Crowded

(This is a piece of fiction, based on pieces of reality.)

They were playing to maybe 250 people in a small venue somewhere in a rural town whose name Kean couldn't remember, and he couldn't read the handwriting on top of the set list. It was early in the morning and they were at the halfway point of a club tour with almost the original band line up. The crowd spent its last bit of energy twisting and jerking their bodies through the encore of their heavy set of down-tuned distortion. For once, things had been going their way. He finally allowed his thoughts to stray from unpaid bills, and things like how to keep the band going while everyone had to get back to their day jobs in a few weeks. Tonight they were just playing the music—it was the only thing that mattered.

They were burning through a medley of what could be called their 'classics' when the news hit. Kean found himself side stage during an instrumental the band played without him—in search of a towel after he'd sent his flying into the crowd. It was a good night when he felt self-confident enough to think someone might still care for his bathroom textiles.

One of the roadies pushed another towel at him, but also grabbed his arm abruptly to pull him closer. He screamed something in Kean's ear.

“Cross corner instead!”

Kean looked at him with a frown. Was it a reference he wasn't getting, a song he didn't recall?

“Cross corner what?”

The noise ebbed away slightly during a slower part. Kean ran the towel over his face and heard words that slowly formed the sentences, 'Chris Cornell is dead! They're talking about… well, possibly suicide.' muffled through the fabric.

He peeked out at the roadie's ashen face.

“What?”

The roadie just nodded. Then shook his head and shrugged with a desolate look. All of it.

Kean didn't move.

The instrumental was almost over, and he heard the cue that meant he had to be back at the microphone, ideally ready to sing and play the right notes too. He wasn't anywhere near it, nowhere near ready. He'd miss the first bit of his guitar line, but he could still make it for the singing. He dropped the towel, stumbled across the stage. He could feel his mind fogging over, like his head was slowly being stuffed full of cotton. Kean almost slipped on his guitar cable, but found himself in front of the microphone stand. He obediently opened his mouth for the chorus, but nothing came out.

He stared at the crowd. Most were singing already, moshing, dancing, but a few of them caught his eye and stared back. He didn't remember the words. He didn't remember the song, even though the band was still playing it. His head was emptied of everything, and filled with cotton, so much it spilled out his ears and dulled the sound of the band thundering on without him—although Ray gave him a weird look when he missed his cue. Kean didn't remember the words to this song he'd been playing since the early 00s. If he didn't close his mouth soon, he'd hack up a cotton ball.

He closed his mouth.

You have to sing something. Say something.

The first words that made it through weren't his. Swallowing rivers belongs to the sea.

The band circled around to another repetition of the chorus, collectively giving him a chance to come back into the song with them. When they revolved to the cue, he didn't even move, although he really wanted to. He knew those weren't the right words, so he just stared, transfixed, at nobody.

He could hear the fabric of the music tearing around him, every second he gagged on cotton. Single strings of musical thread were slipping away from the harmony. It was coming apart, his bandmates' confusion apparent by their playing.

Why isn't he singing? What's going on?

Ray tore his guitar away first, ripping out a good chunk of fabric. Kean knew he was about to step close to him before he did, but he didn't know what to do. The rest of the rupturing song was still too loud to hear Ray's voice, but Kean knew he was asking what was going on. He didn't want to answer.

“What,” Kean finally said, close enough to the microphone for it to be audible on the club's PA, then looked towards the side of the stage again, while the rest of the music died down.

“WHAT?” he repeated louder, but with his head turned, so the mic didn't catch most of it.

Kean couldn't see into the dark with the glare of the stage lights, so he couldn't see several people there shaking their heads sadly. He wasn't really looking at them. Not for an answer anyway.

He turned his head back to the crowd. The room had gone quiet, a few people whispering. They were inching towards flying beer bottles.

“Chris Cornell is dead?” he said into the microphone, more a question really.

“What?” Ray gasped.

The crowd started rumbling. He could see the shock ripple through them, people turning to look at each other, reaching for one another, checking their phones—dozens of pale faces suddenly illuminated in a blueish hue.

