Disco never really died, it just became dance music. The same can be said for heavy metal. It never really disappeared, it just became … Godsmack. No, not a new type of heroine, but a modern metal band from Boston. Punk in its attitude, dance in its grooves, and 100 percent heavy metal in its riffs and intensity, Godsmack is one of the finest examples of modern metal that no one dares call metal. With $2,500 borrowed from a friend, Godsmack recorded their self-released debut in 1996. Through heavy airplay on local radio WAAF and constant gigging they sold thousands of copies through Newbury Comics; the only outlet that agreed to carry the album. This caught the attention of Republic Records and in July 1998 they re-released the original album.

The Godsmack name means instant karmic retribution. “What happened” explains front man Sully Erna, “was we were rehearsing one day and our drummer came in with this huge cold sore on his lip. I teased him and really gave him a hard time about it. The next day, I happened to get a cold sore on my lip. One of the guys in the band said to me, ‘See, God just smacked you on the head for all that teasing.’ So that’s why we named the band Godsmack.”

After two years of constant touring and the release of their second album” Awake” in 2000, Godsmack has established itself as a serious player in the hard rock/metal universe. I was lucky enough to catch them with Disturbed and megastars The Stone Temple Pilots at the San Jose Events Center.

I’m patiently waiting in the photographers pit for Disturbed, when two hooded beings come out escorting what appears to be a jump suited prisoner (actually singer David Draiman). They strap him to an electric chair and flick the switch. Within seconds strobes are flashing and blood streams down the face of the victim.

This is how Disturbed like to start their shows. And I like to see it. In fact I haven’t seen such a display since the big arena metal shows of the mid 80’s. Alternating between scream singing and real singing, David (who holds degrees in philosophy, political science and business administration) begins stocking the stage like a pro wrestler.

After chastising the audience on the sides for sitting down while they “work their asses off up here” Disturbed launches into an overdrive version of the ’80s Tears for Fears song “Shout.” It was ironic to watch the same people who probably used to beat up Tears for Fears fans in high school rocking out to a metallized version of this new wave top 40 hit. Combining hip-hop beats, sampled sounds and chunka-chunka guitar rhythms with apocalyptic lyrics of oppression and angst Disturbed demonstrate that they’re firmly planted in the modern genre-bending hard rock/metal movement.

Next up is Godsmack. To their debut album has been playing non-stop on my computer’s CD ROM for two months now. It’s infectious and one of the few albums that I can rock out to yet still maintain my concentration when working on the computer.

The strobe lights are pounding and Sully steps up to the mic, guitar in hand. In between verses he whips his head from side to side and holds his arms up around his face. If you saw him on the street you’d swear he’s having a seizure.

While drummer Tommy Stewart and guitarist Tony Rombola have their own rock and roll moves, it’s bassist Robbie Merrill that you must see to believe. Pacing the stage in exaggerated strides, his body hunched in a “c” shape, he nearly drags his bass along the ground as he plays it vertically. Pushing the effect further, he maintains a crazed, wide-eyed grin the entire show.

But really, it’s the music we’re all here to see and Godsmack delivers like seasoned pros. Godsmack combine the best of club and hip-hop inspired rhythms with classic metal riffing which some have said “grinds as it grooves”. This blending of genres can be seen reflected in the audience as they switch seamlessly from hip-hop inspired “jump, jump” dance moves and moshing to head banging and lighters atop swaying arms.

Not only the singer and lyricist, front man Sully writes most of the music and played drums on the first album. Sully, whose dad was a professional jazz drummer for 40 years, has been pounding the skins since age three. Demonstrating his chops, Sully jumps over to a stand up drum kit and jams with their drummer Tommy during “Get Up, Get Out”.

“I’m not the one who’s so far away, when I feel the snake bite enter my veins,” sings the audience, nearly drowning out Sully’s vocal intro to Godsmack’s spooky and sensual song “Voodoo”. Sully, a practicing Wicca, brings an earthy spiritual vibe to the Godsmack stage that spreads to audience.

After 45 minutes they finish with their signature song “Whatever.” This is the song everyone has been waiting for and the air is electric. On the album the song is short, a mere three minutes and twenty-six seconds, but Godsmack extends it with a call and response contest with the audience.

“Now… you’re competing against the entire United States, so don’t go soft on me”
The audience assures him this will no happen.
“I’m doing the best I ever did….” sings Sully.
“Now go away!” the audience roars back, finishing the chorus.
This peaks into a deafening wall on the fourth try.
“You have no idea how much I love you guys right now” Sully responds and the bands finishes the song, takes their bows and walks off stage.

You know what, the song is still to short. Perhaps I’ll need to burn it on a CD twelve times in a row to finally get my fix.

