Set List: Trouble, Dead Man, Long Road, Face of Love; Encore with all: Innocent When You Dream

BTylor@aol.com
At the outset of the "Dead Man Walking: Not in Our Name" concert at the Shrine Auditorium, which culminated with our star Eddie Vedder, Tim Robbins should have said, "welcome to the evening of opposite intensities." For there we all were, witness to...a celebration of music and life at an event showcasing the denouncement of the DEATH penalty; a string of today's most talented musicians with heart wrenching melodies, interrupted by a videotape featuring survivors of brutal murder attempts.

And, for those who paid top dollar, a reception afterward to "meet the stars," including Vedder whose evasiveness and aversion to such opportunity...not to mention an irascible member of the audience...well, you will get a feel and flavor of the event, as well as Eddie's unwillingness to participate in crowd mingling, if you read my report which follows. I am a Pearl Jam fan and traveled from Washington DC to Los Angeles in hopes of fullfilling the simple mission of having a conversation with Ed. And to give him a CD by a band led by the Washington Post writer who "introduced" DC to the world of Pearl Jam in 1993 when they played at Ritchie Coliseum in Maryland, a friend of mine who penned a well crafted piece at a time we were all neophytes to grunge. And this is my report for your readers and fellow fans....

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An angry man shouted "Eddie Vedder sucks!" from the top row. It was late in the evening. As the words resonated off the high rafters in the Shrine Auditorium and echoed across the stage, there was no doubt that this structurally pleasant and atmospherically intimate venue's acoustics are indeed state-of-the art.

On Sunday night (3/30) at 10:30 PM, as this man's harsh words bounced heavily from wall to wall, it occured to me that his shrill and unfortunate outburst at the end of long, loud and loose hours, and just before Vedder took the stage, was a harrowing testiment to the odd celebration taking place late on Sunday night, and encapsulated what the night stood for symbolically: opposite intensities.

Why, after all, let loose such harsh words to the most passionate member of the Deadman Walking soundtrack alumnae, whose singing duetist Nasrat, passed away earlier in the year? Only hope is that the heckler was shamed relentlessly and deservedly by his peers, or faced the demons of his own regret when the booze wore off.

What was tonight all about, in downtown L.A., just a week after the Oscar awards? When millionare actors and billionaire producers paraded in masquerade, where vanity abounded, and none were shy to stuff their faces into every camera they could, unashamed, and showcasing themselves in hopes of a gold statue, and blatant, headliner name recognition. Light, bubbly.

Well, tonight, Sunday night, was again a study in opposite intensity from the past week's sioree, rich this time with the attitude of a thousand "concerned citizens." Where the cause out-importanced the celebrity. And blue jeans, ones that are old, ones that are not clean, was the fashion of choice. A raw, musty take-me-as-I-am ambience stood in stark contrast to whatever glamour legacy the prior week left to the future on stage. Make no mistake, whereas the Oscar ceremony was dizzy and dancing, tonight was heavy-handed, dark clouds, inwardness versus social, brooding versus cute soundbites, and for the ultimate juxtaposition: the celebration of music and living, under the umbrella theme of that act -- and we all know it -- that brutal act which takes life away. Murder. And for which this night was dedicated.

The celebration of life this evening was mainly a jubilee of music, whose words underscored the message time and again. In a convening of music's most emotionally in-touch and lyrically honest and crafty, the "messengers" were among music's best storytellers. It was quite a line up, with the teasing act at the end -- the denouement to this electric ride -- was Eddie. But it took walking the emotional "long road" to finally reach THE act, the last act, that I and fellow fan members were selfishly awaiting.

Before Eddie, an eclectic mix of performing artists played in succession, sharing sets of their songs to pay homage to a common, stark controversial "cause" -- opposing the death penalty. Coupled with providing support for the surviving family members of murder victims.

The organizers of the event must have intended to get right into the face of the audience. Indeed, the invisible hand that guided the order of performers and their choice of songs was meant to avoid the natural ebb and flow of a typical concert, and instead pierce the crowd with an onslaught of thought provoking lyrics sung by performers who each wore the draining and morose reason they were here in every note. And even in their earthy presence alone. It was as if tonight's concert goers had crashed a mountain resort retreat, where some of music's greats decided on a whim to spend an evening to just let it hang, sing with a purpose, not knowing that thousands of people decided to show up and invade their private setting.

