The Reason I’ll Be Back: Eddie Vedder, Live at the Warner Theatre in D.C., 8.16.08//8.17.08

Eddie Vedder spent two nights in my town this weekend—and, to think, I was only going to see him once.

I was one of the few lucky ones last month who managed to score a fan club ticket to the first of two immediate sellout performances at D.C.’s intimate Warner Theatre (about 1,800 seats, the smallest venue on this brief East Coast tour); there couldn’t have been more than a few hundred available, and they were gone, literally, in seconds. Having paid attention to the somewhat static setlists from his West Coast swing in April, I figured one night would be enough.

That is, of course, until I pulled a fourth-row seat for Night 2 on Saturday afternoon (thanks Red Mosquito!). With that ticket waiting right there on my screen, I couldn’t turn it down.

Definitely the right decision.

As he’s gotten more comfortable with this whole solo gig thing, the setlists have started to open up quite a bit. During Sunday night’s performance, Ed mentioned he’s worked up about 60 songs in total for this “experiment” as he calls it (hence the lab coats); during his twofer in D.C., he played 38 of them, and if I were to have missed either show, I’d be kicking myself today.

And wow, even with 16 repeats from Night 1 to Night 2, the two shows were quite different in feel and tone. Saturday night, Ed was very loose, gabbing it up heavily between songs (thus you get a nearly three-hour show). There was quite a bit of political banter, as expected (he told one heckler the second night: “If you didn’t think you were gonna get a heavy does of this, what the f**k were you thinking?”). Both nights Ed introduced Paul McCartney’s “Blackbird” by commenting on its roots as a civil rights anthem, and how he’s adapted it to his vision of Obama as president (Ed’s supporting Obama—shocker). “Masters of War” was its usual stellar self (Ed absolutely nails this song), made even more potent by the venue’s close proximity to the White House (which Ed mentioned). Sunday night featured Ed’s lame rendition of folk protest song “Here’s to the State,” and both nights’ sets included his own (poor) anti-war anthem, “No More” (Saturday’s performance did feature a touching intro about the song’s inspiration, injured Iraq war veteran Tomas Young, whom Ed said has taken an unfortunate turn for the worse in recent weeks).

My favorite politically oriented speech came Saturday (I forget the song), when he mentioned how ridiculous the whole political realm has gotten in this country, where it’s like we’re all rooting for our favorite sports team. He went on to say you should never say “I’ll never vote for a Democrat, or I’ll never vote for a Republican” (even though he DOES say that in “Even Flow,” but whatever …). He referenced the departed Johnny Ramone, a dear friend of Ed’s and a staunch Republican; Ed said the conversations they had were important, and beneficial to them both. I always bring up Johnny whenever someone asks me how I, a conservative, can be a Pearl Jam fan, so it was nice to finally hear that from Ed himself.

But there was plenty other great stuff in there, besides politics. I don’t take notes when I go to shows, but at a given Pearl Jam concert I can typically remember most of the unique highlights; I had no chance after these two shows back to back, though. A favorite moment from Saturday included his explanation of the whole “experiment” mentality of this tour. He said he saw a photo of a Beatles recording session and the producers were standing at the board wearing what looked like lab coats, which inspired him to adopt them for him and his crew. He also provided a lengthy discussion of his involvement with “Into the Wild” and, specifically, his posthumous love for the man that film was based on, Chris McCandless. It was a touching preface to the mid-concert suite of “ITW” material.

I love how he’s put the batch of songs off the soundtrack together to basically tell McCandless’ story; on Saturday, he even mumbled, “And his story starts like this …” leading into “Setting Forth.” When I wrote about this album last year, I was disappointed several of these songs weren’t fleshed out more and simply edited down to fit the movie. He doesn’t alter them in the live setting, either, but they do take on extra power because you can see, hear, and feel how important they are to him. Quite remarkable.

The “ITW” run was definitely a highlight of both nights: He attacks “Far Behind” with all the vigor captured on the album, while “Guaranteed” and especially “Rise” are beautiful, the latter featuring brilliant work by Ed on the mandolin (the only song he knows on the f***king thing, he told us Saturday).

***

Let me take a moment here to address “Guaranteed,” in particular. As the final song of both the album and the film, it serves as Ed’s summary of McCandless’ life. The fourth of six verses goes like this:

Everyone I come across, in cages they bought
They think of me and my wandering, but I’m never what they thought
I’ve got my indignation, but I’m pure in all my thoughts
I’m alive

Performing this song live, Ed really hits that “I’m alive,” and I realized he could have written “Guaranteed”—and especially this verse—about himself, too. One of my favorite Pearl Jam moments of all time was Ed’s discussion of “Alive” during 2006’s “VH1 Storytellers,” where he said a song he’d originally written about pain and betrayal has been transformed into one of hope by the band’s audience. This verse could be his way of putting that feeling into song—making “Guaranteed” a companion piece, or an answer to, “Alive,” 17 years later. Chris McCandless was trying to escape what he felt was an oppressive, predetermined life, while for decades now Ed's been trying to escape a painful childhood that could have so easily predetermined his path—and probably would have, had it not been for music. Consider some other scattered lines from “Guaranteed”:

“All my destinations will accept the one that’s me/So I can breathe” (“breath” is a recurring theme in Ed’s writing)
“Circles they grow and they swallow people whole”
“Holding me like gravity are places that pull”
“Late at night I hear the trees, they’re singing with the dead” (“Release,” anyone?)

Matter of fact, the entire “Into the Wild” album could be read as Ed subtext. How about this verse from “Rise”:

Gonna rise up
Burning black holes in dark memories
Gonna rise up
Turning mistakes into gold

Or this stanza from “No Ceiling”:

I been wounded
I been healed
Now for landing I been
Landing I been cleared

And, finally, the last line of the entire record, from “Guaranteed”: “I knew all the rules, but the rules did not know me/Guaranteed”. Like “I’m alive,” he really hits that last word, as if it’s a proclamation.

***

Anyway, back to the shows … So, so many great moments of music. Just about all of the choices Ed’s made for these solo gigs have been spot on, fitting his voice perfectly. While his guitar playing has obviously greatly improved over the years, his vocal performance over the course of these two nights was amazing. I’m having trouble keeping my list of favorites to only 10:

• “I Am Mine” was a surefire standout, and has this summer—upon hearing it live for the first time—become an all-time PJ fave. On record, it’s a little too simple an arrangement for the full band, and leaves me feeling like they didn’t have enough to do. This is mostly solved in the live setting due to the energy they always bring to every performance, but “I Am Mine” is most at home with just Ed and a guitar, including some furiously fast strumming on his part.

• “Forever Young” is a tremendous cover choice from deep in the Dylan catalog. Ed’s version is slower, more serious, and, yes, superior to the original, from Dylan’s 1974 “Planet Waves.”

• “Far Behind”/“Rise”/“Millworker” was my favorite run of songs from Night 1. I still can’t get over how good “Rise” sounds on that mandolin, and “Millworker” rivals “Forever Young” as my favorite cover from the experience, for basically the same reasons.

• I was desperately hoping for “Throw Your Arms Around Me,” one of my all-time fave Vedder covers. The two-man version with Liam Finn is excellent.

• My love for “Hard Sun” is well documented at this point, so it comes as no surprise this show-closer was phenomenal. Ed uses a reel-to-reel deck on stage to play the main backing track, then adds Finn on drums and straps on his own electric guitar for the accent parts. It’s perfect. Exhilarating doesn’t even come close. Spiritual is more accurate.

• I was actually in the building when “Parting Ways” made its live debut back in 2000. I’ve grown to appreciate the “Binaural” finale even more since, and Vedder’s electric version with Finn is, well, electric.

• Winning the award for Surprise of the Weekend was the totally unexpected “All Along the Watchtower,” made doubly cool when Ed told Fugazi drummer Brendan Canty to put down his video camera (Canty was part of the crew filming the show for, hopefully, an eventual DVD release) and get behind the drum kit for this roof-raiser. Two “Watchtowers” in two months—and both shockers!

• “Driftin’” feels like a throwaway Christmas single jaunt, which, yeah, it is. Except for the fact that when Ed plays it, he throws every ounce of effort into it and just nails the thing. I love this song.

• And, finally, the no-question-about-it highlight of both nights: “Arc,” which closes the first encore. Here Ed records a series of wordless vocal strains and loops one over top of the others so they fit together perfectly and fill the theater with about a dozen different variations on his voice. Sunday night I was sitting only a few feet from the speakers, and when he added a bass hum to the mix, it rattled my chest. He then moved back to the main mic and adds an insurgent howl part similar to what you hear on “The Wolf” from “Into the Wild,” which gave me goosebumps. Finally, he finishes the recordings and walks the front of the stage, shaking hands with everyone (I missed him by a few feet, but oh well, I’ve had my moment for a PJ lifetime), while the symphony of Eds continues to play. It’s the most inspired moment of an inspirational evening.

But as is always the case with Eddie Vedder, you have to take the good with the bad. His freewheelin’ vibe invited a barrage of loud, ludicrous comments from a handful of drunk or otherwise obnoxious cretins in the crowd. In a venue this small, even the people at the back of the balcony could easily be heard down at stage level. Take that intimacy and mix in a good bit of alcohol, and you have a recipe that’s anywhere from annoying to nearly disastrous. Saturday was especially bad, as people just WOULD. NOT. SHUT. UP. Yelling out the most ridiculous things, too: “Vedder for president!” some harpie right behind me screeched; when Ed played “Sometimes,” some former frat boy over my other shoulder hollered “No Code!”—uh, yeah, we all know the album that song’s from. The cries of “I love you, Eddie” were ubiquitous. (If you want more examples, go here.)

For his part, I thought Ed could’ve handled the situation better, maybe taking a cue from Springsteen’s solo tour a few years back and laying down the ground rules early. A stern “shut up” to the most annoying hecklers probably would have helped, too, but it’s just not his style to come down hard on people who come to see him—he was one of us, too, and, really, still is. Instead—especially Saturday—he tried subtlety; unfortunately, drunk people do not take hints, and it did detract from Ed’s performance somewhat. Early on, he seemed to get pissed and flustered, flubbing several songs before locking into a groove midway through the set.

