Embrace It!
Last night I went to see Pearl Jam at MSG. Arena rock shows aren’t really my thing anymore, but my friend CB had a ticket already so I figured what the hell.
Since we had a few hours between the end of the office day and the show, CB suggested we hit a place down in Chelsea that had a good rep called the Red Cat. The “braised and grilled” octopus was a little under-seasoned but the “bread stew” that shared the plate was terrific. It had bright tomato and herb flavors that really popped in your mouth. And I fixed the octopus using one of the small dishes of salt the Red Cat keeps on the bar for dipping radishes (a creative bar snack don’t you think?). Entrée was a misfire – the jerk scented mahi-mahi was bland but again the accompaniment (in this case a cucumber frisee salad with cucumber vinaigrette) really sang. CB had the sautéed skate wing and was kind enough to share a piece; it was crisp and delicious. So it was another case of bad ordering for yours truly. I’ll have to take the Mrs. there and order some different dishes.
After walking through the upscale, artsy and yes, fairly gay nabe that the restaurant was in it was a bit jarring to arrive by the Garden and be cast into a sea of aging fratboy idiocy. There were more backward baseball hats, spiky balding hair cuts and dubious facial hair than a season’s worth of ballgames at Fenway Park. Since we still had time to kill I suggested trying the Old Garden Tavern, a dank sinkhole of a bar just south of the Farley Post Office on 8th avenue. Poorly lit, vaguely smelly, tiles chipping up off the floor and urinals that could each house a family of migrant workers, it was probably my favorite watering hole near the Garden. Was. Because like almost every other good dive bar I used to frequent, it was gone. In it’s place there stood another one of those nice, clean, shimmering dark wood Mrs. O’Leary’s Irish McMonstrosity faux-pubs that dominate the midtown drinking landscape here in the 21st century. We tried to go in anyway, easily getting past the doorman (!) only to find another pool of backward hats and basketball shorts obstructing the path to the bar.
“Let’s get the hell out of here and go drink in Penn Station” I said.
As God is my witness, we had to have the last pre-show libation in Houlihan’s. OK.
CB was on the money deciding to go upstairs at 8:30. We weaved through more fratties and I noticed that while the lines at the men’s rooms were already huge the women’s rooms were virtually empty. It was the world’s largest sausage party this side of a Rush concert or the NFL draft.
Pearl Jam hit the stage just as we arrived at our seats, opening with “Release” So far so good, I’m a sucker for bands opening with a slow-burn kind of number and building to the rockers as opposed to the rock-slow/new stuff/piss break material-rock to close it method. The characters in the crowd, however, were nearly as entertaining as the band. We had Stoner Guy right in front of me who spent the first half of the show chain smoking enough weed to get all of us buzzed (second hand smoke kills, dammit!) and then spent the second half of the show slumped in his seat chain smoking cigarettes and staring at the rear end of the person in front of him. Stoner Guy was mostly harmless. Unlike the other character:
The Stair Runner
Yeah, we had that guy. The one who a) skipped going to the gym during lunch at his investment banking job or b) did a fair amount of blow before the show or c) all of the above and therefore felt compelled to run up and down the stairs through the whole damn show. Not only was he running, he was acting out song lyrics, exhorting everyone to stay standing and yes, high fiving everyone within reach after each song. I left him hanging every time until the very end when I gave in as a tribute to his stamina.
The rest of the show was pretty solid. Pearl Jam is a polished arena/stadium act; they know all the moves to get the crowd right where they want them at any given moment. Hell, they even threw in a drum solo at the end of the show. A bona-fide, 1970’s-excess-style drum solo at the end of “Evenflow”. We’re talking band-leaves-the-stage-spotlight-on-the-drummer here. I swear I was waiting for the drum riser to take off but fortunately they didn’t go that far. Nobody got the joke when I started yelling “YYZed! YYZed!” Sure, I could’ve yelled “Moby Dick” instead but that’s a little to obvious for a show at MSG no? I mean VH1 Classic pretty much beat “The Song Remains The Same” into the ground a few months back, didn’t they?