Finishing off the evening is the Stone Temple pilots. STP occupies an unusual space in the rock-and-roll spectrum. Melodic and soft enough for the soft rock crowd yet heavy and twisted enough for the metal fans. The band, sporting a look halfway between disco cowboy and pimp-daddy throw out enough hits to please everyone.

During “Plush” Scott Weiland jumps off stage and tours the audience for a giant sing-along. It’s clear that this is not an act. Scott truly loves the physical contact with his audience and never pulls back or flinches as hundreds of hands and bodies lunge toward him. After a few hard rockin’ tunes STP slows down for an acoustic set, complete with miniature drum kit and stools. They start off the set with their 70’s-ish “Sour Girl”.

My partner points to the audience down below, “look they have no idea what to do this music”.
It was true. The shuffling syncopation of the bass and drums negated traditional swaying yet the song was too soft to mosh to. Not to say the audience didn’t enjoy the song, they just lacked the kinetic vocabulary to express it physically.

The highlight of the evening, from a rock-and-roll milestone point of view, is when singer Scott Weiland talks about the nature of crowd surfing.

“It’s a real honor and a privilege to be carried above the audience and it would be nice if the ladies could participate without being groped or fondled…show some respect”, says Scott.
The audience cheers with approval.

For the finale Scott enters the spotlight dressed only in elbow length red velvet gloves and an American flag tied around his waist.
Not to be outdone, the guitarist pulls down his pants and plays the entire song shielded only by his low-slung guitar. Not particularly sexy, blasphemous or shocking the spectacle comes across more as just wholesome fun and games among friends.

Looking back on the evening, with its pleasing mix of musical styles, humor, camaraderie, and playful gender bending, I can’t help but be hopeful about the state of rock-and-roll in the coming decade. Don’t miss out on this one.

I’m leaving my car on my way to the Arena when I notice a giant charter bus pull up and about fourty, thirty-somethings pour out into the street for a group photo. After some whooping and cheering the crowd leaves to the show. I walk up to the bus driver. True to the description on the side of the bus as a self-proclaimed land yacht, the driver is decked out in sea captain gear.
“So what’s the deal, did these people rent this to come to the show?”
“Oh yes, they’ve been going crazy back there…”
“Were did you guys come from?”
“Santa Clara.”
“That’s only six miles away, kind of excessive, don’t you think?”
The driver looks at me, cocks his head, and gives me the international worker’s shrug of the shoulders gesture that translates loosely into ” Hey, I just work here… it’s not my decision.”

On my way to the back entrance of the Arena I pass by radio row. 104 FOG, Mix 106, 98.5 KFOX, 104.8 Channel and Star 101.3 are all out today, each one blasting their music from their 8 by 8 foot booth. In front of radio row is the local anti-rock Christian brigade that have become a standard fixture at all Bay Area shows. One is holding a huge six-foot sign that says “Beware Drunkards, Fornicators, Thieves, Adulterers, Idolaters and Queers.” I pause at the use of such a contemporary word as “queer” in the midst of such antiquated biblical King’s English. I imagine the meeting where that one was decided.

“No John, not homosexual, we use the word queer now… it’s much more inclusive. Plus it appeals to the MTV youth. We don’t want to appear too stodgy you know.”

The photographers are waiting by the back entrance of the San Jose Arena when a petite woman with short white hair meets us. She holds up a paper diagram and points with a pen.

“Okay the stage is here and coming off from each side of the stage is the top of a heart-shaped catwalk. Inside the heart is the audience as well as around the outside of the heart. There’s a narrow path that follows the catwalk for the photographers and security. For the first song the band is lit by the house lights only. For the second and third songs the lights go down and Bono comes down the right side of the heart while the Edge comes down the left. They make their way to the bottom of the heart where they’ll do this mock bullfight routine where Bono makes little horns with his fingers and the Edge makes feedback sounds on his guitar”

Now, we all know that the big, expensive Arena rock shows are well planned and heavily scripted. From the lights down to the number of encores, everything is on a tight schedule. But when the details of the “improv” routines are spelled out in dispassionate outline form, it’s downright comical, yet, intriguing.

I imagine a debriefing room where Bono and Band wait patiently. A tall man in a dark suit and sunglasses enters the room.

“OK Bono, here’s the situation, tonight you’re in San Jose CA. The last time you played here was in a High School gym, so be sure to reminisce about that. Our ticket sales indicate that the majority are not from the city of San Jose but from the surrounding towns, so it would be good idea to mention those as well.”

The man hands Bono a list. Bono grabs a pen and begins to write on the palm of his hand.

