Okay, I want you to close your eyes for a second.
Imagine a sound. It's not just a voice. It feels
more like a force of nature. It starts low, like
this rumble in the floorboards that you feel
in your chest before you even hear it. And then
without even taking a breath, it just shoots
up. It just tears through the ceiling, turning
into this pitched, glass -shattering shriek.
It's terrifying, but it's also... Beautiful.
It's the sound of a man who could command nearly
four octaves. And you're right. Terrifying and
beautiful is, I think, the perfect description.
It's a voice that didn't just sing notes. It
devoured them. Devoured them. Wow. That is a
heavy image. But we aren't just talking about
a singer with a good set of pipes today. We are
talking about someone who I feel like defined
the emotional landscape for a whole generation
of rock fans. We are talking about Chris Cornell.
We are. And honestly, this one feels different.
It feels heavier. Because when you look at the
pantheon of rock gods and... Make no mistake.
He is in that pantheon. Cornell stands apart.
He's the architect of Grunge, sure. But he's
also a study in contradictions. He bridged the
gap between the raw, ugly power of heavy metal
and the melodic, sensitive soul of the Beatles.
That is such a weird combination, right? Metal
and the Beatles. It shouldn't work. Yeah. On
paper, it's oil and water. But Cornell made it
the standard. We're going to explore how he did
that. But we're also going to look at the cost.
Yeah. We have to talk about the darkness that
fueled that creativity. His incredible capacity
for reinvention, which I think it's overlooked.
And, of course, the tragedy that cut it all short
in 2017. And we have a massive stack of sources
today. We've got articles, biographies, interviews
from way back in the 80s, all the way up to the
coverage of his posthumous induction into the
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2025. Which, by
the way, was so long overdue. Oh, we'll get to
that. But I want to start with the why. Why are
we doing a deep dive on Cornell now? I mean,
is it just nostalgia for the 90s? I don't think
so. I really don't. I think it's because Cornell
wasn't just a poster on a wall. He was a complex
figure who balanced vulnerability and volume.
Vulnerability and volume. I like that. Yeah.
He proved you could be the loudest guy in the
room and also the most fragile. He wrote lyrics
about despair and existentialism that resonated
with millions of people who felt the exact same
way. Understanding him isn't just about understanding
a band like Soundgarden. It's about understanding
the internal struggle of a huge chunk of modern
history. Okay, so let's rewind the tape. Let's
go back before the stadiums, before the music
videos. Let's go to Seattle. And not the Amazon
Tech Hub Seattle we all know today. No, no. This
is a very different Seattle. This is the 1960s
and 70s. It's gray. It's blue collar. It's kind
of isolated. Right. You have to remember, before
the internet, Seattle was tucked away in the
corner of the map. It was a logging town, a fishing
town, an aerospace town with Boeing. It had this
sort of dreary working class ceiling over it.
And in the middle of this gray city, you have
Christopher John Boyle. Right. Born in 1964,
he was raised Irish Catholic. His dad was a pharmacist.
His mom was an accountant. But here is a detail
I found fascinating in the research. His mom
also identified as a psychic. Wait, hold on.
A psychic? Like crystal balls and tarot cards?
For real? A self -proclaimed psychic. It's a
small detail, but it paints a picture of a household
that wasn't strictly conventional, you know,
even if they were Catholic. There was a sense
of the other, of the mystical. Okay. But Chris,
Chris was a handful. A troublemaker. Not in the
throwing rocks at windows sense. He was more
of an intellectual troublemaker. Yeah. He was
inquisitive to a fault. There's this great story
about his time in Catholic school. He was in
the seventh grade. The awkward years. The peak
awkward years. And he and his sister were constantly
raising their hands in the back of the class.
