Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Tuning in for our long overdue Backspacer review? Well, you won’t be surprised. You know I like it. You know I love it.

But I’m actually surprised how much I like it, especially after the red flags that the record clocks in at a scant 36 minutes, the song titles that didn’t even seem like Pearl Jam titles (Johnny Guitar?), or the red flags that it’s the closest approximation to Pearl-Jam-pop since, well, ever.  Since I’m disposed to the anthems and swirling epic songs prone to 11-minute concert jams, I considered myself warned.

After a few listens, however, it’s great. Gonna See My Friend, Get Some, and The Fixer quickly rip right off the top – and each is as catchy as Brain of J, as furious as Save You, and as melodic as Last Exit or Breakerfall. I even thought I’d hate The Fixer based on ESPN’s overuse of the track … but I like it a lot.

I don’t think Backspacer is better than Avocado, it reminds me mostly of Yield and some of the leftover songs from Binaural or Riot Act that never made the record. (Sad, All Night, Down, etc.) Some funk, some pop, some thrash all mesh together within a few minutes. In the middle, Just Breathe startles – it’s close to country, for crying out loud, and it recalls Into the Wild. At the end, (uh) The End also recalls Vedder’s solo disc, Sometimes, or Around the Bend.

I can’t fully explain it, but I have figured out the best way to describe it. Pearl Jam’s previous albums have often evoked influences from The Who to Led Zeppelin to Jane’s Addiction to The Clash to Mudhoney to The Dead Boys to Neil Young to Sonic Youth, often paying tribute to pieces of the 1970s in particular.

With Backspacer, Pearl Jam has finally done the unthinkable – they’ve made a KISS record. And just like KISS, it’s surprisingly – perhaps impossibly – great.

Songs rocking so hard, so tight, and so crisp, you’d swear they belonged on your mainstream FM station. On Sirius’ Boneyard. Playing over the speakers at your corner liquor store.

Hooks so compelling and friendly, you remember them the second you hear ‘em. Johnny Guitar even sounds like I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night. Gonna See My Friend and Get Some are easily as catchy and hard as Detroit Rock City and Love Gun. Song titles simple, and lyrics so clear that you could have written them. (you think.) And ballads so delightfully change-of-pace that you can’t resist returning. (Beth? Just Breathe? Anyone?) Somewhere, Chuck Klosterman nods knowingly.

But honestly, if Ten is Led Zeppelin and Vs. is The Who, and Vitalogy is Crazy Horse and No Code is The Beatles and Yield is Sticky Fingers, and Riot Act is The Clash, well, then it’s quite appropriate to include KISS in the evolution.

It’s Pearl Jam’s poppiest record. And they dare you to hate it. Just like KISS, everything screams ridiculous, stupid, and forgettable. Just like KISS, you can’t shut the fucking thing off.

Got some if you need it.

Raise your hand if you saw this one coming.

(grumbles.) All right, all right. Put all those hands down. Maybe being decidedly unpredictable is a quality, not a failure.

It’s Porch. Of course it’s Porch. The full list is below, for perusal after you rock out.

1. Porch, Ten. You didn’t leave a message, at least I coulda heard your voice one last time.

In Minneapolis, Minn. at the Target Center. (1998)

In 2006, Ed Sullivan Theater, NYC.

And one more link: Pearl Jam’s Porch Unplugged in HD

Read more

One song left. What is it? No way this was a totally predictable exercise, right?

(4) Immortality, Vitalogy. Scrawled is all, cigar box on the floor.

Note: This is the absolute best version of this song ever. Cherish this post.

(3) State of Love and Trust, Singles. And I listen, for the voice inside my head. Nothing?

(2) Long Road, Merkinball. It’s not like wings have fallen, cannot stay. Without you something’s missing, cannot say.

Our Pearl Jam Twitter countdown continues. I know you’re wondering, so, yes, I own Backspacer. No, I have not listened.

I am in beautiful Atlanta, at a work conference, and I’ll spare you any particulars on the conference, because I think it has cemented the idea for my next book. What, you haven’t read the first one? Also, if the weather holds, I may be floating home on my own laptop case.

We’re into the countdown greats, by the way.

(7) Corduroy, Vitalogy. The waiting drove me mad. You’re finally here, I’m a fucking mess.

(6) Release, Ten. Oh, dear dad. Can you hear me now? I am myself, like you somehow.

(5) I Got Shit, Merkinball. My life’s a shame. my nails are bit off.

Even I’m tiring of my act at this point. Undaunted, however, we’re into the top 10.

(10) Footsteps, Jeremy (B-Side). And if there’s something you’d like to do. Oh, just let me continue to blame you.

(9) Not For You, Vitalogy. Small-mouth table, it now seats three. Got so crowded, oh fucking let me be.

(8) Life Wasted, Avocado. Why let the sad songs play?

Anyone notice that this has never actually been a Twitter-only countdown? Well, that’s my fault. (Who else would it be?)

I’m in love with my words. Yep. I’m a great writer. I don’t need your material things like “success” or a “publishing contract” or even “more than 50 readers.” I need only my own unparalleled sense of satisfaction. (wipes tear from eye.)

Anyway, we’re into the top 10. What? Did this post veer into meta? What the hell does that even mean?

OK, maybe I’m a little jealous of the mainstream and blogosphere fete of Fire Joe Morgan, guest-editing Deadspin Wednesday. Sure, their site takeover was blisteringly funny. Kind of ironic, because Parks and Recreation is fucking terrible. (Seriously, they re-wrote Michael Scott for Amy Poehler. And not even the good Michael Scott. The season-four Michael Scott.) But I digress. Words again. Also, maybe I do hate everything.)