Sunday was better, as he seemed to come out of the blocks more focused and closer to the take-no-prisoners mode I've seen at previous PJ gigs. It helped changing up the show to open with “Sometimes,” thus getting the “Why isn’t he playing Pearl Jam?” crowd off his back right away. Ed addressed that particular moronic subset Sunday night, too, quipping “we were just here, what, six weeks ago?” Oh, and in case you were wondering, “Sometimes” was tremendous—much more forceful and angry than its original recording, complete with Ed using a “stomp box” for a rhythm section (basically a wooden box with a mic inside). I’ll give the crowds credit for one thing: During the actual songs everyone was deadly silent, except for the appropriate places for cheers. On Sunday Ed cut down on the between-song chatter significantly, reducing the amount of downtime for those unruly “fans” to make their mark. What really got them quiet, though, was Ed’s metaphor that the shouts sounded, to him, like a mangy dog trying to hump his leg.

In the end, what impressed me most about the two-night stand in D.C. was what I’ve always liked about Eddie Vedder for all this time: Despite his fame, fortune, and success, he still seems like a regular guy. He’s never wanted to be or acted like a rock star, and he certainly wasn’t even close to pretending to be one this weekend. He was just a guy with a batch of guitars (and his beloved uke—another great story about how much he adores that “happy little instrument”), and some songs he loves. One of my favorite little moments of the weekend came when he strapped on his electric guitar for "Parting Ways" and the spotlight reflected out into the crowd, catching his eye. "Oh, I can do that," he said, and like a kid with a new toy proceeded to bounce the light around the venue—even spotlighting the guy who apparently requested the song earlier in the day (nice choice!).

When I first fell in love with Pearl Jam, it wasn’t Ed’s lyrics or even Mike McCready’s guitar heroics that drew me in. It was the feeling their music evoked in me. It tweaked all the right buttons in my teenage self. Over the years, Pearl Jam’s music still does that—I can pogo with the best of ’em when so moved—but what’s kept me with the band all this time is their passion. Despite our difference of political beliefs, our musical ethics are right in line, and that’s the most important thing.

Regarding Ed specifically, I’ve never thought he was an exceedingly gifted lyricist (though, to be fair, poetry was never my strong suit). His most meaningful songs for me come when he’s writing from the heart; for the past decade or so, though, his material’s been predominantly from his head, leading to an overly wordy, workmanlike effort (contrast “Life Wasted” with “Marker in the Sand” from the most recent album, for instance).

Eddie Vedder’s ability to emote and connect, however, both on record and onstage, is unparalleled. He's a man who truly does live in the moment. The words may come out rough around the edges—or downright wrong—sometimes, but the intent for honest expression, interaction, and experience is always there. It’s obvious from the humble way he carries himself, how respectful he is for his fans, his peers, and his musical elders and heroes (hence, he’s the best cover artist of this—or maybe any—generation). I feel like I saw a real human being laying himself out there this weekend, warts and all, not a self-aggrandizing performer—when he called himself “a professional,” it was with tongue firmly in cheek.

This is why after the unexpected and overwhelming success of “Ten” and “Vs.” in the early ’90s, he led the band in pulling back, keeping a shred of normalcy and reality about them. This is why he esteems others’ talents and music well above his own. This is why his band’s shows continue to exceed expectations. And this is why he continues to draw thousands of fans like me, selling out arenas big and small worldwide.

So I guess the best way to wrap this whole amazing experience up is with the man’s own words. Again from “No Ceiling”:

I leave here believing more than I had
And there’s a reason I’ll be
A reason I’ll be back


Eddie Vedder
Warner Theatre
Washington, D.C.

8.16.08
Main Set:
Walking the Cow (Daniel Johnston cover)
Trouble (Cat Stevens cover)
Sometimes
I Am Mine
Dead Man
Man of the Hour
Masters of War
[new song—“Unknown Thought”?]
Setting Forth
Guaranteed
No Ceiling
Far Behind
Rise
Millworker (James Taylor cover)
Soon Forget
Goodbye
Broken Hearted [this was on the widely-circulated fan setlist, but I don’t remember it being played]
Driftin’
You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away
Lukin
Porch

First Encore:
Blackbird (Beatles cover)
Wishlist
Small Town
Society (w/Liam Finn)
Parting Ways (w/Liam Finn)
No More
Arc

Second Encore:
Hard Sun (w/Liam Finn)

Running Time: 2 hours, 45 minutes


8.17.08
Main Set:
Sometimes
Trouble (Cat Stevens cover)
Girl from the North Country (Bob Dylan cover)
Around the Bend
I Am Mine
I’m Open
Man of the Hour
Setting Forth
No Ceiling
Guaranteed
Far Behind
Rise
You’re True
Driftin’
If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out (Cat Stevens cover)
Forever Young (Bob Dylan cover)
Porch

First Encore:
Here’s to the State (John Ochs cover—sorta)
Blackbird (Beatles cover)
Society (w/Liam Finn)
Throw Your Arms Around Me (w/Liam Finn)
No More
Arc

Second Encore:
All Along the Watchtower (w/Brendan Canty of Fugazi on drums)
Hard Sun (w/Liam Finn)

Running Time: 2 hours, 20 minutes



***One final note: As I mentioned earlier, the D.C. shows were being taped, and Ed made mention of a future “document” of this tour. If this does come to pass, I will most likely be visible at least some of the time, based on my position Sunday night. I make no claims to any kind of cool-looking decorum during that show. I’m sure I looked like a complete crazy man at times. Wouldn’t have it any other way.***

'Spook Country,' William Gibson

"Obscurity is much praised by elitists, but I disdain it. The audience starts out knowing nothing about your story. It's your job, as a storyteller, to let them in on it. … What takes talent is clarity." —Orson Scott Card

Well, William Gibson don't do clarity, and that's the primary reason why I'm one of the only people I know who loves his novels. He is, almost exclusively, purposefully and doggedly obtuse. He drops you into his novels like you should already know what's going on, which, of course, you never do. I take long gaps between Gibson reads, because my mind has to be sharp and in tip-top shape to keep up with them.

All that being said, his latest novel, 2007's "Spook Country," stinks. The second novel he's written in the present (as opposed to his uncannily imagined future), this work is marred by too much intention. It's easy to imagine a situation where Gibson heard the news reports about "illegal wiretapping" and decided to write a novel about it. Or, in the least, that's the idea that set him off into "Spook Country," which deals tangentially in government conspiracies, no-bid contracts, and the like. For the first time, a Gibson novel reads along the lines of a DNC talking points memo. In a book that is so disjointed, murky, and impenetrable (even for Gibson), these obviously political references stick out like a black-helicopter strobe light in the middle of a pitch-dark night. (Speaking of "dark knights" (OK, sorta), the brilliant Christopher Nolan film does a much better job engaging this issue of surveillance than Gibson's book does).

The most egregious fault of "Spook Country," though, comes back to Gibson's actual writing. The story centers around three central characters, and Gibson devotes a chapter to each back-to-back-to-back almost exclusively until the book reaches its conclusion and the individual plotlines begin to merge. The chapters are quite brief, many less than two pages, so you never really get to know the characters at all or feel anything for them, which has always been a strong point for Gibson. One of the three (I won't tell you which one), serves almost no purpose whatsoever, and having read through the entire novel I still cannot figure out why he receives so much ink.

It's less than 30 minutes until the first Redskins' preseason game begins, and I feel I'm not being very clear, and certainly not very poignant, in my criticism, so I should just end here. "Spook Country" simply tries too hard, even for Gibson. In identifying so clearly the target of his paranoia, Gibson in turn forfeited his ability to pinpoint cultural phenomena, a skill he has been so freakishly accurate with in the past. It's the first book of his I haven't enjoyed at any level, no matter how difficult he always is to read.

Grade: C-

Class: Defined

Is it any wonder I love Art Monk?

I didn't think I could be a bigger fan of this man before this day, but his humble, classy, heartfelt, sincere, and downright bold Hall of Fame induction speech reminded me why I looked up to him as a kid, why his was the only jersey I ever wanted (which I wore today and will continue to wear every Sunday all season), why I cheered for him and rooted for his success, and why he was one of the first pop culture figures of my youth who, through his example, showed me being a Christian was OK.

Ever since he retired I had planned on going to the induction ceremony, but the details just didn't work out. I sure wish I could have been a part of that four-minute ovation, though. It was emotional just watching it on TV. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy—and, unfortunately, it rarely does. His speech made me wish I was friends with Art Monk the man, not the football player. It was simply tremendous, and like so many Redskins fans, for the last—and, perhaps, greatest—time, I am proud to call myself one of his admirers.

The long wait was definitely worth it.


Oh, and Darrell, you were great, too.

L.I.P. Tony Snow

Though I am not surprised, I am nevertheless disappointed with the coverage of the death of Tony Snow, former reporter, columnist, radio talk show host, TV anchor, and, most recently, press secretary for President Bush.

For those who don't know, on Saturday Snow, at just 53, finally lost his long and difficult bout with cancer. The coverage of his death has been all positive, from what I've seen, but every report/commentary has missed the central point of Snow's life: His faith in Christ. All these people come out to talk about how humble he was, or how good at his job, or how compassionate, one excruciating reporter called him "humane," and never has the word sounded so creepy. But none of them—not even the news story on FoxNews.com, mentioned his Christian faith, even though it was Snow's faith that informed all of the good qualities people are praising him for.

This morning my pastor preached a sermon on Barnabus from Acts 11 (one of the first apostles). He highlighted Barnabus' self-effacing humility, a man who just wanted a job done and done the just and moral way, and didn't care if he got the credit or not. It reminded me of Snow, whom Vice President Cheney called the best press secretary he'd ever seen. I believe one of the reasons Snow was able to so effectively deal with the chaotic environment of the White House briefing room is he knew no matter how those vultures came after him, what they said or wrote about later, Snow's perspective on it all was clear: God was his No. 1 priority, and everything else came a distant second. Yes, he wanted to do his job to the best of his ability, but with his faith-centered perspective, I think it took some of the pressure off him. He didn't allow himself to get bogged down in the muck, because he was confident in his salvation and his moral standing before God. When you have that going for you, nothing else matters quite so much anymore. Contrast Snow's integrity to that sniveling weasel Scott McCellan. Enough said.