Kicking-off the long streak of musicians -- most of whom were part of a reunion of the Dead Man Walking movie's award-winning soundtrack, an event hosted by the actor Tim Robbins -- was Steve Earle. Earle is popular in the country music genre, though my guess is would be considered eccentric by his honky tonk peers. With acoustic guitar around his shoulders and harmonica around him like a necklace, he stood before the microphone looking and sounding as if you crossed Meatloaf, Johnny Cash and Don McLean.

Next up was someone who could be considered the poster child for concerts of this nature. Michelle Shocked, wearing blue jeans and a thin tank top, wailed away on her guitar and with a rhythmic beat created by her peppy body and hand strokes, let loose in what were not really songs. To quote Eddie Vedder from a 1993 Pearl Jam concert in Canada, Shocked had the audience listening to "stories." In one, she broke from the other members of her "band," and began dancing aggressively, staring down the audience with the grin of a high school cheerleader. But this was not a game, and the arena were clearly willing participants, enthusiastic even, in her cheerleader antics.

Lyle Lovett, the stylist who crosses country with folk, made his best effort as balladeer. At this point in the show, the ballads were running high and unfortunately a numbness to them, no matter how ponderous and insightful, set in. There was room for a break and at about this time Sister Helen Prejean addressed the crowd on the REAL reason we were all here, with an accompanying video tape featuring the murder victims family members citing their reason for being a part and leading the charge to help reduce this tragedy's impact on future victims.

"There is no benefit to capital punishment," said one protestor in the videotape. "When you kill another you only leave more pain and suffering to the families of the convicted."

This was an interesting take to what is one of the nation's stickiest "hot button" issues. While this correspondent will not editorialize his own personal views, the one observation I offer is this: by Sunday evening, the execution of the Texas woman was old news, when you bear in mind how quickly news churns on in our society and the fast, greased track on which all events take place these days, get reported, then become distant memories.

Time to update the files if they really want to play on the minds of potential and current followers. Because Sunday night was on the heels of an event that shook the nation, and would have been perhaps more timely. I am referring to the two young teenagers who sat in waiting in Arkansas, shooting shoolmates and teachers as they exited a middle shool after a fire alarm was triggered.

What a bitter pill it is to swallow, those who are staunch supporters of eliminating capital punishment, when proselytizing their views in light of this particularly haunting tragedy. Not to make light of any of the murders and surviving victims already covered in the event, some of whom were guests this evening, but the fresh killings at the hands of these 11 year olds would have shone the light perhaps more squarely on anyone even THINKING of letting these two, described as monsters, go with merely rehabilitation when so many of the community's innocent loved ones lie six feet under, defenseless and forever gone.

Perhaps Tolstoi summed it up best, not as a solution, but as a reaction nonetheless to tragedy, "What then must we do?" Tonight, the answer was simply to forgive and explore what can be done to the perpetrators of violence who are now, in a twisted way, considered victims themselves. Indeed, "what then must we do?"

If popularity is gauged by a crowd's liveliness, then Tom Waits wins hands down. I was not familiar with his music, but thought after his first set that he was the one who did the song "Monster Mash." At any moment he could have broken into that tune, and not a beat would have been missed, no one in the audience would have found it unusual, I am convinced. What they DID find was his music was pure adrenaline. His hair-do inspired by Kramer of Seinfeld fame, and his head flopping about and body contorting like he took lessons from Mick Jagger, Waits won the hearts and thumping hands of the audience. Tim Robbins, in a series of articulate introductions prior to every artist's performance, used the term "incomparable" to introduce Waits. To his many fans in the audience, he lived up to the billing.