“Hello Oakland, Hello Sunnyvale…Hello Los Gatos…”

“Our focus group studies indicate that the Bob Marley references are still popular so be sure to work in one or two during the first set …and the “fan” who hands you the Irish flag during Sunday Bloody Sunday will be to your left wearing a red hat. His code name is COBRA… oh, and please don’t drop the flag, the backup one was destroyed at the Alabama show.”

I’m waiting at the bottom of the catwalk with the rest the photographers and begin to scan the arena. Directly across the other side of the catwalk, about eight feet away, is the general mission audience. About every six feet stands a security guard in a bright yellow windbreaker. I notice one person with a camera, then another and then another. I start counting and estimate that every other person has a camera, some whit professional gear better than mine. One guy stands on his toes so I can see him over the security’s shoulder.
“What are you shooting?” He says holding up his camera.
“800 color print…what are you shooting?”
“1600″
“Oh, you have worries…all your shots will to come out great!”
I’ve never seen a big concert where you can bring your cameras. You could easily shoot video if you wanted. Then again, at $45 bucks for the floor and $130 for the seats, I suppose they should throw in a gaffer or an assistant to boot.

P.J. Harvey opens the show and a handful of us decided to take some shots. I’m completely unfamiliar with her work, but it’s enjoyable enough. She plays her first song solo. Her stage makeup, glittery dress a tiny frame are contrasted buy a certain fierceness, an unspoken confidence in her persona that is quite appealing. Of course, she’s just the opening band so the Arena is half empty with people who are mostly biding time till U2.

After a short break, U2 casually takes the stage. The house lights are left on and the effect is exhilarating and disorientating at the same time. Without stage specific lighting everyone in the Arena is lit equally, each face standing out on its own, yet anonymous at the same time. As scheduled, the house lights go down for the second song and Bono and Edge make their way down the catwalk. Bono, of course, is posing and preening the entire way, stopping every couple of steps to caress the outstretched hands, roll on the floor and seduce the MTV camera crew. The Edge concentrates on his chords and watches Bono out of the corner of his eye so as not to reach the bottom of the catwalk before him. This continues for another hour and a half with some minor variations.

So back to the question. Could I enjoy a show by a band that seems so cynical, calculated and enthralled by its ability to manipulate its image and audience. Sure, much in the same way I can enjoy a good pro wrestling match. Just because it’s fake, doesn’t mean it’s not entertaining. Just check your brain at the door and go along for the ride.

In 1976, I was 10 years old and my primary source of music was my mom’s 8-track collection. Al Stewart, Blood Sweat and Tears, Barry Manilow, Simon and Garfunkle, The Carpenters and Billy Joel were the ones most likely to be found in the car and at any given moment. Although I enjoyed them all for various reasons, it was the lyrical and sonic weight of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”, “Streetlife Serenade” and “Turnstiles” albums that hit me the hardest. After “The Stranger” and “52nd Street” albums came out in ‘ 77 and ‘ 78 I was definitely hooked. Unfortunately my excitement about Bill Joel ended with the release of “Glass Houses” in 1980. It seemed so weak, so thin. When “An Innocent Man” was released in ‘ 81 I thought he’d lost his mind. How could the man who wrote “Captain Jack” and “Scenes From An Italian Restaurant” write “Uptown Girl”? Sure, it’s catchy…but so is small pox. Despite his later work, I was excited to see Billy with Elton John at the San Jose Arena last Sunday.

Perched in the second tier of seats I have the sensation that I’m floating over the performers. Billy and Elton are playing in the round, the audience wrapping behind them. Two pianos rise from the stage and Billy and Elton play a couple songs together before Elton kicks off the show. The audience is sitting in their seats but after a couple of up-tempo numbers they’re up and bobbing around. During “Crocodile Rock” the audience starts clapping…on the downbeat! Not everyone though, the others are clapping on the up beat. I haven’t seen an audience this white since I got free tickets to Phil Collins. After playing through a long string of hits, Elton launches into Billy’s hit single “Uptown Girl”. “I think Billy wrote that one for ex-wife number two” Elton says with a grin “I’ll ask Billy backstage if he doesn’t give me a black eye first.”

Next up is Billy Joe. In contrast to the goofy wholesomeness of Elton John’s Band, Billy Joel’s crew has modern urban feel. Two white female backup singers in tight leather, a black female percussionist and sax player in braids and a male hard body bass player with 18-inch biceps and leather pants. After playing “Anthony’s Song” and a brief instrumental version of ” Do You Know the Way to San Jose” Billy raps with the audience. He swivels around and points to the people behind him. “Well, you people over here are basically screwed… but hey, at least you get to look at my ass all night” Billy then informs us that their guitar roadie has a birthday today and they bring him onstage to sing AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” while Billy plays guitar. The audiencegoes nuts! Who knew AC/DC was mainstream? Thing are perfect until Billy punishes us with a sluggish and sloppy version of “We Didn’t Start the Fire”. I’m sorry, but that song is just stupid, period. On the plus side Elton didn’t play “Candle in the Wind”(either version) so it kind of balanced out.

