Recently I read "The Show I'll Never Forget." It was edited by Sean Manning. Though most of the writers were nobodies in the world of rock writing (Save for that bastard Klosterman) it was still a compelling yet easy read. More than that, I wished I would have been included in this book. It's impossible to feel reserved about things like that, I've come to realize. Anyway.
I began to think about the gig I'll never forget. Since all the hip gigs have kind of blended into one lately, I decided t'go with The Jam at The Garden. Now, I know I couldn't fit this concert into the perscribed 3000 word limit. I know that. BUT. Just writing this still gave me shivers. So, if you have some time, give it a read. This is probably the story I've always wanted to write. Cliches and Bolivars, is what I might call it.
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Clichés are only funny as they allow for a cheap yet effective joke. And they’re only culturally relevant as they’re as important a piece of insight as you can find.
So you can understand why I was nervous about landing in New York City (From an 11 hour flight no less) yet also chalk full of anticipation. The idea that everyone who comes to New York City is just a lost soul is a matter of national and cultural importance, while the idea that they’re looking to find themselves in the city is a matter of national security. But that’s a cliché for you.
Stranded high above the Atlantic, I realized I’d bought into both clichés; I was lost. I’d left Istanbul, Turkey on bad terms. Which is to say I never really got off on the right foot with the city; I had a gut-wrenching feeling upon arrival and spent the next 10 months desperately fighting against the imposing nature and beliefs of the city. All the while I searched for a self-realization that never came. Unsure of how to make my timely exit from a bad party, I debated for all of about eight seconds before deciding to jump ship in late June and catch Pearl Jam for two nights at Madison Square Garden.
While it would only be fair to the title to pick one of the two gigs as my “Favourite,” that would be a slice of thin-crusted betrayal to the gigs themselves.
In the month or so that remained before my departure from Istanbul[1] the gigs had swelled into one momentous occasion. One joyous event that was not just six aging dudes playing their own authentic brand of rock and roll but two nights of re-affirmation. (Hopefully, of course. Not to say there was any pressure on those six aging men, of course) Re-affirmation that after ten months spent seeing how low I could sink in regards to physical and self-esteem, (Including a muted reliance on bad alcohol, slightly effective painkillers and throwing everyone I passed a look of part scorn and fear) that good and beauty still existed in the world.
With my girl of two years (All spent in foreign locales, this Pearl Jam gig her first and my 4th and 5th) in tow we landed, inauspiciously enough. We treaded oh so delicately, both knowing the last haggard year had taken a toll on our relationship.
We spent the day of the first gig wandering aimlessly through the village, trying to find common ground with which to approach June 24th at the Garden. The historical aesthetics serve themselves I’m sure: the Stones laying down what some call the best live album of all time, “Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out,” the Mess hosting the Cup after a 54-year drought for the Rangers, (I would engage in a “Let’s Go Ran-Gers” chant during the gigs, something I’m quite sure I’ll never get to do again) and of course, the beginning of Hulkamania, the only reason for many dudes my age to ever wear red and yellow together.
When the conversation would slip, we’d talk Jam. Or, I’d talk Jam. I’d grown up with this band, finding hope in Ed’s lyrics and solace in the endless jams the band seemed to produce effortlessly. She found it hard to keep up with my inane setlist hopes and my concern over the possible dramatics that might ensue. Whether or not I was drowning out her excitement was of no concern to me. I had become a goddamned ticking time-bomb.
-
Although Istanbul is a city of 12 million, there were few nights of outright tolerable live music (Because some people might be wondering: The National, Of Montreal, Piano Magic and Broken Social Scene. Piano Magic took the cake, in what some other people might consider an upset) yet not a single big gig. You know the type: tickets bought months in advance, the artist usually has at least 3 records in your personal collection. Though it doesn’t have to be a big venue, that’s usually the way it rolls. And the gig itself is either awesome enough that you risk shitting in the very pants you planned so meticulously to wear that night or better than most other gigs you’d take in that year by reason of default. If it’s a bad gig, you’d probably take that to your grave.
If a normal human must have sex once a month to stay level headed, then the average live music fan would probably have one big gig a year. And I’d had none for the past 12 months. The pressure on Pearl Jam continued to mount.