They weren't being disruptive for the sake of
it. They were asking, explain this to me. This
doesn't make sense. Why is this a rule? Where
is the logic? Oh, I can just imagine how that
would annoy a nun in like... 1976. It drove the
school absolutely crazy. They couldn't answer
the question satisfactorily. It apparently got
so bad that his mother actually pulled him out
of the school. His mom pulled him out. Usually
parents side with the school. Sit down, shut
up, do your homework, that kind of thing. Not
his mom. She basically said, if you can't answer
their questions, you aren't doing your job. And
that's a pivotal moment. It shows that from age
12, Cornell had this deep -seated need to question
authority. He needed to understand the why of
things. He couldn't just accept a norm because
someone told him to. Which is pretty much the
job description for a grunge lyricist, isn't
it? Exactly. That foreshadows everything. His
lyrics are never about partying and having a
good time. They're about existentialism. They
are about questioning reality, questioning God,
questioning the self. He was a philosopher in
a flannel shirt, and I think it's largely because
he never lost that inquisitive streak. But he
wasn't the class clown type, was he? He wasn't
the guy standing on the table demanding attention.
Oh, far from it. He describes himself as a loner.
He had intense anxiety around people. He felt
like an observer, not a participant. And for
a kid like that, in a rainy city, you need an
escape. And the escape was music. It was. but
not the cool, edgy music you might expect right
away. He traces his musical DNA back to Little
Richard, but the real catalyst came from the
neighbors. The neighbors? Yeah, he found a collection
of Beatles records abandoned in a neighbor's
basement. Just sitting there. Just sitting there.
Between the ages of 9 and 11, he spent hours
upon hours in this basement, just absorbing Lennon
and McCartney. Wow. That is such a vivid image.
A little kid probably hiding from the rain, listening
to I Am the Walrus or Strawberry Fields in some
damp, dark basement. But think about what the
Beatles do. They love melody. They love harmony.
They love weird, unexpected chord changes. Cornell
soaked all of that up. So later, when he's playing
these heavy metal riffs that sound like a tank
rolling down the street, he's singing these beautiful
Beatles -esque melodies right over the top. That
contrast starts in that basement. Now, most people
know Chris Cornell, the frontman, the guy with
the microphone, looking like a Greek god. But
that's not how he started playing in bands. No,
not at all. He was the guy in the back. He was
a drummer. A drummer? I always forget this part
of the story. It's crucial to understanding his
music, I think. His mother bought him a snare
drum. And he credits that moment with saving
his life. It gave him a physical outlet for all
that anxious energy he was carrying around. So
before he's a rock star, he's just a working
class kid in Seattle playing drums. He's grinding.
I mean, he's working these blue collar jobs to
pay the rent. He was a busboy. He was a dishwasher.
And get this, he was a fishmonger. A fishmonger,
like at Pike Place Market, throwing the fish
around. And a seafood wholesaler. Yeah. Can you
imagine that? Cold, wet, smelling like fish guts
all day, slitting the bellies of salmon, then
clocking out, washing his hands, probably scrubbing
them raw to get the smell off, and going to play
drums in a cover band. That is the most Seattle
origin story I have ever heard. He grounds him,
you know. He wasn't some rich kid with connections.
He was a sous chef in a place called Ray's Boathouse.
He knew what it meant to work. And while he's
doing all this, he joins a cover band called...
The Shemps. The Shemps. Not exactly a name that
screams Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It really
doesn't. But The Shemps is where the chemistry
starts. In that band, he meets a bassist named
Hiro Yamamoto. And after Yamamoto leaves for
a bit, they recruit a guitarist named Kim Thiel.
And just like that, the ingredients for Soundgarden
are in the room. Pretty much. The Shemps eventually
break up, but Cornell and Yamamoto keep jamming.
They bring tile back. This is 1984. They name
themselves Soundgarden after a wind -channeling
pipe sculpture in Seattle. Very artsy. Very artsy.
But here's the kicker. Cornell is still the drummer.
He's playing drums and singing lead vocals. How
is that even possible? I can't even pat my head
and rub my belly at the same time. Playing these
complex rhythms and singing these full -throated
vocals. It's incredibly physically demanding.
