Right around the middle of August, when the post-high school set started straggling back to campus, our Pearl Jam/U2 tickets showed up and I started panicking.
The stress? Was stupid crazy. Not because I have an irrational thing about flying. Nor was it concern over how we were going to swing a very large vacation on relatively short notice. No. I was freaking out because I stopped following Pearl Jam sometime after the Vitology release and I hate, hate, hate going to big concerts where I don't comprehend why the first three notes triggers mass hysteria.
[It's not so much that I have a low threshold for boredom, but more a side effect of being the DD through college. I hate feeling like I'm the only person in a large crowd not having the Best! Time! EvAr! This is especially true when the 15,000 people around me all know the words to all the songs and I'm taking serriptious glances at my watch and hoping the next number is the one hit I know. If I'm going to a concert, if there's going to be that outlay of an arm and a leg, if I have to face Journal Pavillion parking, I want to have that all-out enthusiasm for the band.]
[And going all the way to Hawaii to see Pearl Jam? Even though they're opening for U2? Stress.]
When I explained my issue, Adam was more than happy give a girl a hand. He loaded up my iPod with all of the studio albums (minus, ironically, "Vs." which was the only one I knew backwards and forwards). He gave me four gigs worth of bootleg concerts spanning the last six years. He sent me an e-mail with the subject line of "How To Be a Pearl Jam Fan," which explained The-Dead-Meets-Rocky-Horror audience participation phenomenon that's grown up around the band since they began touring obsessively and also included a handy-dandy list of cues for waving, clapping, fist-throwing and remaining absolutely silent.
[Apparently, if Eddie Vedder pulls out a ukalale, we do not clap.]
He gave me cds stuffed with bootlegs for Bucky. He gave me a copy of the Toronto 2005 encore where Bono came leaping onstage and cameoed on "Rockin' in the Free World." He found a picture of the event and e-mailed it to me. It's now my laptop wallpaper.
[I am a big nerd.]
He gave me all of this and then, because he knows me, he said those magical words. "There will be a test."
I haven't put this much effort into studying since my junior year of college. Every day is an eight hour cram session where I pop into the 500-song-strong Pearl Jam smart list and press play. I've done outside reading (Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, Wikipedia). I've learned words, learned stories, learned that there is no way I have enough time to learn it all. This is an overview, an introduction, PJ 101.
And Adam wasn't joking when he said there'd be a test. There have been several. He has quizzed me on the first verse of "Betterman" and asked for the Alive trilogy. "Singles" was on Cinemax a couple of weeks ago and he would gasp "OOH!" and then bark at me to name the song. I got "State of Love and Trust," missed "Breath." It felt like I'd failed the midterm.
It would feel like a slog if I didn't enjoy it so damn much. It's like finding a new writer to read and then spending months going through the back catalog, savoring every page. Everyday, there's something new to discover on the iPod. There's a song I've heard a thousand times before that suddenly leaps out at me and requires further study. Last night, I dreamed we were at the concert and they opened with "Once." When I woke up, I remembered my Spanish professor once swore mastery of a language came when you spoke it in your dreams.
And now maybe I've stretched the analogy too far.
Anyway, it occurs to me that with about a month to go before the show, I should be brushing up on my U2, relearning H2DMAB and revisiting "The Joshua Tree" for the pure joy of that record and listening to the moody, brilliant Achtung, Baby. I need to. I will.
The stress? Was stupid crazy. Not because I have an irrational thing about flying. Nor was it concern over how we were going to swing a very large vacation on relatively short notice. No. I was freaking out because I stopped following Pearl Jam sometime after the Vitology release and I hate, hate, hate going to big concerts where I don't comprehend why the first three notes triggers mass hysteria.
[It's not so much that I have a low threshold for boredom, but more a side effect of being the DD through college. I hate feeling like I'm the only person in a large crowd not having the Best! Time! EvAr! This is especially true when the 15,000 people around me all know the words to all the songs and I'm taking serriptious glances at my watch and hoping the next number is the one hit I know. If I'm going to a concert, if there's going to be that outlay of an arm and a leg, if I have to face Journal Pavillion parking, I want to have that all-out enthusiasm for the band.]
[And going all the way to Hawaii to see Pearl Jam? Even though they're opening for U2? Stress.]
When I explained my issue, Adam was more than happy give a girl a hand. He loaded up my iPod with all of the studio albums (minus, ironically, "Vs." which was the only one I knew backwards and forwards). He gave me four gigs worth of bootleg concerts spanning the last six years. He sent me an e-mail with the subject line of "How To Be a Pearl Jam Fan," which explained The-Dead-Meets-Rocky-Horror audience participation phenomenon that's grown up around the band since they began touring obsessively and also included a handy-dandy list of cues for waving, clapping, fist-throwing and remaining absolutely silent.
[Apparently, if Eddie Vedder pulls out a ukalale, we do not clap.]
He gave me cds stuffed with bootlegs for Bucky. He gave me a copy of the Toronto 2005 encore where Bono came leaping onstage and cameoed on "Rockin' in the Free World." He found a picture of the event and e-mailed it to me. It's now my laptop wallpaper.
[I am a big nerd.]
He gave me all of this and then, because he knows me, he said those magical words. "There will be a test."
I haven't put this much effort into studying since my junior year of college. Every day is an eight hour cram session where I pop into the 500-song-strong Pearl Jam smart list and press play. I've done outside reading (Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, Wikipedia). I've learned words, learned stories, learned that there is no way I have enough time to learn it all. This is an overview, an introduction, PJ 101.
And Adam wasn't joking when he said there'd be a test. There have been several. He has quizzed me on the first verse of "Betterman" and asked for the Alive trilogy. "Singles" was on Cinemax a couple of weeks ago and he would gasp "OOH!" and then bark at me to name the song. I got "State of Love and Trust," missed "Breath." It felt like I'd failed the midterm.
It would feel like a slog if I didn't enjoy it so damn much. It's like finding a new writer to read and then spending months going through the back catalog, savoring every page. Everyday, there's something new to discover on the iPod. There's a song I've heard a thousand times before that suddenly leaps out at me and requires further study. Last night, I dreamed we were at the concert and they opened with "Once." When I woke up, I remembered my Spanish professor once swore mastery of a language came when you spoke it in your dreams.
And now maybe I've stretched the analogy too far.
Anyway, it occurs to me that with about a month to go before the show, I should be brushing up on my U2, relearning H2DMAB and revisiting "The Joshua Tree" for the pure joy of that record and listening to the moody, brilliant Achtung, Baby. I need to. I will.
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