How do you start when you don't even know where to start?
What do you say when you don't even know what to say?
Sometimes, finding the right phrase is not possible.
Sometimes, the feelings are too overwhelming and the thoughts are too many; they step on your throat with their size 12 boot and don't allow you to speak; they suck the air from your lungs and don't allow you to breathe; they throw sand in your eyes, pull you to the ground, kick you in the stomach and leave you there, coughing your own blood.
Sometimes words are just unnecessary, because the way you lived your life says more than any obituary could.
Thank you, my friend in the distance. I never knew you, but I feel like I did.
Thank you for all the music. Thank you for all the years. Thank you for all the shows. Thank you for all the thoughts. Thank you for every note. Thank you for every word.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
You have given us so much more than we can ever repay.
When I first heard, a couple of months ago, that Mad Season would be reuniting for a one-off show with Soundgarden's Chris Cornell on vocal duties (replacing none other than Layne Staley) and former Guns N' Roses/Velvet Revolver bassist (and proud Seattle native) Duff McKagan filling in for also deceased founding member John Baker Saunders, I felt a strange mix of excitement and cautiousness.
On one hand, I knew that, of all the singers they could have possibly picked for the job, Chris Cornell was probably the only one who could carry out the task without compromising the integrity of the material. On the other, my short experience as a fan of the band had taught me that putting together a Mad Season reunion could be a tricky business, given the complex and fragile nature of the original project.
Picture from Mad Season's only official photo shoot. From left to right: Barrett Martin, Layne Staley, John Baker Saunders and Mike McCready
The band was formed in 1994, after Pearl Jam guitarist Mike McCready met then-unemployed blues bassist John Baker Saunders at a Minnesota rehab facility. The newly sober pair returned to Seattle and decided to start a band with former Skin Yard and then-current Screaming Trees drummer Barrett Martin. They were still in need of a vocalist, so McCready reached out to his amazing Alice In Chains singer friend Layne Staley, who had just completed his own rehab stint, even though it had been of little use. At the time he joined Mad Season, Layne had already relapsed into his heroin addiction, forcing his band to pull out of a monster tour with Suicidal Tendencies, Danzig and Metallica scheduled for that summer, and into an indefinite hiatus that, thankfully, only lasted until 1995.
Mike hoped that Mad Season would serve as an oasis of sobriety for Layne, and it did for a while. He managed to drag Layne on stage at a time when he was unable to perform with his own band, by booking shows at small local theatres and clubs – a big contrast for Staley, if you consider that his band was coming from touring the massive alternative festival circuit. McCready worked hard to turn Mad Season into a sort of musical rehab for his friend – a safe space where he could just feel free making music, far from the pressures of record labels and success (back when those things still existed). And the effort really paid off.
Layne poured his tormented soul into the songs of the band's only album, and therefore became the voice of Mad Season– not just the technical executor of the vocal parts, but also the conceptual force keeping it all together; the electrical current in Mad Season's brain.
The whole idea of Mad Season was inevitably tied to the concepts of drug use and recovery from the beginning – from the circumstances in which McCready and Saunders met to the band's name – a term that refers to the time of the year when psychedelic mushrooms are in full bloom, which Mike McCready saw as a metaphor for the years of his life dedicated to drinking and drug abuse. Precisely because of that, it's hard to think of a frontman who could have embodied the spirit of the band better than Layne Staley.
Mad Season became a vehicle for Layne's confessions at a time when his life was starting to fall apart. He was a broken man who admitted his failures and weaknesses, but also displayed a strong determination to heal. For the first time, he was addressing his addiction as a problem, far from the euphoric defense of drug use he had sometimes indulged on Alice records. His voice was loaded with pain and frustration, but, above all, there was hope... and the testimony of that hope, preserved on record forever, became the ultimate purpose of Mad Season's very existence.
Cover art for Mad Season's Above album, drawn by Layne Staley himself, based on an actual picture of him and his girlfriend of the time, who died in 1996 of drug-related complications
The band attempted to reunite for a follow-up album in 1997, after Alice In Chains had been put on its second, almost permanent hiatus, but, by that time, Layne's health condition had deteriorated too much to allow him to take part in the project. As a sign of respect, the band renamed itself as Disinformation and recruited Screaming Trees singer Mark Lanegan, who had already contributed a few verses to the band's previous album. They recorded a bunch of songs together, but the project never really seemed to take off. The material didn't sound that different from Mad Season's previous work, but it somehow lacked a sense of purpose. With half of its line-up coming from the same band, the new ensemble felt too much like a Screaming Trees spin-off, and, even though Mark Lanegan did have a distinct vocal style and personality, he couldn't quite fill the gap left by such a massive personality as Layne was.
However, all plans to resurrect Mad Season came to an abrupt end with John Baker Saunders' sudden death. His addiction had finally caught up with him, and he succumbed to a heroin overdose on January 1999, to the desolation of Mike McCready, who treasured him as one of his closest friends. Layne Staley's inevitable end came only three years later, putting the final nail in Mad Season's coffin.
