He walked in the door, and I handed him a glass of wine and said, “Come sit and listen to this album with me”. And of course he did. And we talked about how fortunate we’ve been.
Law School
Hiking in Flip Flops
Have you ever been on a hike, only to come upon a small creek that you need to cross? You chart a potential path, identifying high rocks you can step on to make it to the other side. Will those rocks hold? Are they secretly slippery, even though they don’t appear to be? You are certain you will make it to the other side of the creek, but will you step on the opposite bank unscathed? Something holds you back from taking that first step, off the ledge, onto the nearest rock. Is it fear? Self preservation? Ego?
And then, eventually, (perhaps at the urging of your hiking buddy who is already across the creek), you take the first step. And it’s all fine. You don’t slip, or maybe just enough to get your boots wet, and surely that’s not going to ruin your hike. You get to the other side, take a look back at where you’ve been, and think — Huh, that wasn’t so bad. What on earth was I so worried about? Your hike continues, and you eat some cheese and crackers and have a great day.
To my husband, and later to a friend, this was the only way I could describe my recent anxiousness over a big decision. I was desperately craving the euphoria of that step onto the bank on the other side. I knew, with every ounce of gut instinct, that it was the right choice, but I was having problems stepping off the river bank, into the stream.
Perhaps this analogy makes no sense to anyone but me, and everyone else gleefully steps off a safe bank into a river crossing, with no hesitancy. But I’m not wired that way. At any rate, this is what was rattling around in my head, as I traveled to a California beach to see Pearl Jam play at Ohana Fest. My husband wasn’t able to go, so I invited my college-age son, whose campus is not too far away.
It felt great to be with my people (“Drop the Gyro and Run”). Although my kids both know of my PJ fandom, I am glad that they have both now seen that their mom is not the only one. I gave up long ago on trying to explain Pearl Jam (and my concert-going) to people outside my family. Now I just own it, and people can think whatever they want about why I’m “like that” (“Knowledge From the Box”). My son loves concerts too, and he casually observed at one point during the day, “Usually at music festivals, it’s people my age. But at this one it’s all… people your age” (read: old people). Oy. I refrained from telling him that his generation did not invent music festivals, and neither did mine.
At concerts, I am often in my head, and I typically make some discoveries. I knew that the show would be meaningful because it was my first post-pandemic concert, and because I would be seeing Pearl Jam with my son. I took my daughter to a PJ show a few years ago, and it was beautiful (“Big Sky Gratitude”). But I under-estimated the gravity of this one. As the music started, I realized that, while the show was all that I expected, it was also something bigger: a bookend. The first time I saw Pearl Jam, I was just a few weeks away from starting law school. This time, I am at the other end of that choice.
Somewhere in the evening, I realized that my analogy was all wrong. While that first step off the bank is indeed crucial, we shouldn’t focus only on the safety of the other side. I decided to embrace the discomfort. The rock-stepping is part of the process. The journey gives us freedom to view ourselves differently, and approach things through a new lens.
In the crowd near us, I overheard a son ask his dad why he wasn’t dancing to a particular song. The response was so great. The dad said, “It’s a perfectly fine song, it’s just not for me”. We can use that mantra for anything, including big decisions. (Also, I vow that, from this day forward, I will always embody this sentiment when I am complaining about discussing a set list.)
And in terms of my hike, I did take that first step into the creek. I haven’t yet taken that blissful other-side-of-the-bank step, but I am somewhere in the middle, and the rocks are holding up just fine.
We Could Drive All Day/Let’s Just Get the Hell Away From Here
It’s funny, I always assumed this song was about a shitty summer of studying for the bar exam. Turns out it’s about living during a pandemic. #runningsongs (“Heroin Girl, or Heroine Girl?”)
Garage Regret, 20 Years Later
Twenty years ago when Kurt died, I was in law school and living in Tacoma. I recall driving down the hill on my way to work, towards Commencement Bay, and hearing it on the radio. The sky was blindingly blue – one of those crystal clear, early spring days when it seems like it should be warm outside, but isn’t. It wasn’t yet confirmed to be Kurt, but of course everyone knew it was. My stomach dropped, and I very clearly remember thinking that it was too beautiful of a day to be lying dead in a room above a garage.
As the weeks (and years) went on, regret loomed. As a music lover and Seattle resident since 1988, I am almost embarrassed to say that I never saw Nirvana play live. I had plenty of opportunities, including the infamous “Four Bands for Four Bucks” shows at the UW Hub while I was in college there. I had a friend who sported a Nirvana sticker on his VW bug long before “Nevermind”. He saw them plenty of times. At the time I remember considering him somewhat of a slacker, but now I think he’s a goddamn genius. I graduated, moved to Tacoma for law school, and a Nirvana show just never seemed to work out for me. I barely remember that I once had access to a ticket, and then couldn’t go, for some reason which must have been important at the time.
