The clear polycarbonate plastic substrate with reflective metallic layer, and a clear protective coating of acrylic plastic spins in the car stereo CD player. It emits the sounds of a growling Eddie Vedder of the Seattle band Pearl Jam’s newest album VS. It is a ferocious, primal, sound:
One, two, three, four, five against one
Five, five, five against one
Said one, two, three, four, five against one
Five, five, five, five, five against one
The five young men in the cream colored Cavalier push the sonic limits of the factory speakers and their post-adolescent ear drums to maximum capacity as they travel back across the West Virginia border just past the empty Dreamland pool, over the desolate train tracks, crossing into Catlettsburg, Kentucky. Alexander Catlett first settled here in 1798. At thirty minutes past the witching hour, the streets were barren and on this night, the fog was extra thick- ominous even, like the type the Mystery Machine would have encountered on an episode of Scooby Doo. It was October 19th afterall, less than two weeks from Halloween. Cutting through the fog like space lasers were the familiar blue lights of Kentucky’s finest. The car’s driver pulled to the side of the road and all of the occupants stiffened to await the arrival of the “statey” walking that thin gray line.
One hour earlier…
The date had been circled on the calendar for a while now. The much anticipated sophomore album of Pearl Jam was set to drop tonight, October 19, 1993. A trip would have to be made to Huntington, West Virginia where the nearest record shop was hosting a midnight release party and the quintet from across the Ohio River could be among the first to hear the sizzling new tracks. Tuesday night after nine o’clock anywhere in the Tri-State area were lonely affairs. The proverbial carpet was rolled up every night at dark and dormant until the next morning. It would be a quick trip down US 23 from Ashland to Catlettsburg, cross the river to Ceredo-Kenova, past Evaronni’s Pizza, historic Camden Park, Central City, and find a parking spot on 5th Avenue in Huntington.
The five men-children were a motley crew to say the least. Each was dressed in a flannel- the unofficial uniform of the grunge generation. Shawn would be the designated chauffeur for the evening and his late 80s Chevrolet Cavalier would serve as the chariot to transport this band of brothers to the promised land of music glory. His Cavalier’s interior had the roof fabric stapled in places and drooping in others, along with cigarette burned holes in the seat fabric. It had the sound of a motorcycle due to muffler damage that announced its arrival miles ahead of its destination. Shawn and Ben would leave their joint employment at the local lumber company “Wolly’s” – the stench of treated lumber permeating their skin and bright green tee-shirts emblazoned with the familiar white script and trucker hats. Both were dippers- Skoal bandits to be precise. The smokeless tobacco protruding from their lips gave the impression they were early neanderthal man. There was an art to packing a can of snuff and both were masters- there is a technique to the grip and swing of the wrist as the elbow bends and the twap, twap, twap of the middle finger against the can- in many ways it was a sweet sound, unmistakable. The pinch of the fingers as the lid is opened to grip the coffee ground looking chemically laced nicotine was equally an art, along with the placement in the lip: there are two kinds of dippers, those who place it right up front, and those who are side dippers- a little less obvious, still noticeable. Ben’s gait it was said possessed an ape strut as he strided forward, giving more credence to the aforementioned primeval man description.
Shane had a hulking physique, gained from the moving of furniture and appliances all day in his warehouse job. Shane was a quintessential blue collar man. Not surprising was his warehouse uniform top with, you guessed it- blue collar and cursive “Shane” sprawled in the right corner above the breast pocket. Shane was sure and certain. He spoke his mind and you knew where you stood.
Carl was the comedy relief. He was a cross between James Dean and Jerry Lewis- mysterious but hilarious to a fault. He could be so quiet and unassuming one minute and performing a bit the next that would elicit laughter and tears from whomever he was entertaining. Carl was unemployed – but he would be on a bus bound for Beckly to the Air Force processing center by Christmas.
Steve was nervous. It was a caffeine-induced nervousness. He would put away a case of Pepsi a day. In addition to his other vices of dipping and smoking. Steve was a hardy brute of a man with a very aggressive way about him. If he didn’t have someone in a headlock, he was slapping the back of your neck with his hand giving new expression to the term “red neck.” Steve was a fireman, just like his dad before him. Ironically, the rage he felt and spewed started as many fires as he fought.
The five Gen Xers clamored out of the car before midnight and spilled out on the pavement of downtown Huntington. The only movement in the otherwise busy city were the people headed into the National Record Mart to get their hands on the new release. A few dozen Marshall University students who were grunge posers had congregated mixed with other grunge aficionados. The anticipation was palpable. When the clock struck twelve the line started dissipating as each customer purchased the long-awaited packaged music. Midnight is that esoteric in-between the end of a day and the beginning of a new one. The cover art featured a deranged goat and the album had 12 tracks. Tearing off the cellophane and opening the plastic case, the guys could hardly wait to jump back in the Cavalier, slip the compact disc into the player and crank the volume beyond what was naturally bearable. In many ways, though they weren’t conscious of it at the time, this listening party would also mark that in-between period of the end of an era and the beginning of a new one for each of these young men.
At last, the electric buzz of Stone Gossard and Mike McCready’s guitars, thump of Jeff Ament’s bass, crash of Dave Abbruzzese, drum’s and gnarl of Eddie Vedder’s vocals pierced the air. It was raw and hypnotizing. If it was possible to be intoxicated by a sound, a hangover was definitely in their futures….
“License and registration, please. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No.”
“You were going under the speed limit. Why were you going so slow?”
“The fog is like Scooby Doo out here. I can’t see 10 feet in front of me.”
“I’ll be right back.”
While the statey was running the license and plates, the guys were spewing obscenity-laced sermons on the ills of police work. Not only had the officer pulled them over for being safe, he was impeding their continued experience of the new music. VS was an apropos title for this project. It in a single word summed up the angst that was felt by every single person in that car. Five against….
Growing up in Appalachia, you are keenly aware of disadvantages. Being in precarious situations was nothing new. The feeling that the world is against you or the other shoe will drop at any moment is ingrained at birth– it’s in Appalachian DNA. Chicken Little ain’t got nothing on an Appalachian- the sky is always falling. VS indeed! The list of those against you was a long one- the world, all authority figures, parental units, and anyone who dared present a different opinion from your own.
“You’re free to go.”
Another common classic trait of Appalachians is the ability to make a mountain out of a molehill. If the enemy is not real, an imaginary one will do. Perceived grievances can be as potent as real ones. Personal drama is personified by the region shadow boxing its imaginary opponents.
On this October night, Pearl Jam was helping five boys not yet men, exorcise some angst that would not change anything but made them feel just a little better. As they proceeded down the highway headed back home, the fog- both literal and figurative- continued to envelop them.