To finish the night both bands are brought out and Elton and Billy play “Come Together” and “A Hard Day’s Night”. Can two piano players, two drummers, 3 backup singers, three guitarists, two bassists, two percussionists, a sax player and a keyboardist play together on time? Well, sort of. But I give them an “A” for effort. All in all, an unforgettable show.

Imagine having something important, if not brilliant to say, but you lacked the physical ability to say it. This was the scenario that two parents (Peggy Young and James Forderer) and one speech pathologist (Dr. Marilyn Buzolich) faced when they formed the Bridge School in 1986. The school helps children with severe speech and physical impairments acquire the skills they need to accomplish their goals.

All this great work requires money. To help out with the finances, Neil Young (husband of school co-founder Peggy Young) throws an incredible, two-day party at the Shoreline Amphitheater.

This collection of friends and supporters is known as the Bridge School Benefit, and this year’s lineup was so good it looked like an Internet prank:

Crosby Stills Nash and Young
Dave Matthews Band
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Beck
Foo Fighters
And up-and-comers Tenga and Sara.

It is 3:30 p.m. on a rainy Saturday, and I’ve made it to the Shoreline in record time (55 minutes from Soquel to parking my car at the Amphitheater … a minor miracle of sorts).

Waiting in the rain, I’m starting to think that my cheap rain poncho might be the best $2 investment I’ve ever made.

I’m joined by Pete Crooks, a freelance photographer who’s shooting for tompetty.com, and we wait for Kaari to bring us our photo passes.

“OK, here’s the deal,” she says when she arrives. “The Bridge School Benefit is kind of a sit-down event, so you’ll need to shoot from their level. If the audience begins to stand, then you can also stand. Oh, and one more thing … Neil Young doesn’t like to see photographers while he’s onstage, so …”

“Be discreet.” Pete and I both chime in.

“Exactly.”

Kaari takes us down to the stage, as the rest of the photographers arrive.

Kicking off the evening’s festivities is co-founder Peggy Young. The students of the Bridge School line the back of the stage beneath the school logo, and Peggy introduces Neil.

After a quick song, Canadian twin folk rockers Tenga and Sara take the stage and entertain the audience with their blend of traditional folk and contemporary vocal rhythms.

Completely forgetting that I’m squatting over mud puddles, I put down one knee for balance. How much water can one pant leg absorb? About two cups it seems.

After some traditional sound problems, next up is the Foo Fighters. I am particularly excited about seeing them because I had missed every opportunity over the last three years.

Now’s my chance, and I get to take photos to boot. Dave Grohl’s pop sensibilities are so strong and well-developed it makes one wonder if Nirvana could have been the band they were without him.

Having never heard him play acoustic, I’m wondering if he can pull it off. No problem.

After declaring, “If this were Seattle, it’d be just another beautiful day,” the Foo Fighters dazzle the crowd with “Learning to Fly” and a solo version of “Everlong.”

Ever the shy one, David pauses in the middle of the song to lower his knit hat over his eyes and mumble something about this being a little overwhelming.

The sound system goes on the blink again, so we are all rewarded with a guest appearance by Robin Williams.

The photographers are torn between enjoying his performance (i. e., laughing) and getting some incredible shots.

Squatting over mud puddles, we pull off just enough shots between chuckles so as not to blow the moment for ourselves. Seeing him live, that close-up, it’s obvious why he’s one of the giants of comedy.

Next up is Beck. Back in 1994 with the release of his first major label album, “Mellow Gold,” it was hard to imagine that the man who coined the shuffling, hillbilly rap song, “Loser,” would go on to become such a versatile and talented musician.

Confident yet humble, Beck holds the audience with his polished blend of, uh … you know, Beck music.

Alternating between his “Is that a spaceship in the sky?” and his “Aw shucks, Ah’m just glad you like mah music” facial expressions, Beck finishes off his short but sweet 40-minute set.

After some more sound problems, the Chili Peppers stroll on stage and take their seats on a row of stools.

Dressed more for a walk in the redwoods than for a performance, the Chili Peppers reinforce the unspoken theme of the day: warmth, comfort and dry feet.

Part of the excitement of a Bridge School Concert is the much anticipated “wow” factor. You never know what’s going to happen, and bands have 35 minutes to leave your jaw dropping.

Not to disappoint, the Chili’s play “Under the Bridge,” “Californication” and a wonderful version of “Breaking the Girl,” complete with cowbell accents by singer Anthony.

