Free The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic by Jessica Hopper Page B

hours into our adventure, The Strokes played. I would think for some reason they would a be a little urban(e) and effete for this Midwestern crowd, but people were into it, even before Vedder guested on “Juicebox.”
    AND THEN THEN, Dennis Rodman walked into the crowd in-between sets and people freaked out and it was strange. I saw no other celebrity, though I am sure maybe one more was there.
    AND FINALLY, The Pearl Jam played. And played no hits, and played for almost three hours, and it was a real roller coaster. Mike McCready is truly one of the blandest guitar players I have ever heard. It is a testament to the rest of the band and especially Eddie Vedder that they 1. have the patience, as seasoned music fans, to sit through his soloing, which is both tepid and colorless, and 2. that they have hits in spite of his totally generic playing. But then again, I guess that is often how things get on the radio, so maybe that’s a lesser point. Also, it was smart of Mike McCready to not wear a spaghetti strap tank top like he did at PJ’s 10th anniversary. At least they seem to be through their decade-long bad hats phase.
    Vedder is so straight in his connection to the audience, he’s Springsteen-ian in that regard, but without the rock ‘n’ roll showman part. He’s understated, the anti-rock-god rock god and that’s why people love him. It’s impossible not to watch him and eat it up. It feels good to do so. His banter is absolutely corny, like he is 15 and trying to explain why he loves playing music. He is letting that part of him do the talking. Which is awesome and also really funny. More people should do that.
    AND THEN THEN THEN: Chris Cornell came out, and lord, he has such lovely posture, and they did some Temple of the Dog songs and though I never liked that band, I reconsidered them for those 20 minutes and was impressed. Also, Vedder and Cornell are both freakishly well-preserved, especially when presented together. Everyone else looks like the Cryptkeeper in comparison. I bet there is an Internet underworld of Temple of the Dog slash fiction starring them. I don’t even want to Google that.
    GRUNGE RETURNED AND I SAW IT.

YOU’RE RELIVING ALL OVER ME: DINOSAUR JR. REUNITES
    Chicago Reader , April 2005
     
    It was about an hour after dusk in the early summer of 1991, and I was sitting on a log in the half-woods near my parents’ house with a guy I’d met in the front row at a Dinosaur Jr. show. I had the names of my favorite bands scrawled in pen on the toe caps of my Converse high-tops (“Fugazi” on the left, “Dinosaur” on the right), and I studied them intently, trying to keep my teenage awkwardness under control. Two dorks alone in the dark, we avoided the obvious question by engaging in deep conversation: Was Dinosaur Jr. better with or without Lou Barlow?
    I’d hung out with this guy a few times, and every night was the same: as he rattled off Dinosaur Jr. minutiae, I’d nod attentively, hoping that’d charm him. He was one of two boys who would actually talk to me. I was 16, but I still had braces and could easily pass for 12. I also knew more about Dinosaur Jr. (and all his other favorite bands) than he did, but I kept that to myself. If I intimidated him, he wouldn’t want to sit on area logs with me anymore. I decided to act docile and tried not to show my teeth when I laughed.
    Maybe it was particular to the time and place—Minneapolis in the early ‘90s—but from what my girlfriends told me, lots of boys thought going to the woods with a girl and regaling her with an hour and a half of Dinosaur Jr. trivia was a perfectly acceptable courtship ritual. If you liked him (or Dinosaur Jr.) enough, you could pretend it was a date. I withstood many hours of Dinologue during those awful teen years, and my memories of the band’s early albums—with their noisy, shimmery solos and shots of warm feedback—are inextricably tied to memories of some dude that never liked me back. Actually,