Pearl Jam

“I traveled and I crawled on six crooked highways. I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken. I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world. But I’ll know my song well before I start singing. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall”. These few lines from Bob Dylan alone would be enough to capture the true meaning of a mid-September day spent waiting for the Pearl Jam, in the immortal city of the Capulets and the Montagues.

It's been six years since the Seattle band last graced an Italian stage, a country they love as much as they've neglected it - at least since the end of the “Binaural” tour. Now, some seventy live albums later, Pearl Jam return to what Vedder calls “one of the three places in the world I most love to play”.

It's now late afternoon, and inside the Arena the first faint lights begin to flicker on. The crowd's anticipation is nothing short of feverish, and it almost seems as if the whole city has come to a standstill, like some giant lover's heart awaiting the return of the love of its life. But everyone secretly hopes Bob Dylan isn't really the prophet they say he is. And a hard, thick rain starts to fall. A shopping mall instantly turns into a gypsy camp. Someone's strumming “Daughter” on an acoustic guitar, someone else is drinking red wine to keep warm, and others are pulling out whale-hunting rain gear.

Then, around half past eight, the rain grants a truce, and everyone comes out like mice from their holes, hoping Pearl Jam can work their magic in spite of the weather's best efforts. But the only ones to actually enjoy the lull are the excellent My Morning Jacket, standard-bearers of an effective synthesis of R.E.M. and U2. The sight of the packed arena is splendid, soggy seats notwithstanding. And, slowly, a fine rain starts falling again on a stoic, utterly rapturous crowd.

This time, though, the rain becomes an added ingredient. The lights go down and a deafening roar greets Vedder and co. Then a liturgical silence accompanies the opening chords of “Release”. The Doors-esque dirge wraps around everyone like a benevolent serpent, and as Vedder lifts the song up to the sky, the lights play with the water pouring down relentlessly. The show has only just begun, but Verona's magic is already complete.

The Seversen III offers the first words to the crowd and urges everyone to stay safe, assuring them that Italy is like a second home for the band. “You look great, all soaked…” he tells the audience, and the band immediately follows with their Zeppelin-esque take on “Given To Fly”. It's only the third song, but “Corduroy” is met with a roar, and the Gossard-McCready duo starts dragging the crowd along, trying to shake off the almost paralyzing effect of the ever-heavier rain.

Then comes the riff's moment of glory: McCready leaps around like a man possessed, and “World Wide Suicide”, “Do the Evolution” and “Severed Hand” warm up wet, frozen feet. All that's left is a pang of envy for the red wine Vedder is sipping straight from the bottle, safely sheltered, as he opens the gorgeous “Love Boat Captain”.

The show kicks into gear with a vengeance, and McCready sends Verona into raptures with a blistering performance during “Even Flow”, guitar slung behind his neck and all. After a blues number (“Half Full”) and a tear-jerking ballad (“Gone”), the long-awaited miracle finally happens. The moment Matt Cameron starts hammering out the rhythm of “Not For You”, the rain stops falling and a patch of starry night breaks through to light up the arena. Perhaps it's a message from Kurt Cobain, wherever he may be right now.

As a timid breeze brushes against damp clothes, it's time for the gorgeous, intense “Jeremy”. Pearl Jam return to their classics of old with a moving rendition of “Betterman” and a raw, visceral “Blood”. Sure, Vedder's voice isn't what it was in the early days, but the drive is still all there, as is his ability to feel and to convey his lyrics.

Right after the new “Inside Job”, the frontman opens up a moment of celebration too. “Come Back” is tenderly dedicated to the late Johnny Ramone and to all the fans of the Forest Hills brothers, who don't hesitate to chant in unison the immortal, gloriously dumb slogan “Hey! Ho! Let's go!” when the band launches into a cover of “I Believe In Miracles”.

Vedder decides it's time to put on a show, and so, during a vibrant “Porch”, he bathes every corner of the arena in light with the reflection off his guitar. “Elderly Woman” gets every voice in the place singing along, followed by an almost comedic bit from the band, who veer for a few minutes into a goofy cover of “My Sharona”, which Vedder turns into “My Verona”.

Pointless as it may be, the crowd goes wild anyway, delighted by the unexpected tribute.

It's only the prologue, the calm before the storm. The band's finale, during the second encore, builds into a stunning, blazing, breathtaking crescendo. It kicks off with “Once” and spills over into the immortal anthem “Alive”, with Vedder, perhaps slightly drunk, throwing himself around, first on stage and then even climbing up the two side staircases of the arena.

The lights come up fully and it feels like witnessing some kind of sonic apocalypse, first during the overwhelming cover of Neil Young's “Rockin' In The Free World”, and above all with the pyrotechnic finale of “Yellow Ledbetter”. McCready revels in it and bids Verona farewell, lying on the stage as he plays. Applause, elation, pure joy. The concert is over, and with it, all the vital energy of a crowd that, tonight more than ever, showed exactly what it means to love a rock band.

See you all again in six years. Or maybe not?

Ride the wave of great music

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