Like a caged gorilla, I paced throughout the area surrounding Madison Square Garden before the show, trying desperately to find my footing. It’d been just under 5 years since I’d last seen Pearl Jam, a show that brought me as close to tears as I could get in public. Did the band still have the gift? Did I? What kind of fan was I? Or more importantly, what kind of person was I now, 5 years later?
I needed to document this occasion. I wanted a poster. Pearl Jam has been creating posters specific to each gig for years now. It wasn’t so difficult for me to grab one at my first gig, almost 10 years earlier. But as Pearl Jam’s myth approached legendary status (Though this poor bastard would argue it’s already there) so too did the resolve of their hardcore fans to get any piece of any Pearl Jam memorabilia out there. And the posters were almost as big a part of their lore as the bootlegs they officially release for each gig. Bearing this in mind, I thought checking out the merch stand an hour and a half before the doors even opened would be ample time to snag a $25 poster. (A price my girl found to be outrageous. Welcome to the world of rock and roll excess in the 21st century, I thought. Currently, the poster from their Pittsburgh 2000 gig goes for $899 on Ebay)
When I approached the merch guy requesting a poster with the will of child awaking on Christmas morning, he rolled his eyes.
“No more posters!” he shouted at me.
“NO MORE POSTERS!” he shouted for the other wannabe-fans behind me. His words were like lemon juice on my freshly gaping wound. What I heard was:
“Move along, you fake fan! You weren’t actually looking forward to tonight, were you?”
Now, though I had snagged a poster for Barrie ’98, I failed to get one for Toronto ’03 and for some reason, there wasn’t one designed for Toronto ’00. And now, with Pearl Jam’s history of outdoing themselves during two-night stands, I would miss out on tangible documentation of what could be the greatest night of my life.
We began to drown our sorrows. We bounced from bar-to-bar, still trying desperately to find a common ground. She was leaving the next day and we were set to spend a month apart. We were both secretly wondering if this thing of ours was going to work out. We were caught in our own tailor made New York City drama, now drinking our way out of it.
-
And now we were drunk, and the doors were open. We found our seats behind the stage, only after getting the scoop on the posters. They went on sale at 4.30 and were gone in 15 minutes. Many folks were out of luck and there was a serious hype for the next night’s poster.
When the lights dropped and the band teased us by waiting a good 26 seconds to walk onstage to a crawling piano number on the PA, I grabbed my girl and looked at her the way one might look at the person beside them before jumping off a cliff for the first time. I’ve never taken speed before, but I imagine that’s what speed felt like. Actually, I hope that’s what most drugs I’ve never tried before feel like.
They crawled into “Hard To Imagine,” a slowly building number. It seemed fitting, though no matter what they played I probably would have dubbed it “Fitting.” I felt my heart doing backflips in my throat. My stomach become weightless. And I felt Jeff Ament’s deep bass bring the hairs on the back of my neck to a standing ovation. As most Pearl Jam fans feel I’m sure, this was my gig. Already, it was a show to remember. But admittedly, I was pretty fucking drunk.
Ed greeted us after just three songs. “We’ve had some memorable nights here, but I got a feeling like tonight’s gonna top ‘em off. I feel real good.” I screamed like a goddamn baby. I’m a big fan of frontman pleasantries. I don’t really know why. But there was communication. After a 5 year absence, this is important.
The band played 31 songs that night. While they’ve played more on various nights, the night already felt endless. So much emotion; so much elation. Of the 31 tunes, they played 19 I’d never heard live before. And when any number of those tunes kicked in, I’d leave my seat and bolt down to the aisles, just to get a little closer. (And probably to grab some weed from the long haired old boy down there.)
Jumping into “Faithfull,” one of the 10 songs I listed on a napkin hoping they’d play, (They played 7 of ‘em) I lit up a smoke, hauling on it for all of 8 seconds before being told to butt it out. And when “Who You Are,” a song with deep personal resonance kicked in, I lit up another one, getting 13 seconds this time. Things were going well, despite how drunk I was.
Throughout the gig I’d check in with my girl, tossing random facts her way which I’m sure she didn’t enjoy. But how could I help it? This show felt like home. The band wasn’t “Tight,” “On fire” or “Jamming to their heart’s content” or any other obvious concert-writer’s superlative. They were writing their own rules. It was a warm rain that wouldn’t let up, with strokes of lightning and genius littered throughout. It was urgent rock and roll. It was the embodiment of passion.
