Does Pearl Jam matter anymore? That’s a question every band faces once its record sales head south after a run of multiplatinum successes.
In the early ’90s, the Seattle quintet was the biggest band in the world. But as Pearl Jam shied from the superstar status foisted upon them, its audience scattered, still leaving enough fans to fill the Allstate Arena Monday.
This is not a band wheezing on its last legs. On the contrary, Pearl Jam has never played with more power, subtlety and confidence. Judging by this performance, it appears bound not for flavor-of-the-month obsolescence but for a long, varied career modeled after heroes such as Neil Young and Pete Townshend.
If anything, its humanism is more necessary than ever, an antidote to the belligerent posturing of artists who now enjoy MTV’s 24-hour indulgence. It’s fitting that Pearl Jam’s fans don’t punch the air with their fists when the band’s anthems kick in; instead their raised, open palms seem to instinctively reflect the songs’ compassionate tone. Eddie Vedder’s lyrics are filled with recurring images of resurfacing, awakening, transcending. There’s always a shaft of hope glimmering in a songbook that gives a voice to the voiceless: abused women (“Better Man”), the mentally ill (Victoria Williams’ “Crazy Mary”), traumatized children (“Jeremy”) and the “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town.”
Vedder strolled the stage, bearded and tousle-haired, the grunge-era beat poet gripping a bottle of red wine in one hand and a notebook in the other. The band’s early tunes still fired up the arena with their anthemic crests, never more so than on the opening “Release,” a staggering piece of introspection. As white soul singers go, Vedder has few peers, his baritone more shaded and nuanced, able to find the subtlety behind beautiful new songs such as “Light Years” and “Parting Ways.”
Stone Gossard remains the unassuming master of the riff, playing Keith Richards to Mike McCready’s Mick Taylor, a firecracker guitarist who makes his rare solos count. On “Evenflow,” Gossard and Vedder stood aside, admiring an extended power-trio workout with drummer Matt Cameron doing a wicked Tony Williams impression, face to face with bassist Jeff Ament, while McCready channeled Jimi Hendrix’s “Third Stone from the Sun” through his amplifier. It was a stunning moment, but the quintet didn’t risk over-indulging its latent jam-band tendencies. Instead it focused on the songs, a combination of greatest hits, obscurities (“Leatherman”), and odd nuggets (a cover of Arthur Alexander’s “Soldier of Love” copped off a Marshall Crenshaw album), while making a strong case for its latest, sadly overlooked album, “Binaural.”
If we must have rock in hockey arenas, let it all be played with this much respect for the audience’s intelligence. On a stage with no props, Pearl Jam put its faith where it matters: in the music.