I took my kids to the EMP recently, and we toured the Nirvana exhibit. They enjoy music and of course know about Nirvana, so they were interested. They listened to my stories as I pointed out the great artifacts and pictures in the exhibit. This was my time, my youth, my Seattle. I was excited to show them. But at 9 and 11, my kids lack the emotional connection that I have to that music, to that slice of history. Plus they don’t understand that parental reaction of – “20 DAMN YEARS! FUCK! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? HOW is it POSSIBLE that I can remember that time so vividly, and now in the blink of an eye it’s 20+ years later and I’m looking at all of this stuff, IN A MUSEUM, with two tweens, and wiry grey hairs poking out of my head?”
I realized instantly that, for me, the EMP’s Jimi Hendrix exhibit was the mirror image. I like his music, and I appreciate the impact he made, but I don’t have an emotional connection to that time. I toured the exhibit politely, but I didn’t have earnest stories or reactions to the displays, like the people nearby, 20 years my senior, who had lived through his music.
And that is the cyclical nature of things, of course. On the huge screen in the Sky Church down the hall, a Macklemore video played. People gathered and watched. My kids ran down the hall to see. I had taken my 11 year old to see Macklemore & Ryan Lewis in concert back in December. It was my son’s first “real” concert, and he had a blast. I did too. Our evening was precious to me in the way that only a lover of live music can understand. (And I feel I’ve properly set him up for the “what was your first concert?” discussion down the road. Mine was Night Ranger….not exactly the same). Truthfully, I wanted to see Macklemore as much as my son did. He feels like a Seattle artist whom you ought to see when you have a chance.
So I’m trying to do better on the regret front, at least where my kids are concerned. I let them skip school and took them to the Seahawks Super Bowl victory parade in February, mainly because I figured they will remember it in 20 years, a lot more than anything they would have done in school that day. You know – kind of the opposite of thinking about an elusive Nirvana ticket, and not being able to remember why you didn’t go.
Express Yourself, 2012 Style
One thing irritates me like no other: the Music Snob. You know the type – they only like the coolest bands that no one else has heard of, or claim to only like music done by “true artists” or “good musicians” (read: no pop, no Top 40). I am not a Music Snob. I like a lot of different music, and I won’t disparage you for what you like.
Behold: today’s post is about Salt ‘n Pepa. You Music Snobs know who they are, so don’t pretend otherwise.
In 1990, Salt ‘n Pepa’s “Expression” was a mainstay on my Walkman. I was in college and worked part-time at the prosecutor’s office, and rode the Metro bus to and from campus and work, every day. A Walkman was essential in order to avoid having to talk to any weird older men who might sit next to you on the bus. I really loved that song; I must have listened to it a million times. (Favorite line? “Yes I’m blessed and I know/who I am/I express myself on every jam/I’m not a man but I’m in command/hot damn, I got an all-girl band”).
Soon thereafter, with the onslaught of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, et. al., my flirtation with rap and hip-hop ended. My DJ/rapper nickname was cast aside (email me and I’ll tell you what it was), and my Salt n’ Pepa cassette was relegated to a box. I decided I wanted to become a lawyer….went to law school, got married, had kids, blah blah blah……20 years passed. Cut to present day Seattle, on a path around Greenlake:
I honestly forgot that I ever loaded the song onto iTunes or put it on my workout mix. I don’t think I’ve heard it in years. But today, on my run, for the first time ever – the Shuffle Gods went to work, and there it was – Salt ‘n Pepa, speaking to me in scratches and beats:
“Hey, you used to be that girl on the bus…..you carried a leather bookbag and had big dreams and a five year plan. How’d that all work out for you? Are you where you want to be? Have you done what you set out to do? How realistic were the plans of a 20 year-old anyway? You can laugh at the 20 year-old You and how she didn’t know anything, but she’s still out there on a bus somewhere, and you need to settle up with her”.
Enough already, Salt! (and Pepa. And Spinderella) As if I wasn’t already introspective enough, as a result of the new year and an unexpected event in my family, now here you go, poking me with your catchy grooves. OK, I will play along. January is always a time for cleaning out and purging. Why else would all the stores have organizational items on sale, and all the diet centers run specials? More importantly, though, it’s also a time for mental housecleaning – to satisfy that list-maker in all of us.
Much like a Metro bus route, our lives will always be filled with delays, detours, and some dead ends. But the end result is that I don’t need any do-overs. I’m ecstatically happy with the past 20 years, potholes and all. I am looking forward to 2012 in a way that I haven’t done in a long time. It is full of promise, full of new beginnings, and chock-full of big plans, both personally and professionally.
