One of the major surprises on 2003’s Lost Dogs was the uncovering of a second No Code-era track written and sung by Stone Gossard. “Don’t Gimme No Lip” managed to evade rumors and leaks for a solid seven years, but there’s probably a good reason for that. Despite a pretty satisfying crunch, the song offers very little other than its novelty, making it a wise choice to give “Mankind” album status instead. The repetition of the title gets old quick, but even that is preferable to short couplets like “Don’t gimme no lip / I’ve got no taste for it”. Still, it’s always a joy to have Stone step up to the mic in concert, make a few sly, self-deprecating comments, and launch into even this slight little pop punk tune.
Don’t Gimme No Lip
State of Love and Trust
If I had to guess at where I was the first time I heard “State of Love and Trust”, I’d have to guess it was in a high school gymnasium in Worcester, MA, early on a Saturday morning during an indoor track meet in the dead of winter. One of my older sister’s friends, who was also on the team, made me aware of the Singles soundtrack, letting me borrow the cassette for my walkman while he listened to Pantera or Iron Maiden or some such. “Breath” was great; Chris Cornell’s “Seasons” was revelatory; but “State of Love and Trust” beat them all. Along with “Wash”, the title “State” adorned my Pearl Jam stickman t-shirt, so finally that mystery was solved. Here was yet another amazing song by my favorite band that didn’t even make it onto their own record. And I was pretty damn sure it was good enough; it quickly became my favorite Pearl Jam song in the days before Vs., back when it was somewhat easier to choose.
Inspired by the movie, “State of Love and Trust” is another Vedder song about relationships and fidelity, though the most striking lyrics are of the protagonist aiming a gun at his head, which has subsumed the larger picture. They’re also the easiest lyrics to pick out, likely the only ones I could manage when I was 13. But to me, at that age, I took the images of potential suicide non-literally, the way I would “want to die” after getting rejected by a girl I had a crush on, and the way I would subsequently write a poem about it. The media made such huge assumptions and oversimplifications (as they always do) when reporting on the “alternative” music scene, that the music was overly dark, depressing, troubled. But it wasn’t to me.
The hyper-passionate bent of bands like Pearl Jam drew me in partly because everything else on the radio seemed devoid of feeling. Of course, there was plenty of passionate music being written at the time that was more difficult for a somewhat rural teenager to track down, but of what I was exposed to, Pearl Jam was it. “State of Love and Trust” made me think that other people in the world cared as much about… well, anything at all, as I did. Whatever it was that was working the character in “State” up so much that he had a gun to his own head, even if I didn’t know what it was, meant that there were things worth caring about. The gun was never the point. Fifteen years on, the lyrics in “State” are no longer that interesting to me. But they don’t need to be; how one relates or doesn’t relate to a song is always in flux. Now it’s Ament and McCready’s melancholy yet aggressive music that retains its impact, somber and quick, the same way Cameron Crowe’s Singles still manages to affect via tone despite what now feels like over-earnestness and naivete.
Binaural
1. Breakerfall
2. Gods’ Dice
3. Evacuation
4. Light Years
6. Thin Air
8. Of the Girl
9. Grievance
10. Rival
11. Sleight of Hand
12. Soon Forget
13. Parting Ways
Thin Air
Around the time of Binaural’s release, I remember reading about some connection between “Thin Air” and Stone Gossard’s appreciation of the band Wilco. It may have even been a direct quote linking the two. Regardless, I remember thinking “Really?” I still wonder. Wilco’s another band that I considered creating a “catablog” for (which I abandoned, but for which there’s now So Misunderstood), being fairly steeped in their music, and for the life of me I can’t find anything in “Thin Air” that compares to what Tweedy and company had produced by 2000. But for sport, let’s make an attempt here.
The music of Wilco has been described, at times more or less appropriately, as “Americana”. Although this is an umbrella term that could include musical forms as diverse as zydeco, delta blues, jazz, and gospel, it’s most often used to describe music derived primarily from Appalachian folk music and by extension, traditional balladry from the British Isles. Jeff Tweedy’s band prior to Wilco was Uncle Tupelo, which combined aspects of country and folk music with punk. And though more recent Wilco material has seen that band progress into more avant garde directions, the foundations of most Wilco songs are still beholden to structures and melodies of traditional songcraft.