But don't take my word for it. The best eulogy I've read comes from Fred Barnes, not coincidentally a fellow Christian.

Or, even better, take Snow's actual words from this beautiful and frank piece he wrote last year.

Tony Snow is not resting in peace, he's Living in Peace in Heaven. I'm just sad to see him go so soon, for there aren't many like him.

R.I.P. 'Deadwood'

Yes, it seems my favorite TV show of all time has finally—like so many of its characters—met its untimely demise, and will remain frozen forever for posterity. It's not a surprise, of course, but it does frustrate me a bit—it's not like HBO has had any barnstorming hits since "Deadwood" left the air two years ago (even as Showtime has gotten better and better). It kinda reminds me of the Green Bay Packers rebuffing Brett Favre to "move on." I just don't understand.

That being said, I don't think creator/producer/writer David Milch left "Deadwood" in all that bad a place. What has now become the series finale certainly didn't tie everything up, but it was satisfying in its own right. Do I really need to see the town I've come to love burn down in order to have closure? No. Better to think those hustlers, murderers, whores, and gamblers maybe made something of themselves after all. A couple of movies would've been nice, I guess ("Serenity" certainly was for "Firefly"), but I don't think it would've felt quite right. "Deadwood" was always a slow burn with surprising moments of utter violence and brutality. I doubt that same vibe could have carried over quite right in another shorter format.

But it doesn't matter now, anyway. HBO, in all of its infinite wisdom, has moved on. Fine. Better for "Deadwood" to burn out than fade away, and it certainly walked out of town on its own terms. It's the way Al and Bullock would've wanted it.

R.I.P. Schooly's iPod

After more than three years of steady and dutiful service, my iPod finally missed a step this past week. I don't know exactly what happened (I blame my computer at work), but when I went to disconnect it the other day, the little guy freaked out.

When I finally revived it, I discovered a big chunk of my playlists were missing; all the music was still there, but now my various computers couldn't read the iPod's hard drive anymore. I let it sit for a couple days, tried the manual restart—nothing worked. So I finally decided to do what Luke Skywalker couldn't bring himself to do to C-3PO and R2-D2: The Doomsday Option. I wiped its memory.

And it seems to have worked, for now, which is good. But there was so much stuff on there, I'll never get it back to the way it was. There are a few things I'll miss most, most notably the "Play Count" and "Last Played" columns. If you had picked up my iPod last week and looked at those two columns, you'd be able to tell a lot about me. It was basically a history of my musical journey for the past three years. You'd see that Pearl Jam's "Life Wasted" and The Dropkick Murphys' "I'm Shipping Up to Boston" are two of my favorite songs of all time, because they'd been played more than 30 times, making them the dueling entries for Play Count Champion.

You'd see that for awhile I was absolutely obsessed with AFI's "Decemberunderground," because just about every song on that album had been played upwards of 25 times. You'd see that U2's UK single version of "Walk On" was a song I went to when in need of inspiration, or that The Bouncing Souls' "So Jersey" when in need of re-energizing, or … well, I could go on and on. I'll miss being surprised when I click onto an old favorite and realize it's been more than a year since I've listened to that album; my iPod was a constant reminder of not only how fast time seems to slip by, but also how much great music there is out there—how else could Johnny Cash's "American V" not been played in many, many months?

The other thing I'll miss most are my playlists. One of the iPod's best features is the ability to mix and match songs into any kind of order and grouping you want. I had Pearl Jam and U2 mixes on there that I'll never be able to remember, like the perfect re-tracking of "Binaural" I spent an hour on a couple summers ago (how did they ever leave "Sad" off that record?!?!).

And probably the worst part is the little songs I had stored on there that I have no idea where they came from. Live cuts from web sites long since forgotten, and the like. Can I really find all those old bootlegs again? Here's hoping. But the truth is, I'll never know how much I lost.

So if there's a silver lining to this event, it's this: My iPod now has a fresh start. I maxed out my capacity long ago, so for years every time I added something new I had to delete something old. And there was some stuff on there I just couldn't erase, even though I may not have listened to it since 2005—or, sometimes, not at all. Well, that problem's solved. Now I don't have to figure out what to cut so I can drop The National's "Alligator" on there (holy crap, that album is incredible—go buy it!). And I don't expect Coldplay will make it back in (OK, well, maybe just "Clocks").

Matter of fact, I already had some CDs on my computer, just waiting to be plopped back onto my (hopefully) renewed little friend. The first four songs I played on Schooly's iPod II pretty much sum this whole wretched experience up nicely:

"Your Long Journey," Robert Plant & Alison Krauss
"Alive," Pearl Jam
"Rearviewmirror," Pearl Jam
"Stop Your Sobbing," The Pretenders

Here's hoping this was just a one-time thing and all will return to normal now. That little droid and I have been through a lot together.

‘Hancock’

Why all the hatin’ on “Hancock”? I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it. Will Smith’s take on a half-drunk hero strikes the perfect balance between comedy, action, drama, and even a little sci-fi mixed in that all adds up to a thoroughly enjoyable 90 minutes at the multiplex.

The first half is downright hilarious, some of Smith’s best comedic work yet, and he’s been around that block a bunch of times. But unlike the moronic comedies from the likes of Will Ferrell or Ben Stiller—where they have to introduce some form of inane conflict just so their films can mercifully end—“Hancock” moves from shtick to drama so deftly you don't even notice how much you're sucked in until the movie reaches its climax. It wisely never attempts to go back to being funny, either, so the whole thing flows quite well. This works because the film’s three leads—Smith, Jason Bateman, and Charlize Theron—are so effective in making their respective characters real and relatable. Bateman especially shines, anchoring the entire operation in his droll wit and keeping the more fantastic elements you’d expect in any superhero movie somewhere in the realm of relative normalcy. And then there’s a doozy of a twist that I never saw coming, and the film takes off in a whole new direction that exposes at a deeper mythology to the whole storyline. Not all the questions are answered and the connections aren’t always exactly clear, but there’s really no need; the fact that such depth exists—if only in the filmmakers’ heads—adds credibility to the story.

So I must credit director Peter Berg (“The Kingdom,” “Friday Night Lights”) and especially screenwriters Vincent Ngo and Vince Gilligan for keeping their film free of cheese. By establishing Hancock as such a jerk right from the get-go, they don’t have to go very far to start him on the path to redemption, and thus Smith gets to play the superanti-hero just about the entire time.

The only thing I can figure regarding the overwhelmingly negative critical reaction to this film is that they all went way too easy this time last year on “Transformers” and wanted to “redeem” themselves for Independence Day 2008 by cracking down on another surefire crowd-pleaser. The only thing is, they’re wrong again: “Hancock” is a delight. I enjoyed it every bit as much as “Iron Man”—in some ways, even more.

Grade: B+

The National: ‘A Skin, A Night’

Since I caught their set at Messiah College, I’ve been listening to The National obsessively for the better part of the past two months. The band’s most recent album, 2007’s “Boxer,” has been particularly high in the rotation, so imagine my excitement upon sitting down to watch “A Skin, A Night,” a documentary filmed during the recording of that instant classic.

I couldn’t help but have high expectations: I was thinking somewhere along the lines of the Wilco film “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart,” where filmmaker Sam Jones was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time as the band recorded its landmark “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot”; or at least I would get something akin to Pearl Jam’s 1998 mini-documentary “Single Video Theory,” which chronicled the writing process for their stellar 1998 effort, “Yield.”

“A Skin, A Night” is neither of those two things. Not even close. In short: It’s a stunning disappointment. First-time director Vincent Moon delivers the most clichéd piece of moody art-school trash you can imagine. Painfully long shots of musicians noodling aimlessly on their instruments with no context are broken up only by even more painful long shots of stereotypically mopey images of subway trains or cityscapes. You’d think it would be impossible for a film only an hour long to have any fluff, but “A Skin, A Night” is filled almost entirely with expendable scenes. The only rationale I can think of for this type of work is an attempt by Moon to capture in film what The National do with music: belying specifics in favor of weaving together pieces of images and letting the audience decide its meaning for themselves. It works for the band, but definitely not for the movie.

I learned almost nothing about The National or their process from this film. There are a few scattered scenes of frontman Matt Berninger working on and discussing the lyrics for “Green Gloves,” but even that storyline is never brought to a close. At one point, one of the band members mentions offscreen how sometimes they’ll work and work on a song and something will then just “click,” and will come together in a flash; you’d think a moment like that would find its way into the film, but, sadly, no. There’s not even any investigation into the motivations and inspirations behind “Boxer.” One member of the band mentions late in the going how this could be a landmark period in the group’s career; that statement obviously proved true after the album came out, but the film ignores it.

“A Skin, A Night” is a massive failure due to such a glaring missed opportunity. I gained much more insight on the band from this 20-minute NPR interview (which I highly recommend) than from this entire film. The only thing that remotely saved the movie was, of course, the music, but there’s not even that much live material included here, either. “A Skin, A Night” disappoints in basically every possible way.

Grade: D


On a side note, the saving grace of this DVD is that it comes packaged with a new batch of material from The National. Dubbed “The Virginia EP,” it’s actually no EP at all, clocking in at 45 minutes. It has several new songs, several more excellent demos (including an early version of one of my faves, “Slow Show”), and a few great live cuts. The best of the latter is the band’s amazing cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Mansion On the Hill” (I like their version better than Bruce’s!). The DVD/CD combo is only $15 on Amazon, so the CD alone is worth the price. And, who knows, maybe you go in for the art-school schlock this film offers.

Take a Bow, Gentlemen—We Earned It: Pearl Jam, Live in D.C., 6.22.08

There are certain cities Pearl Jam fans will travel to from far and wide to see their favorite band play. These locales—I’m thinking specifically of New York, Boston, Philly, and Chicago—have hosted some of the band’s best-ever shows, and they almost always bring their A-game to these towns.