The surviving band members only reunited as Mad Season once, for a modest benefit show in 2012. For the occasion, they enlisted Jeff Rouse (the singer from Duff McKagan's solo band Loaded) to fill in for Layne, and he actually managed to pull off a surprisingly correct recreation of his vocal parts on River Of Deceit(the only Mad Season song they got to play). But, beyond the bittersweet nostalgic exercise of getting back on stage with an old friend and playing a classic Mad Season song for an audience of devotees, it gets hard to find a sense for that reunion; something that could add up to the legacy of the band, instead of just being the distant echo of a better time. And that was precisely what made me cautious about this new attempt at resurrecting the band, even if only for one night.
My fears only worsened when I learned that the band would be joined on stage by the Seattle Symphony. Adding an orchestra to a rock band is one of those things that can only sound absolutely right or terribly wrong, and Mad Season's music didn't look like the kind that could fall into the first category, despite the fact that Above did incorporate a few uncommon instruments. I didn't yet know that this wasn't going to be an actual Mad Season show, but another installment of the Seattle Symphony's yearly Sonic Evolution series, where the band and not the orchestra was the special guest.
Sonic Evolution is a bizarre initiative of Seattle Symphny director Ludovic Morlot (who began with the series after he was appointed to the job four years ago) based on the concept of fusing orchestral music with the legacy of Seattle musical legends like Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain... or Sir Mix-a-Lot.
The idea doesn't sound too great at first... probably because it's not. This amount of skepticism might seem surprising, coming from such a devotee of Metallica's S&M album as I am, but I have my reasons. S&M was a beautiful one-off based on the band's personal chemistry and mutual understandment with Michael Kamen (truly a one of a kind man); it was edgy, beautiful and sharp... perhaps because it was a Metallica concert featuring the San Francisco Symphony– a concept originally envisioned by Cliff Burton; not a yearly event of the Symphony that had Metallica as a guest, just because mixing classical music with popular modern genres is... you know... fun. That is basically the difference between S&M and Metallica playing with Lang Lang at the Grammys.
Morlot names the Seattle 4 (a.k.a. Soundgarden, Nirvana, Alice In Chains and Pearl Jam) among the list of musicians he admires, but he's French, so, naturally, I don't trust him much. And, honestly, it felt impossible not to see all this as a somewhat desperate attempt to attract a younger audience to classical territory... especially after learning that the 2014 edition of the Sonic Evolution series (featuring none other than Sir Mix-a-Lot a.k.a. the guy responsible for shooting pantlessHarry Styles) was followed by an 'alt-classical' set by DJ Gabriel Prokofiev "giving a taster of his ground-breaking Nonclassical Club Night".
To kick the level of difficulty up another notch, Sonic Evolution is not just about the Symphony playing with the band: it also involves classical composers being comissioned to write symphonic pieces 'in the spirit' of the musical figure being homaged... as if Kamen had asked some of his colleagues to compose pieces 'in the spirit of Metallica'. Hmmm...
Fortunately for him, Mike McCready seemed to be a lot more confident in the project than I was. Apparently, he and Morlot have been friends for a while, so I guess they get each other in some way.
Ludovic Morlot and the Seattle Symphony rehearsing before Sonic Evolution
Barrett Martin's drum kit, customized especially for the occasion
As January went by, bringing no updates on that front whatsoever, I seriously started considering that the idea might have been dropped... or perhaps the event had akready taken place and had been received with a non-existent reaction? But Seattle couldn't do that to one of its most emblematic bands, could it?
The answer to that came at the start of the Super Bowl weekend, when my Twitter feed got quietly flooded with mentions of the event. It turned out there had been updates on the subject; I just had somehow managed to skip all of them by not following the right set of people.
While I was too busy being disinformed, the Benaroya Hall (home of the Seattle Symphony) was being filled to capacity with 2500 loyal Mad Season fans; one half wearing Mad Season T-shirts, the other dressed head to toe in Seattle Seahawks gear, according to the detailed chronicle published on the Northwest Music Scene blog – a combination you could only ever see in Seattle, not just because of the Seahawks, but because where the fuck else could you possibly find at least 1200 people who could tell you what Mad Season is? LOL
The special circumstances that surrounded the event made football references an inevitable constant throughout the night – from the audience's attire to the 12th Man towel on Duff McKagan's amp. Such a display of pre-Super Bowl enthusiasm was justified by the fact that Seattle's own team was only one day away from playing the Super Bowl for the second consecutive time, after last year's much celebrated victory. But don't take that as a sign of frivolity or disrespect. One thing you learn when you get to know the city is that Seattle loves its Seahwaks as much as Christians love God, so that's one of those things you just don't mess with.
For the crowd of concert-goers, wearing the blue and green was just another way of showing their hometown pride on a night loaded with meaning. Because, in the Pacific Northwest, Mad Season is not just an obscure supergroup that existed for a little while and that only a bunch of grungy geeks remember; some of the band's songs are still played on local radio, and their only album is regarded as a classic many people feel a strong personal connection to.
In the Northwest, Layne Staley is revered as a local deity almost as much as Kurt Cobain, which made the show an occasion for maximum solemnity. Each and every attendee undestrood that this wasn't your average Friday night entertainment, but a unique musical encounter of an almost religious dimension.
The night opened with Ashes, a symphonic piece composed by Yann Robin that was supposed to channel the spirit of Kurt Cobain and therefore bore a name inspired by the most iconic sentence in his suicide note ("it's better to burn out than to fade away"), and Beyond Much Difference, its Pearl Jam-inspired counterpart, composed by Angelique Poteat.
