hearts and thoughts

Pearl Jam was not ever my favorite band, but sometimes there are albums that — you’re young, you know, you’re listening to a little bit of everything trying to figure it out, trying desperately to connect with someone or something because obviously no one understands you and no one ever will. And the back bedroom of your grandmother’s house is so full of crap that you can barely move — an old piano, a rickety bookshelf full of musty textbooks, broken-framed photographs of relatives no one speaks to anymore, an ancient green suitcase full of puzzles with missing pieces. There’s a twin bed shoved in the corner, junk encroaching on it from all sides, and it’s uncomfortable to sleep on and the white cotton of the bedspread is very rough under your fingers. It’s Christmas of 1994, and you’re back there on the bed with your discman, half-asleep and miserable, wondering if anyone’s going to notice you’ve disappeared. It’s a game you’ve been playing for years now: leave, and see who comes for you. No one ever does. The CD you’ve got on is new, and it keeps jerking you awake with these noises that are so fucked up you become convinced you’re hallucinating (you will remain convinced of this for, quite probably, the rest of your natural life). The sun sets, and the house empties and quiets, and no one comes, and you keep listening to whatever the fuck it is you’re listening to, holding on to these completely baffling sounds, and at least it’s something to focus on as you try desperately to get through to the next day and maybe the one after that so you can go home. You close your eyes, and everything’s going to be fine.

You’re listening to Vitalogy.

And so, when you find yourself in the Chicago Theatre 16 years later, more than a decade after you have stopped paying any attention whatsoever to Pearl Jam, and Eddie Vedder comes out and starts playing by himself on, of all things, a ukulele, probably what is going to happen is that his voice is going to slam you right back into that room at your grandmother’s house, angry and lost and wondering if anyone’s going to notice. Because his voice is not like anyone else’s voice, and even when it’s just him and his ukulele it’s still him, and it’s like listening to Pearl Jam songs you just don’t know yet. And when he starts playing Pearl Jam songs you do know, that’s when the crying is going to start, a steady stream of tears that you can’t seem to do anything about. Maybe you’ve had too much vodka. You need to leave. This is ridiculous.

You can’t quite, though. You get out into the hall, and you stop and sit on the floor, your face wet. You close your eyes, and everything’s going to be fine.