Now, because I’m looking at the setlist in front of me, I could probably give you a song-by-song account of the night. But in the guise of rock and roll mystery, those things are better left unsaid. But immortality was nearly achieved during the song Ed played solo at the beginning of the second encore. I’d never heard it before; it was a call to arms from the film “Body Of War” about an Iraqi vet who’d been paralyzed by an insurgent’s bullet.
Even those never having heard the song before sang along in unison.
“With his eyes he says, NO MORE. With his body he says, NOOOOO MOOORE WAR.”
The momentum swept through the audience like wildfires. 5 years earlier, less than 2 years after 9/11, Ed would bring a plastic George W. mask on stage and publicly deface it, publicly. Just 30 miles east of New York City, in Uniondale, NY, Ed and the rest of the band were booed for pulling this stunt. And now, everyone knew better; we became unstoppable.
-
The band disappeared after the third encore. Coming down from this high wasn’t on the agenda. As this was our last night together, you’d think that we’d share a night to leave us wanting more of each other.
Yet somehow, in the clutter of being drunk and trying to brush our teeth, I’d passed out inside our room and locked her out. She banged on the door, desperate to be let in. This wasn’t the first time this had happened.
And when she gave in and went downstairs to grab the spare key, she awoke me from my slumber with a rallying call of her own.
“You better think pretty damn hard about whether you want to move to Vancouver or not!”
I opened my eyes, vaguely heard what she said and returned to slumber.
When we awoke to raging hangovers, I asked her if I’d dreamt what she said. I hadn’t. She was pissed and set to leave me in less than 6 hours.
Though tempers cooled after a stroll through Central Park it was clear that we were leaving this thing on a sour note. Well done, you stupid motherfucker, I thought as her airport shuttle pulled away.
And though I’d spent the last two years with her and the night before with 20,000 folks just like me, I felt totally alone now. At 2 in the afternoon, still far from home and just having lost the only consistency in my life for the past two years, I wondered who the hell I’d become. In a more prevalent sense, I wondered who I was. Thank you New York City, for doing this to me. I began to wander aimlessly again.
-
I tried desperately to get my spirits up, leaning on my headphones to assuage my broken-heart and open soul. I began to search, though I ultimately knew where I’d end up.
I NEEDED a poster for tonight’s gig. I had a sneaking suspicion that tonight’s gig wouldn’t top the night before. But if my girl and I were to never find each other again, the least I could do was grab a poster for a little permanent heartache. (Pearl Jam fans are also an emotional bunch, if that hasn’t become apparent already. Some will win, some will lose, some were born to sing the blues.)
So at 3.30, I was the first person at the merch stand in the lobby of MSG. I brought a “Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates” by Tom Robbins and steel resolve. After waiting for 15 minutes, I had a dozen fans approach me with looks of equal part admiration and hope. They too had been shut out and now they were forming a line behind me. But 15 minutes later, our hopes were dashed.
A prick of an attendant informed me that not only did we have to leave but that the crowd of 200 or so gathering outside was the actual line-up for posters. And as I rushed out to join the line-up, I hoped this wasn’t what speed felt like.
At the back of the line-up, I began to sweat and smoke nervously. No one was exactly sure how many posters were actually available, though overweight collectors seemed to offer their opinions rather easily. A loud-mouth behind me spoke rather vehemently about how Pearl Jam was going about the process. We weren’t waiting in line for a poster, after all; we were waiting in line for a wrist-band that would guarantee us a poster after the gig. And the nerve of this guy to call the practice “Retarded.” Dude wasn’t even GOING to the gig tonight! He’d been last night sure, but just because he deemed himself a “Collector” he felt as if he was owed a poster and kept his heckling up throughout the duration of the madness that would ensue. Some people.
But that being said, “Some people” prove themselves to be the kind of music fans you wish would proliferate this earth. It’s folks like “Jesus” and “Belladina” that will probably save the music industry.
As 4.30 drew closer, so to did each of us in the line. Things were beginning to get a little hairy; people were beginning to lose their cool. But these two seemed to be holding their own. The dude in his Lennon-esque beard, welcoming demeanour, darn skin and thin glasses that seemed to be perpetually slipping down his nose thanks to the permanent sweat dripping from his head. And her, all of 5 foot nothing, a thousand freckles and a smile that made you want to hug her before speaking to her. Standing there alone, these seemed the kind of people I could share a gig with.