Gossard’s material for Pearl Jam, on the other hand, has never really had a strong folk music vein. Pop, funk, metal, punk (though there’s so much crossover and sharing between all musical genres), even “world” and hip-hop, more often characterize Stone’s songwriting. “Thin Air” is no exception, which to my ears owes much more to classic R&B than the Louvin Brothers or Woody Guthrie. And it sounds more like the band’s covers of Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay” and “Last Kiss” than any of Vedder’s folkier contributions, Ed being the member of Pearl Jam seemingly most rooted in folk-derived styles by influences such as Springsteen, Dylan, and Young.
The point of attempting to debunk the “Thin Air”/Wilco connection, is that even though Gossard may have been inspired by that band, that inspiration, filtered through his own talents and tendencies, made “Thin Air” something else entirely, and a good lesson on the nature of inspiration. Inspiration does not have to equal mimicry. The surface qualities and aspects of a particular piece of music don’t need to be replicated in order an artist to claim inspiration. Though “Thin Air” features a strummed acoustic guitar, it follows a groove typical of classic R&B and pop, an odd chord making the song a sort of warped version of an old ’50s romantic ballad. Stone’s lyrics (”There’s a light / When my baby’s in my arms”) could also have come right out of the Righteous Brothers or some such, were it not for idiosyncratic details like “Byzantine is reflected in our pond”.
“Thin Air” never struck me as particularly great, either as a Pearl Jam song or a Gossard composition; it’s strictly in the middle of the pack. But I’ve always appreciated listening to it from a writer’s perspective, as an artist’s attempt to pay homage to another in their own way. In that respect, despite or because of its not sounding particularly like its inspiration, I’d say it’s quite successful.
Push Me Pull Me
I admit I’ve been hard on Ed’s spoken word tracks, and though I’m not about to apologize, I will at least recognize that part of my distaste for them is due to the fact that spoken word of any form/kind tends to make me writhe in agony to hear. So it’s surprising even to me to note that I find “Push Me Pull Me” not only the band’s best spoken word track, but a pretty damn good Pearl Jam track in its own right. Lacking the type of self-seriousness that too often characterizes such pieces, “Push Me Pull Me” delivers lines and images that are more interesting, i.e. “Like a cloud dropping rain / I’m discarding all thought”. Even better, Ed’s playful performance keeps the tone light and self-effacing, abetted by goofy studio effects and double-tracking. On a record so distinctly focused and tight, “Push Me Pull Me” is deliriously jumbled and bewildering, from the opening snippet of “Happy When I’m Crying” to Ament’s warbling bassline to the assorted beeps, buzzes, and other sonic detritus. The band even performed the song live twice in 1998, not as a tag (which they did once). I’ve never heard those performances, but how they pushed or pulled it off, I’m most curious to know.
Immortality
If Vitalogy is the Pearl Jam album most crying out to be experienced on vinyl, then “Immortality” is the reason. While I’m not the world’s biggest collector, the “Immortality” 7″ is at the top of my list of coveted Pearl Jam items. The song deserves the experience of setting needle to record, in the dark or near-dark, and hearing the song heavy in the air, its waves replicated in wax, not as “immortal” as digital code, but temporal, fleeting, of the earth. And though my short list of quintessential Pearl Jam tracks is a lot longer than I’d anticipated, “Immortality” could never, ever, ever be excluded. It is one of a handful of truly defining moments in the band’s career, a song as enormous and infinite as its title. Performed live, its gravity never fails to draw in the audience’s attention like a black hole. The opening one-two of “Of the Girl” and “Immortality” at the Sendai, Japan show in 2003 remains one of my favorite pairings from all of the live sets I’ve been fortunate to hear. There is little to connect the two songs thematically or stylistically, but both wield dense atmosphere with uncommon grace.
Were it not for the late addition of “Stupidmop” to Vitalogy’s end, “Immortality” would have been the closer. With that in mind, it’s important to remember the tone with which the song finishes as much as its primary sound. Though “Immortality” is most often characterized as a dirge, and understandably so, the entire song has a strong sense of rhythm and movement, a subtle sway that separates it from connotations of plodding and drag. This is especially apparent after Ed’s final words, when the song lifts out of its minor key fog, reclaims at least a semblence of optimism and groove, and trails off into the distance. The album’s seemingly most unforgivingly dark song actually provides its surest flicker of hope, the crocus after a long winter. Oh but what a winter, piled onto the hard ground of steel-stringed acoustic guitar, icy shards of cymbals, and a noticeably varied vocal performance by Ed, both strident and defeated. Mike McCready’s solos on “Immortality” are among my favorite (particularly at the 2:20 mark), serving the song more than mere embellishment, channeling the confusion and frustration of Vedder’s coded lyrics into singular lines as primal as waves carved in wax.