It might have taken me 20 years to realize that, in the end, you really are only accountable to yourself. Or, as it were, to your 20-year old self on a bus. I’d still like to buy that girl a cup of coffee and talk to her, but otherwise, I think we’ve settled up.
Ten
I’m still wearing flip flops most days, my son wears shorts to school and my daughter refuses to wear a coat, but it’s undeniable that it is now fall. (I never realized that my children’s penchant for inappropriate seasonal attire came from me until I typed that sentence. Hmm.) The rain is here and focus has shifted indoors, not that I really mind. But it does feel like time to put away summertime music and concert memories.
Time, also, to put away the Pearl Jam cloud that I’ve been living under for the past few months. (“Alive…Encore Break“, “Twenty“). But not, of course, without reflection. Indulge me one last PJ post as I recount, in no particular order, my Top Ten favorite Pearl Jam concert memories (so far):
1. Lollapalooza, July 1992, Kitsap County Fair Grounds. My first time seeing them live, and I am totally hooked – no looking back. Enough said. (“Drop the Gyro and Run“).
2. Magnuson Park, “Drop in the Park”, September 1992. I’ve just started law school. I probably should be in the library, but the allure of a free show in Magnuson Park is infinitely more appealing than Crim Law. Eddie climbs the trusses like a monkey and swings from a microphone cord. The hook of PJ fandom and concert mania is set even further.
3. RKCNDY, Seattle, 1994. The secret show that never was. Again, I should be home studying. Instead, my friends and I go to see a side project of Mike McCready, certain that PJ will then play a secret show. After his set, McCready grabs an electric guitar and says “we’ll be right back”. This is it! The secret show is going to happen!! But then it doesn’t.
4. The Gorge, 1993. Pearl Jam opens for Neil Young. Blind Melon opens for Pearl Jam, and their lead singer cusses out the crowd, saying he knows we are only there to see PJ. Obviously he has issues, but my issue is that it’s a long-ass drive from the Gorge back home to Tacoma.
5. Seattle Center Arena, 1993. I finally notice that there are other band members besides Eddie Vedder. (Dang, Stone is fun to watch! And still is.)
6. Key Arena, November 2000. Shit, I have just turned 30 years old. The band plays “Elderly Woman” (?!?) Eddie, together with the crowd: “I just want to scream — Helloooooo….” PJ had been snatched from me a year earlier when a friendship ended (“Alive, Encore Break“), but in that instant, I reclaim the band as mine. Two people in front of us make out during the entire show. I understand the sentiment, but not enough to avoid labelling them as idiots. My sister and I throw things at them. So much for being more mature at 30.
7. Ben Harper show, Seattle, 2005. A rare night out with my sisters after having two babies in two years. An already amazing show from Ben, when Eddie shows up for the encore and joins him for a few songs. My sleep-deprived mind is blown.
8. The Gorge, September 2005. We have amazing dead-center seats. The debate over “fist to the JAW” vs. “fist to the DOOR” intensifies, this round going to my husband. Eddie tries to lure Tom Petty down from the hotel next door – “Hello Tom…….come down Tom….” (he doesn’t). A damn near perfect setlist start to finish, including one of my favorite versions (ever) of “Yellow Ledbetter”, which segues into a cover of “Baba O’Reilly”. I have a recording of this show, and I run to it all the time. You can’t help but pick up your pace when “Porch” comes on.
9. The Gorge, July 2006. It is, no lie, 109 degrees. Proving my theory that fans love it when musicians say the F word, the crowd goes wild when Eddie observes, “it’s fucking HOT!” Eddie sneaks out to the roof above the sound board to sing “Given to Fly”. Amazing. Perfect. And yes, fucking hot.
And, finally…….the most recent show, destined to be one of my favorites, for a million reasons:
10. Vancouver BC, September 2011. Long Canadian-cash-only beer lines, and even longer cab lines. We (kind of, almost) see our friend get in a fight over a cab, but he emerges victorious. I get my Concert Moment, and then some, when it seems that 95% of the setlist has been channeled directly from my brain to the band. (I got a spot at Lukin’s!) It’s my husband’s birthday, and PJ sings Happy Birthday to him (well, actually they are singing to one of their crew, but really, what are the odds?). I punch him — “sweetie, Eddie is singing to YOU!!!” He is appreciative, but not as excited about it as I am.
A pretty darn perfect weekend all around, topped with international intrigue as we see two people arrested at the border on the way home. Were they smuggling plans for a secret Seattle PJ show back into the U.S.? Because I am still waiting for one…
Drop the Gyro and Run
I recently saw The Black Keys in concert. They totally blew me away. When others have asked me how it was, I can only describe it by saying that it was the most life-altering show I’ve seen in a long time. This is not a designation that I award lightly. In fact, only two other times.
