Grieving Through Music
On June 28, 2011, my late father took me to my first Eddie Vedder, lead singer of Pearl Jam, solo concert. The timing was impeccable, my 15th birthday was that day, and my dad’s 46th birthday was the day proceeding — talk about a stellar gift.
Today is February 3, 2022. Eleven years since our first and last Eddie solo show together, almost four years since my dad died by suicide, and my first (Eddie Solo Show) show without my dad present.
The week leading up to this moment has been an emotional rollercoaster. I find solace in listening to Pearl Jam, specifically in Eddie Vedder’s voice, so to be able to attend tonight's event is a real treat. But not having my dad next to me puts a pit in my stomach that I haven’t been able to shake for days — that pit is full of grief, which sometimes feels like losing the person all over again.
Anyone who knew my dad knew he was one of the biggest Pearl Jam fans out there — therefore, as his offspring, I am one, too. Our fondest memories were at rock concerts, specifically Pearl Jam, bopping our heads in unison and belting every lyric with perfect timing. Music is how we communicated, and shows were where we connected and truly embraced each other's presence — we’d make a day, no, a week, out of it.
Preparing for a Pearl Jam show brought us great joy, and it was something we did together. As a little girl, driving to school and friends' houses was different; there was recognizable energy from my dad’s excitement, and I could join in on the fun. We weren’t just listening to Pearl Jam in the car like we always did; we were preparing for a religious experience together in the car. And what did we do post-3-hour show? We always stopped at a fast-food chain — a sin in my house, but an enjoyable one at that.
While these are cherished memories and tonight’s show will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, it’s moments like these where my grief journey ramps up again. Grief is hard to understand, and everyone grieves differently. For me, I can go to my dad’s grave and feel nothing — I find it quite awkward. But I internally spiral when I have an event where he should and would have been there if he were alive today. His absence speaks volumes, and in those moments, my brain realizes he is gone and won’t return.
At 7 pm tonight, I will arrive at The Beacon Theater in New York City solo — except I won’t spiritually be alone. If only it weren’t a sold-out show, I’d leave an empty seat next to me for him.
