Hear Me Out: How a Band That Kind of Saved My Life Also Kind of Almost Killed Me
However, something happened during the winter and spring of 1994 that would change me forever; with the tension of graduation on the horizon, and being in a home situation that was certainly better than many but not ideal by any stretch, I found solace in those songs; as I listened and started to realize the importance and urgency of Eddie Vedder's words, I began to draw emotional parallels and relate Vs. to my own life. Much of the album centers around feeling trapped, either by fame or a troubled home life, and several of those songs talked about about the escape that I was heading toward as I would soon go off to community college and live on my own for the first time.
I especially gravitated toward two songs from that record. Rearviewmirror taught me that it was possible to get away from a bad situation, to just get in the proverbial car and start driving without looking back, strong in the knowledge that you are the one who controls your fate at the end of the day. Then, there was Indifference; Christ, that song. A song had never touched me on such a deep, emotional level as that song and, in a way, I hope no other song ever does. On the surface, a melancholic ode to giving up, underneath I interpret Indifference as a mantra by which to stand tall and persevere through hardships, to endure and survive. In my impressionable teenage brain I felt by times that I was hopelessly alone without a ghost of a chance in this life, and I credit Indifference for getting me through my darkest times. To this day, I refuse to listen to Indifference unless I deem it's absolutely necessary to be reminded that I've got something to live for. That's how deeply burned in a soul a song can become if you let it, and it's a feeling that's simultaneously life-affirming and terrifying. I've listened to it five times in the last twenty years, and can tell you why on each occasion, from being the last song I played on the radio when ending my career as a DJ in 2002 to crying in my music room in Miramichi in 2017 while pondering the events that eventually gave me the strength to end what I thought would be a lifelong relationship and move to Moncton in search of a fresh start.
So, of course I became a massive fan of Pearl Jam and, while I can't pin down exactly when my heart made the decision to make this band my ride-or-die, I can tell you precisely when I realized just how deep my fandom for Pearl Jam went.
December 6, 1994.
Let me paint you a picture; I'm a zit-faced, awkward 18 year old living in Woodstock, New Brunswick, attending my first year of Radio Broadcasting at NBCC. I've tried rooming with a high school friend who turned out to be no friend at all, having signed up for community college but dropping out on day one to become a taxi driver. So, the apartment we share ends up soon becoming a place for local sketchbags to hang out at and, though there are a few good times to be had, there are far more bad scenes taking place at my new home. Soon enough we're evicted, and I find myself taking a one-bedroom further up the hill and living by myself. This is a very good development for me, as not only do I have a place to live, but I also have plenty of alone time to listen to my CDs and play my Sega Genesis. I'm still pretty awkward and shy, and haven't really befriended many of my classmates, but I did make good friends with a local guy named Adam. We hang out on weekends, drink beer, chain smoke and bond over a love of music.
I think that's enough back story; we're up to December now, and Pearl Jam is dropping their highly anticipated third album Vitalogy. Around the halls at school, there's talk about how weird this record is, and somebody got hold of the vinyl that was released early and dubbed it to cassette. He loans me his headphones long enough to share a snippet of a ragged Beatles-like song called Tremor Christ, and it sends me for a loop in the best possible way. It also sends my anticipation into frenzy mode; I have never been as excited to listen to an album in my life.
There's just one problem; there aren't any stores in Woodstock that will have Vitalogy on release day. There's a Wal-Mart there now, but at this point we're still many years away from that. The only store in town that even carries CDs is called Spice of Life; it's a convenience store/sex shop/record store, and they aren't exactly reliable when it comes to new releases. My closest option is Houlton, Maine, which is a 15-minute drive across the border. Which means my bad, there's a second problem; I don't have a car. My method of transportation in town is my feet, and my drives to and from home on weekends are provided by a pair of men travelling between Woodstock and Blackville for work. In 1994, CDs are released on Tuesdays, so a sane person would be resigned to the fact that he'd just have to wait three more days, get home and beg to borrow Mom's car for a drive to Miramichi so he can finally grab a copy of Vitalogy.
Yeah, I think you know where this is going.
By the time release day comes along, I need this CD more than air, so after class I call Adam with the bright idea of hitchhiking to Fredericton (which is an hour's drive from Woodstock). If luck is with us, we'll be there and back by 7 or so, which gives ample time to take Vitalogy for a spin or five before resting up for school the next day. Like a trooper, he's in for the adventure, so we meet up and hit the road at about 3:30. It's not too cold, so I dress in my sexy denim jacket, gloves, jeans and boots, which is what we story tellers call "foreshadowing".
