A Letter From Sheldon Cumben

Dear Pearl Jam,

Okay, I'm a little miffed.  I just wanted to get that out of the way right off the bat.  In fact, I'm more than just a little miffed:  I'm absolutely steamed.

When I skipped work over five months ago to rush to Ticketmaster to get a red hospital bracelet that I had to wear for five days before returning to Ticketmaster to wait in line for an hour to finally get a ticket in the 100 section at the Air Canada Center, I had no idea my whole Pearl Jam experience would be laid waste by thousands upon thousands of pot smoking hippies.

There.  I said it:  Pot smoking hippies.

I am a huge Pearl Jam fan, dating way back to when some of you formed the seminal Mother Love Bone.  I have every album you've ever released, a multitude of singles (some rare European ones, even!) and a whole bunch of MP3 bootlegs and rarities on my computer.  I know all the words to Even Flow, even those really quick hard to understand ones at the beginning.

So you can imagine my dismay when I settled myself into my hard won seat and realized that I was surrounded by a bunch of children!  These kids couldn't possibly remember even the release of 10, let alone State Of Love And Trust!  But I'm a nice guy.  I don't like to prejudge.  I thought that maybe they had all taken the time to properly educate themselves on Pearl Jamian lore, perhaps they had purchased the back catalog and joined the official fan club, as I had.  Perhaps they knew your middle name, Eddie, as I do.  But I was wrong to doubt my first instincts.

When you came out on stage the children around me actually stood up!  I had no choice but to stand as well, or I wouldn't be able to see!  But how could I enjoy the concert if I had to stand the whole time - I have a very sensitive back.

You were in sync with me that night, Eddie - your choice of songs could not have been more appropriate:  you kicked off the show with Grievance, which I had plenty of that evening.  Then, when the pot smoking hippies lit up their god-forsaken marijuana cigarettes and attempted to poison me with their second-hand hallucinogens, Jeremy reminded me of that blessed video involving children killing themselves.  I sank deeper into despair with Indifference ("I will hold the candle till it burns up my arm, I'll keep taking punches, till their will grows tired...").  I cursed those around me as they began to actually sing along with you, Eddie to favourites such as Daughter - did I pay $50 to listen to a bunch of submoronic, tone deaf hippies serenade me with their weezing, raspy, pot ravaged throats?- before finally resigning myself to my misery with Black ("Why!!!!  Why???  Whyyyyyyy.....   can't it be mine????").

After I had given up on being able to salvage even a moment's joy from the evening, my mood finally did improve a bit (Do The Evolution!). Alive and Release were very appropriate closing numbers.

Oh, Pearl Jam, where did we and the other fan club members stray, attracting such undeserving louts into your fan base?  Could they not have stuck with their own kind at a Limp Bizkit concert and left the real music to us?

So does this mean I won't be there for your next tour?  Of course not.  But I'd prefer it if you would play a more intimate setting - like in my parent's basement, where I live.

Devotedly yours,
 

Sheldon Cumben

 
 

Copyright 2000 The Upper Canada Chronicle