After years of wondering whether I'll get to before I turn 30, I finally did it. Last Sunday night, I went to my very first rock concert. Not just any rock concert. A Pearl Jam concert.
Hard to say why it has taken me so long. The timing was never right, perhaps, or I just wasn't ready. I was too cheap, too lazy, too averse to crowds. Somehow it was easier (or at least enough) to just listen to the stereo. It was safer than to risk being disenchanted by some mediocre live performance.
Oh ye of little faith. Eddie's voice... ridiculous, really, so robust and resonant even after all these years and bottles of wine on stage. And the love between the audience and the band was not some fleeting hit-of-the-moment passion between strangers, but weathered devotion and genuine affection. The kind that finishes the other's verse. The kind that lets the other sing the entire verse. The kind that knows every howl and grunt and howls and grunts along. The old songs were celebrated for their familiarity, the new welcomed as acquaintances that will age into old friends.
The band went on and on with such incredible stamina. I didn't want the night to end, but I didn't feel begrudged when it did. Elation (and a cloud of herbal smoke) carried me out of the Forum and into the night. As we waited for the parking lot to clear, my companions exchanged stories, comparing the night's experience to other encounters on other nights, with other bands. I couldn't contribute; I just wanted to cuddle.
My voice was hoarse, my ear drums were tender and my hair smelled like dope for a good few days, and I probably paid too much for my t-shirt. But I have no regrets. They remind me that my first time was with a band I really love. And it was worth the wait.
