the album is called No Code. Someone in the band (Eddie, maybe?) said it was an ironic title, that the album is actually full of code. Who am I to argue with the band, but my memory is that the album carried that title because it doesn’t have a barcode on the packaging. That’s it. There’s no mystery. I don’t remember why that was so important to Pearl Jam. Maybe it was just a marketing gimmick. But that’s it. No barCode.

I do remember being at my friend Winston’s house when I fully realized how cool the cover art is — you see, Winston had found a visual code. If you have a copy, unfold it and lay it flat. You’ll see an image of an eye in a triangle revealed among the multitude of polaroid pictures that adorn the packaging.

Pretty cool. Winston purchased a second copy of the CD because:

1: each copy came with a different set of “polaroids” inside that had the lyrics and writing credits from one of the songs (no single copy came with all the polaroids, so you had to trade or collect them all in other ways)

and

2: He wanted a second copy to unfold, frame, and hang on his bedroom wall. He had that thing up all through high school and most of college.

#

No Code left a lot of fans dissatisfied. Some jumped ship entirely. But I think that’s exactly what the band wanted. The turning away from fame was a big storyline back in the day. I can’t speak for other fans but I think it was good thing. While I missed the universal conversation with my friends, this was the time when the band started to feel like mine — not in any proprietary way but emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. In a way, Kurt Cobain was the “voice of a generation,” but Pearl Jam was becoming my voice within the generational conversation. They were informing my worldview more than any other artist in any format: film, tv, music, theater, all of it. No Code wasn’t instantly my favorite Pearl Jam album but it was the one that first felt like me. It was the one with skin and bones and heartbeat I could relate to, but also that I could feel and chat with. I related to more than just the anger and frustration and bigness of the era, of a scene, of being a misunderstood teenager, of coming to terms with privilege in terrifying and unexpected ways. The previous albums were like gods, unearthly, impossible somehow. No Code felt human, flaws and all.

Next time, I’ll tell you about how Pearl Jam’s Yield led directly to me walking out of Youth Group and away from religion in general. It’s evolution, baby!

No Code is available on vinyl, CD or digitally pretty much anywhere you like to buy music.

No Code’s Top 3 Tracks: “In My Tree,” “Hail Hail,” “Off He Goes”

In Too Deep: My Journey With Pearl Jam (Part 3 - Not For Me?)

February of 1995.

I’m about two months away from my fifteenth birthday. After school, my mom offers to take me to the mall to buy the new Pearl Jam album… and then maybe we could grab some ice cream after?

#

 Vitalogy, Pearl Jam’s third studio album, came out in November of ’94 – well, it was released on vinyl in November and then on CD and other formats two weeks later, in December. As with the two previous records, I was late to the party. I didn’t rush right out to buy the record. I had a lot going on at school. I was starting rehearsals for a play. I was a fourteen year old boy with a girlfriend (my first!). I had plenty of other things on my mind.

“Spin the Black Circle” was the first single released from the album. The alternative radio station I listened to kept teasing that they’d play the single “soon.” I had to go to school. So I put a blank cassette in my boom box and hit record as I walked out the door that mourning. Back then, you could set up the tape to record the radio station and my player had a feature that would automatically flip the tape so you could record both sides without having to manually flip the cassette. It was a 90 minute tape. My hope was that “soon” meant “sometime in the next 90 minutes.”

I raced home from school and immediately played the tape as I did homework. After five or six songs, “Spin the Black Circle” played. It’s such a weird first single. It’s propulsive, punk-influenced, fast and heavy. It’s a love letter to vinyl (if I’m honest, my love for vinyl is probably born from Pearl Jam’s love of vinyl because I don’t think I ever once even thought about vinyl records until I heard this song). I liked the song well enough but it was, up to that point in time, my least favorite song the band had released. Maybe the magic was over. Maybe nothing would ever live up to the previous records. It was hard to be disappointed. It had been a hell of a ride.

“Not for You” and “Immortality” were the other officially released singles from Vitalogy. But the band (and maybe the label, too? I have no idea how this stuff actually works) let radio stations play whatever they wanted from the album. As a result I know I heard at least “Spin the Black Circle,” “Not for You,” “Corduroy,” “Better Man,” and “Immortality” before the album dropped. I may have also heard “Nothingman” and “Tremor Christ” but I can’t accurately remember for certain.

“Better Man,” I know, I heard in the backseat of my parent’s car as we drove from Kansas to Kentucky to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents. It randomly came on the radio. I was in the backseat listening to Garth Brooks tapes on my Walkman. My mom got my attention, and when I removed my headphones she said, “New Pearl Jam,” while pointing to the dashboard.

We listened together as a family. It was sort of surreal. As I said before, my parents weren’t PJ people. But they were excited for me and they seemed to really like “Better Man.” That song was a turning point. From then on, my parents seemed to like the band a lot more than they had before. Or maybe it was that they wanted to encourage my tastes. Maybe they liked the band because it was clear how much I liked the band and at least Pearl Jam didn’t seem to be dirty drug addicts like that good-for-nothing Kurt Cobain (RIP).

Flash forward to February of ’95. I still hadn’t had a chance to go pick up Vitalogy. “Spin the Black Circle” hadn’t been my cup of tea but every other song I’d heard from the album was a monster. I was pretty sure the album was going to be special. But as my friends bought the album and listened ahead of me, that anticipation turned to worry. My friends, the very people who had turned me onto the band in the first place, were less than impressed. “It’s weird, man” was the most common critique. But there were other reactions:

“It’s not as good as the last two.”

“Half of it is filler.”

“The good songs are great but the bad songs suck so much ass.”

“I can’t get into it.”

“It isn’t really Pearl Jam.”

So I put off getting it (turns out, maybe I’m not the free thinker I thought I was; maybe I let other people tell me what to think/feel too often. I need to examine that…. later). And then, one day, out of the blue, my Mom wanted to buy the blessed thing for me. Looking back, I probably should have known something was amiss. My birthday was only two months away. I’d waited that long already, why not just hold off a few more weeks and buy it for me then if she really wanted to buy it for me? Mom was always a big fan of lists for gift-giving. She liked knowing she was getting me something I really wanted rather than giving me something random that I hadn’t asked for and maybe wouldn’t enjoy as much as something I thought to jot down on a proper, official gift list.

We went to the mall, where there was a Camelot Music store. I bought the CD. We walked around the mall for a while, chatting and checking in. Mom asked about school. I was about to start rehearsals for a new play. I told her how all of that was going. She did not ask me about my girlfriend.

As we walked into the cold night and across the covered parking lot, Mom said, “You want some ice cream? Let’s get ice cream.” Again, red flags everywhere. But mom always had a sweet tooth, so it wasn’t that odd, really. And it had been such a great evening. I didn’t think twice.

We went to Baskin Robbins. Mom got a cup and I got a cone. We laughed and chatted. I took the CD out of its plastic wrapping and studied the liner notes; the lyrics and images within. I was so excited to get home and give the record a listen — on headphones, of course.

When I looked up, Mom handed me a piece of notebook paper folded many times into a fat, tight, palm-sized rectangle. It was a letter. A letter my girlfriend had written and passed to me between classes. I recognized it instantly. Horrified, I unfolded and re-read the note, even though I already knew exactly what it said. My insides froze. My head pulsed. This wasn’t a brain freeze from the ice cream. This was sheer terror. I’m sure I blushed to purple as I read it in front of my mom.

My mind started working overtime. Should I lie? Probably. But what would the lie be? What was my cover? I settled on something simple: “Ha! I knew I couldn’t trust you! I asked her to write that letter and I intentionally left it in my pants pocket, knowing you’d find it when you did laundry. And I knew you’d read it instead of respecting my privacy!”