I took my mental broom out when Ani DiFranco grabbed her guitar and BAM, told the crowd she had arrived by picking her guitar at a furious pace and singing us through her mental journeys. And we were all in good hands with her as the tour guide. My mental broom? It was to make room for Ani, and clear all of my space for this very powerful and genuine artist. She builds on and embodies what others lack -- she is an original, her songs have the savviness and cleanliness of Broadway musicals, yet a silver chalice on the floor collecting dollars and change would have looked at home by her feet. Her sincerity was disarming and drew the crown onto her lap, bouncing us on her calming and sensible knee.

After telling a story about some defense lawyers (friends of hers) in Texas whose jobs were to draft last minute requests for stays by the Governor, and whose jobs dried up because "The phone did not ring much, not in Texas," she added a line that teed-up and foreshadowed the most significant musical and emotional minutes of the night. She deadpanned remarked, "I will sing now this short little tune so that I can make way for something much bigger and more powerful coming up, I promise you."

And, trust me when I say, I could not in a long while guess what song it was she sang, could not even pick it out in a line up, not with such an intense prelude to that which brought me to leave Washington DC on a Friday to travel across the US and spend a weekend alone in Santa Monica. Up next, Eddie Vedder.

But first, was my quest unique? Was my "long road" to Vedder a foreign concept to the group of music enthusiasts. Well, I conducted an informal focus group of random people that evening. Allow me to thumbnail sketch, starting with a woman in the bar line, and you be the judge.

Me. "So, why are you here?"

Young woman, tan, with a suede jacket on says, "To see Eddie Vedder. Yeah, I just returned from Maui where I saw them launch their 1998 tour."

Hmmmmmm. Okay.

If an artist's popularity or measure of devoution is instead judged by the thick air of absolute focus caste into the auditorium, or a palpable sense of anticipation, a still before the proverbial storm, then Eddie Vedder not only "wins" if victory is at all the proper judge here -- it was quite simply as if you erased the past three draining hours, and onto this clean slate of canvas drops Eddie Vedder, under bright lights and with an absoutely quietly frenzied collection of onlookers. There was a reverence in the air, far more steely than when Sister Prejean stood at the podium, with all due respect. Salvation never felt stronger and that being-saved feeling grew in proportion to the precious dramatic seconds that were interrupted by Tim Robbins, who matter of factly remarked, "...And, here is Eddie Vedder, who is a man that shows me every time he sings that there still is soul left in music."

Out he came, in typical Vedder fashion, entering out of the exact opposite end of the stage from which other artists emerged. From the left, I might add, which might have been symbolic of his political leanings.

It was a terse entry, His moves were tight, deliberate, using quick steps. With acoustic guitar in hand (he would play the guitar for each of his songs), he sat down on the floor atop an array of different sized pillows, each a different color. It was an entry that said one of the following:

1) I have been waiting too goddamn long to play; 2) perhaps he heard the outburst "Eddie sucks" and was experiencing a bout of repressed anger; 3) He had not had a beer yet; 4) maybe he should not have decided to do this gig at all; 5) nervous tension that he had to attend the reception afterwards, which would force him to face what his mind naturally repels -- mingling with the artists and special ticket holders (read "the common public") and the potential for stalkers was very real, or 6) he was just being our very own, introspective, brooding ED.

Solo, he began with a Cat Stevens song, named "Trouble." Then, he launched into a story,

"You know, Tim Robbins, he sent me over some of the cuts from the film and we were going to do some songs for the soundtrack. So, I wrote this song for the title track, called Dead Man Walking. Yeah, I really liked it. I really did. I thought it was pretty good. Then, you know, Bruce's song gets chosen instead. So I call Tim and he tells me, 'Well, Eddie we went with Bruce's song. It's a seniority thing." So here it is...

Nothing against Bruce, who possesses a lyrical gift too, particularly in his Greetings from Ashbury Park days, but Eddie's song was more pointed, riveting and seemed to me to embody more of what the movie was about, both in tone and the words he chose, than Bruce's did. If it is available anywhere, perhaps on vinyl, grab it, sit yourself on the floor, and you will rock back and forth in meditation in the same posture Eddie maintained.

Next up, Jeff Ament positions himself behind Eddie (with new haircut, the "bangs-no-more" look) (Eddie, I might add, is sporting a stylish hairdo himself, not the long unkept flowing look. He might even use a blow dryer.) And seated next to Ed was Rahat Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Dildar Hussain, along with an entourage that included the guitar or bass player from the Doors. And the religion suddenly took hold.