The dude was flipping through an issue of “Time Out,” a weekly city guide that I’d written for in Istanbul. It was my first paid writing stint and besides real kebaps, might have been the only redeeming part of that city. I loved writing for that rag. So I didn’t really allow self-consciousness to seep in when I asked him about the magazine.
We got off on the right foot; I name-dropped the mag and my stint writing for it, but quickly followed suit by talking Jam. Imagine my surprise when they revealed one bit of standing-in-line-for-a-freaking-poster-allure; these two were from Caracas, Venezuela and had flown in just for the gig.
These two epitomized dedication, or insanity depending on how much you like “Jeremy.” Pearl Jam has never visited Venezuela and I assume after awhile you just get sick of hearing “The Waiting Is The Hardest Part” on classic rock radio. Better to get on a flight than swear off Tom Petty for good, I figure. Their motives might have been why we’d all found each other in this line-up after all. Minutes earlier, when a cougar-ish woman wondered out loud what was happening, I remarked openly:
“I’m not proud of what I do. But I also wouldn’t trade this spot for any other place in the world.”
And now, I had a bit of that world on my side too. We skipped past the inane bullshit and decided to get comfortable as quick as possible. These are the rules of a roadtrip and it felt damn close to a roadtrip by this stage. We were hungry, sweaty and had no idea where we were, really.
Slowly, a few people gave up and hopped over the barrier. My resolve wasn’t weaning; I’d made a promise to lady luck that I’d grab a poster. If I had to prove anything, it was that I followed through on my sober promises.
And it seemed like judgement day was now approaching. A few official looking dudes approached the hoard of us. Seconds earlier, now crushed against each other, the three of us decided that if this all worked out we’d meet up outside the walls of this prison of rock and roll dedication and head out for a drink before the gig. Fuck knows I needed someone to talk to.
It all happened so fast, and it all ended so quickly as well. A megaphone was raised while another dude brought out what looked like thousands of wristbands. The sweaty mess of 5 dollar bills that I’d nearly suffocated in my pockets were out in a heartbeat. And they quickly returned. To combat the previous night’s “Fiasco,” wristbands were being issued early. These wristbands would not ensure a poster, but merely to ensure those in line at this moment would even be eligible for the next stage of wristbands.
I heard every curse word in a typical New Yorkers vocabulary soon afterward. But no one turned those wristbands away; it became even more of a mess. I made a joke about Ed Vedder waiting in the wings in dark sunglasses, having a good ol’ laugh at the hoops all of us would jump through. No one found that one too funny.
I asked Jesus if he’d brought his good luck charm. He looked down at Belladina and smiled with restrained affection. Fuck me, I thought. Is that lemon juice you’re drinking, sir?
“And what about you? What do Canadians consider to be good luck?”
“Whatever it might be my friend, I certainly don’t have it.” It wasn’t my intention to sound so damn pathetic, but some emotions just can’t be contained.
Jesus put a hand on my shoulder (Proximity left him little options otherwise) in a manner which seemed rehearsed (Only because he probably realized what his name meant very early on in his life) yet genuine. (Because dude’s fucking name is Jesus!)
With his other hand, he reached deep into his pocket and pulled out 2 Venezuelan Bolivars. It was a colorful note, all baby blue with what looked like a tiny sparrow on it. In a weird (And rehearsed and genuine) way, it became a symbol of hope for us. I don’t think 2 Venezuelan Bolivars are considered good luck to any Venezuelans (Though as Jesus told me, what I held in my hand could buy me a drink in most bars I’d frequent in the entire country. Score) but for me, it was as if I had some momentum, something physical on my side. Someone wanted me to get a poster and rock the fuck out tonight just as much as I did.
-
The gates soon opened, letting in only 25 fans at a time. The consensus by this point was that only 250 posters were printed. As I watched those first 25 fans slip through the gates with anything but guile, I began to do a headcount of everyone in front me. As usual in situations like this, I placed my odds squarely at 50/50.
I nudged forward as much as I could without knocking anyone over, though I’m quite sure I was anything but polite. I’d lost Jesus and Belladina by this point but I was sure our pact remained. It was actually them that I thought of as I slipped my way through two standard looking male Pearl Jam fans (Slightly chunky, often travelling in pairs, baseball capped and goateed with a permanent aloofish grin) and through the gates. I’d never associated freedom with so much pressure before. And when the merch dude threw the wristband on me, I really didn’t feel much at all.