Years ago I’d come home from playing outside with my friends to find Mom reading through my journal. She said she was organizing my closet and just found it, thought it was part of my school work and started reading. So there was a history with her not respecting my shit. My fast-planned lie made sense. She would believe it. She would want to believe it. Because the alternative was too much. Probably, my lie would even turn the tables on her, make her feel some small sliver of what I felt: trapped, caught, ashamed.

“Are you having sex?” Mom said, leaning forward across the small table at which we sat by the window. Her voice was little more than a disbelieving whisper.

I didn’t lie.

Looking out the window, I nodded my head slowly. “Yeah…”

Mom exhaled low and long, leaning back in he chair, hands splayed flat on the table, bracing. She looked like I’d slapped her.

My girlfriend’s letter was graphic — pornographic. Full of all the stuff she wanted to do to me, what she wanted me to do to her, how she couldn’t stop thinking about being naked with me, exactly all the stuff you’re thinking. And my mom had read it.

Needless to say, I didn’t listen to Vitalogy that night. That night was full of long talks with Mom and Dad at the kitchen table. They had questions. I had answers that I refused to provide, giving them just enough to shut them up but certainly not telling all.

I didn’t sleep much. In the morning, I stayed in bed staring at the ceiling trying not to replay all of it in my mind. What would I tell my girlfriend? Another terrible, awkward conversation that I was not looking forward to. My stomach hurt and I needed a distraction.

I slipped on my headphones, put Vitalogy in the Discman and hit play. The music was angular, abrasive. I hated it. I was not in the proper headspace for that record. I listened to it all the way through mostly because I didn’t want to get up and leave my room and face my parents.

But I didn’t pick the album back up for years.

The singles came on the radio from time to time. I never turned them off when they did. I enjoyed hearing the occasional, random song but I didn’t play the album. Everything that happened the previous day was wrapped up in it. I couldn’t look at the artwork without thinking about how Mom had set me up. She lulled me with kindness and gifts and sugar, made me feel safe, all the while knowing that eventually she would pounce. When I least expected it. When my defenses were down, she hit me. It felt like a betrayal and Vitalogy was the soundtrack to that betrayal.

It wasn’t just the music. I didn’t set foot in a Baskin Robbins until I moved to New York City, twelve years later. And even then, when I finally did go back, it was because it was a hybrid Baskin Robbins/Dunkin’ Donuts. I just got a coffee, no ice cream.

In the summer of 1998, I got to see Pearl Jam live for the first time - finally! They played in Bonner Springs at (what was then called) the Sandstone Amphitheater. As my friends and I walked across the crowded parking lot to the gate I overheard a bunch of guys, older than me, asking each other what their favorite Pearl Jam albums was. One guy said, “Vitalogy, definitely, because it’s the weirdest.”

I thought to myself, maybe I should give it another shot (again, allowing someone else to have sway over my opinions). After the concert (which was amazing), after hearing those Vitalogy songs in a new context, with new memories attached, with new feelings attached, I knew I was ready. At some point in the following days, I sat by myself in my room, turned the lights off, put the headphones on, and listened again. For the first time.

Vitalogy is now my favorite Pearl Jam album (and my second favorite of all time by any band/artist just barely behind Tom Waits’ Bone Machine). It’s one of two Pearl Jam albums that I reach for most often (the other is Riot Act - but we’ll get to that). I still own that original copy on CD. Also, I have three copies of the album on vinyl (which really is the best way to listen to the album). One of those vinyl copies (badly scratched on both sides) is framed and hanging on my wall above my turntable. Another is part of the Vs/Vitalogy 20th Anniversary Box Set. The third copy I have is an original pressing of the album, mint condition, for my listening pleasure.

The record isn’t especially weird. There are detours and colorful snippets and little flourishes that are weird or experimental for Pearl Jam. But it’s hardly an experimental record. It’s a rock record. It’s a great rock record, containing of some of the most powerful and captivating songs of the 1990’s. “Corduroy” and “Better Man” are the biggest hits, the most beloved by the fandom at large. Fair enough. Both are epic songs (especially live where they achieve their full power and potential). But I find myself drawn to other tracks. “Last Exit,” “Tremor Christ,” and “Nothingman,” are some all-time Pearl Jam tracks in my book. Songs that I can’t imagine my life without. There’s an instrumental track called “Aye Davanita” that might seem weird to some but I find moving and comforting. It’s a song I play often, even without listening to the album in its entirety. The oddest moment is the closer – a sound collage reminiscent of the Beatles’ “Revolution #9.” But even that song isn’t a chore. It probably helps that it’s at the very end and easy cut. It comes after “Immortality” which is a fitting end to the record should one decide to stop there.

It took me way too long to find my way back to Vitalogy. It took years before I could hear the music separated from the memories of that odd, terrible, and cold February night. I had to grow a lot before I could embrace the album. But I’m so glad I waited. I’m glad I hung in there and gave myself the time and space to enjoy it, because it really is an incredible album.

Vitalogy made me a life-long Pearl Jam fan. It would be the last Pearl Jam album that I didn’t buy the day it dropped. Two more albums (No Code in ’96 and Yield in ‘98) would come out before I listened to Vitalogy, front to back, again. But, still, I bought each of those subsequent albums the day they were released. Something about Vitalogy got stuck inside me the first time I heard it. I wasn’t aware of it, but it lodged inside me and grew in ways I couldn’t recognize, understand, or process at the time. But it was there. Working away. Informing my tastes. Transforming my perception. Making me a die-hard fan. Guiding me toward a community that enriched my life forever.

What came after was profound and lasting. My life changed and changed again but the one consistent was Pearl Jam. Even as the very people who’d worked so hard to turn me into a mutual disciple of the band they so loved turned away and found new bands to love, my love was steadfast. My fandom grew, gaining depth and breadth, with each passing year. I wasn’t there at the beginning, but I was hooked and I know I’ll be there until the very end.

Next up in this series is No Code. It’s the first Pearl Jam album that I bought and loved from day one. Because of that fact alone it will always be a very special album for me.

Vitalogy is available on vinyl, CD or digitally pretty much anywhere you like to buy music.

Vitalogy’s Top 3 Tracks: “Tremor Christ,” “Last Exit,” “Immortality”

In Too Deep: My Journey With Pearl Jam (Part 2 - Five Against Me)

In the fall of 1993 fans were anxiously awaiting the release of Pearl Jam’s sophomore album. However, I was still blissfully devouring the bands’ debut. As was the case with almost every major artistic influence on my life, I was very late to the party (I didn’t get into the Beatles until I was in my 20’s, Tom Waits until I was in my 30’s, St. Vincent until her fourth album). As such, I was kinda dreading Pearl Jam’s new release. This was back when “follow-up” was just another word or “let-down.” Ten was an unmitigated masterpiece, a perfect record. Each song was epic and personal, raw and expert, primal and evolved. The music resonated on a cellular level. There was no way they could top that album. Of course, now I realize that topping the previous record is never the point. Part of the curse of being a Gen-Xer with a Millennial moon rising is the goddamn need to rank everything.

To avoid the overexposure they felt during the release and promotion of Ten, Pearl Jam decided not to release any singles or videos in anticipation of their second album. As I’ve discussed before, memory is tricky. I may have this wrong but I don’t think we even knew the name of the album until right before it came out. Either way, downplaying the album was fine by me. My Walkman was occupied. I’d returned the cassette copy of Ten which my best friend Travis had loaned me and purchased my own copy. It was the only album I listened to during the summer of 1993. Occasionally, a Nirvana or Stone Temple Pilots or Alice in Chains song would sneak into the rotation, but the only album I listened to, front to back, was Ten.