According to Northwest Music Scene, these pieces caused a rather mixed reaction among the audience. Unfortunately, nobody considered recording and uploading them a priority, so I can't possibly share my own impressions on the matter – which is a real shame, because I was sincerely curious to hear how these on-demand compositions would work out.
The last of the three original pieces composed for that night was written by Mike McCready himself – in collaboration with the Seattle Symphony, of course. Titled Waking the Horizon, the composition was an eight-minute long choir-heavy symphonic arrangement built on top of a typical McCready style guitar line, that progressed through a variety of moods – from a somewhat eerie introduction (built mostly around the choir and peppered with dramatic glockenspiel notes) to a sunny River of Deceit/Uriah Heep's The Wirzard style guitar arpeggio, and into a full-blown solemn crescendo that included McCready soloing on top of the orchestra at some point. The piece managed to capture some of Pearl Jam's epic, and it probably worked quite well in a live setting, but it was a little bit too soundtracky for my personal taste... and dangerously lacking in badassery.
McCready, however, seemed to really be enjoying himself in this setting. He stood in the middle of the orchestra, somewhat elevated above the sea of violins and cellos, dressed head to toe in a funeral black suit, with his eyes closed as if he was lost in a mystical trance, and his hands wrapped tightly around his Les Paul. Grunge is a word most people would not associate with that image... and they would probably be right.
But the spirit of grunge did make its apperarance later on. It stormed on stage after the 20-minute intermission, woven into the fabric of Chris Cornell's thick grey cardigan, and stayed there for the rest of the night.
Chris, who refused to take off his sunglasses throughout his performance, seemed to have run out of fucks to give for the etiquette of the event – which felt somewhat refreshing, in contrast to the all-black attire of his peers. He looked like he had just awakened from a nap in front of a cozy fireplace, and his mind seemed to still be partially there as he made his way to the central mic stand. He took a look at the crowd, shielding his eyes from the stage lights, and waved, all without removing his left hand from his pocket.
Right next to him, Duff McKagan displayed his model frame, sharply dressed in an impeccable black suit and tie, on top of one of the few white shirts in the room. He would have looked every bit like a 19th Century dandy, if he hadn't completed his outfit with skinny jeans and a pair of heavy shoes that looked almost like combat boots. His subtle contrast game was equally clever and fabulous, and made his look inexplicably compatible with Cornell's.
He finished off by picking a black and white bass (not sure if he did this on purpose) that matched both his suit and Mad Season's Above album cover – which presided the stage from Barrett Martin's bass drum patch.
Chris and Duff during rehearsals
At Morlot's command, the symphony stood up as the band members took their positions. Martin, who was dressed in an all-black suit, quickly proceeded to remove his blazer, revealing a rather casual-looking black T-shirt. He carelessly folded the garment and left it on the floor behind his drumkit, where it would stay for the rest of the night. He signaled a few counts with his enormous hands and, without speaking a word, the band (and symphony) engaged in the delicate task of reviving the sleeping giant of Mad Season.
The song chosen as a starting point for their journey was Long Gone Day– a dark, psychedelic-tinted composition that originally featured Mark Lanegan on guest vocals. I was notably surprised by Lanegan's absence, but, fortunately, Chris Cornell was there to compesate for it. He navigated through Lanegan's vocal parts as effortlessly as he did through Layne's. He switched from bass to falsetto like it was the easiest thing in the world, and did it without even abandoning his apparent state of sleepiness, in a magnifficent display of pure grunge attitude.
On the left side of the stage, Mike McCready was quietly strumming an acoustic guitar, while the symphony marched firmly through the piece. Against my initial fears, the symphonic arrangements seemed to work for Long Gone Day. They created a nice, thick cushion for the song's spacious, bass-heavy sound, and were unintrusive enough in the upper layers, allowing Cornell's vocals to get all the attention they deserved.
Chris kept his eyes closed, lost in the brooding atmosphere of the track, as Skerik's enigmatic sax phrases floated across the room like smoky rings of sound, played by the man himself – the first surprise guest of the night; the saxophonist who played on Mad Season's original record, as well as on a bunch of their live performances, including their legendary concert film Live at the Moore. His notes sounded like they were coming directly from twenty years ago, as if they had remained frozen under a thick layer of ice for all this time, waiting for someone to release them from their captivity.
Seeing those five guys on that stage, under the imponent presence of a full-fledged church organ and surrounded by a 70-piece orhestra, it became clear that things had come a long way since Mad Season's 2012 reunion attempt. Getting to play a venue like the Benaroya Hall with such a potent ensemble of instrumentists is definitely a once-in-a-lifetime luxury very few musicians would say no to. Living in a country where classical musicians, ballet dancers and theatre actors are almost forced to keep day jobs to finance their activities, I find it amazing that such an event could be carried out on the Symphony's budget alone, with no need for corporate sponsorship or major label involvement.
Chris Cornell and Duff McKagan; Ludovic Morlot on the back (Source: Northwest Music Scene)
The band bid farewell to Skerik with a round of applause, while Mike McCready quickly switched guitars. As his destroyed Fender rang with the first bars of River of Deceit, the audience reacted with an unsurprising cheer – unsurprising because, aside from being an all-time fan favourite, River of Deceit is also the closest the band ever came to landing what the music industry would call a radio hit. He made those notes feel like the most heart-warming sound you'd ever hear, painful yet comfortingly familiar.
