Folks: The story part of this review is merely an extreme fantasy of mine. Actually it’s not even my fantasy; it’s more like a friend of mines. Or what a friend of mines would be like if they were a psychopath with tendencies towards irrational violence and penchants for ancient weaponry. Regardless, it’s certainly a fantasy that I would never under any circumstances actually perform. Unless of course monetary issues were a non factor and this plot became a reality…
I stared intently at the rather hefty, grotesque behind in front of me. Despite the fact that it was one of the most putrid things I’d ever seen in my life, and that I was surrounded by more rabid fans than any one band deserves, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I’m not entirely certain I could even muster up the strength to blink. Judging by the rest of the fairly young woman’s (?) body, this thing looked like it was trying way too hard to claim some forgotten era of attractive arses. Like a black hole sucking me into oblivion, this atrocity demanded my undying attention.
“What the hell you lookin’ at, tiny Tim.” The diversion from a gruff voice and his clichéd, derogatory rumination on my size pulled my attention away from the rump, and towards a bearded man wearing sunglasses, a sleeveless Pearl Jam tee shirt, and a confederate flag as a bandana. I couldn’t be sure how long I’d been in a trance, or for that matter, how long this muscular man had been staring at me.
“What? Is the lil fella too scared to talk? Oh, lookie honey. He stares at yo’ fine tooshy without a problem, but he can’t speak. ” He said all this in what I think he intended to sound like a baby’s voice but came across more like Cookie Monster meets Satan. Or perhaps that’s being redundant.
Regardless, I had no desire to get tangled up in a dispute as trivial as this, especially on the day Pearl Jam would be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, so I attempted to reconcile with the stranger. “There’s no reason to be alarmed sir. I know what this looks like but I was merely trapped in an endless aby…” Before I could fully explain my black hole theory, Gruff McGruff took a swing at my left temple.
“JUDAS PRIEST,” I squealed (I use that phrase with the same frequency most would use Jesus Christ when I become excited or frustrated). The man had fists like a small truck, and I stumbled around for a while before an usher came rushing to my aid. He calmly led me to a table towards the posterior of the mass crowd that had assembled in front of the stage, and sat me down.
“You’re not trying to start any trouble, are you?” he asked with a smile, like I should be in a great mood. “What, do you want to get taken to the hospital and miss the greatest rock band of our generation go out on top?” I wanted to slay him slowly and viciously. Instead I just smiled and cordially said, “Me? No, I’m just here to witness a rock and roll icon enjoy their day. Hopefully they can ascend in a blaze of glory.”
To make matters slightly clearer, I should probably tell you that as long as I’ve known about Pearl Jam, I’ve had a problem with them. As a matter of fact, even before I knew who they were I would hear their songs on the radio (it seemed sometimes like alternative rock stations felt it would be a sin to not play PJ every five minutes), feel a deep sense of disgust envelop my body, and change the station. On the rare occasion that the all too familiar intro to Alive came blaring through the speakers and I was not able to change it, I simply cowered in fear and listened for my brain aneurysm.
As I grew older, my musical tastes matured and my overall knowledge expanded. I decided to let bygones be bygones and give Pearl Jam another shot. After all, I had initially hated the White Stripes when Fell in Love with a Girl dominated the airwaves, but immediately loved Elephant and the group’s other works when I tried them a few years later. I assumed the same might occur when I gave Pearl Jam’s debut smash hit, Ten (which actually has eleven songs on it, perhaps symbolizing that mostly everything on the album is slightly off), the chance it longed for.
I sat on the bench for quite some time before I was completely convinced the usher had moved out of visible range. I was well behind the crowd, which seemed to multiply as show time got closer, and I didn’t want to risk looking suspicious. I got up slowly, took off my fake beard, turban, and explosive shoes, and began trudging my way across the field towards a porta pottie a good fifth mile away from the stage.
This porta pottie and I had become well acquainted over the last three months, when it was announced Pearl Jam would be holding a free benefit concert (all proceeds going to the needy bigwigs in charge of Ticker Master) immediately following their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I had convinced myself that something needed to be done about the immense popularity Pearl Jam received. I constantly felt like one of only a few who had a discouraging word to say about Eddie Vedder and company, and that isolation led to an eternal hatred for the band.
Everyday for that three month period I would sneak into the field by night with a flashlight, ladder, and rare Mookie Blaylock rookie card (mainly for inspiration). I’d enter the porta pottie and prop my ladder down into the pit below the toilet seat, spiraling downwards towards the realm of stench and bowel movements only the likes of Chuck Norris and Sylvester Stallone dared go before me. Once I climbed down I began work on a tunnel that lead from that porta pottie to behind the stage the band would be playing on.
It had been no easy task, and during the earlier going I seriously questioned my sanity and motives. There was a week long period I spent battling mole-men and giant lizard people, but the foul odor that consumed the place was really the worst of it. Once I finally became acclimated to such an other-worldly phenomena the deed became much more manageable.