No sense of elation. No sense of all kinds of hard work being paid off. I searched for an emotion as I walked back outside towards our designated meeting spot. I tried to figure it out, I really did. Perhaps I had no one to share this accomplishment with, which might have been while I made such a bee-line for the doors again.
That being said, there were still approximately a thousand high fives between the three of us when Jesus and Belladina emerged afterwards, both sporting wristbands I was sure were more valuable than any Venezuelan currency at this point.
At the bar, I suggested a round of Pilsner Urquells, which Jesus seemed happy to comply with. We flew through that first round before Belladina made a dent in hers. He’d never sipped the grand Pils before and wanted another, which we plowed through before the moisture disappeared from Belladina’s glass. Now, this isn’t meant to express bravado in any sense. Me and Jesus, we were simply riding each other’s high. But I could sense the slightest suffering in her (A nod to Costanza, no doubt) and decided that if anything could raise her spirits (And ours, as a collective) it would be to get hyped for the gig tonight. It’s often easy to lose sight of the gig while you’re soaked in your drink of choice hours before the gig.
“So what d’you want to hear tonight anyway Belladina? What’s your favourite Pearl Jam tune?” (I could have followed all this with, “What exactly was it that called to you and made you buy a ticket that at the time of typing was a 10 hour trip that cost around $1084?”)
But at this, her heart sunk deep into her half glass of Pilsner. Jesus’s face dropped too. What had I done?
“I won’t hear anything tonight. We don’t have tickets.”
Her voice was desolate. Jesus tried desperately to look as far away from me as possible. Who were these people? Crazed collectors from who knows where or…well, that’s about as far as I got.
“What do you mean you don’t have tickets? What are we doing here right now? What are we drinking to get psyched for?”
They looked at each other and began confessing to me as if they were teenagers who’d missed a curfew. They were full of regret.
“We only bought tickets for the first night.”
“But why ? Aren’t you guys the most hardcore fans known to man? Didn’t God put you on Earth for the sole reason to accompany me tonight and prove to me that good will ultimately triumph over evil?”
As you can imagine, “But why?” was all I got out.
-
They confessed that although they were staying with Jesus’s sister, because they only heard about the gig after it went on sale they were forced to buy tickets from Ebay. And though I never checked how much they might have been, I can only imagine that they would’ve been more than the cost of a few posters.
What followed was a hotly contested debate about how much tonight’s gig would matter. Although the consensus was that last night’s gig was life-altering at worst (Did I mention that not only did the band bring the least-known Ramone on stage, which is one of those cool by uncool moments but they also elected to bring three members of their road crew on stage that added harmony as well an aesthetic that had each note topping the last) there was still the hope that tonight would be better. And in a two-night stand, that’s usually the only reason to get up for that second morning.
And there we were, standing on the brink of oblivion in New York City. It was about time to figure out exactly who the three of us were. Were we fans, or just people who would take questions to the grave like, “What could have been?” And was I idle enough after having been left alone in a city of strangers for a day to just, well, stand by, idly?
“Why don’t you guys buy scalped tickets?”
This statement was met with looks of confusion all around. Thanks to my limited expertise teaching my native language, I was able to convince them that getting scalpers wasn’t only a legit idea but it was something a couple of Venezuelans could do. Jesus spoke tersely to Belladina in Spanish, convincing her that this was something that happened at many Venezuelan soccer and baseball games. And that was all it took; they were on board.
It was more than just motivational speaking that made me want to see them at the gig. After all, the road is an imposing force. Very often when you’re away from home it’s easy to fall into the road’s trap. You say to yourself, well, look at how far I’ve come, isn’t that an achievement in and of itself?
While that is a wholeheartedly valid argument, under the circumstances it just didn’t seem like a hitter I felt like dignifying by pitching too. After all, if Pearl Jam had subscribed to that methodology years ago, they probably wouldn’t be playing at Madison Square Garden that night. The road is a force that your soul must oblige to whenever called upon.
And slowly, the two of them warmed to that prospect. It didn’t hurt that me and Jesus were now four deep and he seemed to be a master of persuasion too. He continued to speak tersely to her; though she did seem excited she provided the voice of reason.
“How much do scalped tickets cost?”
It would have been easier to convince them that tickets were affordable had they not paid exorbitant amounts of money for the first night’s seats. But there was a sense of unrest within me that deemed it not only appropriate but mandatory that those two be at the gig tonight. And when things get as serious as that, telling white lies usually becomes of the essence.