Chris swang from side to side like a lifeless doll, carried away by the music. He sang the words as meaningfully and sincerely as if Layne Staley himself was whispering in his ear.
The four band members were playing with their eyes closed, as if in deep meditation. They were probably dealing with their owm memories of the song – good and bad – and so did the audience, watching in complete silence, mesmerized by the spectacle. The whole auditorium was breathing as one, drenched in the bittersweet melancholy of Layne's words and Mike's guitar; sun shining on their faces as if the ceiling had been ripped open to reveal a beautiful yet somewhat unreal summer afternoon.
In the background, the Symphony kept doing its thing. Their part for this song had a weird marching band feel that sounded rather out of place. Fortunately, the musical and emotional power of the song prevailed over the not-so-appropriate arrangements.
Chris Cornell channeling the spirit of Layne Staley during River of Deceit
Killer contrast: Mike McCready's black suit and destroyed Fender (Source Northwest Music Scene)
Mike McCready, Barrett Martin and Jeff Rouse performing River of Deceit in 2012, in a notably simpler setting
They rounded out this part of the set with I Don't Know Anything– the heaviest song in Mad Season's catalog; a distorted hard-rocker with a doomy Alice In Chains feel. The song served as a much needed break from the seriousness required on a night of such emotional overload, allowing the guys to just have some fun rocking out to a killer tune.
Mike McCready soloed like a bastard against Barret and Duff's muscular rhythm section, and engaged in some serious Angus Young moves, while the orchestra underpinned the whole thing with its evil punch; bows moving at a frenetic pace. Even Chris Cornell seemed to come out of his trance a little, allowing himself to take a few steps around the stage and join his bandmates in their headbanging routine.
The song ended with Mike leaning against his amp, in a frenzy of
applause and guitar feedback. The band members sent an enthusiastic
salute to the audience, and then proceeded to exchange handshakes and
hugs. The Symphony stood up once again as Mike, Barrett, Chris and Duff left the stage, escorted by Morlot.
When the band returned, it did it to a very different setting. The orchestra seats had been left in complete darkness, while only a bunch of spotlights illuminated the front of the stage, for what would be a much more intimate performance. The drum kit that had been mysteriously standing on the other side of Barrett's during the previous part of the show turned out to be there for Matt Cameron (a guy so cool he managed to play drums in Skin Yard, Soundgarden AND Pearl Jam), who would be filling in for Martin, as the latter switched to the vibraphone.
The band was preparing to play one of the most challenging songs in the Mad Season repertoire: the painful Above album opener Wake Up– a song known for featuring some of Layne Staley's most crudely personal lyrics, as well as one of his most heartrending vocal performances ever. To my surprise, the vocalist enlisted for the task was not going to be Chris Cornell, but female singer Kim Virant, from Lazy Susan– a 90s Seattle band so obscure it doesn't even have a hint of a Wikipedia article.
When I learned that they had given Wake Up to a woman, my misogynistic self almost had an anxiety attack. I know that this doesn't show a lot of gender solidarity on my behalf, but Wake Up is a song I would kill for, and the sole idea of hearing it performed in a pretty, girly way made me cringe in advance.
As Kim attacked the first verse, I was somewhat relieved to see that she actually sang it lower than Layne... but, unfortunately, her take on the song did not live up to par with the overall awesomeness of the band's performance.
I feel a little bad criticising Kim, because I actually don't dislike the way her voice sounds on record. I don't think she's a bad singer (it's pretty obvious that she's got some serious pipes), but perhaps she wasn't the best choice for this particular song.
I personally found her image and stage attitude distracting from the deeper meaning of the music, to the point I eventually found myself looking away from the screen in order to evaluate her vocal performance with some more objectivity. All those things would have been alright if she had been singing Junkhead or Hate To Feel, or pretty much anything on the Dirt album, but this is not one of those songs where Layne was just fucking around and being creepy – he was tearing his heart open, and that type of material requires some very special handling.
The painful beauty of Wake Up– as it happens with so many great compositions – is in the contrast and the crescendo; in the way the music is quiet before erupting inito loud; in the way Layne sounds weak and broken before he stands up and screams in rage and frustration. That type of vocal job requires a fair amount of subtlety and self-control, and, in my humble opinion, Kim's performance was lacking in both.
I will very unmodestly admit that I prefer my own version of the song, even though I might be a little bit biased... especially considering that that woman has just managed to scratch an item off my personal bucket list. That's right, ladies and gentlemen: 'singing Wake Up at a Mad Season reunion show' had been on my list of ridiculous and completely unrealistic fantasies for months before any of this happened. But you know what they say: you can't have everything. Sometimes, you can't have anything at all.
Kim Virant during her performance of Wake Up
For the next song, Mike invited over another one of his special guests: Tacoma-born Jefferson Angell (apparently, a Washington State birth certificate was required from everyone who got on stage that night LOL), who is basically the singer of Walking Papers– a band Barrett Martin started with Mike McCready and Duff McKagan a few years ago. It's obvious that these guys have way too much fun starting new bands. If they got paid a dollar for each, they'd be able to buy Apple and Microsoft, and they'd probably still have some money left to sponsor their own Formula 1 team.