Pearl Jam debuted Animal at the MTV VMA’s in June of ’93 (believe it or not, this was highly unusual for a song that didn’t have a music video to be played at the awards ceremony). It was most of the world’s first exposure to a song from the upcoming album. And I’m not gonna lie… y’all, my head exploded. The song, then and now, is electric. But the performance was otherworldly. It was angry and anthemic. It was powerful. There was so much contained rage and kinetic energy that I could feel it through the TV screen. “Animal” was exactly right. Eddie was like a caged jungle cat waiting to attack just as his keeper came to feed him. It’s easy to see why Pearl Jam has the reputation they have about being a live band. The world got to see it. Anyone who tuned in understood immediately what the big deal was. As great as they were in studio, Pearl Jam were in their own galaxy live. But the thing I remember most was the relief that the song didn’t sound exactly like the stuff on Ten. This was different. Funkier, groovier, angrier. Grown up. I was impressed.

But still, it wasn’t enough to totally assuage me. Okay fine, so the band hand another great song in them, a song that was pointed and sharp, that evolved the band’s sound without betraying any of the fire and bombast that made them great in the first place. It was the perfect sequel: the same but different; brand new but hauntingly familiar. Lyrics from a different song on that follow-up record would come to eerily describe what I felt listening to “Animal” for the first time: “I swear, I recognize your breath / Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising / Me, you wouldn’t recall for I’m not my former.”

It was one great new song. And there was no rational reason to fear that the band didn’t have a couple more great songs left in them. But an entire album? I was cautiously optimistic.

In early November of 1993, a couple of weeks after the album was released, I went over to my friend Adam’s house. We were working on a project for school. Sitting on his dresser was a CD copy of Pearl Jam’s Vs. I asked him what he thought of the album.

     “You haven’t heard it?!”

     “Nah,” I said.

     “Jesus, dude! All you ever listen to is Pearl Jam, how have you not listened to this yet?”

I explained why I was hesitant, why I was worried that it would be a let-down and would soil me on Pearl Jam altogether. At that point in my life, that level of disappointment was regular. As brilliant as the 90s was musically, the decade is lousy with one-album wonders.

Hearing Vs for the first time was a seminal moment in my life. Everything changed. That was the day I went from being skeptical and cynical about Pearl Jam (and new music in general) to being eager and devout; a full-throated, heart-on-sleeve enthusiast.

Adam loaned me his copy that night. I returned it to him the next day. That following weekend I went to my local record store and bought a copy of Vs on CD. The shop also had an import version of Ten with three bonus tracks (two of which were studio outtakes I’d never heard). Of course, I bought that, too. And to this day I still own both of those CD’s. What’s fun about the version of Vs that I have is that the band changed the title of the record at the last minute and so there is no title on the spine or the disc. Vs does not appear anywhere on the album. Again, unreliable memory tells me the band initially wanted to call the album Five Against One, which is a lyric from “Animal” and sums up the general theme of the record. Every song on Vs is a battle. Man vs Man. Man vs Nature. Man vs Self. Man vs Stardom.

#

Vs isn’t a concept record in the traditional sense. It’s not telling one story like The Who’s Tommy or Jethro Tull’s Thick As A Brick. Vs is more like a collection of short stories that are tied together by a common theme: conflict. Each song features a central character at odds with someone or something. Some are blatant and obvious conflicts (Animal, Daughter, Rearview Mirror) and others are more poetic and nuanced (Dissident, W.M.A., Elderly Woman Behind a Counter in a Small Town). But all are visceral and gripping.

In the last installment of this series, I talked about how Pearl Jam began to alter the way I looked at and engaged with the world. It wasn’t an overnight thing but a slow transformation. I didn’t listen to “Porch” and decide that I too was pro-choice. I don’t recall having any idea what that song was about back then. Nor do I remember pro-life having a negative connotation. I was a middle-class, cis, white son of Conservative Republicans in a Midwestern state. Pro-life was all there was. There weren’t options. And listening to “Porch” didn’t automatically change that. But seeing Eddie Vedder on MTV: Unplugged writing “PRO-CHOICE” on his arm in permanent marker certainly had an impact. It absolutely got me thinking.

A very similar thing happened with the song “W.M.A.” on Vs. It’s a song about systemic racism; about the way  police and other authority figures treat Black people versus the way they treat people like me (White Male Americans). It’s a gut punch of a song. Eddie does what Eddie does best, empathizes without the arrogance of answers offered. The song isn’t trying to solve anything. The song’s goal is to illuminate, to shine a light and get listeners thinking and talking and acting.

In the Summer of 93 (I was thirteen years old) I was walking home one Sunday morning from a sleepover at a friend’s house. It was early, before 8am. As I walked down the sidewalk I saw a man approaching in the distance. He was walking toward me. He was Black. Without thinking twice I crossed the street to the opposite sidewalk. There was nothing dangerous or exceptional about this man. He wasn’t talking to himself or screaming incoherently. He wasn’t waving a weapon. He wasn’t even looking at me as far as I could tell. I crossed the street because it was early, there was no one else around, and he was Black. And that’s just what you did. That’s what I was taught.

Listening to “W.M.A.” made me reflect on that morning in a way I never had before, that I may not have done if I’d never heard the song. It changed the way I looked at and chose to interact with the world around me. To this day, many of my old-school, back-home friends struggle with the concept of “white privilege” (or “relative advantage” if you want to make the concept more comfortable). I understand it can be a tricky concept especially if one isn’t willing to do the work. But I see my privilege and I know I benefit from it every day. It’s something I’ve seen, thought about, struggled with, and actively tried to engage with since the Fall of ’93 when Eddie Vedder sang: “He won the lottery by being born / Big Hands slapped the white male american” and “trained like dogs / color and smell / walks by me to get to him / police man.”

#

I can’t tell you if I thought Vs was better than Ten in the immediate aftermath of the record’s release. They were different records that complimented each other, for sure. I do remember having that conversation with folks, often to nauseating and exhausting length. Vs sits in the back half of my Pearl Jam rankings now. But that’s not because it’s a bad record or has aged poorly. In fact, because of songs like “W.M.A.” and the universal themes of conflict and stellar production, the album feels just as vital and timeless now as it did then. It’s just that Pearl Jam, despite my fears, wasn’t anywhere near done making amazing music. Turns out, I was dead wrong. They did have another brilliant album in them. At the time of this writing they have released eleven albums. Eight of them, in fact, have been brilliant.

Next up, Baskin Robbins, virginity and Vitalogy: How Pearl Jam’s greatest album was ruined by ice cream.

Vs is available on vinyl, CD or digitally pretty much anywhere you like to buy music.

Vs’ Top 3 Tracks: Daughter, Animal, Elderly Woman Behind a Counter in a Small Town

In Too Deep: My Journey With Pearl Jam (Part 1 - Ten at Forty-One)

Cover art for Pearl Jam’s debut album

     No other band or artist has meant as much to me for as long as Pearl Jam. My favorite album of all time by any artist ever is Vitalogy. My favorite song of all time by any artist ever is In My Tree. When I’m alone and want to feel surrounded by friends I play Pearl Jam. When I’m despondent or angry with the state of the world, when I need comfort, when I want to dance until sweat flies, when I want to celebrate a milestone in my life, I spin Pearl Jam. I turned 41 years old on Saturday April 24th. Every year, on my birthday, I go for a run. It’s a great way to clear the mechanism and check in with myself. Not to mention, it’s a great way to start a new year of existence. And of course, this year, as I ran I played Pearl Jam in my head.

I don’t remember the first time I heard them. Their debut album came out in August of 1991. I was eleven and they were already ubiquitous. On the radio, on MTV, at friends’ houses, they just existed. Like Santa or the suburban myth of Satanic cults abducting and abusing children at alarming rates, Pearl Jam’s music was always there, a part of a shared psychic understanding. There was little difference between them and The Stones or The Who or The Beatles. Except that my parents loved those other bands and were dubious of Pearl Jam.