Dead Man
It was a long time before I was able to track down a copy of the “Off He Goes” single, with its cat’s eye artwork, crooked typeface, and dark-as-death-itself b-side. And it was long after that before I had a reliable turntable with which to hear “Dead Man”. But I got there eventually and was duly rewarded for the effort, along with the help of a live version gleaned from an unofficial bootleg. At some point I found an import CD copy, but god knows when that was. With the advent of Lost Dogs, “Dead Man” (also known as “Dead Man Walking”) finally got the widespread recognition it deserved, with Stone Gossard going so far as to write in the liner notes that it should have been included on No Code. I know that there are many who would agree, but I don’t. The song is certainly good enough, but part of its charm for me was its isolation on that 45. “Dead Man” took effort to find, and to listen to.
Having lost the sweepstakes for the Dead Man Walking soundtrack to Bruce Springsteen (and an awful tune by Mary Chapin Carpenter), the song got lost in the maddening world of No Code b-side-dom, a fate which also befell “Black, Red, Yellow”. The same efforts that brought fans cheap, affordable domestic versions of previously pricey import singles were not enacted, leaving the gloomy, atmospheric “Dead Man” relatively difficult to find. The song itself sounds like something uncovered in a basement or attic, featuring chilling lines like “the hammer that I once brought down / now hovers over me”, which serve (like much of the soundtrack) to humanize the main character of the song without excusing or condoning his crimes. For a relatively small set of lyrics, “Dead Man” does justice to the complexity of issues surrounding the death penalty. For anyone who has ever watched MSNBC’s Lock-Up series (I’m kind of a fan), or marveled at Sufjan Stevens’s “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.”, “Dead Man” is right there among recent, thoughtfully considered examinations of crime and punishment.
Musically, Vedder’s work on “Dead Man” is fascinating: subtle, textured, nuanced. It somewhat expectedly pairs a dark subject matter with a minor key setting, but the effect is less heavy-handed than it would seem on paper. The tone of the song is forlorn, regretful, with occasional jarring notes that flash like nerve endings, or memories of the pain and sorrow inflicted. There are myriad ways to cheapen a song about murder/death row, but Vedder never does. “Dead Man” offers no concrete answers, other than the ultimate fate of its main character; Vedder’s voice is more hushed, straight-forward, restrained than even Pearl Jam’s quietest tracks, contrasting with the clanking percussion, humming guitar, and unsettling arrangement. All of these things rewarded listeners who tracked it down initially, and continues to surprise and affect those who’ve discovered it through Lost Dogs, a song on par with what became No Code, but no worse off for its non-inclusion.
1/2 Full
I’d meant to write my entry on “1/2 Full” long, long ago, but could never muster the right amount of determination or enthusiasm. Perhaps it would have been better to get the song out of the way before “Red Mosquito”, because despite the fact that “1/2 Full” is a decent tune, it has never been able to pull itself completely away from that association in my mind. It all has to do with the burly, lumberjack vibe, buzz-saw whine of Mike McCready’s guitar, the gritty stomp of both songs. But where “Red Mosquito” featured a bizarre devil/vampire fable, Vedder’s umpteenth take on corporate greed precipitating an escape to nature is not among his most inspired (though it does look forward to Into the Wild, ominously. The frenetic energy of the song still gives it a certain draw, but “1/2 Full” ultimately feels just that.
Sad
No matter how long or varied a musician’s career, there are going to be little quirks and techniques that return again and again, due to a particular fascination with a melodic idea, rhythm, harmony, or stylistic fluorish. Weathering deteriorating or improving voices and instrumental ability, there are familiar themes and motifs, comfortable both to artist and listener. While his music has certainly evolved, Vedder obviously has several lyrical themes and musical ideas that have repeated with variations over the years. Whether or not that had anything to do with the decision to stick “Sad” (aka “Letter to the Dead”) on the sidelines is unknown, but the song’s strong similarities to “Corduroy” and other Vedder-penned tracks makes it instantly recognizable as such.