But over the course of a Pearl Jam tour, there are always—always!—a few epic shows that pop up in unexpected places, where the crowd and the mood and the timing are just right and mixed in just the perfect way to create something special. Sunday night in D.C. was one of those nights.

For some reason, leading up to the show I had a good feeling about it I couldn’t quite explain. After a few songs, I figured it out: This was Pearl Jam’s first indoor show in a week. Don’t get me wrong—half the PJ shows I’ve seen have been outdoors, and those shows typically have a fun, easygoing vibe to them, which provides a unique atmosphere (where else can Eddie see the moon from the stage?). But these guys just seem to feel at home in an arena; something about the hot, enclosed surroundings leads to greater intensity. And if they happen to get matched with a great crowd, well, there’s no telling where they might go.

Such was the case Sunday night in D.C.

Things got off to a great start with “Hard to Imagine,” which offers the same type of twinkling opening strains of my all-time fave opener, “Release.” And then “HTI” hits its bigger, fuller second half and proves a perfect segue into the night. Pairing it with “Severed Hand” is a brilliant combo, as the latter’s extended intro picks up on the “HTI” vibe and then explodes into pure energy to kick everything off. This is a downright perfect way to start a show.

An all-time favorite, “Hail Hail” is always a welcome addition to any set, keeping the momentum at peak level. And I absolutely love “Do the Evolution” up early in a set, before the band gets too ragged to pull it off correctly. Hearing guitarist Stone Gossard’s unmistakable crunchy opening riff to “DTE” at Slot No. 4 was my first signal that tonight could be something special. It was take-no-prisoners time.

And then … whoosh … just like that, “Small Town” pops that intensity like a balloon. I simply do not understand why this song keeps appearing so early in the shows this tour; I get the fact that it’s a crowd favorite and a great singalong moment, and frontman Eddie Vedder probably wants to ensure everyone’s involved early. But there are so many other songs he could go to if he wants to accomplish that task that won’t kill the momentum. “Small Town” is just too, well, small to hold such a prominent position. I much prefer sets that feature somewhere in the neighborhood of seven or eight consecutive uptempo numbers before we’re allowed to take a breather.

All turned out well Sunday night, though—ironically, through the biggest Pearl Jam flub I’ve ever witnessed. Following “Small Town” was “Evacuation,” which came out of a five-year hibernation at my previous show Tuesday night in Virginia Beach. Here it was again, but we only heard the first verse because soon thereafter someone’s guitar went completely dead (some say Stone, some say lead guitarist Mike McCready), and everything started to unravel. Ed looked back over his shoulder to try and determine what was going awry, attempted to soldier on for a few more bars, then gave up the fight and brought the song careening to a halt with a screeched “Eeeevvvaaccccuuuuuaaaaaattiioonnnnnn!!!!!” The moment was reminiscent of the explosion of feedback in Philly back in ’05 that brought “Crazy Mary” to an abrupt stop, but that time they pulled themselves together and went on. Here they just gave up and moved on, with not even a word about it.

So what do you do when a song you hardly ever play completely falls apart on you? You answer with a song that’s always there for you, every single night, and always sounds great, no matter how many times you play it: “Corduroy” got things back on track right quick. Some bands may have been flapped by such a huge meltdown. Not PJ. The crowd loved it, the band handled it like it was no big deal. In fact, it seemed to galvanize them once more and ratchet up the intensity another notch.

What followed “Corduroy” was the song that made the most impact on me in two shows this week, the song that I’ve been humming more than any other, the song that, having never heard it in person before, went from “pretty good” to “great”: “I Am Mine.” Eddie started it off with a snippet of “I’m Open” from 1996’s “No Code”—it was him on the guitar and repeating the chorus a few times. The snippet also served as first installment of what I’m informally referring to as the “I” trilogy.

It was Ed’s explanation of “I Am Mine” Tuesday night that really got me thinking about this song; somehow I had never heard he wrote it the night before the Va. Beach show back in 2000 as a way to process the emotions of playing the band’s first show after nine fans were killed in June of that year at a European festival. Go back and read the lyrics now in that context and lines like “We’re safe tonight,” “All the innocents lost at one time,” and “There’s no need to hide” hold a new significance. I just finished Ayn Rand’s amazing “The Fountainhead” (more on that at a later time, I promise), and this song is surprisingly very much in line with her Objectivist philosophy, though I’m sure Ed would never want to hear that. But here he’s reclaiming his life as his own, no matter what pain circumstances have given him or what expectations others have held him to. It’s a song of sorrowful, quiet, but pure defiance in the best possible way. If there’s one thing I can say of Ed, no matter what, he’s always tried to be his own man, come hell or high water.

Completing the “I” trilogy was “I Got Shit,” which has become rarer over the years, making it all the more welcome whenever this gem is played; it brings the house down, especially with that pounding drum part from Matt Cameron. It’s one of those “tweener” songs that PJ do so well—not quite a hard rocker but not soft, either, “I Got Shit” strikes the perfect balance. And as if it wasn’t apparent already, yet another sign of how into this performance the band was came during the next song, “Daughter,” which saw Mike pogoing on his side of the stage. I don’t know exactly when Eddie felt that tonight’s crowd was really into it, but that time may have occurred here, as we perfectly mimicked his take on the Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop” during the tag, no matter how difficult he tried to make it.

Following “Daughter” was a rather unusual run of songs that didn’t quite flow well one into another, but somehow the band made it work. “Light Years” was, as is usually the case, a beautiful entry into the set, and perfectly placed alongside “Daughter” in a nice breather section of the main set (“Small Town”—where are you now?). Up next was “Even Flow,” the old battle ax that Pearl Jam never seems to tire of. As a longtime fan and concertgoer, I can’t help but feel a little blasé about this song, which Pearl Jam has played more times than any other song in its catalog (616 times, to be exact, which means nearly every single stinkin’ time). But just when I start to drift into that snob-fan territory I try so hard to avoid, my wife reminds me why this song is here every night: While I was watching the band, she was watching the crowd; she got a chuckle out of how all the fan club members on the floor gave absolutely zero reaction to the song, but all the non-Ten Clubbers in the rest of the building went absolutely berserk when the opening riff went off. Yes, there are several more thousand people in the room than just us. I guess my one wish is, if they’re going to keep trotting it out every night, does it really have to get longer each tour?

The solo section of the song has gotten so fat now, Ed has taken to drifting offstage (even he can’t take it! (no, actually, I think he wants to give the rest of the band—especially Mike and Matt—the full spotlight)). Maybe during that time he was gathering his thoughts for what came next: The first big political rant of the night (and, sadly, not the last). This being D.C., I was prepared for this, so I just smirked and waited for it to be over. This one happened to be about drilling for oil, but if you want more you’ll have to buy the bootleg; and I won’t get into my political relationship with Pearl Jam here, as I've covered that territory before. Ed did have a good line leading into “Green Disease,” though—something like “maybe we can get a little color in the White House this time.”

As the main set began to draw to a close, Ed introduced a new trilogy: “This one’s all about YOU,” leading to the tour debut of “You Are.” An impressive version, to be sure, as this song’s unique arrangement must be one of the band’s most difficult to pull off in a live setting; I’ve often hoped since hearing this on “Riot Act” that they’d try to do an entire album of this more technical material (a la U2’s “Achtung Baby”), but at the same time I just don’t see how more songs like this would mesh with the rest of their live show. This one certainly doesn’t sound like anything else they do.

Much like the “Man” trilogy (“Nothingman”/“Leatherman”/“Betterman”), Ed might want to rethink these types of moniker-themed groups, because they don’t really flow all that well together. I was glad to hear “U” simply because I'd never seen it live before, but it’s a rather forgettable song. Now “Who You Are,” on the other hand, is a whole different story. This excellent change-of-pace from “No Code” hadn’t been played live since former drummer Jack Irons left the band in 1998 (the beat is a decidedly Irons-influenced shuffle), but Pearl Jam finally broke it out again for this tour. I was certainly glad to hear it, if only with a slight critique that “Who You Are” by its nature doesn’t have quite the energy required to really ramp up to the close of a main set (little did I know what they had planned, though). The band followed with another drum-heavy cut to close the set, “Why Go,” which since reintroducing at our show five years ago they are playing in fine form these days. Why go home, indeed?!?!

I’ll have to check the bootleg in a few weeks to be certain, but I’m pretty sure Ed addressed the crowd directly when he came out for the first encore. One of the things I love is that he’s always genuine—he doesn’t pander for cheap crowd pops night in and night out. If he says a crowd has made an impression on him, I believe it. Sunday night he was perplexed at how raucous and responsive we were, saying he didn’t know what exactly they’d done to deserve such a reaction, but that he was glad for it. And then, something to the effect of “We aren’t goin’ anywhere.” Ahh, and now we’re really off and running!

Though the lyrics of “Comatose” may give me pause, from a musical standpoint this song is raw, primal power. That opening blast of chords is like a punch in the chest, and it’s a great way to kick off an encore. Up next was an unexpected treat: “Sad,” one of my 10 favorite PJ songs, b-side or otherwise. I don’t know how this masterpiece was left on the “Binaural” cutting-room floor, but better late than never. It should be heavy in the live rotation, that's for sure.

Unlike “Even Flow,” “Given to Fly” has remained taut throughout its 10-year lifespan, and the song remains just as momentous today as it was a decade ago. This is without question one of the band’s best songs and, like “Corduroy,” it seems to fit just right no matter where it pops up in a set. The band then brought things down a touch with “Come Back,” one of my favorite cuts off 2006’s self-titled tour de force. With the right crowd (read: attentive and well-versed), this one’s a big highlight. Ed nailed it, and kept things humming right through what shaped up to be a fabulous encore with an excellent version of “Grievance” (“Binaural” is probably Pearl Jam’s most underrated effort).

And then we hit “Black.” This is one of the band’s “classic” songs, but I’ve never been all that big a fan. While I freely admit its quality, perhaps I’ve just heard it too, too many times since 1991 for me to dredge up much passion for it. Not only was it repeated constantly on the radio, but it’s the third-most played song in the band’s history (419 times, but who’s counting?). I’ve always felt “Black” was overused in concert; because Ed has to go to such a deep, emotional place to really sing this the way it’s meant to be sung, putting it on constant repeat over all these years has diminished it somewhat.