In no time at all, we're offered a ride on the back of a pickup truck as far as Meductic, which gets us about 20% of the way there. Within minutes, we get transport the rest of the way to Fredericton thanks to a kindly old gentleman. A short walk from the highway to Regent Mall Wal-Mart and $12 later, I am the proud owner of Vitalogy. I look at my watch and am pleasantly surprised to see that it's only 4:45; we are ahead of schedule.
As we start the trek back, the sun is just about down, and the temperature is starting to drop. To this point in the year it hasn't gotten all that cold at night, and we're not talking about double digits in the minus here, but there's a sustained wind on that open highway that is making the barely sub-zero temperature bite much harder. We're also not as lucky on the way back, and we spend about an hour on the road before finally getting a ride as far as Mactaquac; it was a young couple in a celebratory mood because the woman had just won a sexual assault case against her former boss in court. This was never an easy feat, but in 1994 it was a major victory; suffice to say, we were all in high spirits when we were dropped off at the Mactaquac exit just past 6pm.
What followed was the other extreme; according to Google Maps, we spent the next three hours walking approximately twelve kilometres, from the Mactaquac exit down the former Trans-Canada Highway (as it's known now, Route 102) through Kingsclear and across the Longs Creek bridge, a 500 metre span over the open water of the St. John River in the dark with a sub-zero wind whipping our faces. We got to the other side and turned the bend, but we were fading fast. I could feel my fingers tingling through my gloves, my legs were tired and my muscles were screaming out in distress. I was freezing and exhausted, wanting to rest but fearing what would happen if we remained exposed to this cold much longer. For a moment, I thought about just laying down in the ditch and letting nature do what it will.
Then, we saw the light; just head, on the left side of the road, there was a house. If only we could go inside for a few minutes and warm up, we'd be able to work at the next 70 kilometers with renewed vigor; after all, we had a CD to listen to. So, after a few more minutes of walking, we approached the house. Now, mind you, we were a couple of young guys out in the middle of nowhere after dark knocking on the door of a stranger's house; in retrospect, I'm not surprised no one answered the door. Take into consideration that I was shouting crazy things like "please, we're freezing to death" even though the temperature wasn't actually that cold and I'm surprised the police weren't called. Nonetheless, that door stayed shut and, even though we didn't make it inside, we were somewhat shielded from the wind at least. We lingered a few minutes to take advantage of the relative warmth of the porch, then continued on.
Our luck started to turn at around 10pm, as a kind soul in a station wagon stopped and agreed to take us as far as Nackawic, which was about half of the distance we still had to cover. Though we were still plenty sore from all the walking, at least we were warm again. We were dropped off at a gas station, where we decided to stay put a few minutes and recharge with some Pepsi and chocolate bars; we still had a little over 40 kilometers to go, and we weren't doing it without an energy boost. There was a payphone in the parking lot, and I considered calling an ex-girlfriend who lived in Nackawic; I think she'd been cheating on her boyfriend to be with me, so I doubt she was really ever my girlfriend at all, but in a situation like this beggars couldn't be choosers. However, I determined that calling an ex looking for a drive to Woodstock was going to be a hard sell at the best of times, let alone close to 11pm on a school night, so I didn't make the call.
Instead, Adam noticed a transport in the parking lot, and decided to ask the trucker if he was headed our way. He was, but was also very hesitant to take on passengers, stating it was against policy and/or law, so we had to convince the poor guy to risk his ass to take on a couple of stowaways for a half hour; it's a good thing this particular trucker wasn't too lonely (wink wink), otherwise who knows what kind of turn that night would have taken because we were desperate at this point.
So, stepping down from the big rig at Woodstock town limits, we just had a short walk across town to go. By this point it was after midnight, and if we had already endured so much this would be easy. As we started walking, however, our aching bodies told us otherwise; we must have looked like a pair of zombies, shuffling down Houlton Road on the final 4km of our crazy, stupid journey. Within a few minutes, though, a police car stopped. After asking us what we were doing out so late on a school night (and probably regretting asking us after hearing me regale him with my tale of reckless fandom), the officer got us to jump into the cruiser so we could get a lift home (although, truth be told, at this point I would have been fine with the drunk tank too).
Back in my apartment, close to ten hours removed from the trip's first steps, I should have been out like a light; my alarm would be going off in less than six hours, as I was expected back in class at 8:30. I had walked somewhere in the neighbourhood of 25 kilometers, most of it in freezing conditions on legs that just didn't want to do it anymore, and my mind was reeling with what I'd just put myself and my friend through for the sake of some songs on a shiny plastic disc.
We listened to it immediately.
Twice.
Oh, by the way, about that house we desperately tried to be invited into? Over many trips from Woodstock to Blackville and back on that highway, over the course of many years, I never saw it again.
Comments
Post a Comment