And it shapes his phrasing. When you drum, you
have a very strong sense of the one. You know,
the downbeat. Cornell's singing always locked
in with the rhythm section in a way that pure
singers sometimes don't. But eventually, the
music just got too complex. They needed to free
him up. Exactly. In 1985, they hired a guy named
Scott Sundquist to play drums so Chris could
come out from behind the kit and just grab the
mic stand. And that is when the Chris Cornell
we all know was truly born. So enter the front
man. And eventually, they get Matt Cameron on
drums, which cements the classic lineup. Now,
I want to clear something up. When we talk about
the Seattle explosion. Everyone talks about Nirvana.
Everyone talks about Nevermind in 1991. But Soundgarden
was actually first, weren't they? In a business
sense, absolutely. They were the icebreakers.
They were the battering ram. Soundgarden was
the first grunge band to sign to a major label,
A &M Records. Why was that such a big deal? I
mean, today, signing a record deal is just what
you do. In the late 80s underground scene, it
was treason. It was considered selling out. The
indie scene in Seattle was very insular, very...
Do it yourself. Signing to a corporate behemoth
like A &M meant you were sleeping with the enemy.
So they took the arrows for everyone else. They
did. They took all the heat so that Nirvana and
Pearl Jam could get those massive checks a few
years later. Soundgarden proved that this weird,
heavy punk metal hybrid could actually sell records
globally. And sell they did. Let's talk about
the sound. 1991, Bad Motor Finger. This is the
breakthrough. This is where the world really
wakes up. You have Outshined. You have Rusty
Cage. Rusty Cage is just a monster of a track.
It's an absolute monster. And look at the legacy
of that song. Johnny Cash, the man in black,
covered it years later on his Unchained album.
That has to be the ultimate seal of approval.
It really is. It proves the songwriting holds
up. If you can strip away the distortion, the
screaming, the heavy drums, and play it on an
acoustic guitar with a country twang, and it
still sounds profound, that means the bones of
the song are perfect. But it wasn't all smooth
sailing. They had some controversy pretty early
on. Jesus Christ, Pose. Oh yeah. MTV banned the
video. Banned it. What was so bad about it? Well,
they felt it was anti -religious. The imagery
was really intense. You had burning crosses,
a cyborg crucifixion. The band argued it wasn't
attacking religion, but attacking the exploitation
of religion by celebrities. You know, that whole
martyr complex. Right. But MTV didn't care about
the nuance. They just saw a burning cross and
said, nope. Which, of course, just makes teenagers
want to see it even more. Every single time.
Controversy is currency. Yes. But then 1994 hits.
And we get super unknown. The big one debuted
at number one on the charts. This is the masterpiece.
And this is where we go back to that Beatles
in the basement idea. Critics like John Prellis
at the New York Times noticed something. This
wasn't just heavy metal. It was smart. It was
breaking the rules of the genre. Black Hole Sun.
You couldn't escape that song in 1994. It was
everywhere. It was the anthem. And it's such
a weird song to be a massive radio hit. It's
psychedelic. It's slow. It's dreamy, but also
kind of nightmarish. I want to pause here and
get technical for a second because you mentioned
breaking the rules. What makes Black Hole Sun
sound so strange? Like it makes you feel a little
seasick, but in a good way. That is a great way
to put it. It's the seasick quality. Okay, so
imagine you are watching a movie. A romantic
comedy. Everything is bright, sunny, predictable.
That's a diatonic scale. The notes all belong
to the same family. They get along. Okay, I'm
with you. A happy family of notes. Cornell didn't
care about the happy family. Right. In Black
Hole Sun, he uses what we call non -diatonic
chords. So imagine in that rom -com, suddenly
the sky turns purple and the gravity shifts sideways
for three seconds, then snaps back to normal.
Okay, that's unsettling. That's what he's doing
musically. He uses chords that... Technically
shouldn't be there. He does these huge melody
jumps. And he uses major chords in sequences
where your ear expects a minor chord. It creates
this constant tension. It feels wrong in a way
that hooks your brain because your brain is trying
to solve the puzzle of the melody. So he's basically
hacking our brains with music theory. He's using
the Beatles trick, that unexpected chord change.
