Eddie Vedder has the antidote.

An emotional Pearl Jam front man offered a comfy blanket of nostalgia and empathy for tough times.

Women were picked up and hoisted onto shoulders. Men draped their arms around each other and sang in unison. One fan shut his eyes so tight it appeared he thought his eyeballs might pop out. Another leaned back and played air guitar so ferociously he clearly felt it was him, not Mike McCready, playing the song’s two-minute guitar solo. A stranger to my left needed someone to share all this with, so he quietly lay his arm around me. I reciprocated. If you were looking for the moment, this was it.

‘Alive’, a 33-year-old song, is Pearl Jam’s very first single. It addresses a very specific kind of family trauma and finds a way to howl through the pain. When they perform that song at their live shows, it’s always a moment. Last night, though, it meant so much more. The crowd, a near sell out, rose to their feet. They sang louder. They celebrated harder. Eight men wearing craft beer shirts wrapped their arms around each other and formed a circle, screaming the chorus and dancing until they were dizzy.

It felt like Eddie Vedder, Pearl Jam’s front man, was stretching out his arm, offering us a helping hand. Then the house lights came on and we got to see all of this – all of us – under the glare of the spotlight. We were messy. We were jubilant. We were crying. We were laughing. We were processing. Vedder was right there with us. He stood on drummer Matt Cameron’s riser with his arms aloft. He glanced back at his band mates then indicated to the crowd as if to say, “Are you seeing this? Is this for real?”

Eddie Vedder with Pearl Jam in Auckland on Friday night. Photo: Chris Schulz

It takes a special kind of band to meet a moment. It requires a particular kind of front man to be able to sum up a situation, to channel it into a performance that rises above everything else going on around it. Vedder, a generous and genial front man, knew Pearl Jam’s Go Media Stadium show was unlike any other the band had played. He kept mentioning it. “It wasn’t feeling that great not that long ago. Right now it’s feeling alright,” he said at one point. “These are times you don’t take anything for granted,” he said at another.

After the week we’ve just had, when the thing that absolutely could not happen definitely happened, we needed this. Since Wednesday, I’d been drifting, feeling lost, unmoored, helpless. I’d listened exclusively to Slipknot. On Friday afternoon, when a Ticketmaster alert pinged my phone, I’d completely forgotten about the looming Pearl Jam shows. It seemed I wasn’t the only one: not a single news story was written about them. Journalists, I guess, have had more pressing things to write about lately.

And so, weary, I trudged out to South Auckland. I parked my car. I walked to the stadium. I grabbed a beer. I sat through the sourest set I have ever seen The Pixies play. I wondered why I’d bothered coming all this way when I really didn’t feel like being at a stadium show. I thought about how, 30 years ago, I’d seen Pearl Jam perform in a circus tent in the car park next door. It was my very first concert. I imagined there was no way they could top that incredible night.

Then Vedder began singing ‘Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town’. I, along with the rest of the stadium, joined in to help. It felt warm, inviting, sincere. Then he sang ‘Daughter’. That helped too. Then he sang ‘Jeremy’, a song I have always despised, but tonight felt huge and euphoric, as Vedder’s soaring vocals stretched and echoed around the stadium. I felt better. I felt connected. I felt cared for. I felt alive.

Slowly, song by song, singalong by singalong, something in the air shifted. Things started feeling OK. Lyrics we know like the backs of our hands took on much deeper meaning. ‘Not For You’ hit like a punk-rock protest anthem. ‘Given to Fly’ achieved lift off. Specific lines popped out that seemed purpose-built for times like these. “All is different now,” sang Vedder on ‘Hard to Imagine’, an unplanned inclusion after a fan request. It became one of the night’s best and most poignant moments.

It was the way his voice wrapped around us, a comfy blanket of nostalgia and empathy. It was the way it broke when he whispered the chorus of ‘Just Breathe’. It was the way Pearl Jam filtered fan favourites ‘Lukin’, ‘Habit’ and ‘State of Love and Trust’ into the set to keep their trainspotters happy. It was the way they came together during a triumphant ‘Porch’, gathered in a circle just like the cover of Ten. It was the way the waves crashed across the screens behind them, washing everything away.

Last night, Pearl Jam were cathartic. They met the moment, and then some. It was the best I’ve seen them play, and that includes their 1995 Supertop set, their 2009 performance and the 2014 Big Day Out. This show meant something. It was special. “That was so fucking good,” said my new friend at the end. He stood there. He didn’t want to go. Neither did Vedder. “We needed that,” he said, finally, as his band mates departed, leaving him waving and smiling and wiping tears off his cheeks.

We so did. I needed it so much I’m going to do it all again tomorrow.

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