Recently, though, “Black” has become slightly more rare. Not actually rare, mind you, but at least it’s not an every-night guarantee like it used to be just a few years ago. As such, it seems the song has regained a bit of the prestige it always deserved—if Sunday night was any indication, anyway. The first half was pretty standard stuff, but everything began to change when it hit the big mid-song solo by Mike and the crowd basically ripped the “do-do-do-do” vocal refrain from Ed and claimed it as our own. We kept the chant up all the way through, even as Ed drifted away from the mic and over to the side of the stage. A couple minutes later, as the song was winding down, Eddie started moving back toward centerstage. I thought he was just going to let it end, but the crowd persisted; shrouded in semi-darkness, Ed clung to the microphone for several heartbeats, unmoving, silent. Then he picked up on our chant and continued on into the longed-for “We Belong Together” tag; I don’t know when this coda first appeared, but the first time I heard it was on PJ’s legendary 1992 “MTV Unplugged” performance. Point is, “We Belong Together” is the perfect capper for “Black,” and this was probably the best version of this song I’ve heard in person.

And that led into what many who were in attendance are calling the best version of “Rearviewmirror” they’ve ever heard. I can’t go there, as I’m not a devotee of this particular track, but this iteration was tremendous and featured one of the best mid-song jams I’ve heard; as the music began to crescendo out of the break, Eddie moved back to the microphone and vamped a few lines about forgiveness—but instead of leading to the dramatic finish, he went back to the group gathered around the drumkit for another round of jamming, allowing the music to ebb and swell once again to the finale. It was the perfect choice to end this passionate and forceful encore.

By this point the band was at about the two-hour mark and rapidly approaching what I assumed was an 11 p.m. venue curfew. But this was one of those nights where Pearl Jam just doesn’t give a crap about the rules and they’re just gonna keep playing. When they’re feeling like this, there’s no telling what can happen, and it can lead to a bit of a freewheeling, nearly whiplashed feel as they just go wherever the mood strikes them. I was reminded of that great scene in last year’s concert film “Immagine in Cornice” where it shows the guys huddled backstage, breathless and keyed up plotting their future concert course.

Ed opened the second encore with his second major political speech of the night before playing, as I expected coming into the night, his pedestrian anti-war jangle “No More.” His heart is definitely in the right place with sympathy for a disabled soldier whom he has gotten to know, and the guitar part isn’t bad, but the lyrics are mediocre at best (which is usually the case when he puts message above the music—“Worldwide Suicide” notwithstanding). He comes off as some hippie reject from the ’60s with this one, and it just sounds rather silly at times, belying the serious and sad inspiration for the piece.

But such is my relationship with Pearl Jam that they can go from irritating to endearing in the few seconds between two songs. They followed “No More” with “Last Kiss” performed behind the stage facing those fans who paid the same money as everyone else for the worst seats in the house. PJ did this when I saw them in Philly, too, and it’s such a nice touch.

OK, so now we’re blowing past 11 p.m. and I’m thinking this has got to be the end—here comes “Rockin’ in the Free World” or “Ledbetter.” But, no, the house lights surprisingly stay down, and they kick into not just any song, but “Crazy Mary”—one of the longest pieces in their repertoire with its extended solos for both Mike and keyboardist Boom Gasper (BOOOOOOOMMM!!!!!). Curfew? What curfew!!! By that point I was into full-on no-idea-what-to-expect-anymore euphoria. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this cover, either; it fits Ed’s voice so well, and the Mike/Boom combined solo is stellar.

Right on its heels comes another monster, “Alive.” I refuse to be cynical about this song. Though it may not be my absolute favorite, this is Pearl Jam’s touchstone, their “Where the Streets Have No Name.” Eddie’s description of how its meaning has changed over the years from a song of desperation to a song of hope—thanks to the fans—makes the individual verses almost inconsequential at this point—it’s all about the chorus and the connection between band and audience. Rather than climbing the walls and rafters like in search of something real like the old days, now Eddie just stands still at the front of the stage, microphone extended, and drinks in all the goodwill exploding his way. I like its positioning this tour as the penultimate song of the night—“Alive” deserves such a prominent and special position.

So after “Alive,” the house lights come up and now it really is time to go. Now I’m really thinking “RITFW," but I see Ed has a guitar strapped on, and he doesn’t play guitar on that song. What’s going on? And then they rip into … “ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER”!!! I don’t know why I forgot about this cut (which Ed covered for the Bob Dylan-inspired “I’m Not There” soundtrack), but it was such a welcome surprise—made extra special when Ed brought a young kid up on stage to play his guitar (Ed, Stone, and bassist Jeff Ament all gathered around the lucky fan to help him along). I hope this one stays in the regular end-of-show rotation.

Only, it wasn’t quite the end of the show. Tonight was one of those shows where the band clearly didn’t want to leave the stage and capped things off with “Yellow Ledbetter,” as if to tell themselves as much as us that it really was time to go. Playing their second song to a fully lit building, Mike topped it off with a full version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” care of Jimi Hendrix.

When all was sung, strum, and done, Sunday night in D.C. came in at 31 songs and 2 hours, 45 minutes. Of the dozen PJ shows I’ve attended, on first blush I would put this in my top three. It was a special night that added up to even more than the sum of its impressive setlist. And the band knew it, too. As the crowd continued its deafening roar of approval and thanksgiving, the six members of Pearl Jam gathered at the front of stage, arms around one another’s shoulders, and took a bow, seeming to thank us just as much for the experience.

Hard to imagine how they continue to exceed even the loftiest expectations time and time again. But when these men take the stage together, they just soar.


Pearl Jam
Verizon Center
Washington, D.C.
6.22.08
Running Time: 2 hours, 45 minutes

Main Set:
Hard to Imagine
Severed Hand
Hail Hail
Do the Evolution
Small Town
Evacuation [stopped]
Corduroy
I’m Open [snippet]
I Am Mine
I Got Shit
Daughter/Blitzkrieg Bop
Light Years
Even Flow
Green Disease
You Are
U
Who You Are
Why Go

First Encore:
Comatose
Sad
Given to Fly
Come Back
Grievance
Black/We Belong Together
Rearviewmirror

Second Encore:
No More (Ed solo)
Las Kiss
Crazy Mary
Alive
All Along the Watchtower
Yellow Ledbetter/Star-Spangled Banner

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man: Pearl Jam, Live in Virginia Beach, 6.17.08

This summer marks my 10-year anniversary of Pearl Jam concerts, a long, exciting, wonderful journey that has crossed eight states (and one nation’s capitol) over the course of 10 shows. Tuesday night in Virginia Beach was my 11th PJ concert, and even after all these years, something happened which I never could have imagined: Eddie Vedder threw me a tambourine.

But that’s at the end of the story. It started, as usual, with the Ten Club. Pearl Jam’s fan club is treating its member tickets a little different this year by randomly selecting people to fill Rows 1-2 and 9-10; previously the seating arrangement was based entirely on seniority, so the same people who have been in the club for nearly two decades always got the best seats in the place. Joining in ’98, my spot typically falls somewhere around the 20th row—not complaining, I assure you, but when I received my ticket Tuesday night and it put me in the dead-center of the second row … well, I was a bit shocked.

Our seats (I took my brother for his birthday) were literally right under frontman Eddie Vedder’s microphone, about 10 feet from the stage—closer than I’ve ever been, or could ever have hoped. I nabbed the photo at the top of this post from someone over at the Red Mosquito message board; if you look close, right in front of Ed, that's my bald head and arm raised high (my brother's head is just to the left, also above the crowd). My first glimpse of anything PJ-related was Vedder’s appearance during the last song of opener Kings of Leon’s set; he came out to trade verses and bash a couple tambourines. Very fun.

But the real deal started about five minutes before 9, when the band came on and drifted into “Long Road,” the same song they opened with during their last stop in Va. Beach back in 2000 (and, nicely enough, the very first song I ever heard them play in person, way back in Camden, N.J., in 1998). That show was a special and scary one for the band, as it marked their first performance following the June 2000 deaths of nine fans while PJ performed at a festival in Europe. That tragedy almost marked the end of Pearl Jam, and as Eddie would relate later, he wrote “I Am Mine” the night before that last Va. Beach show in a hotel room down the street from the venue.

After the opening strains of “Long Road,” my memory of Tuesday night’s concert comes in fits and spurts. At that close range, the music washed over and past me, as I was in complete sensory overload. I was too awestruck to even get goosebumps when some of my favorite songs were played. All 25 sort of blur into one another in my mind, swirling into a two-hour mist of holy-crap-I-cannot-believe-where-I-am goodness. Each song would register when I heard the opening notes, but then I would be back into the flow of the overall show and just lose myself in the feeling rolling off that stage. The most picture-perfect memories of the night are small things, like:

• During “Sleight of Hand,” a strong breeze picked up from the right side of the amphitheater just as Ed roared into the first chorus. He turned into the wind, raised his arms to the side, and it was almost as if he was flying, hair and shirt flapping straight out behind him.

• Several times throughout the night I made one-on-one eye contact with lead guitarist Mike McCready—I would raise my hand to him and he’d point at me and nod his head in between guitar licks. McCready and Vedder are the two dynamos in the live setting—they are constant motion (especially Mike) and I was constantly swinging my head back and forth between them like I was watching a tennis match. During “Severed Hand,” Mike played his entire solo with the guitar behind his head. He rarely stops moving the entire night.

• I couldn’t see drummer Matt Cameron well (he was blocked almost entirely by Vedder), but I swear there were a few times when I could hear his drum kit naturally, not through the speakers.

• Ed spits a lot in between lines—big, honkin’ loogies of spit. Oh, and he should stop smoking and drinking so much wine, and then maybe his voice wouldn’t start to get weary by the end of a two-hour show.

• Bassist Jeff Ament really digs down low at times, almost to the point where you think he’ll end up in the splits.

• Eddie holding the mic basically right in front of our faces from the very front edge of the stage to let us sing along to both “Jeremy” and “Alive.”

