Jobie’s Reviews > Twisted II: Spawn of the Twisted > Status Update

Sometimes I just want to end it all. Actually, I don't, but it feels so good just to say that, it's so... cinematic.

All emotional pain lasts exactly twelve minutes. Everything after that is pure self-indulgence.

"Jeremy" is cathartic. It doesn't take literary genius to write a line like "Daddy didn't give attention/To the fact that Mommy didn't care," but when Eddie sings it you know that the words were ripped out of him.

First time I heard "Alive" I was washing the dishes. Something about the song - that great bridge, maybe, or the voice that seemed to bleed - made me drop the sponge and walk over to the stereo. I stood there until the song finished. My eyes were wide open. My hair was standing on end. I wanted to light a candle.

Onstage there's something odd about Eddie: he's smiling. My God, what have we done - Eddie Vedder is happy.

Concerts are great for primal scream therapy, and they're cheaper than shrinks.

One time I was wandering around, feeling like a giant scar, listening to Pearl Jam's Ten on my Walkman. On my way out the guy at the package counter pointed at the tape I was holding and started singing "Jeremy." I don't know why, but that made me feel better.

What the hell, I owe Pearl jam one. Three. I've never met the guys, but I filched some story plots from their songs, and they have pulled me out of the pit a few times.

Passion requires chaos; the crowd pushing and jostling to reach the front of the stage, the heat and sweat, the reek of bodies packed into the platform, the deafening screams. This is a ritual, and Eddie Veder is our shaman.

A Pearl Jam concert cannot be an orderly affair with nicely dressed, well-groomed people in numbered seats clapping politely after every number.