Reviews (or Yapping Just to Hear Myself Yap)

Eddie Vedder at the Opera House: And this is my last post about the man. Geez, I’m even boring myself.

I’ve seen a few one-man shows – Christopher Plummer as Barrymore, Patti Smith, Henry Rollins… Granted, none of these are mainstream rock stars, and the first was more a play, but these folks are not without their share of fame, and the audiences were smart enough to respect each other and the performers by realizing they were witnessing something unique.

This is what I expected when I went to see Eddie Vedder on August 1. My expectations fell short. Choice of material? Brilliant. His performance was stellar. How could it not be? So this is a review of the audience, rather than a music critique.

I think that ninety-five percent of the audience was there in search of that unique experience but it was the remainig 5% that marred the evening for me, and I think I can say that they annoyed Mr. Vedder as well. From my perch on the balcony’s edge, I could see him bristling at the mindless screams and cringing at the “We love you, Eddie!” chants. And the demands for Pearl Jam songs yelled every time the poor man tried to speak! (Hello, people, you didn’t come to see Pearl Jam.)

He tried courtesy; then succumbed to blatant rebukes, insulting Red Sox Nation by negatively comparing that clique to New York. Yet, these fans were too dull to get the hint. And so, Mr. Vedder shut down – he gave a great performance but one sensed that it was only a shadow of what he’d intended. I left feeling frustrated and unsatisfied, as if the night wept with unfilled potential. A bit flowery, I know, but true.

So I when the opportunity arose to grab a second row seat for August 2, I went again. This time, Mr. Vedder was prepared and immediately warned the audience to behave, as a parent must address a toddler before taking him into a fancy restaurant. It didn’t work completely, but the night was closer to what I had expected, an intimate event filled with songs and campfire confessions. If only the jocks had stayed home to get drunk while playing air guitar to a Pearl Jam CD, the night would have been perfect.

The funny thing is, this small group of brain-dead louts were once the kids that bullied the long hair skater freaks in high school (ahem, the Eddie Vedder types). Now, he is their hero. I doubt they even get the irony. But the saddest thing is, if they could return to high school, knowing what they know now, they’d still go beat up those skater kids. They don’t learn. All they know is a belligerent sort of worship in their desire to live through the live of another, be it Tom Brady or Eddie Vedder.

Then again, I’m no better. That they say their prayers too loud, better to hear themselves than to hear the voice of the one they idolize, is really no different than my listening, silent, with straining ears for some kernel of wisdom. It sort of taught me a lesson about spirituality and the Great Spirit, but that’s an entry for my personal journal.

Plus, where is my own courage? I regret not standing up on behalf of the artist and his quiet fans to entreat these yahoos to keep silent. My father did that once at an oratory event. He'd had enough of the rude patrons talking and laughing over the speakers. The action stunned me at the time and since I was a kid, sort of embarrassed me until one of my peers went over to him after to shake his hand in thanks. Now, of course, I see that he was incredibly brave, a champion for human rights.

And truly, when it comes down to it, the only thing that would have made such an experience perfect would be Eddie Vedder hanging out in our living room, playing guitar and chatting over a beer and some good food. As well as winning the lottery. So let’s move on.

Books…

The Lives They Left Behind by Darby Penney and Peter Statstny. Recommended to me by a friend who is mutually in love with the old Worcester State Asylum. Most of the buildings are destroyed now, but the old clock tower remains, and both for its architecture and history deserves to be remembered.

Anyway, the book is a non-fiction account of the lives of a handful of patients who lived at Willard Asylum in New York at the start of the 20th Century. Hundreds of suitcases were found in the attic of the institution and the authors chose a few to trace the history of each owner both pre- and post-institution. Amazing the range of patients – some were just misfits, some truly ill, and some temporarily depressed. Each tale reveals a glimpse into life at asylums that were originally built to restore morality and compassion to the mentally ill. Unfortunately, as with any well-intentioned human endeavor, the system sort of fell in upon itself. You know, the road to hell and all. A fascinating and melancholy read. For a good scare after reading, because we are all depraved, rent Session Nine. And check out this site.

The Outlaw Demon Wails by Kim Harrison. Had a hard time with the first half of the book and before you anticipate a negative review, think again. Rachel (and the novel) seemed to be plodding along. Plus I resented Marshal’s place by her side and am utterly frustrated with the relationship between Rachel and Ivy -- they are so right for eah other as best friends but anything more just seems like a trite plot development.

Then I realized (halfway through), that I was in mourning -- I missed Kisten way too much -- and I almost gave the series up. I read a little further and it all snapped into place. Rachel was is mourning, too, as was the author. So kudos, yet again, to Harrison for carrying her reader right along through Rachel’s life. Harrison pays the appropriate respects to Kisten then allows Rachel to begin to live again.

And how she begins! There is major character growth (for Ivy and Trent as well), new relationship aspects to explore (her mom, Quen, Al, among others) and some amazing secrets revealed. The book ends happy, all tied up in a bow, with plenty of frayed ends for the next installment. A great escape.

Just starting: Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States in anticipation of the forthcoming television event and Alistair MacLeod’s No Great Mischief.

Not on My iPod but Wish They Were: Sun Kil Moon, Damien Rice, and The Cave Singers.

Blog of Note: Love Patricia Kennealy-Morrisons’s post on John Edwards’s idiocy. And China’s injustice. The woman ain’t afraid to speak her mind! Check it out here.

Website of Note: My blog is a frivolous one, bred for escapism, but this one speaks of a reality we, as Americans, have no right to ignore or brush aside. Thank you, Tomas Young.