• It’s so much easier—and more fun—to act like a total crazy person when you’re that close. The band—especially Mike and Ed—do a lot to get the crowd up front involved, and definitely feed off it. My brother and I were jumping, bobbing, raising hands, pumping fists … basically all the clichés Blue Man Group make such good fun of during their concerts. And you know what? It’s totally fun. That’s why I don’t remember much about the individual songs (more on that in a bit)—I was too busy having the time of my life. Mike launched literally dozens of guitar pics into the first few rows, and he also handed out his setlist after the 1 hour, 30-minute main set. Jeff launched a wristband and a pic or two, and Matt threw a bushel of drumsticks out after the show.

And then there’s Eddie and his tambourines.

The big moment of the night came during the show’s closing song, the always welcome—and almost always epic—“Rockin’ in the Free World,” originally Neil Young’s but now fully owned by Pearl Jam. As is his wont during this free-for-all, Eddie beats the living crap out of as many tambourines as his roadies can toss his way, and then throws some out to the crowd. At one point, someone threw Ed a tambourine from the wing and Ed charged across the stage like a dog chasing a Frisbee, snagging it just before it hit the ground and letting his momentum take him all the way across the stage where he leaped over an amp. I’ve never even come close to catching one, but before the show started I mentioned to my brother, “Hey, maybe I’ll catch a tambourine,” mostly in jest, never thinking such a thing possible.

As "RITFW" drove on into the first big guitar solo break, Eddie did what Eddie always does during that part: he prowls the entire stage like a wild man, and occasionally pitches around some tambourines. I was pretty sure I had made some good eye contact with Vedder throughout the night—he really couldn’t miss me, as I was right in front of his face with a big “Ramones” logo on my shirt. As he was getting ready to toss the first tambourine of the night he walked back toward the front center of the stage, looked right at me, pointed right to me with the instrument in hand so everyone around knew exactly who it was meant for, and threw it my way.

It came right to me, right in front of my face—a perfect throw—and I snatched it out of the air with one hand like a Frisbee. The whole thing happened in about 5 seconds, and I caught the tambourine before I even realized what was happening, reacting completely on instinct, and I honestly thank God for allowing me to catch it cleanly and not botch it up (if you know what my vision is like, and how hard it is for me to snag any object—football, basketball, baseball, Frisbee, whatever—then you understand my mix of elation and relief). It wasn’t until a heartbeat later, when I looked down and saw what was in my grasp, that I realized what had just happened; I held it aloft and screamed for all I was worth, my brother just about tackled me with joy, and then we went jumping mad for the rest of the song.

It’s hard to type what I’m about to type without sounding like a complete gushing fanboy, because I realize Eddie Vedder is just a guy, and I certainly don’t worship him like some sort of rock god. He drives me crazy half the time, as it is. But that being said, it gives me a flip of the stomach to know that, for one night, he could tell how much I love his music just by how into the show I was. This wasn’t a random gesture or some fluke. It was a very specific act. His throwing out tambourines is one way he thanks people that come to his shows, and the first person he thought to thank Tuesday night was me. In my head, I like to imagine he saw me at various times throughout the show and thought, "Man, that guy gets a tambourine tonight!" Though he certainly had no idea how much it would mean to me, it feels like a reward for 15 years of dedicated fandom. Two days later, it still makes me proud.

If you want to see it for yourself, here are two different angles I found on the Internet:

If you cue up this first YouTube version to about the 3:15 mark, watch the far right side of the screen. It's tough to see me, but you can definitely see Ed's point and throw. If you freeze it exactly at 3:29, you can see my blurry self holding the tambourine in my hand. I gotta tell you, this is so cool.




This next one is from Spin.com; cue it up to about the 50-second mark.




And here's another YouTube angle I found Friday, at about the 3-minute mark:




As for the show itself, I’ll need to hear the official bootleg in a few weeks to make a final judgment on how good it was—you know, when I can actually comprehend all that I’m hearing. It wasn’t as big a night for b-sides as I’d hoped, nor was it as long a set as they’ve played in the past, but I can attest through visual evidence that the band members had a great time up there, and that passed on into the audience. A few highlights of this nature that I do remember:

• “Insignificance” was probably my favorite performance of the night. One of the best songs off 2000’s “Binaural,” this version was intense and tight (despite an intro foul-up by Ed).

• Eddie’s aforementioned intro to “I Am Mine” was touching and remarkable. This one looked to be an early audible, which I think was inspired by Ed’s view of a gorgeous full moon hovering just above the lawn.

• Vedder had another quality song intro later, this one for “Betterman.” He mentioned there were some Iraq veterans in the audience that night, and that no matter what the band’s political beliefs—and whether they differ from the soldiers’—he hopes the veterans know the band does everything according to what it thinks is right, and hopes the soldiers understand Pearl Jam respects and loves them. It was an uncharacteristically composed, poignant political moment from Ed. Despite my difference of beliefs with him, if he was able to relate his thoughts this way from the stage (instead of his typical rambling, incoherent, drunken, immature, talking-points babble), then I wouldn’t mind if he takes a minute out of a show to share them. Here’s hoping there’s more like this to come.

• I didn’t realize it until someone on a message board pointed it out, but there were FIVE songs from “Yield”—one of my all-time favorite albums—on the setlist. “Faithfull” and “Lowlight” are particularly rare, while warhorses “Given to Fly” and “Do the Evolution” were particularly taut and excellent.

• “All Night” from 2003’s b-sides collection “Lost Dogs” has never done much for me on CD, but really takes off in the live setting—it seems to expand, adding extra brawn and fervor. A definite highlight of the night.

• Ed’s solo effort, “Guaranteed,” was a fantastic surprise. It’s the first time this tour he’s played anything off the “Into the Wild” soundtrack, so hopefully this trend continues, as well.

• And, finally, “Evacuation” had its first airing in nearly five years. I can understand why they don’t play this song anymore, because it basically shreds Ed’s vocal cords; it seemed like he did a pretty good job of protecting them Tuesday night, and this version sounded to me like there wasn’t any rust on it at all. Tremendous surprise—and, as a bonus, it means I’ve now heard every track off “Binaural” in concert, the only PJ album for which I can make that claim.


All right, that about does it for this show, which will certainly go down as one of the most memorable experiences of my life (wow, twice in one week!). I didn’t have a camera with me, but the nice person sitting/standing next to me brought her so-cool dad to the show, and he had a camera; they’re hopefully going to send me some photos, which I’ll post later (on a side note: a few minutes after Eddie threw a tambourine to me, he threw another one to her, so her dad took a pic of us holding them up as proof).

I’m going to Verizon Center in D.C. this Sunday for PJ’s show there. Like always, I have no idea what will happen, but I’m confident it will be something memorable. With this band, you come to expect the extraordinary.


Pearl Jam
6.17.08
Verizon Wireless Amphitheater at Virginia Beach
Running Time: Approx. 2 hours, 10 minutes

Pre-set:
Slow Night, So Long (Ed w/Kings of Leon)

Main Set:
Long Road
Corduroy
Severed Hand
All Night
I Am Mine
Small Town
Faithfull
Lowlight
Evacuation
Given to Fly
Green Disease
Not For You/Modern Girl (Sleater-Kinney)
Sleight of Hand
Even Flow
Wishlist
Insignificance
Do the Evolution
Rearviewmirror

First Encore:
Comatose
Why Go
Betterman
Jeremy

Second Encore:
Guaranteed (Ed solo)
Alive
Rockin’ in the Free World

Their Long Journey: Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, Live at Merriweather, 6.13.08

Robert Plant and Alison Krauss opened and closed their set Friday night at Merriweather Post Pavilion with the same two songs that begin and end their 2007 album, “Raising Sand.” Inhabiting the two hours in between “Rich Woman” and “Your Long Journey” was one of the best concert experiences of my life.

When I bought the tickets several months ago, I was disappointed the only stop near my home on this summer’s tour was an outdoor shed, when in so many other cities Plant and Krauss are playing smaller theaters. It didn’t take long, though, to realize I had nothing to worry about. Sure, small spaces are always nice, but it’s not like these two artists (especially Plant) aren’t used to winning over big crowds. If anything, witnessing these hushed songs stretch, fill, and enrapture such a large space was even more impressive and inspiring.

What made it even better was how they did it on their own terms. “Raising Sand” is a purposefully quiet album, built on the tension of restraint. This vibe continues into the live setting—rather than trying to rock and wail over top of the drunken rabble, their controlled performance demands attention from everyone. This was especially true of Krauss, standing up there in a flowing floor-length dress that radiated in the spotlight and wisped around her in the breeze. When she sings solo (think “Trampled Rose”) no red-blooded man can help but have the air driven from his lungs. It’s like she calls the audience to her and makes the venue smaller just by the clarity and beauty of her voice.

Plant’s name may come first in the marquee, but Krauss held the stage solo much more often. It’s her territory, after all—which he freely admits. Just before a tremendous version of “Nothin’,” he took a moment to share how nervous he was back when the “Sand” sessions were getting underway, as this Deep South bluegrass and folk—so unabashedly Americana—was a big stretch for him.

What I loved most about Plant’s performance was how generous he was onstage in relation to Krauss. “Nothin’” proved he can still bring it with nearly all the lion-maned bravado of three decades’ past, but he so clearly yields ground to Krauss when they sing together—and she back to him—so as neither one overwhelms the other, which could be so easy (especially for him). One of my favorite illustrations of this dynamic came early on during the Krauss-fronted “Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us”; while she remained in the spotlight at the front of the stage, Plant wandered to a microphone toward the back—over her shoulder and in the relative dark—and his accompaniment drifted in and out from there. This gracious give and take makes the moments when they both really let loose together—such as a thrilling version of Plant’s solo effort “In the Mood”—that much more remarkable.

My favorite part of the show came as the main set drew to a close, when the duo offered up a signature trio of songs. It started with “Nothin’,” Plant’s showcase on “Sand” and the closest he ever comes on that album to Led Zeppelin; when played live, the band (led masterfully by T. Bone Burnett) emphasizes even more the drastic differences between the song’s quick-change soft and loud moments.