“Oh, it won’t be much. Nobody wants to see the opening band, right?”
We all collectively glanced at our watches and realized that with somewhere around 4 and a half hours before Pearl Jam graced the stage that booze took precedent over the opening band.
“So how much then, for two tickets? We don’t care where we sit.”
“It might not come to that; scalpers usually have the best or the worst seats in the building.”
“Well, we’ll take the worst then.”
By our sixth pint to her second, she was convinced. Jesus and I were already discussing logistics, but she piped up like a rocket from the proverbial crypt and proclaimed to us (And what felt like the rest of the bar) that she was “Excited” for tonight’s gig. She was onboard. Jesus had to proclaim this to the entire bar himself.
“OK. It’s official. She’s onboard!”
With that, Belladina proceeded to drink two pints in the span of our next half-pints. And in that span, she’d proceeded to catch upto us. Now, there was no need to disappoint her. As we left, we caught a glimpse of dusk before quickly becoming accustomed to it. It seemed as infinite as the possibilities.
That is until Jesus tried to snag $150 out of a Citibank. (An amount for some reason I thought would be appropriate, knowing full well that $150 wouldn’t even buy regularly priced tickets) He was met with the realization that so many of us face with a half-hearted smile: insufficient funds.
So now what? Tread lightly into the night? Belladina began to grow anxious. He tried three other banks, though they all provided him with the same realization. Only dealing in Venezeulan Bolivars, he had exceeded his weekly allowance. Being part of the distant axis of evil had its drawbacks, I suppose.
Ted Leo was now well into his set and I began to wonder how this was going to turn out. The sun set was setting, I had one of those impatient drunks brewing within me and I had to piss like all hell. We tried two scalpers, though with Jesus’s outright affability and lack of guile (And more importantly, lack of cash) it was all they could do to not laugh at us. They were starting to seem dejected. They needed some luck.
I went to offer Jesus those 2 bolivars before realizing what I actually should be offering. I had $125 left to my name and 24 hours left in New York City. And that’s when the most self-less realization I’ve ever had batted me over the head. It might have been the first, indeed.
-
Though Jesus was terribly selfless he still knew his priorities. He couldn’t have been able to get back on that flight back to Caracas without wondering what “Could have been.” I asked him if I could lend him some money. They had $75 between them, and my $125 might have put him in the buying range.
Now, although his face showed interest in the offer, his lady showed otherwise. She didn’t want to put me out. However, I’m sure she didn’t want to disappoint her man either. This was not her time to speak ill of the Jam and the possibilities.
“But how could I pay you back? Don’t you leave for Toronto tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I do. But that’s not what’s really important here.”
And it wasn’t. I can’t exactly remember what transpired during our three-hour conversation to get psyched for a show only one of us had tickets for, but I know it was relevant and important. In some strange manner, I saw a bit of myself in these two fans. I saw my desperate longing of years previous in which I’d lose my cool to be at a gig. Now I know these two were keeping their hats on straight, but their frowns were beginning to bring me down. If I let them go now, odds are I’d never see them again. And if I didn’t share my post-show elation with them tonight, odds are I’d end up hanging with the vagabonds tonight.
So I dug deep into my pockets and pulled out all $125. That’d give them $200, which if they waited long enough would hopefully give them enough for two tickets in the back. At this, they freaked out. But they had to take it. They refused, and I nearly had to force it down their throats. But I’d calmed my drunk and spoke honestly to them.
“Just get inside. Just see tonight.”
They argued, but I repeated my sentiment. And I don’t mean to sound prophetic, but it sounded like the command I’d wished I’d heard so many times before.
“Just get inside. Just see tonight.”
And that was that. They took the cash. We arranged a spot to meet afterwards, though I can’t remember exactly where it was. And I’m not sure if I remembered it as soon as I left them, either
-.
Inside the Garden, everyone looked beat. Which is a good sign, considering most of the crowd were repeat offenders. I found my seat side stage, made time with a few more repeat offenders (Including a couple pushing 50 who’d seen over 100 Pearl Jam gigs but couldn’t pinpoint their favourite gig, for some reason) and readied myself for the gig. From side stage, alone, the Garden seemed to be bursting at the seams.
When Pearl Jam appeared, I tried to maintain focus. (Again) That is until some dude two rows down threw a packed bowl my way. I realized then that this might be the last time I see Pearl Jam for another five years; why not enjoy the shit?
