No. 220 – Hard to Imagine

Performer: Pearl Jam

Songwriters: Stone Gossard, Eddie Vedder

Original Release: Music from Chicago Cab

Year: 1998

Definitive Version: The original version.

I mentioned almost a whole year ago that when I went to see Pearl Jam with Laurie for the first time in May 2006 (good ol’ No. 561), I was so drained mentally from my new job that I could barely move. I didn’t rock out at all. Fortunately, I got a shot at redemption.

In August 2009, just before the release of Backspacer, Pearl Jam came to Chicago for a two-fer at United Center, and I pounced on tickets. Unfortunately, my luck wasn’t as good as it had been the first time. Instead of being in the front row of the upper bowl, we were close to the top, although not so close that we felt claustrophobic, like when we saw Coldplay (uhhh … Laurie’s band) the year before.

The show in 2009 was like night and day with the first in 2006. Most important, the amount of stress at work had been severely reduced by now, so I had no trouble rocking out HARD from start to finish.

Nearly as important was that the show was better in almost every way other than the warmup act, which was Bad Religion instead of My Morning Jacket. Pearl Jam had just released The Fixer as a single and played that, but the rest was a collection of oldies and obscurities. In fact, the album that they played the most songs from that night was Vitalogy (but not my favorite off that album, alas).

The tone was set on the very first song—this one. Until Lost Dogs came out in 2003, I’d bet hardly anyone knew Hard to Imagine. I did, thanks to Napster and Freak, and it was one of my faves. Even still, I was in utter disbelief when the mysterious guitar started as the band hit the stage. NO WAY! They’re opening with THIS song?!?! AWESOME!!

Aside from Hard to Imagine, the musical highlight was Brother, another obscurity that I had known for 15 years thanks to Freak and that had been added to a rereleased and expanded Ten. I might have been the only one in my section who knew all the words, and I belted them out loud and proud.

Others in my section were more interested in getting their drunk on than any obscure Pearl Jam songs—particularly the row of Trixies behind us. As the show rolled on, their swaying got more and more unsteady. Considering that we were close to the stairs, this didn’t seem as though it would end well.

Sure enough, I think during Whipping, one of those Vitalogy tunes, one of the Trixies went down. I was in mid-air-guitar wham when I saw her go out of the corner of my eye and reached out to grab her arm, preventing her from landing on her head.

I asked if she were all right, but she didn’t say anything and just sat on the steps for a second either in humiliation or drunken stupor, I don’t know. I don’t think her boyfriend came over to ask whether she was all right until after she was back in her seat. (They left the show early, thank goodness, before the inevitable puking began.)

Did I get thanked by her or anyone in her group? Of course not, but that didn’t really matter. Being able to properly enjoy an excellent Pearl Jam show—the second best behind only the impossible-to-beat show in Louisville in 1994—was its own reward.