When first introduced to Soundgarden in 1996, at age sixteen, namely&nbsp;<em>Down on the Upside</em>, I loved Chris Cornell for what else?&nbsp; His sex appeal and high vocals.

Now, in a day and age when tattoos are so ubiquitous, and being the (proudly) conservative prude I am, I can tell you that at age 19, I got my one and only tattoo of a sun--inspired by my dream to meet my summer love in New York, then take a hippie van for a road trip-turned-marriage to Arizona (where I bought <em>Superunknown </em>on cassette).&nbsp; Soundgarden was the soundtrack of that time in my life and those dreams.

Chris Cornell was part of my coming of age, his voice part of my identity:&nbsp; what I believed was good music, cool personal expression, attractive masculinity, a viable emotional approach to my world at that time.&nbsp; Chris's voice rode me into school my senior year, when I got my first car:&nbsp; a '74 Dodge Dart, with record-player speakers sliding around the backseat.&nbsp; He made me feel cool riding into that parking lot, my sound, my way.&nbsp;

A lot of people I love have died recently.&nbsp; I'm only 37, so I guessed I'd have more time with these people.&nbsp; My mom died last year, and my favorite grandpa died three years before her.&nbsp; My grandmas died in 2007 and 1993.&nbsp;

I've had four uncles commit suicide, two of them within the past five years.

And now, after having given me--us all--so much music, so many emotional outlets, so much enjoyment and catharsis, even reincarnated (Audioslave) and reunion (Soundgarden) work, Chris Cornell is gone from this life too.

I won't pretend to know all the ins and outs of all these deaths, but from loving and losing these people and going to grief workshops, I know a little bit about what happens after someone dies.

I know that the living have to make peace with what's left.&nbsp; There's not really any making <em>sense </em>of it.&nbsp; I know that, to me, Chris Cornell was a rock star, a celebrity, and that his family and close friends are the ones who are dealing with this tragedy most directly, and for these people my heart goes out.

But yes, Chris's death <em>does </em>affect us, those who loved what he did for us and gave us, musically and artistically, publicly.&nbsp; He didn't <em>have </em>to share any of his talent with the world, but I'm so glad and grateful that he did.&nbsp; He made history.

What we are left with is excellent music--and we all know that in times of depression, fear, and anxiety, in our seeking for meaning and expression, or even just in boredom, we have Chris's music.&nbsp; And that means a lot.

So many people don't do anything with their potential, but Chris did.

Nobody's perfect, and we're not naïve to think that Chris didn't have problems; from what I've read, Chris himself admitted faults.

But for his fans, what Chris did was write those songs, record those albums, perform those shows, collaborate with those musicians, give us tangible and intangible gifts of his expression.&nbsp; He used the set of pipes God gave him and gave us some beauty in an overwhelming world.

May he rest in peace and his closest loved ones be comforted.

     As a boy, my big brother and I seldom found ourselves on the same side of anything really. We fought over video games, the front seat, and who sat where at dinner. He tortured me for having a night light and sucking my thumb. I told on him for just about everything in return. 

     Back and forth we fought, as brothers do, until one fateful day I heard a subtle, wasteland-heart, crooning notes over a rock guitar. The voice sounded both lost and fearsome at the same time, and the melody droned on, melancholic and penetrating. I crept down the hall to hear more and found myself in my brother’s room while my big brother V and his best friend Mike nodded in unison to Sound Garden’s “The Day I Tried to Live.”

     I knew I’d catch a beating for even thinking about being in V’s room without a good reason, but the voice called me from the hallway and pulled me in. I was powerless. The voice soared over the dissonant guitar riffs, wrenching away from the melody with crystal clear rebellion. I was changed. I closed my eyes and imagined what the singer looked like. He must be tall. Defiant. A hero, fighting against something bigger than himself, but fighting bravely anyway. Saturday cartoons had taken hold and I was very into super heroes back then and imagined him like that. “V, what the hell?” I opened my eyes to see my brother and his six-foot behemoth friend gawking at my bravado.

     V sat up and stood but instead of throwing me out, he said one of the first non- threatening things to me in our short history at the time. “Hey, come over here. What do you think of this, huh? You don’t like it do you?” Mike laughed his dopey laugh and shook his head.

     I piped up, “It’s...amazing.” I’ll never forget how my brother grinned. Like I’d passed some test. Mike laughed and said, “Start it over bro! See what his favorite is!” We spent the next hour listening to Superunkown, ironically enough, it's how my brother and I got to know each other.