Right then and there I decided there’s no room for irony at an arena rock show anymore. Besides, how can you do irony when the band first makes note of “The wonderful diverse crowd here in NYC” (as detailed previously it was at least 80% suburban/upper east side white male and I'm probably being kind). On top of that, they trot out CJ Ramone for an encore which I’d say is kind of like trotting out Cousin Oliver for a salute to the Brady Bunch except CJ was apparently liked by the rest of the Ramones and their fans so I won’t snark too much.
The next special guest was a bit of a shock. Maybe it shouldn’t have been. We wanted the best, we got the best. Yes friends, they trotted out Ace Frehley. No makeup, alas, but they did do a Kiss song (“Black Diamond”). There went my hope for a Who cover as I believe there is a classic rock content limit on these shows.
While I stood by taking in the whole spectacle, CB was really digging the whole thing. One of his great character traits is that he is a passionate, enthusiastic music lover and concert goer. He must’ve detected my amusement because he looked over and said “Hey, this is cool! This is historic! You should embrace it!” And he’s right, I probably should just give in to the moment more when I see live music. I have a tendency to watch, absorb and analyze more than actually experience at times, but when I can get lost in the moment it is a fantastic experience. A few weeks ago I saw Mission of Burma at the Bowery Ballroom and was absolutely floored as the band exploded through their historic “Signals Calls and Marches” EP from the early 1980s. It was one of those experiences where you don’t realize the passing of time or your surroundings or anything much at all but the music and when the band stops you have almost the same feeling that you get when you wake up from a fantastic dream.
(And no, I wasn’t high on anything. Had a few beers and believe me alcohol doesn’t give you that kind of ride although I do think a proper amount makes you more open to the phenomenon.)
Arena shows are different for me, It’s very difficult to be open to full immersion of consciousness in an arena filled with 20,000 bellowing boys who occasionally give you frightful visions of Nazi rallies or Roger Waters’ fascist nightmares in “The Wall”. I still enjoyed the hell out of the show in my own way so it was a worthwhile evening out and it's always good to see CB. Sometimes the company makes all the difference.
When I got home, this was waiting on the table for me. I played it through once already and I’m gonna hit “play” again. I got lost in it a few times just sitting at my desk. CB is right. Embracing music is a good thing.
Since we had a few hours between the end of the office day and the show, CB suggested we hit a place down in Chelsea that had a good rep called the Red Cat. The “braised and grilled” octopus was a little under-seasoned but the “bread stew” that shared the plate was terrific. It had bright tomato and herb flavors that really popped in your mouth. And I fixed the octopus using one of the small dishes of salt the Red Cat keeps on the bar for dipping radishes (a creative bar snack don’t you think?). Entrée was a misfire – the jerk scented mahi-mahi was bland but again the accompaniment (in this case a cucumber frisee salad with cucumber vinaigrette) really sang. CB had the sautéed skate wing and was kind enough to share a piece; it was crisp and delicious. So it was another case of bad ordering for yours truly. I’ll have to take the Mrs. there and order some different dishes.
After walking through the upscale, artsy and yes, fairly gay nabe that the restaurant was in it was a bit jarring to arrive by the Garden and be cast into a sea of aging fratboy idiocy. There were more backward baseball hats, spiky balding hair cuts and dubious facial hair than a season’s worth of ballgames at Fenway Park. Since we still had time to kill I suggested trying the Old Garden Tavern, a dank sinkhole of a bar just south of the Farley Post Office on 8th avenue. Poorly lit, vaguely smelly, tiles chipping up off the floor and urinals that could each house a family of migrant workers, it was probably my favorite watering hole near the Garden. Was. Because like almost every other good dive bar I used to frequent, it was gone. In it’s place there stood another one of those nice, clean, shimmering dark wood Mrs. O’Leary’s Irish McMonstrosity faux-pubs that dominate the midtown drinking landscape here in the 21st century. We tried to go in anyway, easily getting past the doorman (!) only to find another pool of backward hats and basketball shorts obstructing the path to the bar.
“Let’s get the hell out of here and go drink in Penn Station” I said.
As God is my witness, we had to have the last pre-show libation in Houlihan’s. OK.