But he's playing it with the heaviness of Black
Sabbath. That's the Soundgarden secret sauce.
But even with all that success... You know, bands
are like pressure cookers. By 1996, they released
Down on the Upside, and things were getting a
little shaky. The cracks were definitely showing.
Down on the Upside is a brilliant album, but
it sounds different. It's less sludgy. There
are more acoustic textures. And not everyone
in the band was happy about that direction. No,
this is the classic singer versus guitarist battle.
Cornell wanted to explore. He was getting tired
of the heavy riff trademark. He wanted to strip
things down, get weird, get softer sometimes.
Kim Thayil, the guitarist, he wanted to keep
the beast heavy. He wanted to protect the Soundgarden
identity. Creative differences. The silent killer
of so many bands. It became toxic. They were
arguing over the creative direction. In 1997,
they just, they stopped. They dissolved. Thayil
admitted later that everyone was just dissatisfied.
They were totally burned out. So the Soundgarden
era ends. At least for a while. But we can't
move on without talking about the emotional glue
of that whole Seattle scene. Because Cornell
wasn't just in his own lane. He was looking out
for everyone else. We have to talk about the
brotherhood. And specifically, we have to talk
about Andrew Wood. Andrew Wood. The lead singer
of Mother Love Bone. Right. If you don't know
Andrew Wood, just imagine the charisma of Freddie
Mercury mixed with the style of a glam rocker.
But living in grunge Seattle, he was Cornell's
roommate. They were Beth's friends. He was poised
to be the biggest star in the world. And then,
tragedy. March 1990. Heroin overdose. He died
just days before Mother Love Bone's debut album
was set to be released. God, that is just heartbreaking.
Cornell was devastated. Absolute crushed. He
said later he couldn't even listen to the radio
for two years because he was afraid he'd hear
an Andrew Wood song. But, being Chris Cornell,
he processed his grief through music. He started
writing songs for Andy. He wrote Reach Down.
and Say Hello to Heaven. These weren't Soundgarden
songs. They were too tender, too specific. So
he approached the surviving members of Mother
Love, Bonestone, Gassard, and Jeff Hammond. Who
were trying to pick up the pieces and start a
new band at that time. Exactly. They were jamming
with a new guitarist, Mike McCready, and they'd
just flown up this shy surfer kid from San Diego
to audition as a singer. A guy named Eddie Vedder.
So you have Cornell, who's the established star,
and Vedder, this shy new guy. And this is where
the magic happens. They decide to record these
tribute songs under the name Temple of the Dog.
There's a song called Hunger Strike. Oh, an iconic
song. I don't mind stealing bread. So Cornell
is in the studio, and he's struggling with the
verses. They're really low. He's a baritone.
But he wanted a specific resonance he wasn't
quite getting. Eddie Vedder is literally sitting
in the corner of the rehearsal space, just waiting
for his turn to practice with his new band. Just
watching the master at work. And he sees Cornell
struggling. So Vedder, without asking, just walks
up to the microphone and sings the low part.
Whoa. Bold move for the new guy. Incredibly bold.
But Cornell didn't get mad. He loved it. He looked
at him and said, You sing the low part, I'll
sing the high part. And boom, one of the greatest
duets in rock history is born right there on
the spot. That gives me chills. And it wasn't
just in the studio, right? There's a story about
their first live show that's just incredible.
This is my favorite Cornell story. It tells you
everything about his character. It was an early
show for Vedder's band. At the time, they were
called Mookie Blaylock. But they would become
Pearl Jam. The crowd in Seattle can be tough.
Right. They didn't know this San Diego surfer.
They were skeptical. Who is this guy trying to
replace Andy Wood? The arms were crossed. Exactly.
So what does Cornell do? During the Temple of
the Dogs set, he literally puts Eddie Vedder
on his shoulders and carries him onto the stage.
Like a piggyback ride in front of everyone. Like
a king. He paraded him in front of the crowd.