I didn’t spend much time in my seat; I tried to make it down as far as I could, occupying whatever empty seat I could find. When it came time to take a piss, I swaggered to the can. And there, I remembered why I had adopted that swagger.
As I unzipped during the tripped out bridge/jam of “Rearviewmirror” I felt my hand shaking. It wasn’t my dependency on bad alcohol catching up with me; it was the ground shaking beneath me.
-
Flashing back to New York City 2003, the gig famously captioned on “Live At The Garden,” arguably their best concert DVD, Ed returns from an encore break to make sense of what had just happened during their set closer, “Do The Evolution.”
He details how fucked up it felt, having the stage moving beneath him and the rest of the band. Apparently this was a first for the Jam but not for the mighty Garden. The likes of the Grateful Dead, Bruce Springsteen and Iron Maiden had elicited this kind of crazed response years earlier.
It was happening again. As I was shaking myself dry, it all came rushing back to me: this had happened last night too. Fuck! Had I not been semi-sober tonight, would I have actually been able to recount that emancipating feeling of the ground shaking beneath me in a totally benign fashion? I won’t answer that question; I’ll just get back to my seat.
And there, I was left simply to watch and indulge a little more, with a few overpriced pints and help from that dude two rows ahead. (Or was it behind, now?) They dived deep into cuts I never thought I’d have the pleasure of hearing. (1991’s “Garden,” 1996’s “I’m Open” and 1993’s “Rats,” to name a few) They took the pressure I’d put on them and banished it into the proverbial endzone. This was what I’d hoped for. I couldn’t look away, or look back either. This was what being mesmerized feels like, I remember telling myself.
It came in the second encore, too; what being completely and utterly surprised feels like. As “Why Go?” ended in the second encore, I expected to hear one more hit and a traditional closer and call it a night. Life-altering indeed, but at the same time, nothing that would go down the Jam Hall of Awesome. But when Ed steps upto the mic, he commands an audience that Obama guy could only hope to rival.
He rambled on about a few guys lead guitarist Mike McCready had looked upto in his youth. Dudes like Richards and Vaughan were name dropped before Vedder stumbled onto the last one, a dude he thought “Came before all those other ones.” (Something history would take up a quarrel with, I’m sure) And though my knowledge of rock and roll history wasn’t riding high at that point, I was still gasping for air when Ed told the Garden that Ace Freehley was about to come onstage.
Now, I don’t find anything endearing about KISS. Makeup in rock and roll sucks balls, and “Detroit Rock City” was barely a tolerable movie. But when Pearl Jam beckoned Ace Freehley onstage, there was little I could do but laugh my ass off. This was really happening. As I’ve been told, for a gig to be great “Something has to happen.”
And “Almost Famous” be damned; it was happening. Watching Pearl Jam play is like having a thin cloud of smoke cast five feet in front of you. And though everything looks better through that cloud, there’s still something that begs you to fight through that cloud. Yet no matter how hard you try, that cloud keeps getting thicker and things keep sounding better. And if you surrender yourself to that cloud, the tunes will keep you afloat for longer than you thought rock and roll’s expiry date could ever be.
Speaking of clouds, chew on this one too; catching the band work together was like watching a stick of incense burn indoors. How did each strand of smoke blend together without any influence of the wind? How did Matt know to accentuate each one of Ed’s howls? How did Jeff and Stone become as in sync as two gusts of wind themselves? How did a few instruments and amps seem to produce this aura around the band that again, while righteous in appearance still seemed effortless? Or, to make it as apparent as it seemed to me during “Corduroy,” the fourth track, how did they manage to lace this seemingly harmless pot with something much, much more potent? And how did no one else notice? I looked around during the bridge and realized that in fact, another 19,999 Pearl Jam fans did indeed notice.
-
As soon as the houselights came back on, I tried desperately to breath new life into my lungs but not my soul. I looked around; I’d ended up twenty rows closer than I’d started, two sections to the left. A palpable part of me wanted to do something I hadn’t done in ages after a gig; take a seat, light a smoke and watch everyone tread slowly on deep water, trying desperately to make their way out.