     To this day the album takes me back to a place of discovery and understanding like nothing else, and though I’ve grown up some, now I don't think, but know, the singer who cranked out those noble notes was a hero. He was fighting against something larger than himself, and he held fast decades passed when a kid heard those cries in the hall and heard sounds of a battle. 

     Not all wars can be won and, "The lives we make never seem to ever get us anywhere but dead," but Chris gave us the soundtrack to the fight and showed us the meaning of perseverance. For that and so much more, we will miss you Mr. Cornell. Your voice will never die.

Rest in Power,

Hanif

A playful fiend he is, mortality 

twirling at his fingertips the souls,

As fragile as the strands of harps,

at a snap comes gurgling symphony

Yet again, the playful fiend took its toll,

A man of artistry and of legacies,

heavy is his arm with lyrical musings

heavy is his heart with rhythms of feelings

Countless lyrics can never amount,

to those he crafted to live a countless lives,

In forms never forgotten, his music

is a vessel of immortality,

The world shall never forget his name,

fraught with a million of emotions,

a million of memories,

a million of lives,

Even in the hands of death,

through his craft he shall be remembered.

Even in the hands of death,

through his craft he shall live.

It was about 1990,  and I was listening to a nationally syndicated radio show on a daily basis. The "metal"they were playing was getting pretty weak. It really went from Priest, Maiden, Slayer, etc, to Danger Danger, Poison, and Winger. Every hour at the bottom of the hour, they would kick it to the local affiliate for whatever they wanted to play. THAT was when I heard Loud Love for the first time. Honestly, it took awhile to figure out who it even was, and when I did, I HAD TO HAVE IT! I went immediately to Easy Street Records and bought Louder Than Love, and it was ON! Shortly thereafter, a good friend of mine gave me for my birthday in 1991, the Temple of the Dog disc, and at that point I knew it was REALLY ON! Over the next few years, Badmotorfinger, Superunknown, the solos, and Audioslave came out, and I LOVED them all! During these times, I had to endure some of life's hardships. Chris' voice and words got me through them, with a smile on my face. I could always count on him for that.

I have seen Chris perform in all these forms, almost 20 times in my life now. Every time was an exceptional show. Even the 2 times I saw him doing Scream (I love that record... IT'S CHRIS!). In his later years, he would interject his personality into his shows. Those of us from Seattle already knew what a treasure he was, but it was nice to see the rest of the world get to enjoy what our little secret was. He was Seattle's Sunshower!

In the end, it was a devastating blow to lose him. The grief we feel with someone we never even met is incredibly surreal. My wife and I still will shed the random tears while listening to his awesome library of beautiful music. We even got our first tattoos in honor of Chris!

We will ever get him back, but at least we have our memories and the GREAT recordings he left us with. I truly believe our generation will never see (or hear) anyone like Chris.

Rest in peace, Chris Cornell! NO ONE SINGS LIKE YOU ANYMORE!!!

Erick & Kerri Jones

It’s been a month since that morning. A month since I was stirred awake by her kiss on my cheek, her hand braced on the round of my shoulder, voice wet with sorrow saying, I have sad news. This meant only one thing and at 53 years old, one expects mornings like this to come. The room was full of early morning light silhouetting her frame. I closed my eyes without reply and waited under the whir of the stirring fan. A list of names raced across my mind. Where will we need to travel and who will take care of things here for us? Do I have a suit to wear?

Chris Cornell died, she said.

The name derailed me, my train of thought. The words she spoke couldn’t be right—it wasn’t possible. This must be a bad dream; if I keep my eyes closed, I’ll tell her how real it all felt when I shuffle in later for some coffee. I listed away from the terrible force of those words: Chris Cornell died. I pulled the covers over my head to shield myself from it. My mind reeled. I felt as though I was falling down a deep, dark hole, the words like tumbling stones echoed from its walls.

When I came to: Chris Cornell died. The sun had drifted. My gut wrenching anguish told me I had not been dreaming. We held one another in silence and I moved through the house for hours unable to speak. No coffee, no food, nothing to fuel it. I digested reports a little at a time trying to find a grip in this strange terrain I’d awakened in. Somewhere in that fitful hole of sleep I’d imagined he had succumbed to the road, the torrential performing having taken its toll. It was an odd comfort. Reality quietly set in mid-sentence—mid-word—someplace I was reading, its weight pulling down my resistance. I surrendered weeping what felt like a thousand sorrows.

