Pearl Jam
Yield

THE REVIEW

2 words: Fury and rock, to encapsulate the latest noteworthy effort of PJ.
Fury is what the album lacks. At least in relation to its illustrious predecessors, with "Ten" above all. The voice is still that powerful, slightly paternal one of good old Vedder; the riffs are still those vaguely grungy ones from the well-known discography. But the band no longer assaults microphones, guitars, drums, and whatever else with the divine fury that inevitably accompanies those who know they carry the unbearable lightness of eyes, fists, and clenched teeth of a generation. And this is not always a bad thing. However, it no longer has that inspirational fury that perhaps some would call catharsis (a trendy term I almost feel a bit embarrassed to use), that leads you to scream with teeth clenched in searing anger and pain, clinging to a stand because nothing matters anymore except shouting.
Rock is what the album retains. Despite everything. And the rock is the pure kind, the kind that gives a „f*** you“ to everyone, the kind where we all jump together like we're one thing, one body, one sentiment.
And after a while, you realize that this CD is just a simple legitimate change of perspective. In short, we are no longer in the humid and slightly sinister night of a Seattle among smoky manholes and vagabonds warming their ungloved fingers with timid bonfires on the sidewalks. Instead, we are in a Mustang with a broken left mirror and taillight speeding at one-twenty on an Arizona wasteland, among tumbleweeds and arid bushes. One looks at the horizon and talks about what has been.
Five guys with slightly greyed hair, but still wearing ripped jeans.

It's in this context that Yield finds its most natural fragrance. Frankly embarrassing in every attempt not to be what it is (see "War"), the album still holds its subtle and slightly rough poetry, in the slightly tired and somewhat reflective, yet still sufficiently angry eyes of those five long-haired guys leaning against their Mustang admiring the sunset.