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.

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.

What is the point of watching R.E.M. if you're going to do impressions of vegetables? The seats could have gone to the real fans, the ones who don't give a hoot about being cool, the ones who just love R.E.M..