He was sending a signal. This is my friend. I
endorse him. If you like me, you give this guy
a chance. That is incredible mentorship. He basically
handed the keys to the city to Eddie Vedder.
He did. And Vedder never forgot it. He said he
was indebted to Chris eternally for how he welcomed
him. It wasn't about competition. It was about
brotherhood and processing grief together. I
love that. Okay, so let's jump forward. Soundgarden
is done. It's the late 90s. Cornell releases
a solo album, Euphoria Morning. Which is such
a hidden gem. I feel like nobody talks about
this album. It was a commercial flop compared
to Soundgarden, for sure. But artistically, it's
stunning. It's darker. It's moodier. It has this
song, Wave Goodbye, which was a tribute to Jeff
Buckley, another friend who died tragically young.
Man, he just kept losing people. He did. It's
a recurring... Terrible theme. But let's fast
forward to 2001. We have the next big reinvention.
Wage Against the Machine. One of the most political,
aggressive rap rock bands on the planet. Their
singer, Zack De La Rocha, quits. The rest of
the band, Tom Morello, Tim Comerford, Brad Wilk,
they want to keep playing. But who can possibly
replace Zack De La Rocha? Those are enormous
shoes to fill. So Rick Rubin, the legendary prisoners
who looks like a wizard, suggests they talk to
Chris Cornell. That sounds like a terrible idea
on paper. Rage is rap metal. Cornell is a classic
rock singer. It's apples and oranges. Everyone
was skeptical, but they got in a room together.
Cornell stood at the mic and they played the
instrumental to Slaves and Bulldozers, an old
Soundgarden track. Tom Morello said watching
Cornell sing that day was transcendent. Transcendent.
You don't use that word lightly. And the chemistry
was just nuclear. They wrote 21 songs in 19 days.
19 days. That's more than a song a day. It was
frantic energy. They were just pouring it out.
And Audioslave was born. And this wasn't just
some little side project. They became massive.
Huge. And they made history. In 2005, Audioslave
became the first American rock band to play an
open -air concert in Cuba. In Castro's Cuba.
Yes. The embargo was still in full effect. It
was a diplomatic nightmare to set up, but they
pulled it off. They played for 70 ,000 people
in Havana. Cornell said he hoped it would help
open the borders culturally. He was always thinking
about the bigger picture. But while he's on top
of the world with Audioslave... playing Cuba,
selling millions of records. Personally, he was
falling apart. This is the part of the story
where vulnerability meets volume in a very dark
way. The Audioslave years were the peak of his
addiction struggle. What was he dealing with?
Alcohol and oxycodone. He said later that during
the recording of that first Audioslave album
in 2002, he was in a horrible personal crisis.
Did it affect the band? It almost derailed everything.
They were supposed to play Ozzfest, which, for
listeners who don't know, is basically the Super
Bowl of heavy metal touring. A huge moneymaker,
they had to cancel it. Cornell checked himself
into rehab for two months. Wow. That takes courage
to step away when the machine is just starting
to roll. It saved his life. Yeah. And he committed
to it. By the time they did their third album,
Revelations, Tom Morello noted that it was the
first record Cornell had ever made, stone sober.
No booze, no cigarettes, no drugs. So we get
the sober era, and this leads to some really
interesting choices. We have to talk about 2009,
the album Scream. Scream. Oh, boy. The elephant
in the room. I remember when this came out, I
was so confused. It was Chris Cornell, produced
by Timbaland, the guy who does Justin Timberlake
beats. It was polarizing. That is the polite
word for it. Critics hated it. Fans were baffled.
They wanted heavy guitars and they got drum machines
and synthesizers. Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails
even tweeted something snarky about it being
embarrassing. Ouch. But here's the thing. Cornell
stood by it. He called it a highlight of his
career. Nearly. Why? Because he was bored. He
didn't want to be the grunge guy for 30 years
straight. He wanted to see if he could write
a pop song. He wanted to see if his voice worked
over a hip -hop beat. He was fearless. He didn't
care if it failed. He cared that he tried something
new. You have to respect the boldness, even if
you don't love the album. Exactly. And that same
boldness made him the soundtrack king. Yes. Casino
Royale. You know my name. This is a huge gamble.
