I'm still trying to wrap my mind around Chris Cornell's death. He was 52 when he decided to cash out, roughly 2 months younger than I am. Sometimes when I attempt to put myself in the mind of a person like Cornell right before he hung himself, or Kurt just before he pulled the trigger, or any one of the millions of anonymous people out there who chose to stop living rather than face that darkness any longer, I can, almost, understand what they were thinking in those last few minutes or seconds. Nearly everyone has a limit to what they can endure, a tipping point where the spirit says, "Fuck it. If this is how it is, if this is how it's going to be from now on, I'm taking my ball and going the fuck home." Every now and then I try to imagine what it must be like, how it must feel, to find yourself in a place so completely without hope and so completely by yourself, and though I don't want to die ever at all if I can help it, I think I can relate to that moment of grace when you just let go, when you detach enough that it doesn't hurt anymore.

RIP Chris Cornell.


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Comment by nanatehay on May 22, 2017 at 2:28am
Comment by nanatehay on May 22, 2017 at 2:33am
Comment by JMac1949 Today on May 22, 2017 at 6:20am

For my generation 1970-71 was the worst year. In September of 1970 we lost Jimi Hendrix, followed by Janis Joplin in October and Jim Morrison in July of 1971.  End of an era.  To add insult to injury in 1973 we lost their music out to Disco.  Such is life and the beat goes on.

Comment by alsoknownas on May 22, 2017 at 8:28am

Speculation is that Big Pharma can put another notch in their belt.

Nobody is immune.

Comment by alsoknownas on May 22, 2017 at 10:11am


I meant nobody is immune from the errors and profiteering of Big Pharma.

As for suicide... well didn't know the reasons when family and friends have chosen it.

We're left to speculate. Don't expect to ever find out.

Comment by tr ig on May 22, 2017 at 1:36pm

JMac .. WHY do you have to do that?

Our good friend Connie Mack posted this last night by Rich Larson 

It’s not what you think

Chris Cornell, 1964-2017

Chris Cornell died early Thursday morning. His band Soundgarden played a show on Wednesday night at the Fox Theater in Detroit. Two hours after the show ended, he was gone.

For two days, I’ve been working on a piece to pay tribute to him, and it’s been a struggle. Usually when I have a problem like this it’s because I’m staring at a blank screen trying to figure out what I want to say. That’s not the problem this time. The problem is I have way too much to say.

I’m not going to sit here and claim to have been a huge fan of Soundgarden. I didn’t dislike them, I just had to take them in small doses. I was a fan of Cornell. I love “Seasons,” the solo song he had on Cameron Crowe’s movie, Singles. It’s a droning acoustic song about isolation and the meaningless passing of time. Your basic nihilistic statement written at what was probably the peak of rock’s most nihilistic period.

I was a fan of Cornell as a person. Of all the great musicians that were packed into Seattle in the late 80’s and early 90’s, from Mark Arm of Mudhoney to Jeff Ament of Mother Love Bone and Pearl Jam to the Great Tortured Genius himself, Kurt Cobain, Cornell seemed like he rose a little bit above the others. He was the unofficial communicator of the Seattle scene. Like a Pacific Northwest Sinatra, he had a charisma and a calm grace about him. He was thoughtful, even charming, in interviews, unlike his compatriots who disdained fame and accolades (or at least pretended to). Cornell was the guy who seemed most like he could handle all the attention without turning it into an existential crisis.

Now he’s dead because, as it turns out, he had been dealing with an existential crisis most of his life. I was a fan, and I had a ton of respect for him. But it’s taken me a little while to understand why his death has affected me as strongly as it has.

At first I thought it might have something to do with the fact that I was mostly a bystander while the music of my generation was taking over. Just as Nirvana and Pearl Jam were making that gigantic breakthrough in 1992, my fiancé and I discovered we were pregnant. So instead of investigating mosh pits at the 7thStreet Entry, or watching Soundgarden and Pearl Jam rule the stage at Lollapalooza (it was a traveling festival in those days), I was hastily throwing together a wedding and then changing diapers. My wife and I got an early jump on things, so we’ve always told ourselves that we’d make up for lost time in our forties and fifties.

Well here we are, and something like this just makes it feel like we’ve arrived too late. But while that’s a legitimate thing, I don’t really think that’s exactly what is bothering me.

Then I thought maybe it’s a generational thing. Grunge is the gift that Generation X gave to the world of music. We took all that slacker cynicism, mixed it up with our older siblings’ sneering punk attitude, Zeppelin’s low end and, if we’re being honest, a little heroin. The result was the musical version of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. It was gorgeous art that was absolutely sure that nothing really matters, making it feel immediate and important. It was the sound of a generation telling everybody, including ourselves, to fuck off.

And while we were wallowing in our splendid alienation, our spokespeople, predictably, started dying. First it was Andrew Wood of Mother Love Bone. A lot of us didn’t know about him until Cornell, along with Wood’s erstwhile bandmates (who were about to form Pearl Jam) memorialized him with a one off tribute called Temple of the Dog. Somehow, Wood’s story made death part our music’s romantic foundation.

A couple years later, Cobain killed himself with a shotgun. He was 27. Our Bob Dylan, the voice of our generation, threw it all away because he was afraid he was becoming a cliché. At least, that’s what we told ourselves at the time.

Shortly thereafter, Kristen Pfaff of Hole overdosed and died in a bathtub. And then Shannon Hoon of Blind Melon overdosed and died on a tour bus. It felt like people like D’arcy Wretzky of Smashing Pumpkins, Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots, and, perhaps especially, Courtney Love – Pfaff’s bandmate and Cobain’s widow – were all headed in the same direction.