Kean looked at Ray, towards the drummer, then back into the audience.

He exhaled, half way into the microphone again—not really an emotion, just air leaving his body—and collapsed as if someone had cut his strings, slumping under his clothes, a sack on the floor. His guitar clanked against the linoleum and feedbacked painfully until they killed the sound. Kean rested his elbows on the guitar and covered his face with his hands. He was afraid he'd cry but cotton had soaked up all the liquid in his head. He just couldn't face the world. The rest of the band stood in stunned silence with the crowd.

Ray crouched and reached for him, but Kean held up a hand to stop him. Too much. Not yet.

After another minute, Ray simply sat down beside him, cradling his own guitar. The bassist followed, sitting on Kean's other side, and then the drummer sat down, putting an arm around the bassist. They remained there for a bit, until Ray waved for their road crew to come on stage, and when he did, Kean looked up and motioned to a few fans—climb the small stage and join us.

A bunch of black clad, tattooed, sombre figures climbed, and sat beside them—passing tissues and hugs, filled the stage while they tried to make room for everyone, get everyone close at least. Kean held out his hand to all of them. The merch guy joined, the tour manager, the venue's sound and light people. They all crowded together around Kean, some holding on to each another, while others just sat down quietly. They remained there in silence for maybe ten more stunned minutes.

Then Kean cleared his throat.

“Well… I guess we'll have to play some Soundgarden then,” he said to the room.

“You can hear me fine without the microphone? Come closer everyone.”

They nodded and huddled together even more.

“This is just horrible. Look… I don't even know why… . I didn't know him personally, but it's like a friend just… . This is so gutting… . We played the same festival once, years ago… . I was way too star-struck to talk to him… . There are a few things about him and his music that made him very special to me… . I'm sure some of you can relate.”

Many of them nodded.

“When I was in my first band, we started out covering songs, as you do. One of the first songs we tried was 'Hands All Over' by Soundgarden. I really struggled with the singing, because I was young and inexperienced and damn! It was Chris. But I aspired to master the song. I learned… so much. A few years later, probably the hardest song we ever played with that band was 'Burden in my Hand'. Around that time, I lost someone very important to me, and only after that I kind of understood… where he was singing from. It was like a switch flipped and I felt like we connected… . I felt like I got it, he got it, like I got him.”

He swallowed hard.

“You'll have to let me play a song for you. Please, could I get an acoustic guitar?”

One of the roadies jumped up and ran backstage.

“The last time I played this song, I had just lost my best friend… someone who quite possibly was the love of my life… .”

It still felt weird to talk about it, but he couldn't stop himself anymore. If any time, tonight.

“I don't know if many of you know these days, it was such a long time ago. The band leader of my first band died by suicide back then. We were living together. I was there with him, I should have known something was up but… I didn't realise. We were addicts, too, wasting too much time on drugs. Now I don't want to trigger anybody, so… if I upset you, please, reach out to me, to stop, give you a hug, whatever works. I just… really want to tell you guys why this is messing me up so much right now.”

He looked into the crowd, and it seemed to him like they were all nodding, telling him it was okay to go on. Maybe he was imagining it. He was afraid to make everything worse, but the words just kept coming.

“We were listening to music that night—every night—and the song that was playing… I've never told this story to the public, not that many would have cared, but… only a few of my closest friends know. When I realised that he was dying and that I couldn't stop it, the song that was playing was 'Limo Wreck' from Soundgarden's 'Superunknown' album. And I remember thinking, while I was in tears and frantically trying to contain the blood—how can you not wait for the end of this magnificent song at least? I wasn't angry, I was just so sad for him… and me.”

He chuckled, and felt wetness seeping through the cotton in his head. Not out through the eyes yet. The roadie brought out an acoustic guitar and Kean held on to his hand for too long.