It’s been a month and I’ve only now been able to listen to more than a song without falling again into that darkness; a month seeking solace, stopping songs midstream, collapsing to tears and over again those tumbling stones, Chris Cornell died.

In 1989 I’d read a Robert Plant interview in which he noted he was currently listening to a band called Soundgarden. The endorsement held sway with me because Black Dog had permanently altered my young brain chemistry when it first hit the airwaves, changing the way I would engage rock ’n’ roll and the world at large thereafter. So, I purchased Louder Than Love as soon as I could find a copy in a northern Virginia supply chain.

Headphones donned, I slipped the disc into the tray, tapped it closed and pressed Random Play. It landed on number 8 and I Awake trudged onto my eardrums.

I was a 25 year old recently discharged Marine, a drunk grappling with sobriety, substance abuse and depression, slogging out of bed each day to a series of jobs leading nowhere, obliged by a failing marriage and a mortgage complete with its picket fence facade. It left me feeling more fraudulent than was sustainable. And this band Soundgarden somehow wrote a song about it. It exposed me and my feelings of disenfranchisement, self-loathing and self-destruction.

When the song faded away like a storm moving off into the distance, I pushed Pause on the player, staggered; my mouth agape, tears welled at the edges, fell away. I’d never been so profoundly affected by a song. I must have listened to it a dozen more times before taking in another track.

I Awake became my anthem.

I called my stepbrother, Gary, because I knew this record would resonate with him as well. This is what we’d done throughout our lives, propping one another up while negotiating life’s difficulties and bonding through music. We eagerly devoured Soundgarden’s short catalog.

1992 Lollapalooza presented our first chance to see them live. As we hiked the pavement of Lake Fairfax Park, Virginia, we had to make way for two vehicles approaching from the rear. When they came abreast, we saw that they were ferrying Chris, Ben, Matt & Kim toward the gates. We relished the fleeting encounter and delighted further in our chance to shout out our gratitude to the band, as they now stood aside the limos in a cordoned area at the gates, about thirty-feet opposite where we were all awaiting entry.

It was the same distance we had on the stage when they played. The sheer volume of their raucous set liquefied the audience, a sea of bodies surging and ebbing as a single moshing organism. The Christ-like Cornell hovering above, hair flowing, arms outstretched, his voice loud and clear as thunder with the sun bearing down and the sound of rapture in the air…It was an indelible performance.

Pearl Jam was on the bill that day which featured an unforgettable Temple of the Dog set. We grasped the rarity and wonder of what we had observed. It was a landmark event for us all: Gary, our high school best friend, Jimmy, my future wife and her young cousin, caught in the inescapable forces of Chris Cornell & Soundgarden.

There was the Superunkown show in 1994. We were married on the fourth of July, 1996 in honor of the Soundgarden song, Gary was best man. We celebrated by attending a Soundgarden show in the ’96 Lollapalooza tour.

In October that year Gary shot himself to death while I watched television in the adjacent living room. A month later a close friend died in a drunk-driving accident. A few months later, Soundgarden disbanded. My heartbreak seemed complete.

We followed Cornell’s solo career and bought Audioslave records. In 2012, Jimmy died in the throes of his addiction, possibly by suicide. An inordinate number of people I’ve cared for have tragically perished due to suicide, overdose, murder, accident or causes unclear.

The Higher Truth tour came through Richmond on June 22, 2016. He performed what felt like a thousand songs, songs I never thought I'd hear live again and songs unexpected. The stripped down acoustic arrangements underscored his gifts, the complexities of power and range in the man’s voice, his intellect and his heart.

It’s been just over a month since that morning. I received a print of a mixed medium portrait of Cornell that I’d ordered from the artist mourning his death in the Soundgarden Fans group. It’s a haunting, captivating depiction. The strokes of pencil and paint somehow reveal a pain now all too apparent. It reminds me of my own struggle and of all the struggles lost. It reminds me that depression, that incessant grief simmering beneath the image we present is an inescapable gravity always pulling on the mind, the bones.

The print reminds me of that last show and the lingering sense it left me about my great fortune to have been witness once again with my wife by my side; my fortune to be present, to be alive and able to celebrate in his presence one last time.

