I remember Kelly. She was a little spark plug from my Amalia’s days, back when I was “separated” but still technically married to the wreckage. She was spunky, cheerleader energy, tight body, crazy eyes—the whole beautiful, dangerous package. And our connection? The most unholy bond of all: we were both ex-Mormons. We were refugees from the same cult, looking to break every rule we’d ever been taught.
We hung out. Nothing too serious. She was a “successful deviant” type of wife, kids at home, husband somewhere in the background. We’d end up sleeping over at my restaurant, waking up on the banquettes, scrambling out the back door before the morning prep cooks showed up. A beautiful, trashy little routine.
Then she asks me, “Do you want to go see Pearl Jam?”
”Fuck no,” I said. “I hate Pearl Jam.” And I did. All that flannel, mumble-mouthed, angst-ridden bullshit.
But then I remembered the tattoo on her shoulder. Pearl Jam. She was a true believer. “It’s in Portland,” she said. “I’ll drive. I’ll get the hotel. I’ll take care of everything. You just show up.”
A man is only as strong as his desire to be lazy. I said yes.
Two weeks later, I’m prepping. I go to my bartender, Heidi, a tough girl with the Amalia’s logo tattooed on her ribs. “Look,” I said, “I gotta go see this band I hate. I need help. What have you got?”
”Mushrooms,” she said.
”Get me two hundred dollars’ worth.”
She dropped them off later. A big, ugly bag of dried caps and stems. “Be careful,” she warned me, looking me dead in the eye. “These are really strong. Do not take more than two.”
”Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I’m a professional.”
Saturday comes. I hop into Kelly’s Sherman tank of a truck, and we drive over Mount Hood into Portland. She booked us at the Crystal Hotel. A cool spot. We got the Jimi Hendrix room. Murals on the walls, velvet paintings, a gothy, rock-and-roll vibe that smelled like old weed and good decisions.
We get dressed up. Looking pretty. And then, the communion.
I opened the bag. “Two,” Heidi had said.
I took ten.
Kelly took ten.
And then, because we are geniuses, she decided to carry the rest of the bag in her purse. “Just in case,” she said. Just in case we wanted to visit God personally.
We walked to the venue. It wasn’t a stadium. It was the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. The “Schnitz.” A fancy, sit-down theater with ushers and velvet ropes. No cameras. No lights. Strict. I’m scratching my head. Pearl Jam? In a place where you can’t even spill a beer?
We find our seats. The lights go dim. And this Irish duke walks out. Just him and an acoustic guitar.
Glenn Hansard.
I’d never heard of the guy. Never heard a note. But he starts playing, and holy cow. It was a treat. I was captivated. The mushrooms were starting to tickle the back of my brain. I started to smell the music. I started to taste the colors of the stage lights. I was drifting into that beautiful, warm, electric ocean.
And just as Glenn was finishing up, I noticed the horizontal lines of the theater were starting to vibrate. The walls were breathing. It was overpowering.
And, being a greedy bastard, I wanted more.
I put out my hand to Kelly. I didn’t look at her; I was in a trance, staring at the stage. She knew. She poured the rest of the bag into my palm. I threw it back like a shot of whiskey. The dust, the stems, the caps. I emptied the tank.
Glenn finished. And then… zombie mode.
The cotton mouth hit me like a desert wind. I looked at Kelly. I tried to say “water,” but it came out as a dry croak. We got up, shuffled to the lobby. I couldn’t talk. My tongue was a piece of sandpaper. I managed to buy two waters, chugged them right there. It felt like God himself was pissing down my throat.
We go back to the seats. And I am teetering. I am right on that edge where the high stops being fun and starts being a survival horror game. If I went any further, I wasn’t coming back.
Then the main act comes out.
It’s not Pearl Jam.
It’s Eddie Vedder. Solo. Sitting on a stool with a guitar and a ukulele.
I didn’t know he did this. But he starts playing, and I recognize the songs. It’s the soundtrack from Into the Wild. The movie about the kid who eats the berries and dies in the bus.
”Shit,” I think. “This is heavy.”
And it was. It was an incredible performance. He wasn’t mumbling; he was singing from the gut. I was melting. Literally melting into the upholstery. My sensors were wide open. Every note was a physical sensation.
And then, towards the end, he does this thing. He starts humming. A monk-like chant. Hmmmmmm. And he records it on a loop pedal. Then he chants over it. And records that. And he builds this tower of sound, this vibrating, humming, screaming wall of noise, layering voice over voice over voice.
And my head… my poor, fried, mushroom-filled head… it almost blew up.
I was terrified. It was the fear of shitting your pants, times a thousand. The pressure was building, the chant was getting louder, the loops were spinning faster, and I thought, This is it. This is how I die. My brain is going to pop like a grape in a microwave right here in Portland.
It was intense. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
And then, just as I was about to scream… he stops.
Silence.
The lights turn on. He does a happy-go-lucky little monologue, plays a ukulele song, says “Thank you, goodnight.”
And as the lights came up, the high broke. Just like a fever. The pressure released. I was exhausted, drained, but I was back. I felt normal. The concert was done, and so was I.
We walked out into the cool Portland air. I was ready for bed.
But Kelly? Kelly had other plans.
She pulls out a joint and lights up. Smokes some dope right there on the street.
And the second that smoke hit her lungs, it reactivated the mushrooms. It kick-started the engine.
For the next three hours, I had to babysit a woman who was tripping balls on a high dose of psilocybin in downtown Portland. It was a circus. We ended up at Jake’s Famous Crawfish. A place with white tablecloths and chefs in big hats. They have this late-night happy hour where you get the high-end food for five bucks.
The place is packed. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. And I’m sitting there with a woman whose eyes are spinning like slot machines, eating cheap, delicious seafood, trying to keep her from climbing the curtains.
We eventually made it back to the Hendrix room. We did crazy stuff. We slept in positions that would make a gymnast sore.
And that was it. That was my introduction to Eddie Vedder.
I still hate Pearl Jam. Can’t stand them.
But Eddie Vedder? The man who almost exploded my brain with a loop pedal?
I love that guy.
