This one Goes To 11
All this time, and Eddie Vedder still hasn’t learned how to sing.
There’s an anomalous track on Pearl Jam called “Parachutes,” a Beatles-esque lollipop stroll through English gardens where — and Pitchfork nailed this — Vedder somehow keeps himself from falling into his normal vocal fallback of “Whoa-oh-oh-oh [ad nauseum]” and “Mmmmmnnnnmmmmnn-Oh-oo-whoah, OH!” It’s a single, silvery moment that makes you think wherever Pearl Jam have been for the past 10 years, this must have been worth it. But Vedder, ever the obstinate, anti-frontman, relegates his restraint to the one track.
Pearl Jam never really went anywhere, but this is their comeback album, got it? Any time you self-title an album this late in your career, you’re making a statement. “This is Pearl Jam.” And for the most part it is. There’s the classic ballad (“Come Back”), a couple of railing, anti-establishement swipes (“World Wide Suicide,” “Unemployable”), and of course Vedder’s patented seething mumbles. The rest of the band has gotten better without detouring into professionalism. What there isn’t much of are the left-field, goof-off tracks a la Vitalogy‘s “Bugs” that were worthless individually, but were trademarks of the ornery, riding-out of their fame and contract with Epic Records. For J, their new home, PJ have done what Beck did on Guero, ostensibly approximated their “sound” and dusted it with a little salt to fit the political climate. Meet the new Pearl Jam, same as the . . .
— Steve Forstneger
If you’re going to start out your review with “Eddie Vedder still hasn’t learned how to sing,” why even bother writing the review?
Waste your bias on something you actually care about.
Oh but hey, at least the Spinal Tap reference was worth my time.