The spindly little guitar figure that announces “Sad” is unmistakably Vedder. A More Than Ten reader mentioned in a comment to another post that the singer studied guitar in Spain at one point, which I hadn’t heard but would appear to make sense. Without betraying a full-blown flamenco influence, there are hints of that style in “Sad”, enough to give it a slightly exotic quality apart from most of the band’s output. Ament described “Sad” as a pop song, acknowledging Vedder’s growing proficiency in writing terse, catchy tunes. But “Sad” is no “Undone”, “U”, or “Leatherman”. There’s a darkness in both the lyrics, which are indeed sad, and the minor-key based music that keep the song from both achieving the breezy playfulness of Vedder’s other pop experiments, and the majestic anthemic, nature of “Sad”’s kindred.
Pearl Jam
1. Life Wasted
2. World Wide Suicide
3. Comatose
4. Severed Hand
5. Marker in the Sand
6. Parachutes
7. Unemployable
8. Big Wave
9. Gone
10. Wasted Reprise
11. Army Reserve
12. Come Back
13. Inside Job
Unemployable
Now we come to it. The pressure is on. The task? To prove beyond a reasonable doubt that “Unemployable”, b-side to “World Wide Suicide” and centerpiece album track on Pearl Jam’s 8th album, is worthy of inclusion in the pantheon of classic tracks that includes “Corduroy”, “Rearviewmirror”, “I Got Shit”, and “Jeremy”, among many others. Odd choice? Some believe it is, and of course there’s no accounting for taste. But without (hopefully) sucking all of the greatness out it, I seek to demonstrate that “Unemployable” combines everything Pearl Jam does well into one mighty little three-minute package.
When the “World Wide Suicide” single hit airwaves and mp3 single format, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that song’s energetic hook and more mature political writing. But I was even more taken aback by “Unemployable”, more so than probably any track since “Who You Are”. Message board pundits went straight for the throat in comparing Ed’s “whoa-uh-oh’s” in the song’s chorus to (gasp) Shania Twain of all people. Shania Twain? First of all, though I have been in enough strip malls to know the song people are referring to, seriously people, if that’s the first song that comes to your mind, that’s your fault, not Ed’s. Noting Pearl Jam’s “Brass In Pocket” improv from the early days, “Unemployable” should at least resonate as being inspired somewhat by the Pretenders’ “Back on the Chain Gang”. But for the sake of argument, even if Twain’s vocal mannerisms did somehow consciously or subconsciously inspire Ed’s performance, does it or does it not sound great? Answer: it does.
The combination of writing, subject matter, instrumental and vocal performances, originality of the musical composition, and catchiness all dovetail into a fairly indestructible rock and roll box. Each aspect of the song balances the next. Though the issues the song deals with are no less than serious, the singable hook and “ooohhhh’s” prevent the song from ever being mired in its own seriousness. Lyrically, Vedder’s imagery has rarely been as fresh or real. Witness:
“He’s got a big gold ring that says ‘Jesus Saves’
And it’s dented from the punch thrown at work that day
When he smashed a metal locker where he kept this things
After the big boss said ‘you best be on your way’”
Visually, aurally, and texturally these lines can’t help but be experienced. You can imagine the dented locker, the sound of the fist hitting, the feel of bruised knuckles, the flash of a gold ring, the coldness of the boss’s voice: all of it. And that’s the point of the song: whether or not this exact experience has happened to you in every detail, you are forced to see it, hear it, feel it, and best of all, make your own mind up about it. It’s no secret that Pearl Jam’s history of populism and leftist politics makes it all but certain where their sympathies lie in “Unemployable”, i.e. not with the big boss but with the now-unemployed working man. But the song stops short at railing against the suits, asking instead, with little polemics, for listeners to consider the real-life implications of poor job security and an uncertain economy.
“Well, his wife and kids are sleeping but he’s still awake
On his brain weighs the curse of 30 bills unpaid
Gets up, lights a cigarette he’s grown to hate
Thinking if he can’t sleep, how will he ever dream?”
There are two particularly masterful lines in this verse, primarily because what they’re doing is so hard for most other writers to pull off. First, cigarettes are usually WAY overused in movies, poetry, and music to try and simulate some sort of jaded cool, to create a mood, etc. Here, the cigarette is just a cigarette, a detail that feels both realistic for the character, and appropriate for that moment when he can’t sleep. Plus, we’re told he’s grown to hate it. Why? Maybe because cigarettes cost $6 a pack, and without a job, that money’s probably better spent on feeding his family. Or because he’s so stressed out, the nicotine no longer calms his nerves or gives him satisfaction, despite an addiction. Well played Ed, well played.