I never knew him personally but I knew him as most do through the certain kinship of his songs, through that ethereal expression of art entangling observer and artist in an uncanny sort of spooky action all its own—Alive in the superunknown?

At times, I find it irrational feeling such sadness for a perfect stranger. But my grief is not illusory, it’s very real. Perhaps I’m grieving for the Soundgarden songs that will never be or for the finality of a cherished long term relationship encapsulated now only in terms of its past; perhaps it’s grief for my uncertain journey with no spiritual signal on which to home. Alas, those beautiful songs of joy and hope wrapped in gloom and grit, songs turning sunlight on my darkness, forcing me to confront, to cope, and to fight, those songs remain difficult to hear, like suicide notes scoring the harsh realities of our loss.

I awaken each morning since May 18th with those same words reverberating in my head: Chris Cornell died. Each word striking deep wells of sorrow, drawing on reserves I didn’t know resided there. I wake up brokenhearted but I awake, I row and I try to live the day. Thank you, Chris.

Your voice has left an imprint on my soul

Hearing it for the first time as a wide-eyed teen

That imprint survived the distance and darkness of adulthood

And remains deep and profound almost 30 years later

A voice that could glide from pure testosterone to angelic in the same breath

The artistry and dynamism leaving goosebumps. And tears. And smiles.

Words masterfully joined and divinely shared

I crave them. They fill a voracious void. And though I share them with millions

I treasure them as my own

The first time I saw you live was with Soundgarden in a smoky Portland dive bar

I was far outside the expected demographic, but I’d never seen anything like it  

And wanted more

I was lucky to see many shows in between that and the last one

Each one unique and satisfying

The last one, an all-acoustic show at the Walt Disney Concert Hall where the LA Philharmonic performs

Was everything

Inspiring and heart-stirring, real and playful, you filled the room.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around your passing

The world seemed overcast and silent. Still does

The day you were laid to rest

An unebbing desire nagged me all day

So late in the day I headed to Hollywood Forever to take a moment

As the sun started its descent and warmed my anxious back

I slowly walked to where fans were paying their respects

Young and old, tattooed and pristine, diverse and affected

All joined by a common loss

A woman hunched on a bench watching the natant swans, tears flowing freely

A stoic capped man standing motionless staring at your stone

A young guy sitting on the grass playing guitar

Encouraging everyone to softly sing your songs as a group

A Father explaining to his young daughter why we were all there

The messages left by fans before me engulfed you and mirrored many of my own feelings

Showing how much you are loved

Many crept down to lay their hands on you

Everyone lost in their personal grief for this legend none (most?) of us had never met

I laid down my flowers and silently did what my heart needed to do.

Thank you for the gift you were

From that youthful long-haired rocker to a mature, devoted husband and father

You touched and surprised us throughout the years

I didn’t know you personally

But powerful yet soft, good-humored and original is the you that I’ve known for decades

As you whispered to me many times

“When Heaven or Hell takes this life, I’ll be done”

But never forgotten. Peace.

broken pony

beautiful winged creature

beautiful

why did you

swallow those pills

why did you

delegate your bills

you tried to live (most days)

but a cage

surrounded you

and no one knew

i wish i had known you

gorgeous and alone

just like me

and Jesus Christ

wise in your own way

same as any day

i wish i had known

why did you

swallow those pills

why did you

grab that rope

i could have helped you

wash away

that rain from your

beautiful

broken body

for Chris Cornell

I am 21 years old. I have missed the 90s, but I have been listening to Chris Cornell’s music everyday ever since I was 15. I spent the most important years of my “formation” as a human being with his voice, his lyrics in my ears. And I too suffer with depression and mental illnesses. I grew up not knowing what was “wrong” with me, and Chris sort of held my hand as I was struggling and fighting and trying to understand what was going on inside my head. It was dark and ugly and often it still is, but never for a single minute I felt like no one was getting it, because he made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I wasn’t “wrong” or “too sick to pull through”. He made me feel human, he made me feel like I too deserved things, good things. He holds my hand every time I am angry, every time my chest hurts, every time I feel the urge to make myself vomit in the bathroom, every time I feel flawed, every time I feel impure and infected, every time the world doesn’t feel real and every time the world feels way too real.