They were rebooting James Bond with Daniel Craig.
They needed a new sound. Gritty, tough. But sophisticated.
And Cornell absolutely delivered. It's arguably
one of the best Bond themes ever. It captures
that specific aggression of the Daniel Craig
Bond. And it opened him up to a whole new audience
who. Maybe he didn't listen to Soundgarden or
Audioslave. He also did The Keeper for Machine
Gun Preacher and The Promise. And The Promise
is so important because all the proceeds from
that song went to refugee charities. He was deeply
involved in philanthropy in his later years.
He was trying to use his platform for good. So
on the surface, everything looks great. He's
sober. He's reunited with Soundgarden in 2010.
He's touring. He's a legend. But we need to talk
about the darkness. We mentioned it at the start.
This wasn't just some phase for him. No. And
I think this is where we need to be really careful
and really honest. Cornell's mental health struggle
wasn't a rock star problem. It was a biological
lifelong battle. It started when he was just
a kid, right? 14 years old. He had a bad experience
with PCP. PCP. That is heavy stuff for a 14 -year
-old. It is, and it triggered something in his
brain, a panic disorder. He developed severe
agoraphobia. Agoraphobia, the fear of leaving
the house. Fear of open spaces, fear of social
interaction. He said he didn't leave his house
for two full years. Think about that. From age
14 to 16, when you're supposed to be meeting
friends, dating, learning how to be a person,
he was locked in his room, terrified. That's
developmental trauma. That rewires your brain.
It does. He missed out on crucial social development.
He said he had no friends at all during that
time. And even when he came out of it, depression
was always there. There is a quote from him in
a 1999 interview that when I read it now, it
just makes my stomach drop. What did he say?
He said, you'll think somebody has run -of -the
-mill depression, and then the next thing you
know, they're hanging from a rope. He said that
in 1999? Almost 20 years before his death. He
knew. He understood the lethality of the disease.
He understood that it waits for you. And the
alcohol, the drugs, that was all just self -medication.
He was explicit about that. He said alcohol is
what leads you to everything because it takes
away the fear. He wasn't partying to have fun.
He was drinking to numb the terror of just existing
in public. But he was sober in the end. Soundgarden
had a strict no alcohol backstage rule during
the reunion tour. It did. He was protecting his
recoverer. fiercely, which is why what happened
in Detroit is so confusing and so tragic. Let's
walk through that night, May 17, 2017, Detroit.
Soundgarden is playing the Fox Theater. It's
a sold -out show. By most accounts, it was a
good performance. Maybe a little rough in moments,
but nothing catastrophic. He was interacting
with the crowd. He quoted Led Zeppelin. In my
time of dying. Yeah, which people read into later,
but it's a standard song reference. After the
show, he goes back to the MGM Grand Hotel. Just
a normal night on tour. It seemed like it. His
bodyguard, Martin Kirsten, goes to his room around
11 .30 p .m. to help him fix his computer. Cornell
gives him two Ativan pills, which the bodyguard
took for his own anxiety. Cornell seemed fine.
Then he talks to his wife, Vicki. At 11 .35 p
.m. And this is where the switch flips. They
are on the phone. Vicki notices immediately that
something is wrong. He's slurring his words.
He's aggressive. He's looping, repeating the
same things over and over. I am just tired, that
sort of thing. He told her, I may have taken
an extra Ativan or two. Okay, let's pause. Ativan.
What is that exactly? Lorazepam. It's a benzodiazepine.
It's prescribed for anxiety. But, and this is
a huge debt, if you take too much or if your
body chemistry reacts weirdly, it can cause disinhibition.
It can make you confused, suicidal, or aggressive.
It can impair your judgment significantly. So
his wife is panicked. She hangs up. And immediately
calls the bodyguard. She says, he's not okay.