     Alive, Even Flow, and Jeremy were not modern Alt. Rock hits. They were standards, as old and cherished as anything by Zeppelin, CCR, Neil Young or (insert any mega famous, chart-altering rock band since Elvis). So, no, I don’t remember hearing them for the first time. There was no first time. I don’t remember the premiere of the Jeremy video. I do remember countless debates with older kids about the meaning of the song and accompanying divisive and controversial video –- it’s clearly about Jeremy killing himself, not his classmates, btw. But when did I first see it? What did I think the song was about before those discussions? What did I think the video was trying to say? Did I know at the time that MTV was censoring the video? I certainly know that now. I’ve seen the original, uncensored version so many times that it’s the only version. Then there are the countless (no, literally, countless) live versions I’ve watched on YouTube or some such site. Already, in 1991, Pearl Jam was just a fact of being alive in the United States. Like weather. Or the President. I’m not sure anyone can remember hearing them for the first time unless they were at The Off Ramp on October 22, 1990. And if they were, then they remember hearing Mookie Blaylock for the first time.

     What I do remember very clearly is that my Mom hated them. Dad wasn’t a fan either, but he wasn’t outspoken about his feelings. Dad was always more of an eye roller. Like most of the music I was into in my pre-teens (I’m looking at you They Might Be Giants), Pearl Jam were something he could ignore (cringe warning: I guess you could say that Daddy didn’t give affection and the band was something that Mommy wouldn’t wear). Mom found Eddie Vedder unintelligible and loud and therefore a problem. Thankfully, this has changed over the years. While not a fan per se, Mom likes a lot of Eddie’s music, especially the slower, more acoustic-forward stuff. It’s something we can listen to together and share. But when I think of Mom listening to Pearl Jam back then, the image in my mind is a 1990s suburban variation of Huey Lewis in Back to the Future.

     When my friends all started raving about Ten, I wasn’t interested. Eager to please my folks, as any eleven year old, corn-fed, Midwestern, white kid is apt to do, I eschewed Ed’s baritone and Mike McCready’s roaring guitars for The Moody Blues (Dad’s favorite) and Elton John (Mom’s favorite –- well, tied for first with Harry Chapin) because that’s what my parents liked and I wanted to like what they liked. Really, I wanted them to like me. I wanted them to be proud of me. Approval was paramount. I wish I could say that’s changed now that I’m in my fifth decade of existence but really it’s just the people I crave approval from that have changed; the need still permeates.

I don’t remember my parents specifically telling me not to listen to Pearl Jam or Nirvana or Soundgarden or any of it. The forbiddance was implicit. Or inferential. Whichever. The face my mom made when she happened upon five consecutive seconds of Eddie Vedder howling told me they were off the table. To Ed’s credit, five seconds was a lot more than she’d give Kurt Cobain.

Luckily for the ‘rents, I was eleven and still far more into their music than my own. The stuff I did like that was my own was inoffensive, mostly quirky stuff like Weird Al Yankovic or the aforementioned They Might Be Giants and Huey Lewis. Bon Jovi were in there too somewhere but Mom was cool with him. Probably because she thought he was hot and she could understand what he was singing about (sometimes I wonder if that was her biggest issue with Ed, the not understanding and thereby not knowing if what I was listening to was inappropriate or not). Dad also liked Bon Jovi. At least, right up to the moment when he jumped into my room to surprise me, playing air guitar and belting the opening line to ‘You Give Love a Bad Name,’ and cracked his bald head hard against the top of the door frame. I don’t remember dad listening to much Bon Jovi after that.

     Here’s what I do remember: in the spring of 1993, my best friend Travis loaned me his copy of Ten on cassette. He insisted the thing upon me. Travis and I shared a lot of music. We liked a lot of the same things: DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, Mr. Big, Warrant, The Spin Doctors, Meatloaf, Stone Temple Pilots. We spent every spare hour together either lighting fires in his backyard or building forts in the woods behind our cul-de-sac or pretending to be on stage in front of 20,000 people (in fact, we were in his garage) playing our favorite songs (in fact, we were lip-syncing and air-guitaring to his boom box). But the big divide between us? He was a Pearl Jam guy and I was team Nirvana. To his credit, Travis at least enjoyed listening to Nirvana from time to time whereas I wouldn’t give Pearl Jam a fair shot; hence his near violent insistence that I listen to Ten. Alone. With headphones. The whole album. All the way through. At least twice.

     “But I’ve heard them a million times. ‘Jeremy’ and ‘Even Flow’ and ‘Alive’ --”

     “Nope, the whole thing. All the way through. At least twice. They’re so much more than those songs.”

     “Fine, Trav, but only because it’s you.”

#

     Ten opens with a snippet of an instrumental song the serves as a prelude to the opening track, ‘Once.’ Later, I would learn that this instrumental intro was a full song in and of itself and had a title and everything! The band insisted on using it to open (and close) the record as a way of letting listeners know Pearl Jam wasn’t the straight forward rock band everyone expected. Pearl Jam had layers. Pearl Jam had bigger things coming; just you wait.

     ‘Once’ was a shot to my system. It’s blistering and forces you to listen. It’s cinematic and dark. I’m not sure what I expected from Pearl Jam but opening an album with some weird ambient noodling that gave way to song about a guy murdering prostitutes was definitely at the bottom of the list. Looking back, it shouldn’t have been so jolting. ‘Jeremy’ is dark. But at the time, as I’ve said, I wasn’t really paying attention to the words. I could mumble along, grunting and hooting, but outside of the refrain (“Jeremy spoke in class today” — which I wasn’t 100% on because it could easily have been “Jeremy’s spoken in class today”) I had no clue what the other lyrics were. I had been told it was about teen suicide. But the first time through the album, I didn’t know Jeremy from Benny and the Jets.

     The first time through the record I remember being blown away by ‘Black,’ ‘Oceans,’ and especially ‘Release.’ The slower, moodier ballads grabbed me in a way that the three big hits had failed to do. And then of course we’re back to that moody ambient thing that opened the record. Full circle, we return to where we started. To a twelve year old, that was some fucking ART. There was no question that I would listen again. I had to listen again immediately. Forget my deal with Trav. I had a new deal, a new pact with the band. They had made something that I could feel rearranging my insides. I owed it to them to listen again and again. It was the least I could do. There was no other way to say thanks.

     Pearl Jam’s debut album is a masterpiece. It’s a masterpiece in its original 1991 form and it’s a masterpiece in its 2011 anniversary remix. There’s less gloss, less reverb on that one. Ten Redux sounds less shiny and a bit more modern than the original mix which borrowed a bit from the kind of production you’d get from hair metal of the 1980s. But it’s a bit like choosing between Scotch and Bourbon. Both versions of Ten are perfect, and neither is the wrong decision.

     As the years have gotten on, Ten has fallen from my personal #1 favorite Pearl Jam album. But it hasn’t fallen far. It rests at #3 right now and I can’t imagine that it’ll ever fall any further. The record was perfect for an angsty, confused, hormonal pre-teen and it’s perfect for an boring, less confused, aching kneed man in his 40’s, and that’s because the album is a tapestry of universal short stories. A famous musician once said that the goal of songwriting is to write something so personal that everyone can relate to it. That’s Ten.

     Of course, we all know now about ‘Alive’ (the lead single) and its autobiographical elements. Ed wrote about a deeply personal experience whereby he found out the man he thought was his biological father actually was not, that in fact, his real father was dead. That’s the narrative of the song but that’s not what the song is about. Just ask the hundreds of thousands of people who sing along on any given Pearl Jam tour. “I’m still alive” has nothing to do with a missed chance at a relationship with a biological father. Everyone knows what “I’m still alive” means to them. It’s a song so personal that we all relate to it.