At last, I had finally crossed the threshold of the very symbol of solitude and filth that had become my sanctuary, with only the final plan left to execute. I took out a copy of Pearl Jam’s most widely recognized album, Ten, and dropped it into the pit I’d willingly entered for three months. The album spun end over end and as it entered the darkness. I leaned closer and heard a dim splattering and a crack.
The opening fury of Once tells you almost everything you need to know about Ten because, save the far more mellow, and dare I say beautiful Black or Release, these songs are more or less entrenched in one generic mold. From Even Flow to the worst perpetrator of self-indulgence to ever become a radio mainstay, Jeremy, these tracks trudge along at such an uninspired, hookless pace it brings to mind Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run. To many though, that may be perceived as a grand compliment, as will my next thought. Pearl Jam’s roots are deeply planted in classic rock styles made original by bands like The Who, The Doors, or Led Zeppelin, and the easiest way to describe them is as a modernized, shinier (due to technological advances) version of such bands. They were most likely thrown into the grunge movement for marketing’s sake, but comparisons of Nirvana’s pop-oriented punk mayhem and Pearl Jam are valid in chronology only.
Granted, such a throwback to the days of pure, Everyman aesthetics may look great on paper, but Pearl Jam makes it clear why that era of music died out when it did. While, the musicianship is often times more than adequate, and Stone Gossard proves highly capable of churning out memorable riffs, the overall feel of the music and the hooks is simply bland. You can’t help but feel like no matter how much energy the band puts into these songs they’ve been done before. And far better at that.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not foolish enough to suggest Pearl Jam’s a bunch of plagiarists, and I certainly don’t despise them because they draw influence from groups that have already paved their own trails. I simply despise the banal music they chose to create based on what are truly admirable predecessors (except for the Doors, whom at their best don’t belong in the same breath as Zeppelin, The Who, or even Vanilla Ice. Sorry but the lyrics to Ice Ice Baby are way more interesting than anything Morrison ever penned). When I say banal though in no way am I implying the band lacks a tenacity or sound bombastic enough to fill arenas. I just think the actual melodies to their songs are severely lacking in dynamic achievement.
I kept staring down into the disgusting grime of the pit for only a brief moment longer and then flung myself down into the deep. With security around the concert tighter than Clay Aiken’s pants I wasn’t able to bring my trusty ladder with me, and had to risk a dive into the slush. After all my hard labor, such a minor setback couldn’t stop me now.
I landed hard with a plop on both feet, and felt a stinging sense of agony shoot through my knees and up to my head. “JUDAS PRIEST!” I yelped. This time though, my exclamation was actually a declaration of astonishment. The 70’s and 80’s British metal group had set up the underworld of human defecation as a rehearsal area. Seeing my bewilderment the lead singer stopped playing (thankfully) and said, “It’s the only place anyone will let us play, mate.” I bottled up all the questions whirling through my head, like why the hell a British man had just spoken with an Australian accent, and just backed away slowly. Very slowly.
Five long minutes later I hit a portion of the wall located seven feet from where I landed, and began sprinting down the tunnel I had dug. I kept running until I tripped over a large root and fell face to face with the Mookie Blaylock trading card I had planted there. After great debate I’d used the card as a marker for all the materials I had stowed away underneath some large rocks in the area.
I rapidly unearthed the utilities and was pleased to find that no one had tampered with them. Lying before me were a gasoline tank, a pack of matches, a sniper riffle, and Poseidon’s long lost three pronged trident. I snatched up the riffle and retraced my steps until I could see where I had entered. Before I could stop myself and realize that my initial plan was to use that riffle to take out the members of Pearl Jam, I disposed of the members of Judas Priest and used all the rest of my ammo on a spider that was really, really creeping me out.
I lumbered over to Mookie somewhat disheartened by my lack of control, and snatched up all the other supplies. I figured I had about a mile to walk before I’d be ready to strike. A few short steps later I felt the ground begin to rumble around me and realized that Pearl Jam must already be on stage brining inexplicable joy to their fans.
I thought back to the large, misshapen backside that had plagued me earlier. As hideous as it was, I’ll be damned if it wasn’t beginning to receive unbridled devotion from my imagination.
All of this isn’t to suggest Pearl Jam doesn’t have its moments, and with the kind of success they’ve had it seems almost inevitable that they would show glimpses of brilliance (then again the Backstreet Boys and N’Sync were very successful and never brilliant). If you’re in a melodramatic state of mind, and there’s no denying we all reach that stage at points, Black is one of the more touching break up songs you’ll ever listen to. More importantly, the outro is absolutely epic with Gossard’s searing licks, and a piano matching the, “do do do’s” (which by the way is the extent of lyrics I feel are worth mentioning off this album, although I must admit Alive has a nice twist to it. What seems like a celebration of human life actually turns out to be a tale of a guy shagging his mom. Ohhh Eddie, you’re so clever!) Vedder croons.