The second bit of brilliance is that last line, “Thinking if he can’t sleep / How will he ever dream”. This is a fantastic example of one’s metaphor working in total conjunction with the actual circumstances of the story. The line works both literally and figuratively. Too many writers rely solely on the latter, which ends up sounding trite or baseless. But here, the sleeping and dreaming are both literally longed for, and the dreaming means both actual dreams and the character’s waking dreams for his family’s future. What this line pulls off wholly without pretension is something that poses a surprisingly large challenge for artists in all media.
And of course, none of this would mean anything at all if the song weren’t solidly and pleasingly constructed. Happily, “Unemployable” sounds fresh, earthy, tough, pretty, endless adjectives. The first thing I notice is Matt Cameron’s stick and cymbal work in the opening moments. How many songs do you know where the cymbals stand out enough to exclaim, “damn! those cymbals sound great”? Cameron’s inventive rhythms and playing inform “Unemployable” in ways that are creative but unobtrusive. The song flows as easily as any of the band’s poppier efforts, but with enough quirkiness to push themselves and listeners. The verse riffing underneath Vedder’s sublimely double-tracked vocals makes your insides move, as the song itself feels full of motion, stoic but worried, proud but frustrated, fluid yet turbulent, coming to the sad realization that for too many people this life is indeed “sacrifice”, when a disproportionate amount of the fruit of their labors is sent to those who have never known an honest day’s work.
No Code
1. Sometimes
2. Hail, Hail
3. Who You Are
4. In My Tree
5. Smile
6. Off He Goes
7. Habit
8. Red Mosquito
9. Lukin
10. Present Tense
11. Mankind
12. I’m Open
13. Around the Bend
Smile
Last night, as I was falling asleep, I found myself longing to take a vow of silence for just one week. One week without any verbal expression, written or otherwise, to counteract what has been an overwhelming past two months of around-the-clock communication, where it has felt at time as if words were meaningless, pouring out like water. A one week sabbatical from speaking and writing would hopefully restore the potential of language for something other than passing time between actions, would hopefully teach me to consider words more carefully. Nothing is more satisfying to me about language than efficiency and tact. It was in those half-conscious moments that I realized how I would approach “Smile”.
“Smile” seems one of those songs that falls together by chance. 1 note from Dennis (of the Frogs) + Jeff Ament’s Crazy Horse guitar bit + a pretty accomplished harmonica track = “Smile”, a song that despite a relative paucity of words, is among the band’s most evocative tracks. The interplay between lyrics and music feels heaven sent, with the dusty verses unfurling into the catharsis of “I miss you already!” What more need be said: the song possesses natural conviction that it is not just a vague portrait of a state of being (abetted by the line “three crooked hearts, swirls around”, which literally transcribed Dennis’s scribbles), yet is universal in the best sense of the word, a sentiment that should resonate with every listener in his/her own way, but whose meaning can bear lifetimes of shifting and transforming. Sometimes, all a song needs to say is “I feel good!”, “I want to rock and roll all night!”, or “I miss you already”. A minimum of words can lend itself to a more impactful song.
This is why I often feel like writing an instrumental, or taking a vow of silence, to hone my senses back down onto the non-verbal, to focus on what sound and music themselves can say. The chugging, blustery momentum of “Smile” is full of ragged glory, from stately piano chords building up to the chorus, to Vedder’s debut on the mouth harp. It’s a Sunday afternoon in fall, rust colored leaves, reflective, sepia-tone daguerrotype memories of old loves, old friends, old times. “Smile”, with its open-endedness and rough beauty, sparks the imagination rather than dominating it, making it a refreshing song to return to again and again, to clear the head, to sharpen the mind, to make one, well, smile.
Satan’s Bed
It’s easy to make arguments for the canonization of songs like “Rearviewmirror”, “Release”, “Corduroy”, “Unemployable” (get ready for it), though certainly more difficult, or seemingly dubious to ask the same for “Satan’s Bed”. But it should be done. Words like “raucous” and “irreverent” don’t do the song justice. It’s not the most shocking song ever written, not laugh-out-loud funny, not even that original music-wise. But the whole thing just clicks, feels classic, convincing, not a thing I would change about it. When I wanted to convince a music-obsessive, non-Pearl Jam fan best friend of mine that the band was actually worth her time and attention, this is the track I started with. Surprised? Well…
Consider that one of the biggest misconceptions about Pearl Jam is that they’re humorless, self-serious, and just no fun at all. Unless you paid enough attention to the songs themselves at the time (or found a b-side or two), prior to “Satan’s Bed” you could be forgiven for that misunderstanding. But from Stone’s garage rock construction, to the whip-cracking sound effects, to Ed’s delirious wordplay, “Satan’s Bed” established that Pearl Jam were capable of immediacy and joy without an altruistic mission. Of course, the song’s prime concern is with groupies, fame, selling out, etc., but it’s done with sass. The choral shouts of “already in love” lend credence to the idea that “Satan’s Bed” is a song of fidelity, but it’s also just good, dumb, loose rock and roll. Not only does Ed fly all over the place lyrically, but he puts on an absolute vocal performance, growling, shouting, laughing, “taking it out and chopping it up” to quote Royal Tenenbaum.