The Chili Peppers are quite good, but compared to the nuanced professionalism of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, they sound like a garage band (albeit an excellent garage band).

I was never a fan of Tom Petty’s music, but always admired his integrity and skill as a songwriter. Now I can add performer to that list.

Changing seamlessly from thumping rock to sweeping piano ballads, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers create a rich palette of textures that would be hard for any music fan not to appreciate.

My personal favorite is the extended jam in the middle of his top-40 hit, “Breakdown.”

Tom introduces the song, “Won’t Back Down,” with the declaration that he refused to let George W. Bush’s Campaign use it as a theme song. This is greeted with a smattering of boos amid a sea of cheers. About a 20/80 split. Interesting, but predictable.

By now the rain has stopped, the air cools, and a few dry spots to sit down are beginning to emerge.

When you’re hanging around the stage all night, you lose all concept of time. Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see blue skies and sunshine. Unfortunately the “sky” is just blue light reflected on the overhead canopy, and the “sunshine” the giant spotlights that constantly illuminate the stage. It’s 10 p.m., but it feels like four in the afternoon.

Next up is the Dave Matthews band. Halfway through their first song, it’s clear to see why they have such a devout and growing fan base.

In addition to top-notch song writing and excellent musicianship, Dave Matthews projects an infectious vibe that I’m sure could be felt to the last patch of mud in the back.

It’s almost impossible not to smile when watching this band. Blasting through his hits “Crash Into Me,” “Too Much” and “So Much to Say,” Dave maintains a tight-lipped grin, as if he were trying to hold in his laughter at a funeral or wedding. For those prone to inappropriate laughter, you know what I mean.

For the last song, Neil Young joins Dave for a haunting version of “Cortez the Killer,” and we grab our cameras to capture the money shot.

After another little break, Neil Young and band hit the stage. As a casual Neil Young listener, I recognize about half the songs.

For fans in the audience, it is obvious that any set list would have been a greatest hits collection.

Neil Young fans are serious about their music, as I find out when numerous women nudge me aside and tell me to move when I accidentally block their view for a few seconds.

After Neil’s set, actor Woody Harrelson comes out to introduce Crosby, Stills and Nash. They kick off their set with “Our House,” “Helpless” and “Teach Your Children.”

I’m impressed at how good their harmonies still sound. Sure, some of the falsettos are botched a little, but who does a good falsetto in their 50s?

It is now 1 a.m., and my body and mind are fading fast. I am about ready to leave when Pete from tompetty.com tells me I have to stick around for the grand finale.

I’m glad I do. Dave Matthews and Woody Harrelson join the stage and lend their vocals to a rousing version of ” Love the One You’re With.”

The audience leaps from their seats and surges forward to the stage. Knowing full well that this is the last song, with the best lighting and the most stars, I pop off shots like they’re going out of style.

Funny thing, even amid all the chaos of swaying bodies crowded together, I am twice tapped on the shoulder by a petite woman because I’m blocking her view.

With mud-covered shoes and soaking wet clothes I get home at 2:10 a.m. But wait, daylight savings ended 10 minutes ago — it’s really only 1:10 am!

Suddenly I feel so refreshed. Refreshed enough to shoot the Pearl Jam show in three days, but that’s another story.

I’m sitting on the couch nursing a sore back on a Wednesday afternoon when I get a call from Bob Fenster at the Sentinel.

“Hey clay, I have two tickets and a photo pass for the Chili Pepper’s Show.”

“Wow, that’s great… the only trouble is I pulled my back on Monday am not sure if I’ll be in any condition to shoot the show… it’s this Saturday right?”

“Awww, I’m sure you can get it together for the Chili Peppers.”

“I suppose I’ll have to… can I pick up the tickets tomorrow morning?”

“You bet, Ill leave them at the front desk.”

“Thanks.”

The Chili Pepper show at the Shoreline was only three nights rest away (when injured I always count nights rest and not days passing).

It’s time to get better, fast. Fortunately, I already had an appointment with the master of pain management, Elisa Livni, at Spring of Health. I arrive at his office.

“So Clay, how goes it today?”

“Not to good, I think I hurt my back more than I had originally thought.”

“So… show me what hurts.”

I point to various spots to my back, describing how it seems to move from one area to the next. Elisha, a licensed acupuncturist, motions me to lie down on the table and starts to press on various reflexology points on my left foot.

“Is this tender?”
“Not really.”

“How about this?”

“A little.”

“And this?”

“Yes (gasp) right there!”

“Ahhh, sounds like your liver is talking to you…I have just the spot for that one.”

Eighteen needles and one hour later I feel there is hope for Saturday’s shoot.

