Pitchfork

No, really-- this album is the return to form that Pearl Jam fans have been waiting for since Ten. Or Vs.. Or Vitalogy. Or whichever album was the last on which Pearl Jam were a fully accredited rock band. This eponymous effort-- the group's eighth studio full-length, and first for J Records-- is the most consistent effort the group's released since its second album. No pump organ-flecked spoken-word jags about insects, no meandering Eastern-tinged meditations on life, no songs about Jeff Ament's dog. Just 13 tracks of thoughtful, middle-aged, post-grunge rock'n'roll for the thoughtful, middle-aged, post-grunge fellow in all of us. But it gets pretty boring pretty damn quick.

Think what you will of the group, but there's no denying their growth. Despite having the wide eyes of Alternative Nation turned toward them-- selling 17 million copies of their first two records-- Pearl Jam decided to take the road less traveled, and that seemed to make all the difference in maintaining the band's creative viability. Of course, this choice is where they broke with the lion's share of their fan base-- millions who bought into Pearl Jam's original MO weren't willing to put up with creative wanderlust. On Pearl Jam, that's what you get from start to finish (barring one accordion cameo in the minute long reprise of "Life Wasted"). While there's no shirt-rending Jesus Christ poses to be had here, this is as close to the righteous bombast of their heyday as they're likely to ever get again, for better or worse.

One thing that has returned, unfortunately: An emphasis on Eddie Vedder's voice, an acquired taste's acquired taste. That his mushmouthed mewling and moaning became the template for a slew of copycat chest-thumpers is the stuff that keeps vocal coaches up at night. The "weird" Pearl Jam albums found Vedder's singing improving ever so slightly, to the point that he was actually singing without any odd affectations-- the uh-huhs, the oooh-yeahs, the arghs. On this album, though, he's back to the multi-line mulching, growling for all he's worth through its more aggressive tracks. He often sounds best on the low-tempo songs, where the mood better complements his voice's strength-- Eddie's a crooner, not a wailer. But here, he even wails through the slower songs, killing "Parachutes" with his over-emoting and vamping unsuccessfully over the bluesy saunter of "Come Back".

Granted, Pearl Jam haven't lost the perspective they've gained through age-- good luck trying to get their young selves to pen a Springsteenian working-class portrait like "Unemployable". Instead of trying to rage against the machine, they're appealing to its intellectual nature. Unfortunately, this nuance is steamrolled by the group's need for fan-friendly riffage. After years of trying to live up to one of their early statements-- "there ain't gonna be any middle anymore"-- it's disappointing to find them steering the ship back toward the center.