That led into unquestionably my touchstone moment of the night: Plant and Krauss together on “The Battle of Evermore.” You really should go listen to this track from “Led Zeppelin IV” right now, and imagine Krauss’ angelic voice filling in on the background vocals. I’ve been listening to this song—in all its different iterations—for 15 years, and yet for some reason it never occurred to me how perfect it would be for this tour. When I heard the opening strains last night, the shocking of the connection between Krauss, Plant, and the song nearly brought tears to my eyes. I’ve rarely had a moment like it in more than 10 years of concertgoing. When they followed with “Please Read the Letter,” my favorite track off the album … well, it was just perfect.

There were so many other great moments, though. Their holding-back-so-much-it-hurts take on Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” is such a winner; on the complete opposite end of that spectrum is the rollicking, joyous version they’re doing of Zep’s “Black Country Woman,” a deep, deep cut off my favorite Zeppelin album, “Physical Graffiti.” I mentioned Plant’s “In the Mood” earlier, but what takes that tune over the top is the splicing in midsong of Krauss’ fervent take on the folk song “Mattie Groves.” And it goes without saying, I suppose, that her “Down to the River to Pray” is a showstopper.

Besides the roles they choose to play inside these songs, it’s just as fascinating to see how Plant and Krauss’ onstage dynamic works itself out, and how they challenge and complement each other. Plant is obviously over the moon in love—not with Krauss, but with the artistic endeavor they’ve undertaken. He’s been chatting in the press about how fulfilling this experiment has been, and the pleasure is written all over his face. There’s no fake, pandering banter between the two of them, which would so cheapen the entire thing. They never even address each other directly, and only rarely do they glance in the other’s direction except to mark cues. It’s clear both of them have found something here, made all the more special by how unlooked-for it was; they will have nothing to do with anything that would tarnish it in any way. The work stands on its own and does all the communicating between them that's needed.

I often wonder if Plant regrets any of the orgiastic excesses he engaged in during Zeppelin’s heyday, and what he thinks about those times when he’s being truly honest with himself. Maybe this album, this tour, this collaboration, is his way of seeking atonement through something so obviously pure and grounded in such sincerity. Of course, he may not regret a thing and “Raising Sand” is simply the most interesting thing he’s done in awhile.

Whatever it is that lies behind those eyes, Plant looks like a child filled with wonderment on Christmas morning, only he’s old enough and been around enough to know what a gift this experience truly is. He seems to be treasuring every second of it.

As have I.


UPDATE
Hooray! Found the setlist here!

Robert Plant & Alison Krauss
Merriweather Post Pavilion
6.13.08
Running Time: 2 hours

Main Set:
Rich Woman
Leave My Woman Alone
Black Dog
Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us
Through the Morning, Through the Night
So Long, Goodbye to You
Fortune Teller
In the Mood/Matty Groves
Black Country Woman
Bon Temps Rouler
Shut It Tight
Trampled Rose
Green Pastures
Down to the River to Pray
Killing the Blues
Nothin'
The Battle of Evermore
Please Red the Letter
Gone, Gone, Gone (Done Moved On)

Encore:
You Don't Knock
One Woman Man
Your Long Journey

I'm in Today's Washington Post

Here

If you want the backstory, I'll be posting about it Monday on my association's blog.

30 Years of 'Darkness'

Bruce Springsteen's fourth studio album, "Darkness on the Edge of Town," turns 30 tomorrow. Though this anniversary isn't met with nearly (or any, really) of the hoopla surrounding its predecessor, "Born to Run," when that classic album reached the same milestone three years ago, "Darkness" remains my favorite Springsteen album.

I'm no Bruce historian, so I won't attempt to delve deeply into what makes this album so incredible—if you're looking for that, just Google-News its name today and I'm sure you'll come up with plenty of reading material from those better qualified to put this record in proper perspective (I wasn't even born yet when it came out, after all). I'll leave my piece at this: When the arguably "weakest" track is the beautifully elegiac "Factory," well, other artists should be so lucky. "Darkness" certainly isn't as accessible as "Born to Run," nor as uplifting, but that's exactly why I've come to love it the best out of all Springsteen's canon. It's darker, less romantic, more real, yet still hopeful in several key spots, most notably two of my all-time favorite tracks: "Badlands" and "The Promised Land." 

In fact, if I were to try and come up with my Springsteen Top 10 list, there might be four songs off "Darkness" that would crack that group ("Candy's Room" and the title track would be the other two, in addition to the dynamic duo mentioned earlier). Every song on this record is very good, and more than half are downright great. 

So if the only Springsteen you've ever heard is "Born to Run" or "Glory Days," do yourself a favor and pick up "Darkness on the Edge of Town." Give it a few spins, and hopefully you'll hear what I'm talkin' about. It must be one of the most underrated rock and roll classics of all time.

The Raconteurs: Live in D.C. (sorta)

In the latest in a series of "Shows Jeremy Was Dying to Go at the 9:30 Club but Missed Due to Circumstances Beyond His Control," NPR is broadcasting live again tonight, this time featuring The Raconteurs. 

They just finished the main set with a blistering version of "Blue Veins" from the 2006 debut album, and doggone if it didn't live up to all the hype I've heard about it. I've been trying to think for two years what this song reminds me of and wasn't able to put my finger on it until right now: This is Jack White's version of Zeppelin's "Since I've Been Loving You." And the album version doesn't do it justice. Wow.

I didn't catch the set from the very beginning, but you and I can both listen to the archive starting tomorrow when it's posted to NPR's music page. When I logged on about 40 minutes ago, they were just ripping into "Top Yourself" off the new album, leading right into "Old Enough," both two of my favorites from the new album. Hearing these and others from "Consolers of the Lonely" confirms for me the glowing review I wrote of that CD last week; these songs appeal much more to me than those on the first album. The songs from "Broken Boy Soldier" they've played tonight also sound excellent—stronger and harder than the recorded version—but they've also wisely selected only the four strongest tracks from that CD: "Steady As She Goes," "Store Bought Bones," the aforementioned "Blue Veins," and the title track.

Speaking to my brother about the new record, though, he clued me in to how the other side might feel. He still finds the first album superior because the new one sounds "just like The White Stripes." To that I say, "Uh, yeah. What's the problem?" 

OK, actually I say: No, it sounds like the elemental core of the Stripes expanded and taken in new directions not possible in the duo's highly structured format (despite the fantastic stretches they managed on last year's "Icky Thump"). But I do take that point under advisement. And it's not like I hated "Soldier." On the contrary, I liked it very much; I just prefer blues/country-rocker Jack White to pop-rocker Jack White.

One other note about what I'm hearing tonight over the Internet (and, wow, pretty nice sound for a live stream): The songs don 't sound quite as polished in person as I'd expect. I'm pretty sure that's on purpose, but it was a little startling. Spontaneity's one thing; sloppiness is another.

Still, would have loved to be there tonight, especially now as they're wrapping up with "Carolina Story." Bittersweetness. Ah well, at least all that government NPR money is actually doing me some good for a change.

‘Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull’

The new “Indiana Jones” installment (no, I’m not typing that unwieldy title again), is the kind of movie I need to see twice before making final judgment. Much like George Lucas’ other long-awaited project, 1999’s “Star Wars: Episode 1—The Phantom Menace” (what is it with this guy and bad monikers?), “Indy 4” has a veritable Molotov cocktail of insanely high expectations and longstanding goodwill. As a result, there’s no way after a nearly two-decade wait this movie could possibly live up to the hype; and, by the same token, Indy fans (like me) are probably willing—on first viewing—to overlook various disappointments because they (and I) are so glad to have their beloved haymaker-throwing archaeologist back in action.

I remember walking out of “The Phantom Menace” almost exactly nine years ago to the day and thinking I liked it, having been dazzled by all that updated lightsaber technique and what not. It wasn’t until the third viewing (yes, I’m ashamed to have seen it thrice in the theaters) that all the excitement finally ebbed and I realized what an awful train-wreck of a movie “Menace” truly is.

I don’t think the same will happen with “Indy 4,” but I doubt I’ll come back to this movie very often, either, the way I do its three predecessors. There were definitely highlights, but most of those were—like “Phantom Menace”—action driven. To be sure, director Steven Spielberg hasn’t lost his touch for delivering the goods on a good ol’ fashioned chase sequence. There are plenty in “Indy 4,” and they’re all basically spectacular.

But it’s the stuff in between and around those romps that leaves me wanting more. Spielberg and Lucas made absolutely the right choice by not trying to fake Indy’s age; the plot of “Crystal Skull” takes place 19 years after the events in the franchise’s last installment, “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” But the showrunners don’t take that premise far enough—Jones’ age is only dealt with in sidelong glances. Early in the film, young co-star Shia LeBeouf’s Mutt asks Indy: “What are you, 80?” It’s a good line, and it gets a good laugh, but all is seemingly forgotten a few minutes later when Jones delivers a few nice punches and jumps from a moving motorcycle into a moving car. And even though Harrison Ford more than holds his own in these action scenes, the gutsier and more satisfying choice would have examined what it’s like for a fading hero to face his own physical limitations. That's a movie I'll watch more than once.

Matter of fact, it’s ironic that for a character so beloved, “Crystal Skull” doesn’t focus on him much at all. The central plot is so convoluted, Indy is forced to basically float from place to place so the script can do its heavy lifting and unravel the knot of a mystery that never really makes much sense. As a result, there are at times long stretches between action sequences with little more going on than characters standing around delivering expository dialogue—more precious character-developing screen time wasted. For his part, Ford seems torn between two ways of portraying Indy: he vacillates between the cynical world-weary stud who’s seen and done it all, and the old guy who doesn’t understand what the next generation of young whipper-snappers is all about.

All this is not to say I didn’t like “Indy 4,” because I did. LeBeouf is downright terrific in his role of a young greaser who enlists Jones’ help to find his kidnapped mother; the budding star injects some needed energy into the film, and he and Ford work quite well together. Despite his struggles in search of the correct Indy tone, Ford in spots reminds us all over again why we love Indiana Jones with his wisecracks and whip smacks. It’s a fun day out at the movies, with some laughs, some gasps, and some moments to cheer.

It’s just a shame that after so many years and so much wrangling over a story, somewhere along the line Lucas and Spielberg cut the heart out of their hero.