Friday morning I break out the camera and begin a routine check of all the equipment. My back is making steady yet slow improvement. Lens… check. Body… check. Auto winder… not working. The auto winder had been giving me grief for some time and apparently chose today to make its final statement. Looks like it’s time to visit the fine folks at The Camera Club. I’m greeted by Richard Jarvis.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so, my auto winder doesn’t want to cooperate and I can’t define the origin of the problem.”

After a half-hour of trouble-shooting and head scratching punctuated by ‘huuhhh?’…’that’s interesting’… and ‘that doesn’t make any sense’ we came to a satisfactory yet unexplainable conclusion. My auto winder works on other cameras in the store but not mine. Fortunately they have this beautiful but used winder that performs perfectly with my camera, at least for the moment. I need it, but I’m weary of purchasing it just yet.

“Can I rent this, I have an important shoot tomorrow.”

“Sure”

“How much?”

“Hmmm…about twenty bucks”

“If I like it can I have credit for the rental cost applied towards the purchase?”

“Sure, no problem.”

I leave a DNA sample, a pint of blood, and sign over my fist born…you know, in case I don’t come back, and leave basking in the glow of fully operational equipment.

Saturday morning I wake up stiff and sore yet confident that adrenaline and liberal doses of arnica gel and ibuprofen will carry me through. Just to be sure, I take an afternoon nap.
The tickets said the show started at 7:30 PM. We left at 5:50 PM figuring that even with traffic that should be plenty of time.
Wrong.

The Shoreline Amphitheater was built on a dump out in the middle of nowhere off Highway 101. With that much space to work with you would think that the parking would be a model of efficiency. Not so. Hundreds of cars were sent down a single lane dirt road, a cross between Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, Pirates of the Caribbean and an Elkhorn Slough nature walk, that circled the entire amphitheater only to bring us back to were we started from. We park at 7:25 already frazzled. I do a double check…camera, water bottle, back cushion, anti-histamines, painkillers, earplugs, food and two blankets. I was never one for roughing it but now that I’m in my mid thirties I find my tolerance for discomfort has reached an all time low. I’m a wimp…and I am not ashamed.

Every time I go to show and they tell me that my photo pass can be picked up at will call, I never quite believe it. What if they forget? What if there is a mix-up? Fortunately, I had my tickets already so I knew I was going to at least see the show. At will call they tell me to go over to the main office to get my photo pass. The main office is an interesting place. Once entered you completely forget you’re at a concert. Except for the television broadcasting the bands live and the dry, tweeky, monophonic mixing board sound that is piped through the ceiling speakers which, during the day, probably play some form of muzak there is little to inform you that just outside are 15,000 screaming fans. It was here that we waited for Karri who would escort the photographers to the stage were we would be allowed to shoot for three songs. Afterwards we were to be ushered back to the office to put away our camera equipment. This was repeated for every band.

Stone Temple Pilots were the opening band although it was really more of a double bill.

“Okay, see this crack in the concrete that kind of goes into semicircle… don’t cross that line. If you want to change positions its okay, just do it between songs” Karri informs us. We were lined up about halfway between the stage and the first row seats when suddenly the security announces that they’re taking down the barricade and allowing people to leave their seats. The photographers were to be moved forward to a two-foot wide trough right in front of the stage. Lucky us!

Boom! They hit the lights and Stone Temple Pilots hits the stage. I can’t recall what three songs they played first by I can tell you the theatrics were high and campy and the lighting was bright and white. A photographers dream really. Weiland, the lead singer, pranced and preened, dancing in a style that can be best described as an Egyptian hieroglyph morphed with the Itsy Bitsy Spider from the classic children’s game. Complete with bullhorn, cowboy hat, mascara and mohawk, Weiland didn’t disappoint.

Three songs and three rolls of film later it’s time to head back to the office.

“Okay, we’ll meet here again at 9:10 for the Chili Peppers” Karri informs us.

Exhausted yet anxious to get back to my seat to finish watching the rest of the STP’s set I stop at a restroom to quickly relieve myself. Some women may not know this but men don’t talk to each other in the bathroom. Never. No way. It’s just not done. So basically you have a roomful of men shuffling around trying desperately to stare at anything except each other. Capitalizing on this social phenomenon the good folks at the Shoreline have placed ads on top of every urinal. Ahhhh yes, free market capitalism at its finest. As I’m reluctantly staring at an ad for pants or something I notice out of the corner my eye a guy pulling out his cell phone and beginning to dial… while he is still peeing. If it were scene in the movie it would be hailed as comic genius. In real life though, it’s just depressing. I finish my business and head back to the seats just in time to see STP belting out the first three chords of their debut hit Plush. Weiland, ever restless, decides to give the security guards a run for their money with an impromptu walk through the audience during the first chorus. The band finishes off the song with a surprise guest appearance from Chad of the Chili Peppers on drums. The crowd goes wild, big smiles, big cheers, a classic rock and a moment to remember.