But so much had changed in the last two days; I didn’t have more than $8 of my savings from 10 months in Istanbul. And I’d found myself void of the best friendship I ever knew while on the verge of something spectacularly friendly that could only be born out of punk-infused classic rock dedication. When that thought smacked me upside the head, I stumbled around and went after my poster. That poster, the singular idea of it had become my driving force in this city. It had become my familiarity. This was me reaping the rewards of rock and roll dedication.
The Garden was a buzz as I scattered throughout the wings. Faces blended into one. Nobody needed to consult any message boards. What had happened over the past two nights had rendered all of us light on our feet and heavy in our hearts. It was over now; as long as something happened next to take our mind off the fact that it might be another five years until nirvana, then we might be able to find some sleep. For me, it was that poster.
As we (Whoever I happened to be standing beside for a period of three and a half seconds) stormed down a set of stairs, we heard a rumble in the stairways and throughout the Garden. And though I didn’t spot anyone else with a poster bracelet, the mad dash grew prolific and poised for the finish line. I continued to let the momentum sweep me off my sweaty feet.
And then I was there, in the line-up for a poster. As everyone piled out beside me, I encountered exactly as many taunts, drunken belligerence (And sadly, I could barely come up with any constructive comebacks. For brief moments, I agreed with them) and endless offers for my poster. But I couldn’t stray from my path. I soon made it to the front of the line and saw the posters being handed out before their patrons headed out into the night.
And then I was there, with my hand out, showing proof of my existence in the form of a shitty black and white spotted wristband. And just then, my existence was brought home to me. Or better yet, it came crashing down on my back.
I felt the weight of the Northern Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea on my back. But when I turned around, I saw a smile that could have seeped up both those bodies of water on substance and emotion alone. It was Jesus. He had appeared before me. And he was speaking to me. How fucking cool!
Jesus and Belladina had made it inside on the strength of their combined cash, my contribution, will and determination alone. But superlatives, ego-boosts and adjectives aside, they had made it in. And after he mauled me, bear-hugged me and refused to let go, I got an idea of how much he appreciated my favour. Oh, how redeeming it felt to be standing there (Or anywhere) and actually wanting to be where I was. I ended up grabbing Jesus back and refusing to let go. We were quite close to losing out place in line.
-
After the three of us left the Garden (They ended up selling one of their posters to some dude for $300 almost immediately after they had bought them and promptly restored my faith in the money-lending business) we found ourselves in the same bar we started at. We were a wash of emotion; I continued to remind them how elated I felt to have Jesus confirm the fact that there was good in the world and that he was the embodiment of that good. Just two drinks had thrown me headfirst over the edge. Jesus and I remained locked in our hearts; antiquated rock and roll brought us together for the rest of the night. I’m beginning to write in flowery sentences, but that’s only because that’s how we felt. We would not shut up about the minute, innate details. What had Mike been wearing? What were the special, subversive meanings behind playing certain songs? And more importantly, how much would this friendship of ours matter in the morning?
We were still awake at 4 in the morning, so I was close to reckoning that it might. Finding each other was the easy part. Even the performances delivered themselves rather easily. There is now a rather large part of me that will associate New York City and those gigs with Jesus and Belladina. Which is why it wasn’t easy for me to say goodbye. But again, I’m getting flowery.
The greatest concert I’ve ever seen? Maybe. Somehow, had I never met Jesus and Belladina, I’m quite sure those gigs still would have been greater than a bag full of great things. But we found ourselves in that line-up, at our weakest yet strongest point. We re-affirmed a certain sense of pride in each other. And we sure loosened each other up a hell of a lot too. Getting that out of someone you’re almost positive you’ll never see again ought to be the photo that’s printed directly beside “Life-altering” in the dictionary, if such a thing existed.
And me and my girl? We ended up in Vancouver and survived the flood. We listen to the Madison Square Garden bootlegs together very, very often, usually in silence and appreciation. But now, she always carries a key in her pocket. And me, I carry a purpose, a little bit of self-definition and 2 Venezuelan Bolivars if for no other reason than to remind me that the New York City isn’t just a place you see in the movies, though it is one wrought with cliches.
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[1] After the day that the gigs had become a permanent fixture on the horizon. I had sweat it out, smoking 28 cigarettes in one day, waiting until 5 p.m. Istanbul time, 10 a.m. Eastern time to find a secure internet connection and buy tickets online, punching in my details with the trepidation of an antelope bathing wide out in the open of the East African countryside. I’d bet a pound of antelope meat that most people who’ve purchased tickets to a “Big gig” online know the feeling
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