Angell walked on stage dressed like a skin-tight version of Al Capone, and set to perform Lifeless Dead– another Mad Season hard-rocker with a strong stoner feel.
At this point, it became patent that the Symphony had left the building for good, which was rather weird, considering the fact that they had only played three songs with the band. The Sonic Evolution experiment had veered into a normal Mad Season reunion show... and the band's sound wasn't necessarily suffering from it.
Mike kept everything in place with his muscular guitar work, while Barrett banged his drums as hard as ever to his own intricate rhythm pattern. The song would have been a total beast if they had handled the vocal parts to William DuVall, but, unfortunately, he was not in charge.
Angell's performance was disappointingly unspectacular. There was nothing he did especially wrong. The problem is there was nothing he did especially right either.
He stayed around as the band moved on to play I'm Above– the 70s style mid-tempo rocker that (partially) served as the title of Mad Season's only album – and he wasn't the only one. Kim Virant returned to the stage accompanied by Lazy Susan bandmate Tim DiJulio– who looked like he had been dressed by Jefferson Angell's stylist – for an encore of sorts.
She took to the mic stand next to Angell's and proceeded to sing Layne's parts while he dealt with Mark Lanegan's. To my surprise, their voices turned out to work much better combined than they had done on their separate performances; they actually blended in quite nicely, as they recreated the two-part vocal harmony on the original record. Next to Kim, DiJulio was energetically strumming an acoustic guitar, while Mike played the leads on his Les Paul.
As the song progressed, it somehow evolved into a contest to see who could pull the most hilarious stage moves. Jefferson Angell definitely won, even though Tim DiJulio and Kim Virant were pretty close LOL
The major surprise of the night, however (at least, for the hearts of Seattle people), came after the band – all of it except for Mike McCready, that is – left the stage to be replaced for a completely different set of musicians, and the Mad Season reunion suddenly transformed into a Temple Of The Dog reunion.
Temple Of The Dog was a short-lived band formed in 1990 by Chris Cornell as a tribute to his roommate and friend, Mother Love Bone/Malfunkshun singer Andrew Wood, who had died just a few months earlier, after spending three days on life support following a – you guessed that right – heroin overdose. Despite being gone at the intolerably early age of 24, before the band even had time to release its debut album (which finally came out in 1992), Wood had had time to earn a reputation as a charismatic frontman and nice guy in general. He was dearly beloved in his hometown, and his life and death inspired countless songs in the Seattle scene and beyond, the most famous of them being Alice In Chains' Would?.
To help them cope with the loss and keep them busy, Chris Cornell enlisted Mother Love Bone members Jeff Ament and Stone Gossard (who played bass and rhythm guitar respectively). He completed the line-up with Soundgarden drummer Matt Cameron (a.k.a.the guy who was playing drums during Wake Up) and a young guitarist who had not yet managed to make a name for himself in the blossoming Seattle scene: Mike McCready.
One of the most amazing (and probably unique) things about the Seattle scene at the time was knowing that, anytime you had a personal problem, there was a friend in some grunge band ready to start a new musicaal project to help you deal with it. Friendship and loyalty were very important values for the Seattle musician community, and most of those guys still live by that.
That probably explains why they still form such a tight crew.
Mother Love Bone– from left to right: Bruce Fairweather, Stone Gossard, Greg Gilmore, Jeff Ament; Andrew Wood (and his fishnet glove) in the centre
Complying with its one-off nature, Temple Of The Dog only released one self-titled album. After that, Cameron and Cornell returned to work with Soundgarden, and Ament, Gossard and McCready went on to form a tiny little band called Pearl Jam.
This reunion might have seemed a little off-topic at first, but the fact that all five members of the band happened to be alive and under the same roof almost 25 years later was definitely a cause for celebration, and Mike wasn't willing to let the chance go to waste.
The band played two songs from Temple Of The Dog's self-titled album: Call Me A Dog– a heartfelt bluesy ballad with a strong late 80s/early 90s feel – and Reach Down– a heavy blues-driven mid-tempo rocker that wouldn't have sounded out of place in a Mad Season record.
I'm not familiar with Temple Of The Dog's repertoire, so I can't possibly weight on the performance, aside from saying that everything sounded exactly as top notch as you could possibly expect it to. Mike McCready (who definitely proved to be the hardest-working musician of the night) made a major demonstration of his soloing skills on never-ending guitar passages that could be used as a torture method in a Guantanamo style facility for dogmatics of modern-day hipster guitarless music, while Chris Cornell sang at the top of his lungs.
Chris– still in his grey cardigan and sunglasses – appeared to be somewhat more energized on this part of the set, probably liberated from the responsibility of acting as a medium for Layne Staley, and enjoying the freedom of just being himself. He moved around the stage, leaned against his mic stand, shook his enviable curls (not a lot of men have hair this awesome at 50) and even performed a few funny hops on the spot while Mike McCready soloed the hell out of himself.
Chris Cornell rocking his grey cardigan, Jeff Ament on bass (Source: Northwest Music Scene)
Temple Of The Dog reunited – basically Pearl Jam's current lineup with Chris Cornell instead of Eddie Vedder
He burst into applause as soon as Reach Down came to an end, while his bandmates removed their guitars and congratulated each other for what had undoubtedly been a spectacular performance. The night was almost over, and a spark of triumph could already be seen in the corner of Mike McCready's eye.