At 9:10 pm we gather again and headed down to the stage. The Peppers were running late so the audience was punished, or rewarded, depending on your point of view with a guest appearance by Julia Butterfly Hill. One would think that someone who spent two years sitting in an ancient redwood would have actually have learned something about them. Peppering here lucid dream come lecture with phrases like ‘trees are old’ and ‘tress are beautiful’ Julia’s shining moment was when she asked everyone who cares about trees to raise there hands and then declared that all who raised their hands were the leaders of tomorrow. The irony of bestowing leadership among people who had just followed your orders was apparently lost on Butterfly. Fortunately we were provided some relief when one of the photographers noticed that the Gina Gershon and Chris Rock were standing off stage next to the sound guy. Gawk, gawk.

The first time I saw the Red Hot Chili Peppers was at the 1991 New Years show at the Cow Palace. Opening was the quickly rising Nirvana and a mostly unknown up-and-coming band called Pearl Jam. One year later the lineup would’ve been reversed as ‘grunge’ overcame the music industry and bands like the Chili Peppers slipped out of the spotlight. Back in ‘91 you could still see a big show for twenty-five bucks, concert shirts were only twenty, parking was five and a loaf of bread cost just a nickel. Yes sir, those were the days. Nine years later Kirk Cobain is dead, Pearl Jam’s reached mythological proportion and the Red Hot Chili Peppers are still headlining.

Again I have no idea what three songs they played first but I can tell you that Flea was more stationary than I had expected and Anthony, the singer, was a photographers nightmare with his double fisted microphone grip and closed eyes. Yes, the Chili Peppers were awesome but I just wanted some good lighting and a non- moving object.

By the time I had returned my camera to the office I was pretty much done for the evening. I casually strolled back to my seat and took a much-needed rest as the soothing melody of “Under the Bridge” calmed my nerves.

As I was relaxing, I started once again to watch the pair of husky middle-aged Silicon Valley types that had been rocking out nonstop through both sets. Complete with air guitar solos, Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts these two men danced the night away in the traditionally awkward, head bobbing, beached whale style that white heterosexual men had been perfecting for centuries. Their wholesome exuberance put a smile on my face and I began collecting my things. We got to the car, the Chili Peppers barely audible in the distant, and embarked on the much-dreaded ‘trail of gears’ caused by the mass exodus of concertgoers. Sitting in traffic once again I started to think. You know, if the Shoreline ever catches fire, is consumed by a cloud of poisonous gas, or perhaps attached by a giant monster during a show, thousands would surely parish. And that, my friend, would be bad. Oh, and I love this new auto winder.

The first time I saw Pearl Jam they were opening up for Nirvana and the Red Hot Chili Peppers at the 1991 New Year’s Eve show at the Cow Palace. I had no idea who they were, but I was completely blown away.

The next day I ran out and bought “Ten,” their debut album. Their music had a timeless feel, a certain familiarity. But in contrast to the glossy, over-produced hair bands of the late ’80s, they were a breath of fresh air.

Their music was not the only thing refreshing. They abandoned the music video format after producing one concept video, refused interviews, encouraged audience taping of their shows, sued Ticketmaster over high prices and monopoly practices, broadcast their concerts over local free radio, donated more than $2.2 million to causes ranging from the environment and Native Americans to education and abortion rights, released all 25 of their 2000 European concert dates as double live CD’s to undercut the inflated bootleggers’ market, and supported presidential candidate Ralph Nader.

I’d seen them up close at the Warfield and the Catalyst, from a distance at the Shoreline and Spartan Stadium. But now I was about to see them from a totally unique perspective.

It’s Tuesday, Oct. 31, and I have finally received my confirmation for a photo pass and two tickets to the Pearl Jam show at the Shoreline — a mere six hours before it starts.

I go to the will call window to pick up my tickets and, no big surprise, they’re not there.

I go into the office, where we meet up with Kaari, and, of course, they’re not there either. None of the photographer’s tickets are there.

Kaari, ever calm, cool and collected, assures us that something will work out.

“Pearl Jam doesn’t like to see photographers in front of them, so you need to pick a side of the stage and stay there,” she says. “You will not be allowed to switch between songs.”

Knowing that Eddie, the singer, has taken to playing the guitar lately and that he is right-handed … I opt for the left side.

Down near the front of the stage the photographers are given a treat. We will be allowed to shoot from the little gated area directly in front.

The lights go down, and Pearl Jam strolls onstage. The stage is dark, flush with an eerie blue light. They slowly build into “Release” from their first album. The song starts slowly and crescendos into a wall of sound.