Grade: B-

'Iron Man'

For awhile there, I was ready to declare “Iron Man” one of the best comic-book-to-film adaptations of all time. Up until the last 15 minutes or so, that is, when apparently director Jon Favreau had his brain momentarily replaced by Michael Bay’s.

See, what makes this movie great is exactly what you’ve heard—and exactly what continues to push the movie’s box office receipts higher than anyone anticipated: Robert Downey Jr. gives a splendidly refreshing performance, anchoring a film that’s witty, funny, sarcastic, emotional, and thrilling. All that goes out the window, though, in the climax as Downey’s Tony Stark (dressed in the metal duds of the title character) fights the film’s villain (to give that away here would be spoiling too much); the battle royale is schlocky, chunky, cheesy, mindless, witless, and so filled with clichés and awful dialogue, I wondered how the same people who crafted such a wonderful movie to that point could have produced such drivel.

The ability to close a film with style and class is one of the characteristics that defines greatness in this genre (along with picking the right actor for the hero). Anybody can have two heavyweights go at it and blow a bunch of holes in each other and their surroundings. But the two prime examples of how to do it right begin and end with two sequels, “Superman II” and “Spider-Man 2,” where the heroes had to use as much brains as brawn to defeat their enemies; these two films had the guts to turn the action down a bit at the end, rather than ramping it up to ridiculous levels. “Iron Man” is without question a cut above the rest, but it's rather ironic that a story with one of the smartest superheroes in the canon could get so stupid so quickly.

But all that's not to say there isn't plenty to love about this movie. Like most of the genre’s biggest hits of the past decade, “Iron Man” is an origin story, and all credit goes to Favreau and crew for doing essentially the same movie we’ve seen over and over again (“Spider-Man,” “Batman Begins,” “Daredevil,” etc.), and still making it look and feel fresh. Of course, so much of that is keyed off the casting of Downey, who brings as much of his wit and roguish charm to this big-budget actioner as he has to so many of his more subtle roles in the past. He’s funny and heroic, yet not entirely likeable in all the right ways.

And much credit also should go to the special-effects folks at Industrial Light & Magic; though I was a bit wary of the footage released in the trailers, when Iron Man’s movements are put into context of the overall film, his presence is downright flawless. Downey’s first forays into the suit’s abilities are some of the most exciting moments in any comic-book movie I’ve seen, certainly rivaling Tobey Maguire’s work as Peter Parker and Christian Bale as Bruce Wayne in similar plots/films.

So, in the end, “Iron Man” is one of those increasingly rare treats: An action/adventure flick actually deserving of the term "blockbuster."

Grade: B+

The Raconteurs, ‘Consolers of the Lonely’

When The Raconteurs’ first album came out back in 2006, it sounded like a collection of tracks recorded on a lark in somebody’s garage. Which, of course, it actually was. Despite hype to the contrary about Jack White’s new endeavor with friend and fellow singer/songwriter Brendan Benson not being “just a side project,” that’s exactly what most of “Broken Boy Soldiers” sounded like, with rare exceptions (“Blue Veins”).

This is not to say “Soldiers” was a subpar effort; even these guys’ knock-offs are first rate. But their initial album meandered to the point it lacked a signature sound and focus, as if White and Benson tried too hard not to assert their influence over the other, adding up to a collection that was less than the sum of its parts.

All this has changed for the better on the Raconteurs’ new album, “Consolers of the Lonely,” released last month. This is what I was hoping for two years ago, a perfect fusion between White’s raw rock-and-blues power and Benson’s sublime pop/rock sensibilities. It’s focused, strong, and unabashed, thundering along with purpose and confidence.

We hear this right from the first track, “Consoler of the Lonely,” which starts with a loud, crunching guitar and sees the two leads deftly trade verses. As each enters the fray, the tempo and style change, almost like two different songs have been sewn together seamlessly. This isn’t even one of the five best songs on this album, and I would argue it’s still more exciting than anything on “Broken Boy Soldiers.” That’s how strong this record is.

From there it’s off and running through 50 glorious minutes of the most adventurous rock and roll you’re likely to hear this year. White offers up several rave-ups scattered throughout the album’s 14 tracks, including the breakneck lead single “Salute Your Solution,” the thrashing “Five on the Five,” and standout “Hold Up,” where Jack addresses both his throwback ideals and the love of a good woman.

Benson, meanwhile, does some of his best work on the album’s fourth cut, “Old Enough.” For the first few bars it sounds little different than one of the gems from his 2005 solo effort “Alternative to Love”—and then the fiddle and organ come flying into the scene and the song veers into some kind of ethereal, off-kilter country realm.

Benson has other highlights on the record, too (“Many Shades of Black,” for instance), but perhaps his greatest contribution is one of humility. It’s an obvious sign of White and Benson’s friendship that the latter is able this time around to let White take his rightful place as the band's leader. Nothing against Benson, certainly, but Jack White is one of the seminal artists of this decade. Besides basically singlehandedly making guitar heroics relevant for a new generation through his signature band, The White Stripes, have we already forgotten his contributions to 2003’s “Cold Mountain” soundtrack, or how he resuscitated Loretta Lynn’s career in 2004? So the fact that “Consolers of the Lonely” contains some of the best work of his life makes this album all the more remarkable—and essential.

I’m speaking specifically of three songs here, three essential cuts that stand up—and come downright close to surpassing—anything White has written to this point. “Top Yourself” is a country/blues epic, complete with what sounds like banjo plucking deep in the background and a sinewy electric riff that would sound just right on the Stripes’ “De Stijl” from 2000. It’s a cousin both musically and thematically to “You Don’t Know What Love Is (You Just Do What You’re Told)” from the most recent Stripes album, last year’s “Icky Thump.” Here White engages in tough love once again by imploring a woman to stand up for herself and break free of a bad relationship.

Next is “These Stones Will Shout,” the album’s penultimate track that serves as the Raconteurs’ version of Led Zeppelin’s “Over the Hills and Far Away.” The song starts soft but fervent on dueling acoustic guitars before calling down the hammer of the gods and exploding into classic-rock heaven.

And then there’s album-closer “Carolina Drama,” a twisty, wordy tale of a broken home and a son’s bloody, drunken quest for vengeance. In other words, here’s White’s take on one of his heroes, Bob Dylan.

The initial excitement surrounding the Raconteurs came down to one basic notion: If Jack White can do so much with just drums and a guitar in The White Stripes, what could he accomplish when backed by an entire band? It may have taken a couple years to find out, but “Consolers of the Lonely” finally answers that question with absolute certainty in what must be considered one of the best albums of 2008.

Grade: A

‘29 Years Before I Saw You’: The National at Messiah College, 5.3.08

So that’s what all the fuss is about. Okay, I get it now.

The National was one of the most buzzed-about bands of 2007, with their latest album, “Boxer,” landing at or near the top of many a year-end best-of list. Perhaps all that ginormous indie hype is why I stayed away; perhaps I just had too much other great music to listen to. But for whatever reason, I never got around to hearing “Boxer” last year.

So when I learned the Ohio-via-New York quintet was playing Messiah College, well, that was a no-brainer. A proving ground, of sorts. What better way to determine if they’re really worthy of all this chatter?

Going to a concert without knowing the band’s songs is a much different experience from seeing a beloved favorite. The group is either going to win you over or they’re not; with no pre-conceived notions or built-in goodwill, there’s no bias. The music has to stand on its own, has to reach out and grab you. The National have this territory covered.

It all starts with frontman Matt Berninger, whose deep, arresting baritone drifts in and out of the songs like a breeze, never overstated or trying too hard, yet impossible to ignore. It’s like his vocal is always there in the room, and he just takes the cover off and lets it out when the music requires.

The band surrounding him creates the perfect atmosphere to support Berninger’s strong-yet-whispy presence. Most songs are mellow, a mix between electric and acoustic, and some are downright quiet in true “indie” stylings these days. Even when the band revs up and gets loud, it’s still in a decidedly minor key (I guess—I’m no composer). The difference between The National and, say, Sufjan Stevens (whom I generally cannot stand) is Berninger’s voice; he does subdued with power that gives the band true gravitas. These songs are intimate and epic, precise and expansive, all at the same time.

The National played for about 80 minutes, and if I had to guess offered up about 15 songs. Knowing the material hardly at all, it would have been impossible to take notes on a setlist; I know they opened with “Start a War,” closed with two songs off the “Cherry Tree” EP, and in between played through a majority of “Boxer.” Particular favorites for me were “Slow Show,” “Mistaken for Strangers,” and “Fake Empire.”

Six years ago, I went to see Wilco for the first time under much the same circumstances. I didn’t know a single song when I walked into the venue, but wanted to see them live to find out for myself if all the accolades were genuine. By the end of a two-hour show, I knew I wanted to hear much, much more (and have basically spent the intervening time doing just that). I clearly remember the three-hour drive home from Columbus to Huntington playing “A.M.” over and over and thinking how well that album’s rootsy vibe fit with the wide-open countryside of the Midwest. I was hooked.

Last night, I left Messiah late amidst a slight rain, only rarely encountering other lights on a dark road, Berninger’s voice filling every nook of my car. I can’t think of a better setting for my first listen through “Boxer."

Yes, I’m hooked.


UPDATE
5.12.08

Thanks to this site, I now have a setlist (hooray!). From what I've read of other shows, the Messiah performance was only a couple songs short in the encore, which I'm assuming was due to the fact that Berninger was suffering from a cold. Interestingly, not a single song was played from their first two albums (much like the Snow Patrol concert I saw last year)—I wonder how the long-timers feel about that …

More than a week later, I'm stopping myself from listening to "Boxer" (and the rest of the albums) too many times so I don't wear them out. Here's the set from last weekend's show:

The National
Messiah College
5.3.08
Running time: 80 minutes

Start a War
Mistaken for Strangers
Secret Meeting
Brainy
Baby We'll Be Fine
Slow Show
Squalor Victoria
Abel
All the Wine
Racing Like a Pro
Apartment Story
Daughters of the Soho Riots
Fake Empire
Mr. November

Encore:
Wasp Nest (which Berninger said is a rarity, but I cannot confirm)
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