I don’t think anyone’s music can make me as happy as Chris' does. It’s not like he ever wrote such happy songs. But I guess that is just the way he is, you know, a warm beam of light that makes everything on its way shine too. Whenever I hear his voice or see his pictures, I remember how happy I felt every time I got to see him live, and it’s such a hopeful feeling. He’s like a reminder that life can be dark but there’s a bright side to it too. There’s always been so much positivity coming from him and it’s so beautiful. It's so big. 
The first time I saw him, in Verona, he reached out to me and my friends to get the Soundgarden flag we had made for him and proceeded to sing an entire song with that flag on his face, and then gave us one of his shirts to thank us. I got a Soundgarden tattoo after that show, to carry a little bit of his light with me everyday.

And then that one night in Detroit something went so horribly wrong. It might not even seem legit, but it hurts so much and I want to talk about it. I want to talk about it because I grew up listening to his voice. I have been finding comfort in that voice ever since I was 15. He was a friend. And I loved him in a way I never loved any other artist. It seems silly and stupid, but I associated him with everything that’s beautiful in the world. With dogs and butterflies and rainbows and flowers and the sun shining and the wind blowing. I have listened to his music on good days, on bad days, on the worst days of my life. I’ve punched walls and cried my eyes out to Soundgarden and I’ve sung Audioslave songs in the car so loud it made my throat sore. I’ve listened to Temple Of The Dog on my way to funerals of loved ones, I’ve listened to Songbook and Higher Truth when insomnia wouldn’t leave me alone. I’ve let him scream in my ears to tone down the voices inside my head telling me to do awful things to myself. He was that to me, and so much more. He wasn’t just an artist, he was a human being I looked up to, and that kind of person that you’re just so glad they exist somewhere out there. And now it’s hard to find the same comfort in his voice. I feel like I lost a friend, and for the first time in my life it hurts to think about him. When I learned about his death I was sitting in my university's library. I was wearing my Higher Truth shirt that morning and it felt so heavy on me. I couldn’t sleep for 2 days, I got mad at the sky because the dawn was so beautiful and how fucking dared it be beautiful when something so horrible had happened? How dared the birds keep singing? How dared the world keep spinning and all the lives keep going?

I was in Florence a few days ago, attending Eddie Vedder's solo show, and the day after attending Prophets Of Rage and System Of A Down. At both shows, tributes to Chris were played. 50.000 people cried as Eddie cried singing Black to his friend, and a shooting star crossed the sky minutes later. And again people cried as Serj Tankian walked on stage and performed Like A Stone with Tom Morello, and everyone around me was singing along. I know my loss is nothing compared to the people that knew him, to his kids, his wife and his friends, but I can’t help feeling this way. And it was beautiful to share those moments for him with the people who love him so much. It's something we owe to him, to come together and remember him for the beautiful soul he was. He didn't need to know us to reach our hearts and make them feel warm and that's not something we can allow to fade away. I’ll never really be able to really put into words the place he holds in my heart, but I still want to try and share it because goddammit Cornell I will always love the sh*t out of you and your flower nipples and your combat boots and your visionary bathroom tiles tweets. Who I am today, I owe it to you too. You gave me so much life, and something is missing now. But you gave us it all, and we will carry it all.

"Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!"

(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.”

You don't know me, but I watched you grow.

You don't know me, but wherever you went I would go.

You don't know me, but I admire your work.

I admired your 'not a rockstar' mentality and appreciated you not being a jerk.

You don't know me, but I always wished you well.

Hoping your days would get better if Kurt Loder said it was hell.

You don't know me,but I cried when you did.

In your saddest lyrics I always hid.

You don't know me, but you said everything I would feel.

You described things I would imagine and made them seem real.

You don't know me, but I grew up with a strong Chicano background.

So I'd secretly sneek away to the Garden of Sound.

You don't know me,but I respected you as a whole.

Your thought provoking words helped me grow. 

You don't know me,but I believe in fate.

The hunger for more struck when I was eight.

You don't know me, but I also don't mind stealing bread.

It was lyrics like that,that kept my mind fed.

You don't know me but Superunknown sends me to a place of rest.

Let's get cheesy for a sec,seriously, your voice is the best!

You don't know me, and that's ok.

Angels go to Heaven so I'll see you someday.

I'll wait around,like a stone, but your music never dies.

And when I need inspiration I'll throw on my headphones and look to the skies.

You don't know me, but I grew up with your music and am no longer a kid.

You don't know me, but I just realized thru it all, you were the only one who really did.