I’m listening to “Better Man” by Pearl Jam.

There’s maybe no better example of how a guitar riff can make a tune. Take away that intro figure, and it’s two chords, D to E, with zero suggestion a compelling melody take shape or really anything happen other than defeatedly signaling the bartender for another Labatt Blue. Thankfully, the subtle guitar motifs act like cracks in a garden wall, around which a vine grows beautifully misshaped and distinct.

Pearl Jam, at the height of their powers, suffered the same fate that befalls every successful rock band - they were commandeered by bro culture, and whenever your music’s played in gyms or inspires singalongs involving several thousand shirtless dudes, you become a punching bag. Which is a shame, because despite boasting a three night MSG residency’s worth of hits, they’re rarely name checked in the pantheon of great songwriters.

That they’ve evolved into this generation’s Grateful Dead is a testament to channeling your inner Fugazi and, middle fingers proffered, marching to the beat of your own drum.