Alice in Chains’ Layne Staley died of a gruesome overdose. The fact that his body was not discovered for more than a week felt somehow fitting. He was a emblematic of a generation that just wanted to be left alone.

And just when it felt like our music, and maybe our entire generation, would never live to see 30, things turned around. Love and Weiland cleaned their acts up (at least for a while). Bands like Pearl Jam thrived long after the term “Heroin Chic” disappeared. Before we knew it, we were a decade into a new century and a lot of the Poets of Grunge were still standing. Some of them were even in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It felt like our heroes were out of the woods.

When Weiland died of an overdose of cocaine, alcohol and MDA at the end of 2015, it felt like an echo, and not something rooted in the present. He had become the most notorious addict of them all over the years; in and out of rehab so many times we had all lost hope for him. His death was something that had been predicted so often for so long that it might as well have happened in 1997.

But Chris Cornell died of suicide on May 17, 2017, at the age of 52. He was a dad. He was a philanthropist. He was becoming an elder statesman of rock. He was a grown up. Cornell was aging gracefully, even doing that thing where some guys get better looking as they get older. He got Soundgarden back together, and they made a great new album a couple years ago. His voice still had all the power and strength it had displayed in his youth. Much like the rest of us, the world had kicked his ass a couple times, and he survived.

But now he’s gone, and goddammit, his is the death that bothers me the most. As I’ve been thinking about this, I’m realizing that it’s both a personal and a generational thing. Cornell had a long struggle with depression. As have I. As have many of you.

It’s possible that, along with grunge, Generation X’s other great gift to society is depression. I mean, of course it was here long before the Baby Boomers started re-producing, but we talk about it more than those who came before us. We talk about it as a demon or a monster. It’s a dark shadow that shows itself at any point in time without warning. It surrounds us, isolates us, and quiets us. Depression likes to blame things. We feel like shit because of mistakes we have made in life or because of the state of the world or because we aren’t perfect. Without a lot of help and a lot of work, it’s impossible to know that it really is a chemical imbalance in our brains. After twenty-plus years of trying to de-stigmatize depression, some of us still have a hard time recognizing it for what it is. And even then, it doesn’t always matter.

You might think grunge is about anger, but that’s not completely true. Yes, it can sound that way, but it’s really about depression and cynicism. Those two go hand-in-hand, along with their nasty little sister, anxiety. When the three of them get going, they just eat hope as quickly as it can be summoned. That leaves despair and despair is exhausting, not just for those who experience it, but for the people around it as well. So we keep it to ourselves because we don’t want to be a burden. And then it gets to be too much. Doesn’t matter if you’re a student, a mom, an accountant or a rock star. It doesn’t matter if you’ve written about it your entire life as a means of keeping it at bay. It doesn’t matter if the music you made about it brought in fame, respect and millions of dollars. It doesn’t matter if your entire generation has suffered from it. Depression makes you feel totally alone. You hit the breaking point, and then, like Chris Cornell, you die alone in the bathroom.

This was a well-respected member of his community; a beloved musical hero who seemed to have it all together. This could have been any of us. And brothers and sisters, if it’s you, don’t mess around with it. Please find some help.

Cornell is speaking to us all one last time. This isn’t something we left behind with our twenties. This isn’t something cured by age or financial security. This isn’t something you “outgrow.” If it’s allowed to fester, depression is stronger than wisdom. Depression is insidious and tenacious. Depression can get to anybody. It can make you feel like an old man at 27. It can make you feel lost as a child at 52.

Call it a senseless tragedy. Call it a second-act cautionary tale. Call it whatever you want. Just don’t blow it off as meaningless.

Rest in peace, Chris.

Guess you know we saw the concert Sunday ... 3 days and a few hours before big pharma killed him (huh?)

Comment by alsoknownas on May 22, 2017 at 2:25pm
Comment by Jonathan Wolfman on May 22, 2017 at 3:23pm

had Grace S not been at the prom w me in '69, i fear for what nay have happened to her   as it was, thanks to me, she played at Bethel, NY

(all-best to fans of Mr Cornell)

Comment by nanatehay on May 22, 2017 at 3:41pm

Most of my text here^^ came from a comment I made  yesterday on the article tr ig referenced. I hadn't heard about the possible link to big pharma, but I'll be reading up on it before I say any more here. 

Comment by tr ig on May 22, 2017 at 3:58pm

I think it's a huge leap from Chris Cornell took ativan, slurred his speech, hung himself ... to a big notch in the belt of big pharma. And I do loathe big pharma in all they represent, and do, as much as the next person.

I once dated a girl called Loraza Pam on the streets. She talked funny but not haha funny; wasn't much fun, but at that time I was desperate. Her little sister Wam Bam Pam though, life of the party, those few parties we managed to muster. Depressing times, late eighties.

Doesn't seem to you an overly simplistic explanation aka? Cornell was well experienced with everything drug and drug culture going into last Wednesday evening, coming from the drug coast and all, plying his trade in the suicide capital most of his life. I do agree benzodiazepines are terrible drugs and would never advise anyone to take them, because of my own experience. Had to be told how much fun I had because I couldn't recall. Talked like an idiot and drooled (thank god this was before everyone had cameraphones), lost my money, et cetera. Only true solace I found was in the fruit of the poppy which worked until it didn't. But, I ramble---in short, Chris was grown and no doubt knew his drugs. As much as I'd like to, I don't think we can give big pharm credit this time.


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