But there was one more thing he had to do before he could indulge himself and commit to the celebration of his achievements.
Left alone in the spotlight, he grabbed Chris Cornell's mic and spoke to the audience, leaning the stand towards himself to compensate for Cornell's massive 1.90 m height.
"Alright. We got one more song," he announced before bending down to grab a bottle of water. "That would be, uh..." he made a pause to drink, "wrong if I didn't mention a couple of people that were in this band in the past, named Layne Staley... and John Baker Saunders." He spoke their names cautiously, as if he was afraid of sounding blasphemous, and deliberately spaced them out to leave room for the applause he knew would follow each.
"It may be hard sometimes to hear this music," he continued, "but I think it means things to people, and that makes my heart fall, and Barrett's too... and we talked about that a lot – thank you for that."
Mike McCready during his speech
Hearing those words, it became clear just how emotionally challenging it must have been for him and Barret to dive back into that album; to sit down with their instruments and learn to play those songs all over again; to hear the voices of their long gone friends and confront their old demons... Mike explained that quite well in some of his interviews prior to the event:
"Some of that record is very sad, because I listen to Layne singing about his struggle, and it’s a weird thing to relive that. But it’s also important because it’s healing for everyone involved, and everyone who loves that record."
"That was a record I couldn't listen to for a really long time, just because of Layne and Baker both dying, and the darkness that had kind of followed that record. I'm very proud of it, and a lot of fans have come up to me and said that it's their favorite record and it's made a difference in their lives, so that made me kind of happy to know that it did that."
It was obvious that he was having a hard time talking to the audience about such personal matters. He spoke with his head bowed down and his eyes fixed on the floor at every moment. He tried to keep his voice tone as casual as possible, probably afraid of sounding pathetic or insincere, but the overwhelming emotion that impregnated his words still found its way through.
"We've lost a lot of friends and people," he said, "but... uh..." he struggled to find the right words, "I don't wanna surprise you too much tonight, but we're gonna do something that I want it to be known that it's straight from the heart," he swallowed, "and with a lot of respect for Layne and Baker."
He was so affected by his own speech he almost forgot to announce the final special guest of the night. He was already sitting on a chair (that had been brought to the stage especially for the occasion) with his double-neck guitar on his lap when he realized, and was forced to race to the microphone to introduce him... even though everyone in the building would have probably recognized him anyway.
"Sean Kinney is here tonight, from Alice In Chains!" he announced, when Sean had already made his way to the stage, mixed in with the rest of the band.
He walked in the spotlight, serious-faced as always, wearing his usual black long-sleeve T-shirt, jeans and Converse sneakers (he was obviously in the Chris Cornell etiquette club), and looking not a day over 25. He was so busy helping the assistants who were removing the congas from the side of Barrett's drumkit and placing them on the center of the stage, he didn't even have time to take a look at the audience.
None of his bandmates were present at the event, neither as performers, nor as spectators. A few hours before the show started, Jerry Cantrell was already on his way to Arizona for the Super Bowl, accompanied by a man who looked like (and probably was) his brother; Will and Mikey were just their usual kind of MIA. I have to admit that I was a little surprised by Jerry's absence, because I had always assumed that, if Mad Season ever did pull this type of grandiose reunion show, he would like to be there. Apparently, that was not the case. I'm not sure about the reasons, but he definitely had his motivations, and I respect that.
And so did everyone else.
As soon as Sean was handled a stool that allowed him to comfortably sit behind his congas, Barrett started banging the beat to All Alone– the beautiful psychedelic lullaby that closes the Above album – as a calling for the rest of the band to follow him. Sean was the first to join, right before Mike started playing his otherwordly phased arpeggio.
Barrett was drumming with his massive bare hands (making a visual statement about why you don't want to engage in a fight with this guy), while Matt gently rang the cymbals. At the front, Sean completed the strange lineup of a band with no singer and three drummers.
The audience, however, was not yet prepared for what was just about to come.
When Layne's voice cut through the speakers, the crowd roared with applause. It was impossible not to be moved to tears by that sound – their genuine cry of love and admiration; the childish fragility of Layne's voice floating above the heavy percussion, carried away in the waves of Mike McCready's all-encompassing guitar sound.
All five members of the band were commited to their task with trascendental seriousness, as if they were taking part in some ancient, sacred ritual. They were. Mike McCready, Barrett Martin, Sean Kinney, Matt Cameron and Duff McKagan escorting their friend on his final journey.
Mike and Barrett could have hardly found a more emotional and dignified way of putting an end to the show, or a more subtle and adequate way of paying homage to Layne and Baker.
Everyone – including Sean and Matt– burst into applause as soon as Barrett splashed the cymbals one last time for what appeared to be a grand finale, too overwhelmed by enthusiasm to realize that he, Mike and Duff were still playing their parts. It took a while before they noticed and allowed the trio to finish the song in respectful silence.
The thunderous wave of cheers, however, could barely be contained until Mike McCready's final note died out. It crashed against the stage as soon as his right hand stopped moving, and quickly engulfed the whole auditorium, while the five musicians stood up and engaged in brotherly hug.
Tim DiJulio, Kim Virant and Jefferson Angell were called back in for a rather incomplete collective salute, and, then, the whole ensemble proceeded to leave the stage in careful single file, amid handshakes with the audience, waving gestures and victory signs – courtesy of Mr. Sean Kinney. Mike and Duff lingered behind for a while, giving away setlist sheets and guitar picks until the house lights went on.