“Satan’s Bed” is a song that’s difficult to write about because thinking too hard or deeply about it seems extremely beside the point. Plus, all I want to do is gush. Yet that nagging voice in my head keeps urging me to break it down. So find goddamnit, here are five points:
1. Thank you Jimmy Shoaf.
2. The artwork on the lyric sheet still freaks me out.
3. On a related note: Santa’s Bed?
4. 2003’s State College show: I have to admit the version of “Satan’s Bed” that the band pulled out on request did bum me out. I wanted to just enjoy the silliness and sheer balls of playing a song unrehearsed, with all of the funny miscues, etc. But at that point I really wanted to hear that song live again.
5. 2006: Thrilling to see the song return somewhat to the fold. Still played less than 20 times in the band’s entire history, but “Satan’s Bed” seemed to make complete sense alongside the band’s more recent material. Raw, nervy, punchy, electric; “Satan’s Bed”: better than memory foam.
Cropduster
I’ve always felt “Cropduster” to be one of the most under-appreciated Pearl Jam songs, though even from first listen it was apparent that the song would own that unfortunate destiny. The song has all of the qualities of a fan favorite, but an equal amount of turn-offs. It seems to constantly be shooting itself in the foot. Everything that makes “Cropduster” wonderful also contains a tinge of disappointment that has prevented it from making a bigger impact on listeners. The number one flaw with the studio version of “Cropduster” is the same complaint that can be made (and has been) for much of Riot Act: the lack of energy in the performance. Of course, one man’s lack of energy is another man’s laid back spirit. But “Cropduster” sounds like an aggressive song trapped in a midtempo song’s body, just a hairsbreadth slower than it should be played. Live, this hasn’t been as big of a problem, with “Cropduster” even being used once as an opener (Lexington, KY, 2003). But on record, it sort of feels like, “C’mon, get moving already!”
But pace aside, “Cropduster” is also one of my favorite Riot Act tracks right down to its title. It toes the line between catchy and bizarre, with Matt Cameron’s trademark cut-time and unexpected key changes. The second verse smartly changes up its presentation from the first. Vedder’s delivery of “Everyone is practicing / But this world’s an accident” prefigures similar vocal maneuvering in “Unemployable”, while McCready’s soloing is noticeably inspired, dancing around the shifting chords. “Cropduster” can’t be described as light or dark in tone; it lies comfortably (or un-) in between, a forest path cut across with sun and shadow. Mortality is explored as physical reality (”Swallowing seeds on my deathbed”) rather than spiritual, which will always remind me of Iron & Wine’s similar meditations on being “planted” rather than unnaturally preserved after you die. There are stark truths (”Dad, he’s gone up in flames / But this ain’t no movie”) and simple yet evocative images (”The moon is rolling ’round the world”) that speak to the inevitability of the life cycle and our part in it. “Cropduster” is strange, sad, and at the same time strangely, sadly comforting.
Fatal
As has been kindly pointed out, I have not (yet) fulfilled my own rock and roll fantasy. Of course, I’ve don’t know what that currently is. In 1994, it was closing my eyes real tight and pretending it was me on stage singing “Tremor Christ”. But now, my personal musical goals are much more modest and hopefully realistic than selling millions of records and becoming a cultural icon, for better or worse. Who worth their salt ever plans for that anyway? The greatest artists just keep plugging away rain or shine, for a crowd of two or 2,000. But some through hard work and good fortune are able to devote their whole lives completely to their art, without having to enter the standard rat race. One of the strangest phenomena for someone who has been able to make a lifetime career out of music has to be watching their peers settle into other 9-5 jobs as they age, leading lives more or less of convention.