Go check on him. This is around 12, 15 a .m.
The bodyguard goes back to the room. He can't
get in. The door is latched from the inside.
He kicks it open. Then he gets to the bedroom
door. It's also locked. He kicks that one open.
And that's where he finds him. In the bathroom.
Unresponsive. He'd used an exercise band. God.
Medics arrived, but it was too late. He was pronounced
dead at 1 .30 a .m. The medical examiner ruled
it a suicide by hanging. But the family. They
pushed back on that. Right. Not the fact that
he died, but on the why. Right. The toxicology
report came back. It showed butalbidol, a barbiturate,
caffeine, pseudofedrine, and naloxone, which
the medics use, and of course the Ativan. The
medical examiner said drugs did not contribute
to the cause of death. meaning he didn't overdose,
the drugs didn't kill him, the hanging did. But
the family's argument was that the Ativan caused
the hanging. Exactly. They argued that he was
in an Ativan -induced delirium, that he wasn't
in his right mind, that he wouldn't have done
this if he hadn't taken those extra pills. They
sued the doctor who prescribed them without seeing
him in person. They eventually settled that lawsuit
in 2021, but they have always maintained that
it was an accidental tragedy caused by medication,
not a premeditated suicide. It's a nuance, but
a heartbreaking one. The idea that a pill meant
to help his anxiety might have lowered his defenses
enough to let the darkness win. It's terrifying.
And then there are the coincidences. Who dates?
May 18th, the day he died. That is the exact
same day Ian Curtis of Joy Division died by suicide
in 1980. And Soundgarden covered Joy Division
songs. They did. And then there's the ripple
effect. Chester Bennington. The singer of Linkin
Park. A very close friend. He was the godfather
to Chris's son. Chester sang Hallelujah at Chris'
funeral. It was a beautiful, gut -wrenching performance.
Amen. Two months later, July 20th, which would
have been Chris Cornell's 53rd birthday, Chester
Bennington died by suicide. It's just too much
tragedy in one circle. It was a shockwave. It
showed how connected these guys were and how
fragile they were, despite the screams and the
tattoos and the fame. The reaction from the world
was immediate, though. It was massive. Streams
jumped 550 % that week. The Space Needle went
dark. Every band from U2 to Guns N' Roses stopped
their shows to play Black Hole Sun. Norah Jones
did a piano cover of it that will just break
your heart. It proved that he wasn't just a grunge
singer. He was a musician's musician. He was.
And the legacy is secure now. There is a bronze
statue of him in Seattle, right outside the Museum
of Pop Culture. Soundgarden is finally in the
Hall of Fame. His catalog is being managed by
Hypnosis. But beyond the statues and the business
deals, what's the takeaway? When we look at this
inquisitive kid who became a rock god and then
left us too soon, what do we learn from it all?
For me, it comes back to that theme we started
with, vulnerability and volume. Chris Cornell
taught us that you don't have to choose. You
can be powerful and broken at the same time.
You can scream at the top of your lungs about
how scared you are. He validated that feeling
for millions of people. He did. He gave a voice
to the internal demons of a generation. He made
it okay to not be okay, even if you look like
a superhero on the outside. I want to end with
a thought about his lyrics, because looking back,
they seem like warning signs. You know, the day
I tried to live, pretty noose. Like a stone.
It's hard not to read them that way now, but
I'll leave you with this. In 1994, after Kurt
Cobain died, Cornell gave an interview. He said
that lyrics are just a stream of thought. He
said they aren't necessarily a prophecy. He was
trying to say, just because I write about death
doesn't mean I want to die. He was trying to
separate the art from the artist. He was. But
when we look at the whole picture now, the anxiety,
the depression, the lyrics, the end, we are left
with that lingering question. Was he writing
his biography the whole time? Or was he just
exercising demons that in the end finally won?
That is a question we will never be able to answer.
But we have the music. We have the music. And
that voice. Thanks for listening to this deep
dive on Chris Cornell. Take care of yourselves.
Keep listening.