In the end, Sonic Evolution had proven to be a risk worth taking, and definitely an experience worth living for everyone involved. With its highs and lows, it sure was one night that won't be easily erased from Seattle's collective musical memory.
Family portrait: Tim DiJulio, Barrett Martin, Kim Virant, Duff McKagan, Sean Kinney, Jefferson Angell anf Mike McCready posing after the show
At the start of this post, I asked myself whether it was possible to resurrect Mad Season, and that question still doesn't have a simple answer.
Mad Season was a group of four unique individuals; four irreplaceable musicians coming from different backgrounds on different moments of their lives. It was a product of its own historical moment – a musical miracle that could only occur in those specific circumstances, in that specific timeframe and, of course, in the premises of that specific city. But, above all that, Mad Season was a bond – a very special bond that has managed to survive all this time.
Mad Season was Layne and Baker, but it was also the love of all the friends who would have done anything for them and who still remember them dearly, no matter how many years go by.
And that love, have no doubt about it, was present at the Benaroya Hall on the night of the 30th of January of 2015.
* * *
The next time I saw Sean Kinney– less than two days later – he was standing next to Jerry Cantrell at the University of Phoenix Stadium, almost as if by magic. It was clear that he wasn't willing to miss the Big Game, even if that meant flying 1700 km especially for the occasion. Unfortunately, the trip didn't go as well as expected for either of them: the Seahawks lost and they had to watch Katy Perry perform – both things I'm sincerely sorry for.
"Jerry and Sean pre-game at the #SuperBowl" Two men, six earrings. (Source: Alice In Chains Twitter)
All of that could have probably been avoided if the NFL had handed the Super Bowl halftime show to Alice In Chains, like some fans suggested, and, after watching the band's performance at the NFC Championship Game (a.k.a. the Super Bowl semifinals), it's hard to deny they had a point.
When Alice In Chains hit the stage at Seattle's CenturyLink Field (home of the Seahawks) on January 18th, the scoreboard signalled 16-0 in favour of the Green Bay Packers. By the time the game was over, the Seahawks had won 28-22 and were set to play their second consecutive Super Bowl. Exactly how much of the merit of that victory can be attributed to Alice's performance may be subject to discussion, but, if the supporters are the 12th player on their team, then these 12s put up one hell of a fight.
The band was almost literaly on fire, playing in the only way they know: by daylight and in the rain. They only had time to play two songs (which is even less than they got opening for Black Sabbath *cough*), but they made sure to get the absolute best out of them, demonstrating that playing stadiums is both something they enjoy and are totally capable of doing.
William DuVall once again proved to be one of the most lethal voices in rock music, nailing each note to the point of indecence. He was so commited to his frontman tasks I was almost convinced he was going to jump off the stage at some point, in an act of reckless rock'n'roll inmolation.
Jerry (who, by the way, was wearing the same shoes he wore in Germany LOL) rocked the talk box on Man In The Box and soloed flawlessly through Would? on his G&L guitar, customized with the Seahawks emblem for the occasion – just like Sean Kinney's bass drum patch.
Watching the band pull such a killer performance (which, by the way, was NOT aired on TV because commercials are way more important, obviously), it became way too easy to get lost in a fantasy world where the most viewed musical slot in American television (and probably in the world) is handed to the people who deserve it most, but, unfortunately, this industry is nowhere near meritocratic, and the bitter truth is that a band like Alice In Chains could never handle the amount of corporate whoring required for and derived from a Super Bowl halftime show. These are no longer the times of Freddie Mercury, when it was the job of the best to aim for the highest; when bigger was always better and musicians were allowed to enter the mainstream market without being previously stripped off their basic human dignity.
Nowadays, the main stage is paradoxically the most dangerous place to be for a talented musician, and it should be avoided at all cost, unless you want to end up dueting with Hozier, engaging in staged conflicts with Kanye West or playing BFFs with Lorde (Dave Grohl could teach us a couple of things about that). In this absurd monopolistic advetising-driven scheme, musicians not willing to pay the price are forced to give up on the media attention they're entitled to receive and live like fugitives, making sure to stay below the surface enough to escape the corporate radar.
Of all the unsafe main stages of the music industry, the Super Bowl is probably the most dangerous, and veteran rock bands should be well advised to stay away from it, unless they want to play it Half-Time Bruno Peppers style. Cantrell presentially witnessed that halftime show too, and I sincerely doubt he left the building with a burning desire to repeat the fate of his former Lollapalooza touring buddies.
Sean Kinney shot from behind – officially the best anyone has ever looked behind a drum kit
Looks like somebody was having an epic day...
Mike Inez getting into the groove
Who doesn't like playing to a large crowd every once in a while?
William DuVall enjoying the views during rehearsals at CenturyLink Field
Will next to an actual Seattle seahawk
Sean Kinney, Duff McKagan and Jerry Cantrell showing some love for their team on the week before the NFC Championship Game
Sean Kinney, William DuVall, Jerry Cantrell and Mike Inez standing happily in the Seattle rain
And so the corporate wheels turned, and Katy Perry rode what Steel Panther described as a steel panther, danced next to a clumsy shark and stage-raped Lenny Kravitz, not necessarily in that order, because I honestly didn't take the time to watch the whole thing.