     Beyond that song there are portraits of characters not named Ed, Eddie, or Edward. There is a homeless man begging for change and shaking his fist at a rigged system. There’s a broken hearted man in the aftermath of loss. There’s abortion. There’s rape. There’s drug addiction. There’s a troubled young man with no support system and access to a handgun. So many short stories about what it means to be a white American in the 1990’s.

     Beyond being compelling rock songs, the stories on Ten helped shape my worldview. Growing up the son of very right wing Republican Midwesterners, I wouldn’t have thought about the houseless crisis, rape, racism, sexism, or being on the outside of a loaded word like “normal” the way Pearl Jam thought about those things. I became a proud feminist as a pre-teen in part because of their example and the way they eschewed old, broken, rock and roll pitfalls like groupies. Ed was in a very public and very committed relationship. I liked that. Monogamy wasn’t weak or flavorless to me. Even then, I wanted that. I wanted strong, funny, driven woman who would challenge me and hold me accountable while also supporting my dreams with her own. While being far from the last stop, Pearl Jam was the gateway to a world I didn’t know existed, that I didn’t see or understand. But my eyes were opening.

     There were countless other bands, artists, activists, writers, and thinkers that I found through Pearl Jam and their music. The very first screenplay I wrote when I was nineteen years old was inspired by the lyrics of Pearl Jam. It was a terrible script, but I wouldn’t have tried writing it without Pearl Jam. I’m a writer in part because of Pearl Jam. What a weird thing, but it’s true. It was hearing Ten that cemented in me a deep desire to tell stories.

     Of course, Ten is only the beginning of the journey. Over the next several months I’ll write about who I was when I heard each of the bands albums. I’ll talk about my perspective on each album as it was then and as it is now. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate 41 years of existence, 30 of which Pearl Jam has been a challenge, a comfort, and creative spark.

     Up next is Vs. The second Pearl Jam album I hesitated on listening to. Ten was perfection and I’d heard too many other bands drop one great album and then a ton of super shitty albums after. So I didn’t buy Vs when it first came out. I let my friend Adam get it first. And then I let Adam lone me his copy.

Ten is available on vinyl, CD or digitally pretty much anywhere you like to buy music.

Ten’s Top 3 Tracks: Release, Even Flow, and Oceans

Can’t Find a Better Band

Pearl Jam’s debut album Ten turns 30 years old this August. I turn 41 in two days. As commonly happens, another turn around the sun as brought with it much retrospection. A natural taking of stock. To deal with the bizarre fact of being not just 40 but now - in my 40s - I have returned to the comforts of my youth. And nothing has been as been more comfortable, more there for me through the decades as Pearl Jam.

In order to fend off the worst feelings and fears of aging, instead of bemoaning, I’m going to celebrate age. Not my own, of course. I’m not ready for that. I’m going to celebrate the music I love. Music that, like a good wine, gets better and better with age.

Beginning next week I’m going to do a series on Pearl Jam. I’ll go album by album. It’ll be an extension of my ‘Not A Review’ series. I’ll share my thoughts on the work as well as memories and personal experiences surrounding each release. In this way, I can look back with wonder rather than terror. To embarrass myself and make you, dear reader, cringe I’ll just say that it’s going to be an. . . “all encompassing trip.”

The first piece will drop next week.

process

Part of finding one’s voice is discovering one’s process. I’ve spoken with dozens of writers and each has their own unique process. Which is just as it should be. You have to find your own way. Steal what works, absolutely! But you process has to be you. If it’s not your voice, it’s not your process. My own process is simple.

I write long-hand in a notebook.

Usually, I have three notebooks on me at all times. Notebook #1 is for ideas, sketches, notes to self, lists, things I overhear, lyrics I like, etc... Notebook #2 is dedicated to the work in progress — usually a novel. I write scenes as they come to me. Sometimes they are in order, sequential. Other times they are snapshots from various points in the narrative. I write all of it. Sometimes I put little symbols at the top to suggest where in the book they might fall if they aren’t sequential. The important thing is to catch the image/scene and get it down. The order will come. Notebook #3 is for the “other” project or the “future” project. If nothing is coming for the the primary project (Notebook #2), I like to have a back-up idea cooking. That idea is less formed than what’s in Notebook #2 but more than just a random idea or musing or random scene that I might throw in Notebook #1.

After I write out a chunk long-hand, I input the work into the computer. The first revisions come when I transpose what I’ve written in the notebook to the Word document. Changes are made and order is discovered. I try to do this quickly after a long-hand session. One reason is to avoid losing too much momentum. Another reason is to have a back-up in case something happens to my notebooks.

Tons of writers like to outline. I don’t like to do that. Stephen King has talked about how a story wants to be told. Telling it is the thing. I’ve found that if I do too many detailed outlines, that’s the same as telling the story. And once I tell it, it’s over. The desire is gone. The mission is complete. There’s no need to tell it again. This is why I don’t talk about what a novel is about until it’s complete (or mostly complete). I don’t want to risk telling it before I write it.

I’ll outline in the revision process but not in the first draft process. The outlining, for me, is about clarity of plot/structure and depth of character. Outlining — when and how detailed — is usually where writers are most strict and specific about their own process. Some need to outline, others need to excavate (like an archeologist, digging and discovering the shape of the buried idea over time). Outlining and excavation are valuable tools that should compliment each other. But it’s up to you which is the primary tool.

After I complete a draft, I always reward myself with a drink — usually bourbon. I tweet/post about it and enjoy the feeling of work earned. It’s important to celebrate and enjoy the successes because the failures will out number them. And make no mistake, writing a first draft IS a success. Writing at all is a success. Reward yourself for doing the thing.

I like to give it at least a month before I go back in to start revisions. It gives me time to gain perspective, to see the piece anew with fresh eyes and different ideas. Deadlines can get in the way of this step, so it isn’t a hard and fast rule for me. Just a preference that I take advantage of whenever possible. Waiting, letting the work simmer, can be valuable. There’s no need to rush if you aren’t on a deadline.

Lastly, I always start the next project immediately. The next day Notebook #3 becomes Notebook #2 — meaning, whatever I’ve been toying with as the secondary idea becomes the primary idea. I have my next project ready to go, full speed ahead! I grab a new notebook to be the #3 and I get to work shaping, defining, and expanding on the new primary idea.

Part of my process is to keep writing, keep making pages, while also alternating back to the previously finished draft in order to make changes and polish it up. I like having a finished first draft to revise AND a new book to sculpt at the same time. This keeps away things like “writer’s block” which is a concept I understand but don’t totally believe in. But that’s for another time.

Find what works for you. Don’t feel pressure to copy anyone else’s process just because you think you should. What works for others isn’t guaranteed to work for you. If it does work for you, keep it. If it doesn’t, forget it and try something different. There is no magic formula. Whatever you do, enjoy it. Because writing is fun and it’s a privilege. Let the work reward you.

Sketchbook #5: Prologue to Fate

She ran the stairs hard, taking two at a time. Her boot heals should have echoed in the narrow stairwell but no sound escaped. Decades of necessary silence had taught her well. She did not betray her arrival.

Every fifty feet, the spiral staircase wound to another small crescent window. Glimpses of the outside world grew shorter and more painful as she climbed. Everything she knew was falling further away.

At the top of the age-long staircase was the end of all of it. After all the lives she’d lived, the horror’s she’d faced — and forced — finally, the end. The last bitter chapter. Her destiny was in reach. Of course she doubted her ability to see it through. Stronger than her doubt, however, was the pull of ages. This was her purpose. It belonged to her alone. If she failed, it would mean the total destruction of everything; complete collapse. If she succeeded...