Vedder and Rahat pounded together on "Long Road," with Eddie taking the lead. "How I wished for so long, how I wish for you..." Eddie bellowed out and shot side glances at Rahat as if to say, "the legacy of your music lives on...you are making Nusrat proud, turn in his grave with exhaltation, let your spirit free." There were times when Rahat took off into musical flight in bouts of his high pitched music style that disarmed Eddie, causing Vedder to time his sections of singing carefully, so as not to head-off Rahat's free expression. He did not follow the neat lines of sheet music, it seemed, so Eddie masterfully steadied himself.

The signature song came next, with the same non-choreographed give and take of the two artists. But, no one that evening will forget Eddie's impassioned: "Only one hour, of this your life, only one hour, of twenty nine years, so come and gone." Why he replaced "thirty years" with "twenty nine" I do not know, but the power surged and brought the evening the an (almost) close.

The last act in this "play" brought all the artists out, including Tim Robbins, to sing a Tom Waits tune, Waits on piano. With all the players on stage, what came to mind was a "Not in Our Name," tree-hugger version of Quincy Jones's star-studded "We Are The World."

In a rebellious ritual, Eddie forewent slamming his microphone or tossing his guitar pick out into the audience, and instead tossed out the pillows. The front ten rows held up their hands as if clutching for unleavened bread dropped from the heavens. I caught a tiny red pillow, but gave it to a woman who made a die-hard effort at it, and she brought it to her chest tightly until it nearly dissolved.

The reception for the $500-$300 ticket holders panned out like a wedding reception; beer flowing, tables of hors d'oevre. Eddie made himself available alongside Tim Robbins, whom he stood next to with the anxiety look of a child with a Dad, in a place he felt estranged by, where he did not belong.

As much as I have read about Eddie's seclusion, and his uncomfortable demeanor around strangers (due to obsessive fans, stalkers), let me tell you, seeing it first hand dissipates any doubt that he is genuinely "alone, inside his head" and none too eager to get out. This is not an arrogant man, I tell you. He does not shun you away, rather, he buries his face into his body and peers around as if turned around several times and asked, in a dizzy frame of mind, which way to the door. Well, he found his way to the dressing room door, and did not reappear.

But, the Eddie moments were as follows:

- while waiting in the beer line, a volunteer "butted" into the front of the line and said "I need a beer for Eddie Vedder." She smiled at the stunned onlookers and added, "that's right. He asked me to find his wife, and I could not, so he said, 'could you please go get me a beer." They were warm, and, even for Eddie, the wait until they chilled was 10 minutes.

- one young woman admitted she came by herself, in hopes of meeting Eddie, spending the $300 dollars that meant cutting close a car payment. She proceeded to give her personal Eddie mission more credibility by confessing that "her car was totalled, it hit a deer, while she drove from Boston to San Francisco. The accident happened in Nebraska, where her Dad picked her up and left behind a car that was with her for a long time. And, made the show. Eddie I am sure would have melted as I almost did, at this woman's charm and twinkle at the loss of a love to see him perform.

- Lastly, I came across a female fan who 1) gives we fans a bad name and 2) justifies Eddie's being in hiding at the reception. She claimed Eddie is an "asshole, that he is a control freak, made the reception miserable, had 'devirginized' her in 1990 in San Diego....and, wanted to talk to him." Folks, I even had to flee from her -- alas, the articles don't do Eddie's seclusion any real justice at all, for no one could have stood this woman's psychosis for too long. And for her and others like her, we are all deprived of that sincere face to face with a man who has touched our lives, as much as he would rather not play that role.

The night ended at my hotel room, singing songs from Yield with the deer girl, and some stragglers, real true salt of the earth people. We did our best renditions of Vedder songs until the hotel security gave us a warning, and soon the morning LA sky fluttered awake its blood shot eyes.

And so I took my CD and started on my "long road" back to DC, my toes still tapping even at 30,000 feet on the next day's flight.

B Tylor
corresponding from LA, via DC