The Seahawks lost 24-28 to the New England Patriots, mostly due to a stupid last-minute pass (or that's what I've learnt from memes and internet jokes anyway); Patriots quarterback and Gisele Bundchen husband Tom Brady was named the game's Most Valuable Player (yup – they do handle that title at the Super Bowl) amid rumors of cheating that somehow involved deflated footballs, and Jerry and Sean returned to wherever they live now, probably sad-faced and with some shitty Doctor Luke tune stuck in their heads.
Seattle Seahawks' Super Bowl49 defeat, explained by the Internet
Back in Seattle, a big bunch of Seahawks supporters peacefully marched through the downtown streets, waving their flags and proudly displaying their colours, because you know... that's just one of them Seattle things.
Crowd of supporters marching through Downtown Seattle (Source: Seattle Times)
* * *
Meanwhile, the most important Seattle story of the year was probably still getting the finishing touches in the editing room, two weeks ahead of its theatrical release. Naturally, I'm talking about the film adaptation of the fan fiction series bound to turn Seattle into the world's next BDSM capital: 50 Shades of Grey, directed by famed conceptual artist and minor corruptor Sam Taylor-WoodJohnson.
Hello, Space Needle
No, I haven't seen the actual thing, and I don't think I'm going to, but I've taken my time to watch the trailer and do some research, and oh man...
The plot line is as good or as bad as fan fiction can get (that depends on whether you're treating it as fan fiction or trying to take it seriously as literature), the acting is awful, and the production doesn't look much more expensive than your average Season 10 Smallville episode; the treatment of the sex scenes is clichéd beyond belief and Jamie Dornan is the least charismatic guy ever... but we already knew all of that.
While most people were eager to catch a glimpse of the BDSM scenes, I was only really interested in the Seattle scenes, because, honestly, finding out how the city is portrayed in this story is the only thing that's kept me curious about it. I found the official trailer disppointingly short on those, so I ended up looking for them in fan-made videos instead.
In the movie's defense, I will say that the Seattle views are shot nicely, and seem to capture the feeling of the city quite well. I was positively surprised to see the 12th Man flag waving at the top of the Space Needle (which proves that the helicopter scenes were shot during the NFL playoffs, even though the characters are dressed way too lightly for January in the Pacific Northwest), but don't get too excited – that's the closest this movie ever comes to being realistic or faithful to the Seattle spirit.
Embedding has been disabled. Click HERE for the actual video... at your own risk
The only other realistic detail is
the inclusion of a real Seattle luxury apartment complex, which has
already become an unlikely tourist attraction, advertised by some
agencies as 'the home of Christian Grey'. It's not like the average 50 Shades fan can afford to live in there, though.
Everything that is not an aerial view has been shot in Vancouver, BC – a
city that, fortunately for them, certainly does look a lot like Seattle
in many aspects, so the feeling of continuity doesn't get lost.
Something that certainly does not extend to the interior scenes...
Vancouver, BC vs Seattle, WA
Rainy streets: Seattle above, Vancouver below
12th Man flag waving at the top of the Space Needle (NOT from 50 Shades)
I could make a list of all the things that are terribly wrong with this film, but instead, I'll just encourage you to read this brief and hilarious article.
Point #45 sums it all up:
"It's a bigger Seattle letdown than Super Bowl49."
Touché,
* * *
I don't want to end this post without a mention to my fellow grungers, Japanese band D.O.G.S., who will be leaving for Seattle at the end of the year to record with Jack Endino– founding member of Skin Yard (that's right – the Skin Yard where both Matt Cameron and Barrett Martin played) and producer of Nirvana's Bleach and Soundgarden's Screaming Life EP, among a ton of other records by more or less underground bands and artists from Seattle and beyond.
I rarely trust producers, but it's undeniable that working with a guy who has such a history has to be an experience worth going for – aside from a huge boost in grunge cred.
Jack Endino at work
Jack Endino in the late 80s, standing in front of Reciprocal Recording studio, where Nirvana's Bleach and Soundgarden's Screaming Life EP were recorded
The only problem, as usual, is getting the funding necessary to book enough studio time to record a full-lenght album, and I personally have no idea of how much that can be. Endino produced Bleach for $600, but that was in 1989, and his fees might have increased somewhat since that time. Anyway, he's definitely not in the league of the douche bag who gets paid millions for taking a nap while other people do his job *cough*, so we're probably speaking of more or less affordable numbers. If you feel like contributing to the cause, they have a bunch of albums and EPs out waiting to be purchased.
At this point of things and considering the current state of the industry, it's hard to tell whether investing money in recording an album makes sense at all, but then again, I'm way too skeptical for this life, so I'm probably not the best at showing support for my fellow musicians, even when I genuinely do support them. I just have a hard time being enthusiastic about stuff without seeing the overall purposelessness of it all, but hey – guess that's just my grunge nihilism taking over ;)
Anyway, the important thing here is that these guys are getting to make a trip to Seattle and record with one of the dudes who practically invented grunge music. Everything else should be considered a lucky (and probably expensive) bonus.
I wish them all the best and I'd love to be helpful in whichever way I can (even if I'm not sure how LOL), because that's what colleagues are for.
I hope this turns out to be a real game-changer for you, guys...