Her breath caught in fiery bursts in her chest. Lungs, veins, muscles tightened.  Blood pumped through her like acid, churning, bubbling. Another two hundred steps. Breathe. She thought of everyone she’d ever known. Bold and painful, like lightning, memories flashed and broke across her mind.

First, she saw her parents. The ones from the field. Following quickly after came the lovers. Men and women of every shape and size. She had loved them all to some degree. Sex was a bitter human right that she devoured willingly with entitlement and grace, but it meant nothing without the added sugar of love. She allowed herself to fall deeply many times, usually without regret. Now, as she felt the weight of finality pressing against her she allowed a seed of regret to take root. Never before and never again. There was only one man that she ever loved and hated in equal measure, and in this moment she allowed the hate to swell and propel her. It was for him that she raced toward death.

Next she thought of her friends. They were few and far between, but they were fierce and true. Under the porcelain mask she wore to hide her face, the corners of her mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. Those few trusted friends. She had been lucky. Would they ever know? Could they ever understand? Of course not. Fate keeps secrets. Fate holds everything back.

Her breathing rattled with the last hundred steps. It was so close now. While her mind turned to remember her city, the danger grew fast in front of her. The massive stones in the walls broke loose and crashed down around here.

From the gaps in the walls, like so many broken teeth, flew the guardians of the tower: demons, small and swift; their claws sharpened to blood-thirsty points, quaking with violence. In swarms they shot forth from the wall. She did not see them at first. Her head was too busy counting the stairs.

Fifty more to go.

Her mind was busy deleting any and all unnecessary memories. Now was the time for clarity. She had always been good at letting go. One fast and silent goodbye to everyone and everything she’d ever known and her mind was at peace.

As she handled the final curve of the staircase, the demons approached. She had been trained well, and it was her training, not her mind, that took hold as the demon-swarm attacked. Without hesitation she grabbed the braded sapphire handle that hung from her belt, raising it in her right hand. With her left, she made a fist, which glowed blue-white, like lightning, as she touched it to the rectangular guard of the handle. In a swift, sharp motion, she thrust her fist up from the handle. With a snap and a spark, where there had been no blade, now a flickering blade of fire appeared. She wielded a sword with a blade of wild flame and a handle of cool, glittering stone. Her mind had nothing to do with it. The motions were pure muscle memory, automatic, and exact.

She sliced five of the bastards in two before she even realized she was holding her weapon. She cried out and ran faster. With each step, more of her attackers fell. Their brittle wings shattered like clay on the stone stair. Their hot green blood splattered absurd stains across the walls. She barely noticed.

A chant escaped her warrior lips. The language was one she had never been taught but had always known. For many years she believed it was a language she’d invented in the quiet lights of her private imagination. But this was no secret language spoken between infants and teddy bears. No, this was an ancient tongue spoken by conspirators and known only to a privileged few. The language was thousands of years old, and she was fluent in it before she knew that other languages existed. Now her native tongue imposed itself. The curse she cast was simple. It translated, in English, to:

Your blood from my hands

Fall humble and fall fast

Take your bold and hard-earned stand

But know your death is now at hand

By the time the rhyme had run its course the entire demon swarm was destroyed. A few of their pieces, arms and legs, were crushed under the power of her boot heal.  Without a second thought she extinguished her blade and re-clipped the handle to her belt. She never once missed a step or lost her stride.

Fifteen more steps. She could smell her enemy hiding behind the door at the top of the stairs. She tasted her own blood as her grinding teeth slipped and tore into the thin tissue of her cheek. She heard the screams of the dead that had fallen in the countless centuries that lead her to this moment. She felt her body go cold as her precious mortality turned the corner and looked her square in the eye. How long she had waited to be face to face with her enemy. She swelled with pride.

The door at the top of the stairs was solid oak, five feet wide, twenty feet tall, and it was coming at her fast. She stopped dead in her tracks. From the bowels of the tower she heard the roar of a beast: its insides twisting, churning and clicking away like the gears of a terrible machine. Surely this guardian creature was fast ascending the stairs in a last-ditch effort to protect its treasure: the master behind the door.

But it was too late. She had arrived unscathed. She took one last deep beautiful breath and reached for the door knob. The metal was cool and smooth in her palm, as she knew it would be. She’d seen this many times in her dreams.

The urge to run, to forget the mission erupted within her with volcanic force. It was her enemy’s face that kept her from fleeing. He who had stirred this passion within her. He who had come to her in disguise. He who had made promises deserving to be kept. Without further hesitation she threw open the door and stepped into the flood of red light. She ignited her sword just as before, in a smooth effortless motion, as the door slammed shut behind her, sealing her in.

Sketchook #4: Gummo

Leaves twist, brown, and then fall. Just another something bitter and strange under foot.

Black dirt ran through his fingers. He clenched his fist tight to keep as much as he could. He swallowed the earth and leaves. He never coughed.

Everyone called him Gummo. He chewed wheat and preached from a rocking chair not far from the town square. Some said Gummo was at ninety years old. Others swore he was one hundred and ninety. Either way, it was a known fact that Gummo ate dirt and drank rain. Not exclusively, of course. Gummo also drank whiskey. And coffee. And he ate any blessed thing Ms. Carmella sweetly dropped in his ancient lap.

Ours was a town full of myths. Gummo was just one of many. Aldon Fitzgerald would have been another if he hadn’t rushed off to New York City the day he turned eighteen. As such, he was a folk-hero at best. He’d never make it to mythical. Unless, of course, he murdered the man in The Long Black Coat or wrestled an angel or wrote that string of best-sellers he was always going on about.

But what where the chances of that?

Six regulars gathered every day at the corner of Mercy and Main to witness Gummo holding court. They listened to every word Gummo spat. He was their prophet. And Gummo used their faith as an excuse. Maybe he was just lonely. Or maybe he was really a messiah. Who can say? All that’s sure is that these men sat with Gummo every day and laughed and drank and played Checkers in the sun. They only played Chess when it rained.

Bucket plucked a banjo. Kenny stroked a mean fiddle. Marcus kept time on old coffee tins. Gummo blew harp. Goddamn, they made a racket. Sometimes the wives would suck lilac wine and sing along, but not often. Women liked to keep their distance. And the distance drove the men wild. Maybe that was the point.

Little Tommy Tilsdale, just ten years old at the time, was fascinated by Gummo and his congregation. Tommy was lanky and pale as the inside of a fresh apple. Gummo was the color of day old black coffee and wide and loud. One day as he was walking home from school, Tommy heard Gummo talking. The man had a voice like nails and paint thinner. But it wasn’t the voice that stopped Tommy on his way home from school that day. It was the words holding on for dear life as they rode that husky, violent, gravel voice.

“Nah, nah, nah, now listen here, I seen him! I see the Devil with my own eyes. The Devil real as you and me, muthafucka. He tried getting me to kill my-self in the winter of ‘65. Believe that! He wear a long-ass leather leather coat that’s black as you, Bucket. His teeth is sharp. And they all in rows like a shark. But you can’t tell when he smiles, only when he sings. And his eyes is red and yellow and they blur, twitching back and forth in his head like they vibrating. Just like you, Malcolm, The Devil eyes don’t sit still!”

Tommy got caught listening. The hollering and laughing cut instantly as soon as the gang saw the kid. Tommy gasped and ran away, clutching his school work to his tiny, trembling chest. The men surrounding Gummo laughed even harder at the sight of the poor kid shaking in the distance like a shock of white lightning in the afternoon.

Gummo couldn’t actually see Tommy that day. Gummo’s eyes started failing him decades before. But he could feel him, sense him. And the boy worried him. White folks running was a bad omen in our old town. Just ask Aldon Fitzgerald. Just ask anyone around back in ‘29, before the end of the world, and the coming of The Devil, and the sun.