Stone Gossard has been making music since he was how old? Green River’s debut album came out when he was only 19. So the character in “Fatal”, who puts on a suit and tie everyday, who measures their worth at least in part by their parking space, is this autobiography or imagination or a little from both columns? In the end it doesn’t really matter. Again, a song shouldn’t have to come from its author’s direct experience to be “true” or viable. But it’s interesting to note, if “Fatal” is purely a work of imagination, the phenomenon of an artist creating a character unlike themselves, with the goal of somehow doing justice to their experience, and (even trickier) without judgment.
Binaural and its outtakes are full of songs that examine one’s place in life and society, particularly as one approaches middle age. Compare “Fatal” with Vedder’s “Soon Forget”, another song about the decisions people make and the value they place on certain aspects of their lives, i.e. romantic, financial, political. Stone’s song raises a lot of questions while Vedder’s makes declarations. Neither is better or worse for their differences; just two different approaches from two different viewpoints and styles. At the time of Binaural and Bayleaf, Stone also seemed particulary enamored with ballad form, quieter, more reflective material. “Fatal” is pretty solid in this regard, with folksy, even-keeled verses that lead into a less conventional chorus marked by a striking series of chords. Props to Stone for making the edit that saved the world from “The answer’s in Play-Doh”, but he still left in “When April’s in Mayo(naisse)”, which conjures all sorts of bizarre visions that it’s best not to linger on.
Editor’s Note: Setting Forth Toward the End of the Road
Just a couple of quick notes:
1. We’re nearing the end. Two albums have already seen every track reviewed. As you’ve noticed, when I complete an album, I’ve been posting it w/ a large picture and all of the tracks listed in order as links. But you can still comment there if you have anything in general to say about the record, or whatever you want!
2. What’s with “Girl” getting 50+ views today? That’s just weird.
3. Listening to “Into the Wild” right now. Debating inclusion. We’ll see.
4. Posts might be light in the next couple days. Huge freelance copyediting job to get done.
5. Once I’ve finished every known Pearl Jam original I can think of (what do you all think about the Touring Band instrumentals?), I have some ideas about how to keep this site from going dead, ways that might involve bringing other people aboard as contributors to post about other Pearl Jam-related material, live shows, etc. Thoughts? Suggestions?
I’m out like Blackwater.
Release
I approach this song somewhat hesitantly. It’s not the sort of thing to casually pontificate on with my morning coffee, but here I am, it’s time, and it’s time to close out Ten. As it’s my final entry for Pearl Jam’s monumental first album, and “Release” was the final track on said album, it might be worth a few words at first just to talk about what that record meant to me, if such a thing can be done.
I was only 13 years old in 1992, (the dates are fuzzy, but I don’t think I can claim to have known about Pearl Jam when Epic first released Ten; it probably took a few months and videos for me to become aware) and rock and roll meant nothing to me. It had nothing to do with me. I was as obsessed with music as at any point in my life, maybe even more, but the rock music I’d had exposure to was corny and dumb, or so ultra-aggressive and macho that it didn’t make sense to me. Guns ‘n’ Roses, Pantera, Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Metallica; these were the bands that my friends and peers were into, all of which bored me to tears, or frightened me. I didn’t pay attention to classic rock at the time, both because I didn’t listen to those radio stations, and because I really wanted to identify with something current, of my own generation. I listened to hip-hop. I can’t say I had any greater personal identification with A Tribe Called Quest than I would have with “Love in an Elevator” but at least it sounded good.
Pearl Jam (and Temple of the Dog by extension) was the first rock band that resonated with me for a number of reasons. First there was Ed’s voice, the voice I wanted to have a singer and as a male in general, one that seemed to signify both strength (of character, not biceps per se) and intelligence, what I equated with masculinity. Then there was the music, a spin on guitar rock I could somehow get behind, more interesting, more melodic, more earnest, less crass, less juvenile, less commercial. Then there were the lyrics, which made me want to become a writer, phrases and verses that went far beyond babes and booze, examining the self and the world in the ways to which I was beginning. I bought the cassette version of Ten at the mall, and to this day I don’t think I’ve played any album more times in succession. I remember lying on my bedroom floor next to my little boom box and just flipping the tape over and over and over. And I never looked back.
I have wonderful parents, and had a great childhood. Although I was plenty angsty, confused, hormonal as a kid, I didn’t really have much to rebel against. But music nonetheless felt like a powerful escape from whatever problems I was having, mainly relating to other kids my age, having desperate crushes, and trying to define myself in relation to my family, friends, peers, in ways that were my own and not how others perceived me. Ed’s struggles when he was that age are fairly well-publicized, particularly with his step-father, that bastard who married his mama. And surely the Who, Neil Young, the Ramones, Fugazi, all played a part in providing him with an escape from a difficult home. But for all of the attention on that aspect of Ed’s youth being the impetus for his creative life to follow, I propose that something else integral to Ed’s story is the real engine behind his art, and the foundation for this argument is “Release”.