(14) Present Tense, No Code. Have you the belief that the road ahead, ascends off into sunlight?

(13) Black, Ten. And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass, of what was everything.

(12) Elderly Woman Behind the Counter In a Small Town. It’s hard when you’re stuck upon the shelf. I change by not changing at all.

(11) Smile, No Code. The crooked heart swells all around.

This countdown runs my life. Oh, who am I kidding? I have no life.

Meanwhile, you’ve probably been waiting for the quick-hit list of Pearl Jam’s best albums. In reverse order: Binaural, Yield, Vitalogy, Riot Act, Pearl Jam, Vs., No Code, Ten. Ten barely edges No Code, in case you wondered, and I’ll actually waffle on the pair daily until I die. And Vitalogy has some lemons mixed in with some heavy hitters. As you’ll see. (In show biz, we call that a tease. I’m a pro!)

(18) Indifference, Vs. I will stand arms outstretched, pretend I’m free to roam.

(17) Even Flow, Ten. Freezin’, rests his head on a pillow made of concrete.

(16) In My Tree, No Code. No more crowbar to my head. I’m trading stories with the leaves instead.

(15) Why Go, Ten. Maybe someday another child, won’t feel as alone as she does.

Down into the top 20 now, with the release of Backspacer only a week away. I know it’s possible to find record cuts pretty much everywhere, but I haven’t listened. Don’t call me a purist, simply call me lazy. On Saturday, I’ll have a copy in my mailbox.

Of course, I’ll be in Atlanta for work. Oh, cruel world.

By the way, Rolling Stone posted their review of Backspacer. Shocking, I know, but they liked it. (My worst review ever … seven thumbs up.) Particularly ironic for our purposes is the notion that PJ moves even further away from the swirling, agonizing ballads that, uh, well, dot our countdown. Worth noting, I suppose. (Yes, Present Tense, Black, Release and Immortality are still to come.)

(22) Sometimes, No Code. Speak my part, devote myself. My small self.

(21) Rearviewmirror, Vs. Head at your feet, foot at your crown.

(20) Fatal, Lost Dogs. Is he truly out of sight?

(19) Yellow Ledbetter, Jeremy (single). Out on the porch, yeah, but they don’t wave.

Me on Twitter.

Baby, cry.

On Thursday, Tony and Mike opened PTI wondering why the NBA even attempts to cast its Hall of Fame inductions during the opening weekend of football season. Tony counted it as stupidity, Mike simply deflected, probably thrilled to land ESPN’s interview with Michael Jordan, reprinted and re-aired nearly a billion times Thursday.

Then Friday night’s induction speech happened.

Didn’t like that link? Try this one.

And, with that, I’m sure the NBA is actually relieved its benchmark delivered a speech only slightly classier than a Sean Hannity diatribe.

I’m not going to offer much more than a snide comment. I have hated Michael Jordan for years, as a figurehead, as an egomaniac, as the foil to my Blazers, as simple Goliath. And now, that hate is legitimized.

Though it’s sad.

Michael Jordan has accomplished nearly everything he set out to do in his basketball career. He loves the game. And in return, as steward for that game, he chose to spend several minutes lambasting anyone and everyone who even thought to prove him wrong, decry him, or suggest they might like to compete against him.

He bullied former employers, teammates, and even threw his own children under the bus; yet another attempt to remind us of his own greatness. He invited the high school coach who would not let him onto the varsity team as a sophomore; never mind that the coach simply followed school policy – no sophs on the team. He eviscerated Bryon Russell, a foul as cheap and offensive as the push-off that fills his legend. He made fun, and made sure to tell us all what was so carefully guarded by Nike and a sycophantic media – He’s a jerk.

Sure, Jordan’s legions of defenders will characterize his petty tirade as refreshing, or honest (See: Wilbon, Mike. Whitlock, Jason. Kornheiser, Tony). Please. In no other profession or discipline are people allowed petty diatribes and a sheer lack of class; for someone who has his own brand, the lack of professionalism is hopeless. For Jordan to repeatedly characterize his petty bullying as his competitive legend does not cut it. He is a prick, he is a douchebag, he is petty, he is perhaps the best basketball player we’ve ever seen, and he insecurely cannot bear the thought of you not remembering him just as such.

And tonight, he’s in the Hall of Fame. But fear not, he’s more bitter and jaded than any of you. He’s alone, with trophies, women, sometimes both, millions and billions of dollars, legions of admirers, and several grizzled old guys who laud this “honest” speech (Read: PTI).

But he’s a shell. He’s not professional. He’s obsessed with his end in the limelight, and his end of relevance. He’s bitter, he’s jaded, he doesn’t know how to get old, and he’s stuck in his own life. He’s a bully and a pretentious jerk. And he knows it.

Now we know it too.

And I can’t even count.

Earlier on Twitter, I forgot song no. 28, a tune that charts surprisingly high, the highest off Riot Act, which might be Pearl Jam’s most underrated album. If that’s possible. (Probably not by me.)

So guess what, you get a bonus, just in time for the weekend. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

(27) Can’t Keep, Riot Act. I’ve lived all this life like an ocean in disguise.

(26) Lukin, No Code. The last I heard that freak was purchasing a fucking gun.

(25) Faithfull, Yield. Like echoes, and nobody hears, it goes, it goes, it goes like this.

(24) Hard to Imagine, Chicago Cab (soundtrack). Things were different then. All is different now. I try to explain, somehow.

(23) Untitled, Live on Two Legs. Everyone’s confused. I don’t blame them, I am too. If I go, I don’t want to go alone.

Untitled as tribute to Johnny Ramone.

Hard to Imagine in its infancy.