Star Wars Discourse in the internet age

The Mandalorian wrapped it’s second season a few weeks ago. The season had its ups and downs but I think pretty much everyone appreciated the gift that was the Season Two finale.

But leave it to the internet to ruin a perfectly good gift. The discourse in many circlese quickly shifted to how terrible the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy is — how those creators and artists are garbage and don’t know what they’re doing, while Filoni and Favreau should have full control of any and all Star Wars content until the end of time. People praised The Mandalorian but only at the expense of Episodes 7,8 & 9.

I'm kind of sick of fighting about this. I'm looking forward to Star Wars fans getting back to enjoying one thing without needing to tear down another.

I’m old enough to remember how hated the Prequel Trilogy was when it first came out. Fans wrote songs about their childhood’s being raped. Actors from those film — REAL PEOPLE — saw their real lives damaged by that discourse. Finally, thanks in large part to the expanding Star Wars storytelling universe and The Clone Wars animated series, it seems those fans have gotten over all that. There is a place for all of it. It was clear to me that the fandom was moving in the right direction, toward inclusion and celebration, and that excited me.

I didn’t see the Original Trilogy in its first theatrical run. My Star Wars was in a galaxy of action figures and imagination (later, I joined a role-playing campaign with some good friends and THAT was my Star Wars for a while). When the Special Editions were released, I went to see them and to bask in the joy of a fandom hungry for something, ANYTHING, more from the world they loved so much. My friends were far bigger fans that I. But I liked being included. I liked seeing the movies through their eyes.

Even when we all went to see The Phantom Menace, I felt like an outsider, but an eager outsider. I waited in line for hours both for tickets and to get into the physical theater (remember life before assigned seats?). I cheered on my friends who had choreographed a lightsaber fight to perform before the movie began. I applauded the 20th Century Fox fanfare. I got chills when the opening crawl began. And when the movie was over, I stayed up until 5 AM talking, listening to my friends, these die-hard fans, as they worked through their thoughts and feelings. Ultimately, whatever flaws they saw in the film, they were excited because it was new. They’d wanted new Star Wars their whole lives and they finally had it. For better or worse, they chose to embraced that. It was a valuable lesson for me.

I saw The Phantom Menace four times in the theater and each time I changed my mind about it: it’s terrible, it’s not so bad, it’s a total mess, there are some great themes in this! But it was never my movie. I liked Star Wars but I didn’t love it. Not in the form of the Original Trilogy. Not in the form of the Special Editions. And not in the form of the Prequel Trilogy.

My love of Star Wars came in the form of Rey, Finn, Poe, and Kylo Ren. The Force Awakens meant so much to me because it felt like a metaphor for my own journey through that galaxy far, far away. Like Rey, of course I knew the legends. I’d heard the stories. But they were just that — just stories. Luke, Leia an Han were heroes from another age for another imagination.

And then suddenly there was Han Solo telling Rey (and telling me!) that it was all real. The Jedi. The Sith. All of it. My mind and my heart exploded. The Force was awake within me. Finally, I understood what my friends had loved for so long. Finally, I was a real part of that inclusive and loving fandom.

As you can imagine, then, seeing the thing I now love dismissed and derided at the expense of something someone else loves feels… weird. It doesn’t feel like the fan club I wanted to join. It doesn’t feel like Star Wars to me.

Recently, I saw a quote from Lesyle Headland about how she's the type of fan that doesn't have a favorite SW movie. She just wants to live in the universe of Star Wars in perpetuity, forever. "There is no Star Wars movies; there is *only* Star Wars.

That's really where I'm at.

But I get the Mando love. For fans of a certain age the Original Trilogy is everything. And The Mandalorian is made for those fans. It's an action figure toy aisle come to life. It's a 90s fever dream. It's the fanfiction everyone wrote in their heads. It's making Legends stuff that people loved canon, finally. I never read any of the Legends stuff, so that isn’t as important to me. But still, I choose to celebrate all of it. I love what the show means to so many people. That's awesome. That’s Star Wars. That’s the celebration I’m here for.

And if you’re interested in more Star Wars celebration check out the ForceCenter Podcast. The team there has the best Star Wars content on the internet. They’ve helped me manage my own feelings about all of this in profound ways that they’ll never know about. You’ll be glad you listened.

May The Force Be With You… Always

Sketchbook #3

Snow fell in wild designs: bats, crooked hearts, curly-cues, the silhouettes of women.

Archibald Coothe didn’t sip whiskey, he drank it. And as he drank, he watched those inspired pictures form in the sky and settle on the wrought-iron and cobblestone below. His heart ticked without tocking, making him uneasy and gassy. Sweat beaded his brow and his thick brown beard. At least there was whiskey.

Mouth wide, Archibald worked through his vocal warmups. First his face was a wide ‘o.’ Moments later, it was a tiny slit. His voice boomed or it hissed. Sometimes it even flapped on a burst of breath so that he sounded like a playing card in the spokes of Steven’s bicycle wheel. Archibald yawned. He hummed. He clicked. He growled. Careful to annunciate, focusing on the fricatives and plosives, he ran through tongue twister after tongue twister. All of this for the purpose of honing his craft. Archie’s was a craft sharp enough to kill.

When Archibald took the stage that night it was to a standing ovation. He froze, tall and wide and proud, holding his position in the spotlight, waiting patiently for the applause to die out so he could pronounce his first line. But the longer he held, the harder they clapped, the louder they screamed. Fight as he might, a smug smile seeped into his lips. He never tired of the favor of fervent fans. True adoration was as good as gold coins in Archibald Coothe’s thin pockets. He felt his pants tighten and he knew the night would be a savage success.

#

Backstage, young Eli Coothe suckled at his mother’s breast. He was hungrier than usual and took every last drop from his tired but grateful mother. Eli ate until his stomach bulged. He took to the breast the way Archibald took to the bottle. Eli was his father’s son, there was no doubt. And so it was that as his father dropped dead on stage toward the end of Act Once, little Eli was milk-drunk and fast asleep. He missed the confusion, the screaming, and the inevitable panic. Eli cooed as his mother cried.

#

Meanwhile, across a dark and unforgiving sea, a modest sailing vessel captained by the ghost of William Clementine pitched hard to starboard. It capsized beneath the power of a most violent storm. Black clouds imprisoned the moon. No light shone. Thunder shook the sky. Waves writhed, desperate to shake off the brutal storm. Lightning struck the sailboat’s jib and set fire to the floating wreckage. But there is a miracle in every night. That night’s blessing took the form of a survivor: a desperate passenger named Annabelle Davy who was pregnant with a peanut she planned to give no first name.

Some hope alive…

Best Songs of 2020

One bright spot in the dark cloud of lockdown was having time to dive into new music. Over the last eleven months I’ve listened to 121 albums released in 2020 and another 60 released in previous years that I’d never heard before. I've consumed more new music this year than (I think) any other year of my life. And I can’t imagine I’ll be able to do this again. Perhaps in another post I’ll discuss the 60 albums from previous years. But here I want to talk about the 121 albums I heard that were released in 2020.

I feel like it's impossible to fully digest 121 albums. But I tried to listen to all of them at least twice (though, in the interest of transparency, I admit, some I heard once all the way through). I'm very confident in my top 40. Each of those albums got multiple listens in different contexts: headphones, while writing, while walking, while cooking, while sitting quietly and listening, etc.

The rest are more "first impressions rankings," if you will. I think of them in groupings or tiers more than pure, numerical rankings. I've divided them into tens for reading ease. That doesn't represent literal tiers. The idea is that maybe I would rank them differently over time but they would be in roughly the same grouping or block of ten. I considered doing them alphabetically to illustrate this but decided that it was best to keep them how I had them, in first impression “ranking” order. Everything below from 41-121 is in the right "group" more or less, but I the exact number could shift up or down depending on my mood or the time of day or which drink I’m enjoying while listening.

