•
Rating:
Some people go to concerts out of curiosity, some for the chaos, and others for the pleasure of listening to live music. And then there are those who go to concerts because they have an almost physical need, and by the end of those two hours, they have produced such an amount of endorphins that the next day they will feel an unbearable sensation of withdrawal. A dependency is always a dependency, so let's call these people by their name. Let's call them addicted-to-rock. I am firmly convinced that among the ranks of Pearl Jam fans, there is a high percentage of these rock addicts.
I saw Pearl Jam for the first time in Rome in 1996, and since then, every time I've gone back to see them, it seemed like I recognized some of those faces that speak for themselves, and by looking at them, you understand that these are people who have awaited these live shows just as much as you have. They've made incredible efforts to reconcile everything (work, study, families, significant geographical distances), and now that they're there, they dream of the perfect concert, the perfect setlist, while fully knowing that it can be dangerous. Dreams rarely come true. The subculture of addicted-to-rock was eager to enter Piazza Duomo in Pistoia on Wednesday night, and while waiting, they tried to rationalize: this tour has been going on for months, they must be exhausted, and then they're not 20 anymore, it's already the fifth date in Italy, and the song I wanted to hear was played just two or three nights ago… Precautionary thoughts…
But the first blow to the heart came before they could expect it, even before the opening of My Morning Jacket when, from the right of the stage, he appeared, alone, confident like the king of the world and humble like the last worker at the service of music: Eddie Vedder gave us a poignant "Throw Your Arms Around Me," the ballad by Hunters & Collectors that hadn't been played under European skies for 14 years. Eddie greets us in Italian, introduces the supporting band, and sings with them the first song, lending his voice as a simple backing vocalist. It's already ecstasy for the subculture in question, for those who know how rare, precious, and memorable these performances are.
But for the start of the real concert, Pearl Jam chooses their wild side, and the Barrettian and tight Interstellar Overdrive is followed by that explosion of pride and venom that is Corduroy, introduced by a guitar riff that first is velvet and then turns into sandpaper. It will take another 5 songs before the heartbeat begins to slow down: Rearviewmirror crashes down like thunder on the square and opens up to a quartet taken from the latest album, which definitely sounds more convincing live than on the record. Life Wasted, Worldwide Suicide, Severed Hand, and Unemployable may not shine for their originality but make people jump, scream, and still have their own force, testifying that what's setting the sky on fire tonight is the sacred flame of rock 'n' roll. Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town arrives like calm after an earthquake, with the 9,000 in the square singing it word for word, and it will be this way for nearly all 33 songs (either all the English speakers of Italy are here tonight, or it's not true that in this country even the young people don't know English…) just like the splendid Dissident: two pearls from an album, Versus, that sound wonderful despite countless listens, and this goes for almost the entire decade-spanning repertoire of Pearl Jam: these tracks have not gathered the melancholic patina of memory.
That slightly rhetorical and stale effect that some pieces from the past, even the true classics, can evoke, enchanting you only because they remind you of a time that seems better only because it's already over, does not apply to them. We understand that the other night was the 502nd time Alive was played live: and it sounded like the most beautiful song in the world. Just like Even Flow and Why Go (which confirm that you can tremble and sweat together), just like Given To Fly and Not For You, whose ending leads into a snippet of Modern Girl by the beloved Slater Kinney, because there's a city we all come from, somehow, here, tonight, and it's Seattle. Amidst what one might expect, but which doesn't enchant any less because of it, arrive pearls (it fits) that surprise with their beauty and rarity. They are called Breath, I Got Id, Crazy Mary and they bring tears to your eyes. Literally. The first Encore also brings us a stunning, long, moving Black, with Eddie, at the end, placing his hand on his heart and keeping it there for several minutes, trying to show the audience the point where he will store all the warmth, support, and energy rising from the square. The second Encore literally thunders with (among others) Last Exit, Do the Evolution, Spin the Black Circle: if someone entered the square at that moment, they would swear we are at the start of a concert when adrenaline and physical form are at their highest levels, after which they can only go down. Yet, incredibly, at that point, it had been almost three hours that Pearl Jam was playing and almost three hours that the audience was screaming and jumping, and it's hard to determine where there is more electricity, above or below the stage. The duo of Rockin' In The Free World and Yellow Ledbetter means, for the addicted-to-rock, that the concert ends here. Epic, unforgettable, perfect.
And if the final result is one of perfection, it is because the individual elements contributing to it are nothing less: Matt Cameron, the best drummer the PJ have ever had, Mike McCready, who has stopped pretending to be Hendrix and found his own dimension, Stone Gossard, inspired, captivating, the band's guide, Jeff Ament, who will always be 23 years old, and Eddie Vedder, the greatest voice in rock overall. It is them, they are the greatest, and they are here for us. Pearl Jam has fallen in love with Italy, it's official. These 3 hours of music, these 33 songs have poured authentic waves of passion onto those who had the fortune to hear (in the sense of "to feel") them live. And as the addicted-to-rock leave the square, they feel a sensation rising inside them that they know well, that of the end of a dream, of a moment that crystallizes into memory. Forever. Now, perhaps, the saddest lesson one learns growing up is that it's wise not to dream too much. We said it at the beginning: it's only because dreams rarely come true, not for anything else. A concert like the one the other night is a fantastic way to forget this lesson and who taught it to us.
Loading comments slowly
