Tucked elbow-to-elbow into our spots, we waited for Pearl Jam to hit the stage when we noticed that three or four young women – the band’s girlfriends, as it turned out, in their standard issue thrift store dresses, torn jeans and combat boots – had walked into the pit area directly in front of the band carrying an SLR or two and at least one old super 8 camera. We had been cleared from the spot where we’d best be able to do our jobs to make space for some proto-hipster tour document where the band would probably just get mocked. (…)
It felt like a final humiliation, and obviously I’m still smarting from it today. I didn’t much like the band, and now I knew why; not merely spoiled rock stars, they were shameless beta male rock stars, happy to make some camera stiff’s job harder to keep peace in the ad hoc domestic space of the tour bus. Shooting arena shows was bad enough, but being collateral damage in some assless wonder’s attempt at making his girlfriend feel “included” on his “big rock star tour ego trip” made it feel worse.