The first Life Altering Concert, and really the only one that matters in the grand scheme of things: the first time I saw Pearl Jam. Lollapalooza 1992, Kitsap County Fair Grounds. The lineup, even then, was phenomenal: Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Jesus and Mary Chain, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Ministry, Ice Cube (who dropped more F-bombs in a sentence than I had ever heard, then or since — he had been stopped at the U.S./Canadian border, and barely made it in time for his set. But that’s another story).
Come to think of it, these life-changing concerts have always occurred at the intersection of a major life change. The Pearl Jam show was a month before I started law school. DMB (Life Altering Concert #2) was around the time of my wedding. The Black Keys show came right before the Big Birthday. Skeptics would say that it’s not really the music that is life-changing, it’s just the timing of the concert. But of course I know differently.
On that July day so long ago, my main reason for coming to Lollapalooza was Pearl Jam. I was a huge fan, but hadn’t seen them live yet. My friend and I thought they were taking the stage later, but as we sat eating lunch, we heard the roar of the crowd and…..Eddie. We literally dropped everything (the gyro was terrible anyway), and sprinted over.
It’s funny that in a concert setting, your concept of personal space is miniscule. Standing shoulder to shoulder with sweaty strangers is not only acceptable, it’s preferred. We got pretty close to the stage, and while I couldn’t tell you the playlist, I do remember very clearly thinking: these are my people.
That is what concerts are all about. Live music is collective yet private, public but intimate, all at once. And aren’t we all, throughout life, just looking for our people? Our village? We are lucky to find it in different contexts along the way – in friendships, in our profession, in our kids’ schools – people who share a similar world view, and make our daily lives better.
But a love of live music bonds us in a way like no other. To the dude at the Gorge with the Pearl Jam tattoo, and the guy with the tattered “Drop in the Park” t-shirt (“Buttercup! Buttercup!”), I say: I get you. You are my people; you are my friend, even if I don’t know you.
And the friend who was at the Pearl Jam show with me that day — that life-changing show cemented our friendship, forever. He’s always been my friend, even when we didn’t see each other for nine years. That’s just the way it works.
The Sweatiest Music
I was thinking yesterday about what makes a good workout playlist. What works on any given day is always up for grabs. The lawyer in me, though, can distill it down into these essential elements:
1. VOLUME. The music must be mind-numbingly loud, creating an audio cocoon that drowns out any peripheral noise. I don’t want to be talked to when I have on headphones, so whether I can hear what anyone is saying is immaterial.
2. CONTENT. Live recordings are best, but studio versions will do. The perfect tempo is one that coincides with your running pace, resulting in a sweaty bliss as if you are dancing in the summer sun at The Gorge. I have a recording of a really hot Pearl Jam show at The Gorge, and when those songs come on, it’s almost — almost — like being there again. And I’m usually just as sweaty, considering the temperature at that show was 110.
3. TRANSPORT. Creative visualization is a nice bonus. If a song reminds me of a funny memory, it shifts my focus from thinking about how tired I am. That being said, some songs have inexplicably made it onto my playlist, and I have no idea why. Crosby, Stills and Nash only remind me of late nights in law school, and thus have no place on a workout playlist. I can’t hit “skip” fast enough, yet I have been too lazy to remove them.
4. CONTEXT. And finally, of course, the music does not have to be music that you listen to at any other time. Do I ever listen to Public Enemy or Soundgarden while I am making dinner? No. But are they a mainstay in my workout playlist? Absolutely.
Jerry Garcia in Solid Gold
Today I listened to an old Dave Matthews Band show from August 9, 1995. This was the day that Jerry Garcia died, I had just taken the Bar Exam, and, three years later, it would be my wedding day.
This is what music is all about for me. I remember that exact day so clearly — driving in my old car, a.k.a. “Solid Gold”, when I heard that Jerry had died. I was bummed that I had never gotten around to seeing the Dead in concert. I was never really into their music, but I have always loved the pot-smoking Dead Heads. It was on my list of things to do, but darn law school got in the way.
The other thing that occurred to me was that, in 1995, I was barely a DMB fan yet. Otherwise, I probably would have been at that show, which was in Eugene….and was a great show. My DMB memories of that 1995 summer, though, consist of a Madison Park apartment and the guy who would, exactly three years later, become my husband.
On that August day in 1995, I had no idea where I was heading, or how big a part of my life DMB’s music would become. What if I had been at that Eugene show? Or what if I had gone to a Dead show before Jerry died? Would things have turned out differently somehow? (or, to borrow a line from Dave…..”could I have been anyone other than me?”)
And yet, of course, the beauty was in not knowing what would unfold. The years since then have been filled with love, great music, and more happiness than I could have asked for. Many years and countless concerts, and two kids later — I listen to Dave from long ago, and marvel at it all.
Corduroy Notes 