“Oh dear Dad / Can you see me now? / I am myself / Like you, somehow.” This couplet, elongated in song, is the mitochondria in every cell of Ed’s work. To know his father only as a family friend, a musician, and to find out their relation only after that man’s death… that reality, if it can be imagined by those who haven’t (mercifully) experienced it, cannot be underestimated as artistic motivation. You’re a kid with a passionate, fierce love for music, and then you find out that your real father was like you, somehow; what a bittersweet revelation. For the first time in your life perhaps, you make sense, you fit, even though the person who completes your picture is now gone. Everything you do is now colored by that knowledge. Whether or not any musician’s song is autobiographical means very little to me in and of itself. A song doesn’t need to be “true” in that sense to be great. But knowing the circumstances surrounding “Release” does add something to the song, even though the poetic phenomenon of addressing someone who can’t otherwise respond is universal and timeless. “Release” is Ten’s most honest display of artistry, not because the song is personal, but because there is such little artifice through which the meaning is conveyed. Lines like “I see the birds in the rain” and “I’ll wait up in the dark for you to speak to me” isn’t complex syntactically, or layered symbolically, muddying the waters, yet they still express their meaning in beautiful ways. Best of all, they allow the listener to experience emotions that aren’t explicitly stated.
“Release” is deserving of all kinds of adjectives: proud, sad, hopeful, mournful, longing, nostalgic, pensive, lonely, desparate, many of them contradictory but all the more real for it. The song doesn’t have to work hard to get me to feel this things; it simply does. Art is generally most powerful, to use a teaching cliche, when it shows rather than tells. “Release” shows me a piece of someone else’s life unlike my own yet like it, allowing me to empathize or not, relate or not, understand or not. “Release” doesn’t care what conclusions I draw regarding how I feel about it. It’s just there. The music, born serendipitously out of Stone Gossard tuning up and testing out his guitar, is similarly unconcerned. It doesn’t work hard to be beautiful. It sweeps in at the end of Ten, or the beginning of a concert with relaxed determination and gradually gains in intensity. Jeff Ament’s bassline is one of his most memorable, the drums providing a steady yet unobtrusive backbone. Whenever “Release” is played, it’s like the band is sharing the same brain. If any song from Ten survives the whims and forgetfulness of time, “Release” is a safe bet to sound as powerful as it first did in any era. It’s a song that no matter where the band is, or Ed is, will always draw on that inexhaustible inspiration, that reason both for being and for keeping on.
Grievance
“Grievance” was never a single, but it sure felt like one. I first heard the song as it was performed for Late Night With David Letterman, on a crappy little t.v. in the common area lounge at my tiny New England liberal arts college. My old roommate and I stayed just long enough for the one song and then went on with our nights, with differing opinions on the song. It didn’t really catch his ear, but I thought it was refreshing tough and aggressive after Yield, compact, small yet muscular, a running back of a song (sorry, watching football). Before the rise of blue vs. red states, I knew the hook wouldn’t play well in the red, “I pledge my grievance to the flag /’Cause you don’t give blood then take it back again” (a hook that I’ve always much preferred in the few live versions where Ed takes the melody up on “again”).
Had “Grievance” been more of an ambassador for Binaural, how would that album have fared? Would it be hailed as a return to form, as every damn album has since Yield? Would it skew the entire album political in the minds of casual audiences, would it be the band’s WTO record? Singles, just like album art, just like the choice to or not to create videos, can color perception, sometimes more than the music itself. “Grievance” hung back in the dark recesses of Binaural, snarling like Dakota, but I’m not sure it ever got the chance to bite anyone. It’s not on Rearviewmirror (none of the heavier Binaural tracks is included on Disc 1) and even its live prominence has somewhat lessened. All of this is a shame, because its relevance certainly hasn’t (just wait for those universal ID cards, kids), and it’s such a satisfying rocker. From the tom-filled drum opening to the odd-metered verses and halting choruses, to Ed’s hoarse bellowing throughout, “Grievance” is the scrappy younger brother of “Insignificance”, crackling with frustration at the runaway train of U.S. corporate-political culture.