CB was on the money deciding to go upstairs at 8:30. We weaved through more fratties and I noticed that while the lines at the men’s rooms were already huge the women’s rooms were virtually empty. It was the world’s largest sausage party this side of a Rush concert or the NFL draft.
Pearl Jam hit the stage just as we arrived at our seats, opening with “Release” So far so good, I’m a sucker for bands opening with a slow-burn kind of number and building to the rockers as opposed to the rock-slow/new stuff/piss break material-rock to close it method. The characters in the crowd, however, were nearly as entertaining as the band. We had Stoner Guy right in front of me who spent the first half of the show chain smoking enough weed to get all of us buzzed (second hand smoke kills, dammit!) and then spent the second half of the show slumped in his seat chain smoking cigarettes and staring at the rear end of the person in front of him. Stoner Guy was mostly harmless. Unlike the other character:
The Stair Runner
Yeah, we had that guy. The one who a) skipped going to the gym during lunch at his investment banking job or b) did a fair amount of blow before the show or c) all of the above and therefore felt compelled to run up and down the stairs through the whole damn show. Not only was he running, he was acting out song lyrics, exhorting everyone to stay standing and yes, high fiving everyone within reach after each song. I left him hanging every time until the very end when I gave in as a tribute to his stamina.
The rest of the show was pretty solid. Pearl Jam is a polished arena/stadium act; they know all the moves to get the crowd right where they want them at any given moment. Hell, they even threw in a drum solo at the end of the show. A bona-fide, 1970’s-excess-style drum solo at the end of “Evenflow”. We’re talking band-leaves-the-stage-spotlight-on-the-drummer here. I swear I was waiting for the drum riser to take off but fortunately they didn’t go that far. Nobody got the joke when I started yelling “YYZed! YYZed!” Sure, I could’ve yelled “Moby Dick” instead but that’s a little to obvious for a show at MSG no? I mean VH1 Classic pretty much beat “The Song Remains The Same” into the ground a few months back, didn’t they?
Right then and there I decided there’s no room for irony at an arena rock show anymore. Besides, how can you do irony when the band first makes note of “The wonderful diverse crowd here in NYC” (as detailed previously it was at least 80% suburban/upper east side white male and I'm probably being kind). On top of that, they trot out CJ Ramone for an encore which I’d say is kind of like trotting out Cousin Oliver for a salute to the Brady Bunch except CJ was apparently liked by the rest of the Ramones and their fans so I won’t snark too much.
The next special guest was a bit of a shock. Maybe it shouldn’t have been. We wanted the best, we got the best. Yes friends, they trotted out Ace Frehley. No makeup, alas, but they did do a Kiss song (“Black Diamond”). There went my hope for a Who cover as I believe there is a classic rock content limit on these shows.
While I stood by taking in the whole spectacle, CB was really digging the whole thing. One of his great character traits is that he is a passionate, enthusiastic music lover and concert goer. He must’ve detected my amusement because he looked over and said “Hey, this is cool! This is historic! You should embrace it!” And he’s right, I probably should just give in to the moment more when I see live music. I have a tendency to watch, absorb and analyze more than actually experience at times, but when I can get lost in the moment it is a fantastic experience. A few weeks ago I saw Mission of Burma at the Bowery Ballroom and was absolutely floored as the band exploded through their historic “Signals Calls and Marches” EP from the early 1980s. It was one of those experiences where you don’t realize the passing of time or your surroundings or anything much at all but the music and when the band stops you have almost the same feeling that you get when you wake up from a fantastic dream.
(And no, I wasn’t high on anything. Had a few beers and believe me alcohol doesn’t give you that kind of ride although I do think a proper amount makes you more open to the phenomenon.)
Arena shows are different for me, It’s very difficult to be open to full immersion of consciousness in an arena filled with 20,000 bellowing boys who occasionally give you frightful visions of Nazi rallies or Roger Waters’ fascist nightmares in “The Wall”. I still enjoyed the hell out of the show in my own way so it was a worthwhile evening out and it's always good to see CB. Sometimes the company makes all the difference.
When I got home, this was waiting on the table for me. I played it through once already and I’m gonna hit “play” again. I got lost in it a few times just sitting at my desk. CB is right. Embracing music is a good thing.
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