Other stand out tracks saving Ten from the absolute depths of the dumps are the stripped down and poignant Oceans, and Release. The latter builds up for longer than a song should have a right to, but it’s calming and seductive enough to keep your attention until the climatic “Ohhhs” come bursting from Vedder’s lungs. On both of these tracks it doesn’t seem like Vedder is over emoting, and consequently his vocals are less grating and irritating.
Well, this was it. I had reached the unseen entrance to the stage, and from my vantage could see out across the top of the stage and into the crowd. I had eyesight like an Asian hawk and picked out the jerk that had jacked me in the face earlier. He was grinding away with what I’m almost certain was his daughter. I feel alive indeed.
I raised both my middle fingers towards him in a vain attempt at reconciliation, and rushed on stage with my supplies. Remarkably enough, the crowd and security were so focused on the band’s jamming that I was able to pour gasoline all around the edges of the stage before finally someone must’ve realized what I was doing. Before security could get up on stage and bludgeon me like only the Chicago police department can, I tossed a match into the gas and watched a ring of fire surround the stage. The heat was so extreme I almost fainted immediately. Fortunately for me all I received was bad sunburn (amazing considering fire produces no UV rays) as I watched the members of Pearl Jam daze off into unconsciousness.
I quickly ran over to all the bodies, realizing they weren’t yet dead, with my trident raised and prepared to unleash all its feral rage. I didn’t strike one body though, because I had promised myself that if nothing else went right, I would at least take out a certain man first. Also I noticed the flames were engulfing the stage slowly but surely, and I figured the bodies would burn alive well before they could regain consciousness. I looked up to the rafters wavering high above the stage and saw him. There he was, still singing so overblown and cocksure that he hadn’t even noticed the distraction below. I cursed myself for already using the sniper, and began my ascent.
My biggest problem with Pearl Jam on Ten, emphasis on biggest so it’s not confused with only, is lead singer Eddie Vedder. Vedder reminds me of a combination between Jim Morrison’s morose gloom and, to a far lesser extent, Quadrophenia era Roger Daltry, complete with growls and snarls directed at anything that moves. Unfortunately, Vedder tends to lead towards the Morrison side of the scale, which entails almost painfully dreary, unintelligible vocals, the inability to successfully capture a grandiose moment through his voice without overreaching his grasp, and melodramatic poetry. In reality I could rattle off moments in nearly every song in which Vedder is far beyond obnoxious and reaching the realm of overexerting oneself beyond tolerance. The most glaring example is the chorus to Once, where every time Vedder belts out the song title it sounds like someone either strangled a mongoose or grew straightway merry with a cat. I really don’t see what it is people find so exhilarating about Vedder and I suppose I never will.
Thanks to my unrivaled dexterity I reached the peak where Eddie was located fairly quickly. I think the threat of the fire and the initial shock of my outburst had caused all security to devolve into a state of panic and chaos, because otherwise I’m quite sure one of them would have shot at me.
Eddie was still singing as a I began tiptoeing the narrow stream of steel he had planted himself on. I reached for my trident, readied myself to stab, and then thought better of it. I would at least have honor in my moment of triumph.
“EDDIEEEEEEE! I FIND YOUR MUSIC SO REPULSIVE THAT I’VE DECIDED TO KILL YOU AND YOUR BANDMATES!”
He whirled towards me like he knew this day would come and began using his microphone and the wire that fell all the way back into the inferno as numchucks. I almost lost my balance due to my disbelief (how was I to know he was trained in martial arts?) but quickly refocused and engaged in a duel worthy of even the greatest mythology.
We fought up on that ledge for days, the outside world simply a frozen blur. We each had our scares, and suffered our share of welts and bruises, but we were too evenly matched to break the tie. I realized this and on the tenth day of our battle I threw my trident at Eddie, watched him shun it away with a twirl of his weapon, and hurled my body at him with full force.
I connected and wrapped my arms around the man like there would be no tomorrow, and as we fell to the earth it dawned on me that I actually wouldn’t see another day. My plight, or crusade, or whatever you want to call was complete though. And there was an irreplaceable amount of satisfaction found in that.
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Overall, Ten is an album designed by a band with intentions to claim the lost glory of a dead breed, and instill its new life into a rising tide of unsuspecting rock fans. Without a doubt they’ve succeeded and you can’t fault them for that, but I seriously question how such mediocrity reached such enormous levels of fanfare. Maybe it’s due to their epic concerts. I hear their live shows are to die for.
Song Rankings
$= Great song worth your money
Download (essentially steal)= Good song
Skip= Average Filler
Garbage= Completely unnecessary
Pearl Jam released Ten on August 27, 1991. The album reached #2 on the Billboard 200 chart, sold over 12 million copies and became one of the cultural...More at Buy.com Marketplaces
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