“For roundabout twenty years, that was the last music I shared with this guy that meant the world to me, who was the music world to me. I thought I'd never play music again without him. It was where he left me, with all the questions. No note. Why didn't he talk to me? Why didn't I see? Why didn't he give me a chance to do something? Did he think I would be angry, or blame him? I wouldn't have. I was asking myself all those questions while knowing mental illness, addiction, it just doesn't work like that. I still wished, having been suicidal myself before, that I'd seen through him. That he'd talked to me. To anyone. If any of you ever feel like this, if you know someone who feels like this… please, talk. Talk to me if you can get a hold of me, I'll try my best to be there for anyone who's with us on the dark side. If you talk to someone who doesn't seem like they get it, keep talking. Talk to a therapist, your parents, someone online, a person on a hotline. There's no shame, no weakness in admitting this. Reaching out, saying something so significant takes guts, takes serious strength. Please, know you're not alone, although, damn, I know sometimes it feels like that. I'm right there with you. We're here together.”

He swallowed again.

“I'm still not finished with my story. I'm not sure I even know what I'm talking about. Am I boring you folks already? No? Good. Well… being a musically minded person, I soon realised something else. That every time I'd hear Chris Cornell's voice, I'd be connected to that moment. When my friend died. But knowing that Chris was… as ridiculous as it sounds… 'there with me', that I shared this emptiness with someone who seemed like he'd get it… helped me carry it. I wish I'd had the guts to tell him. I always thought one day I would.”

Kean blinked. His eyes were burning.

“Chris Cornell's music remained with me through light and dark times, but you bet that I turned him up in the darkness. I suppose many of us did. He spoke to me, and for me. I trusted him. I guess I needed him. Well… shit. I never thought I'd be hearing those words. In all those years while I was going through my own shit, substance abuse, rehab, poverty, failed albums, meds, therapy, my own attempt at suicide, more substance abuse, more rehab, more musical and personal failure… through all of that there was no question in my mind that he'd be there. For me, for us. I always expected to hear more music from him. To hear what he would say about dark feelings, and hope, love, life. I expected to hear many things tonight, but not this. How? Why? How did we get here? What are we supposed to do now without Chris Cornell? … don't worry, I'm not really asking you. I'm just… lost right now.”

He pulled the guitar close for a moment.

“Well, I said I'd play you a song. I played it at my band mate's tribute show a few weeks after his death. Not a lot of people were there, and this was before everybody recorded everything to put it online. I don't think video exists of this show… but prove me an old man and find it on YouTube, kids, will you? I'm going to play 'Limo Wreck' for you guys. I haven't played this in years, and it's hard. Also, I'm no Chris Cornell because the man's a legend.”

People shouted in approval.

“So... bear with me, guys, okay? And if you know the words, help me out. Because I think I'm going to bawl.”

Kean was trying to remember when he had actually performed the song last, but couldn't. He'd played it so many times to nail it for the tribute show, and then every time he had felt sad after the funeral. He had been sad a lot, so he had gotten lots of practice. Fom somewhere deep inside his head, he could draw it all back out. He knew it was right there before he even opened his mouth. It would be a simplified version anyway. He took a deep breath…

… and played the best version of the song he could, while his fingers were shaking on the frets. A vice was closing in on his chest, tighter and tighter. He was singing from the same place he had at that tribute show, the same lonely bleeding heart. He screamed as hard as he could—that made it a little better. His voice still broke at the last 'break and the fall', but the crowd sang it for him.

Kean quickly passed the guitar to Ray and buried his face in his arms again. People put their hands on his shoulders, someone reached for his hand. He let them take it and didn't let go.

Ray played a rendition of 'Outshined', the bassist gave them her acoustic version of 'Burden in my Hand' because she had been playing with Kean since that cover band. Then they passed the guitar to the crowd and everyone who wanted to gave it a go. People sang, and cried, and anybody who wanted got hugs.

Kean didn't get up until everybody had left. Ray remained with him, held a hand out for him and pulled him up. Together, they walked off the stage.

“Are you going to be ok?” Ray asked.

“No,” Kean said. “Not for a while.”