It’s a perfect opener, and they’ve used it many times. Since it is too dark for me to shoot, I relax and take it all in.

For the next two songs, the stage is awash in bright light. Fans all know that Eddie Vedder’s face turns intense when he sings. Now with his beard and road-weary eyes, he looks like a recently thawed Neanderthal. But in a good way. In a Santa Cruz kind of way.

He’s 15 feet away, and I’m watching him through a 300 mm zoom. Very intense.

Back at the office to put away our equipment, Kaari announces that she has tickets for everyone.

“Well … they’re not the best seats,” she concedes.

“Oh well, at least they’re seats,” I reply.

My seat is in section 203, about halfway between the squinting section and the nosebleed section.

The spotlights dim and the band exits the stage, leaving Eddie front and center with a guitar. He starts playing an instrumental piece reminiscent of Rush’s “Broon’s Bane” introduction to their classic song, “The Trees.” Eddie winds down the piece and blends it seamlessly into the first chords to “Betterman.”

Next Pearl Jam launches into a ripping version of “Evenflow.” The song has always had a great crunch and groove, but tonight it’s almost metal. Before we can catch our breath, the band launches into “Jeremy.” Insane is the only to describe tonight’s version.

“Arms raised in a V … the dead lay … in pools of maroon below,” sings Eddie, and the crowd responds with raised arms.

Originally starting as a spontaneous audience gesture, the raised arms in a “V” move has become a call and response moment for Eddie and the fans.

It’s one of the few organic rock ‘n’ roll happenings, and it’s still amazing to see every time.

“Black” is next. I’ve heard the song live many times, and it still makes my scalp tingle, especially when the fans’ singing begins to overwhelm Eddie’s vocals.

Just as the last chord of “Black” begins to decay, the band smacks us in the face with their nearly speed metal jam song, “Porch.”

Lead guitarist Mike McCready rips into a flurry of wah-wahed scales, and I start to listen in on the conversation next to me.

Throughout the evening, a young family had been seriously rocking out. The son, standing on the seat behind his dad, was about 10; his sister about 14.

The father explains to his kids how you can identify a Pearl Jam song by looking for their signature riffs and interplay between the two guitarists.

Between songs they huddle to speculate on what song will be next. This young family, completely immersed into one of their favorite bands, is inspiring.

I look back to the stage and Mike McCready, at this point about halfway through the jam section, is still soloing.

Before the song is over, a young, well-dressed man/woman couple works their way toward the seats next to mine.

Without a glance at what’s happening on-stage, the woman whips out a cell phone, dials, plugs her free ear with her middle finger and begins to scream into the receiver.

Apparently just as disengaged and bored as his partner, the young man sits on the armrest of his chair and stares off into space. This continues for the next three songs.

I have no idea why people like this come to a concert.

The seats are uncomfortable, the air is cold, the parking is a nightmare and they’re indifferent, if not hostile, to the band on-stage.

Short of a court-ordered condition of parole, I’m not sure why they would bother coming at all.

After a few more songs, Vedder graces the stage with ukulele in hand.

“This song is dedicated to all the dot-commers in Silicon Valley,” Eddie announces to a response of boos.

“Hey, we got them in Seattle too,” Eddie chimes back, then sings:

“Counts his money every morning/the only thing that keeps him horny/locked in a giant house, that’s alarming the townsfolk/they all laugh/sorry is the fool who trades his love for high-rise rent.”

Accompanied only by a ukulele, “Soon Forget” feels like a 1920s ragtime ditty.

A few more songs and the band jumps into the Who-inspired “Do the Evolution.” Halfway through the song, Eddie pulls up two fans in Halloween costumes: one a George Bush dressed as an executioner and another as an Al Gore with for sale signs stapled all over his business suit.

After a minute of dancing and bobbing, Eddie grabs the ax from the Bush executioner and begins a mock execution of them both, chopping at their necks and body.

Still battling a cold I had caught from my eight-hour shoot at the Bridge School Benefit three days ago, I unfortunately had to leave early.

Boy, do I regret that. From what I understand, the band came out dressed as the Village People (complete with buttocks-exposing leather chaps) for their encore.

As fans know, Pearl Jam is not prone to wearing costumes or even attempting to dress up on or off stage. Heck, they barely have a light show.

Save for the liberal use of guitar solos, they’re almost the antithesis of what a modern rock band is supposed to be.

Industry critics often chastise Pearl Jam for their poorly managed career, the missed endorsement opportunities, the lack of MTV video support, the “low” album sales and profit-hurting idealism.

But, as any fan will tell you, this integrity is part of the charm that keeps us coming back for more.