I look forward to keeping a lot of these albums in regular rotation. I look forward to some of these albums coming back and surprising me over the next decade. This was a fun journey. And necessary.

This was a weird year for so many reasons. But I'm truly grateful for the chance to dive in and explore new music in a way that I've never been able to do previously. I've always loved music. And yet it's an artform that I haven't given as much time and attention as others like film, television, or theater.

I think it's because of my obsessive tendencies. I tend to find something I love and hold on to it for as long as possible. Most years I'm lucky to get 10 albums because I can't stop listening to the ones I love the most. In that way, this endeavor was inspirational and humbling. Comfort zones and predispositions were pressed and exposed. I learned a lot about music, about what moves me, and about myself — not only as a consumer of art, but as a maker of art as well. But maybe the biggest takeaway is that my regular joke that "all songs would be better with a banjo" is actually 100% true.

The Best 121 Albums of 2020 Ranked:

Untitled (Black Is) - Sault

Fetch The Bolt Cutters - Fiona Apple

Gigaton - Pearl Jam

RTJ4 - Run The Jewels

On My Own - Lera Lynn

Blue Eyes, The Harlot, The Queer, The Pusher & Me - Waylon Payne

Lianne La Havas - Lianne La Havas

Kitchen Sink - Nadine Shah

Such Pretty Forks in the Road - Alanis Morissette

Hey Clockface - Elvis Costello

That's How Rumors Get Started - Margo Price

Hearts Town - The War and Treaty

It Is What It Is - Thundercat

Gaslighter - The Chicks

LP2 - Lo Tom

Americana - Grégoire Maret / Romain Collin / Bill Frisell

Saint Cloud - Waxahatchee

Live Forever - Bartees Strange

As Long As You Are - Future Islands

Bad Vacation - Liza Anne

Dias Raros - Melenas

Far From Home - Aubrie Sellers

Suite For Max Brown - Jeff Parker

Women in Music Pt. III - HAIM

SAWAYAMA - Rina Sawayama

Reunions - Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

Asterisk the Universe - John Craigie

Old Flowers - Courtney Marie Andrews

The Waterfall II - My Morning Jacket

Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was - Bright Eyes

Set My Heart on Fire Immediately - Perfume Genius

On the Tender Spot of Every Calloused Moment - Ambrose Akinmusire

Grae - Moses Sumney

Moral Panic - Nothing But Thieves

songs - Adrianne Lenker

Angular Blues - Wolfgang Muthspiel, Scott Colley, Brian Blade

AUGUST - Lewis Del Mar

Impossible Weight - Deep Sea Diver

Sundowner - Kevin Morby

My Love is a Hurricane - David Ramirez

Source - Nubya Garcia

Ascension - Sufjan Stevens

Wake UP! - Hazel English

Punisher - Phoebe Bridgers

For Their Love - Other Lives

Summerlong -Rose City Band

The Universal Want - Doves

Sister - Puss N Boots

The Loves of Your Life - Hamilton Leithauser

McCartney III - Paul McCartney

World On the Ground - Sarah Jarosz

Homegrown - Neil Young

Love - Torgeir Waldemar

folklore - Taylor Swift

After Hours - The Weeknd

El Dorado - Marcus King

Transmigration Blues - The Dead Tongues

Rough and Rowdy Ways - Bob Dylan

A Hero's Death - Fontaines D.C.

Amazones Power - Les Amazones d'Afrique

Future Nostalgia - Dua Lipa

evermore - Taylor Swift

Song For Our Daughter - Laura Marling

Sideways to New Italy - Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever

La vita nuova - Christine and the Queens

Cuttin' Grass Vol. 1 (Butcher Shoppe Sessions) - Sturgill Simpson

Cuttin' Grass Vol. 2 (Cowboy Arms Sessions) - Sturgill Simpson

Old Wow - Sam Lee

What's Your Pleasure? - Jessie Ware

Modern Dead - Denai Moore

Old Time Feeling - S.G. Goodman

Logan Ledger - Logan Ledger

Earth - EOB

Plastic Hearts - Miley Cyrus

Letter To You - Bruce Springsteen

Likewise - Frances Quinlan

Valentine - Bill Frisell

Petals For Armor - Hayley Williams

Rose In The Dark - Cleo Sol

how i'm feeling now - Charli XCX

Bonny Light Horseman - Bonny Light Horseman

UR FUN - Of Montreal

Strange Fascination - Chatham County Line

What's New Tomboy? - Damien Jurado

Saturn Return - The Secret Sisters

Whole New Mess - Angel Olsen

Thank You Ancestor Finger - Harper's Jar

Painted Shield - Painted Shield

TO LOVE IS TO LIVE - Jehnny Beth

Muzz - Muzz

Sugaegg - Bully

Getting Into Knives - The Mountain Goats

Total Freedom - Kathleen Edwards

Are You Gone - Sarah Harmer

Expectations - Katie Pruitt

Folk N' Roll, Vol 1: Tales of Isolation - J.S. Ondara

The New Abnormal - The Strokes

American Death Squad (EP) - Jeff Ament

Straight Songs of Sorrow - Mark Lanegan

Notes On a Conditional Form - The 1975

The Unraveling - Drive-By Truckers

I Grow Tired But Dare Not Fall Asleep - Ghostpoet

It Was Good Until It Wasn't - Kehlani

Aporia - Sufjan Stevens

Hannah - Lomelda

Eclipse - Addy

I'm Your Empress Of - Empress Of

There Is No Other... - Isobel Campbell

Neon Cross - Jaime Wyatt

Manic - Halsey

Beginners - Christian Lee Hutson

color theory - Soccer Mommy

Heavy Light - U.S. Girls

Roisin Machine - Roisin Murphy

Cold Water - Medhane

From Liberty Street - Mapache

Invisible People - Chicano Batman

3.15.20 - Childish Gambino

Music To Be Murdered By - Eminem

Western Swing & Waltzes and Other Punchy Songs - Colter Wall

Marigold - Stu Larsen

Sketchbook #2:

Too many people hate country music.

But if you’ve lived it, if you’ve had too many beers as the sun falls on vast golden fields, and you’ve fired gunshots into the infinite night while a bonfire blazes in the background, then you understand.

There is undeniable truth in that music.

A banjo can sound like unrequited love. A fiddle can be foreplay. Drive up and down the old main drag and let the humidity get the better of you. Wear a dress that sparkles and clings just so and take a person by the hand and show them how to two-step. And when that person’s tongue is in your mouth and their hand is gripping your hip and you can smell whiskey in the air and you can laugh like you goddamn mean it, then you tell me country music sucks. Tell me this stuff doesn’t matter.

I’ll be happy to show you the old tire swing or the horse pen or the lazy river or that old bent tree where the light shines and refracts like Heaven. I’ll be happy to kiss you in the dead leaves and the smell of wet hay and when you fall in love with me... think of the music. Lean way back and listen.

Writing is Rewriting (right?)

My second novel, which still doesn’t have an official title just yet, has already had three full drafts. I’m currently on my fourth — another overhaul. This latest version feels the cleanest, the closest to my pure vision for the work. I believe the project is approaching its truest self. And that’s a fantastic feeling. As wonderful as writing something at all feels, it’s nothing compared to the bliss of molding the piece. Seeing the thing take proper shape. I don’t have kids, but I imagine the joy and heartache and frustration and wonder isn’t entirely dissimilar. Keep writing, keep writing, keep writing…

The Red Tent

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“If you sit on the bank of a river you see only a small part of its surface. And yet, the water before your eyes is proof of unknowable depths.” - Anita Diamant, The Red Tent.

I’ve always been drawn to assertive and opinionated women.