Chris Cornell death: Mikey Cahill’s tribute to Soundgarden frontman
CHRIS Cornell’s voice sounded like it was dipped in honey then dragged across traintracks as a locomotive careered over the top. Mikey Cahill delivers his heartfelt tribute to the Soundgarden frontman.
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My dad bought a CD player in Singapore in 1994.
It was small and fairly crappy but it had oomph.
He brought it into my chilly bedroom when I was in Year 11 on the same day I bought Soundgarden’s Superunknown.
I had a splitting headache.
Still, I put that album on and lay down and cranked it for an hour and a half, blown away by the precision of heavy gothic, slightly Satanic riffs, the rumbling rhythm section and more than anything Chris Cornell’s blistering banshee howl.
It was a voice dipped in honey then dragged across traintracks as a locomotive careered right over the top.
The thing about Cornell’s voice was that he just kept singing.
How?
He sounded immortal and made me feel immortal.
Let Me Drown, My Wave, Fell On Black Days, every song was overpowering and empowering.
“Still got that headache, sonny?” my dad asked me, poking an inquisitive head into my room before dinner.
“Yep,” I whimpered.
“Then don’t you think you should turn that music down!?” he interrobanged.
My mum would drive us to St Francis Xavier College, Beaconsfield and allow us to play Fell On Black Days, Half and 4th Of July because they weren’t as hectic as songs like Kickstand and Superunknown.
She would fluff the lyrics, singing along to Fell On Black Days; a very optimistic Catholic mondegreen: “How would I know this could be my lucky day.”
The lyric she missed was of course “faaaaate.”
That word is pretty unsettling to think about now after Cornell’s “sudden, unexpected death.”
University began in ‘96 and ‘erbal remedies, Soundgarden and vodka Slurpees went together very well.
A combination of sludgey grunge, grungy sludge and 7-11 DIY booze heaven.
Cornell was a hero to us, a dangerous, warm Messiah-like rock star, friendly in interviews, obviously troubled but just getting on with making music that would scorch the earth.
One night at Metro’s Thursday night institution, Goo, a song started with a startling stark riff.
The whole room gave each other knowing looks, aggressive shoulder rolls and the dancefloor became a mosh.
“What’s this?”
I asked my two new uni pals.
They looked at me incredulously.
“JESUS CHRIST POSE!” one shouted over the din.
I hadn’t done my homework.
It’s a memory I still bring up every time we listen to Soundgarden together (we’re all still close 21 years on) and one neither of them can remember. Treacly Bourbon and Coke at Goo was $2.50 a throw.
Down on the Upside came out and it was a gear shift for Soundgarden.
They were still at their exemplary, skull-shaking best, just entering a more distant, echo-y, contemplative, even dubby chapter.
I remember stupidly putting a cigarette lighter into my mate’s two-in-one CD and tape deck in his car as Zero Chance was playing.
It took two hours to get it out using two Bic pens.
At least we had a decent soundtrack. And it would lead us to this:
Around this time everyone was looking back at Soundgarden’s earlier works: Badmotorfinger, UltraMega OK and even a certain embryonic supergroup.
Temple of the Dog had become folkloric in the space of a few years.
Partly due to film director Cameron Crowe’s love letter to Seattle, Singles, including Cornell’s suave slacker cameo and Birth Ritual performance, partly due to the gritty Pearl Jam connection.
We saw Soundgarden in concert at Festival Hall and as soon as my Monash Uni mates and I got there we all took our T-shirts off without any discussion. Festering Hall.
It felt like a 100 degrees.
Muggy as.
Sweat was literally dropping from the ceiling, raining icepicks on your still shore.
Cornell and band hit the stage in brown and purple light and were tighter than a fish’s arse.
They ripped through Outshined, Rusty Cage, Jesus Christ Pose and then Cornell threw his white, fluffy sweat-soaked towel out to the mosh pit.
The mosh stopped.
Immediately, the pit become a tug of war between grown-ass men, stoned undergrads and a few plucky chicks.
We all pushed and pulled as Seattle’s Shroud of Turin shredded into eight pieces.
Fights nearly broke out.
Cornell was a god to us.
Cooler heads prevailed.
His two metre towel became — I kid you not — about seven metres in length.
I snatched a chunk away from one guy who I was duelling with and shoved it straight down my silky, Mitch Dowd Mr Happy boxer shorts.
My friend glanced over at me with a glint in his eye, he’d scored some Cornell DNA too.
He proudly pinned the sinewy white cloth to his walls for years afterwards while mine was absorbed into a four-bedroom house with five children.
Sidenote: I had an enemy at Monash Berwick who I would see between classes, some Sri Lankan/Scottish guy who would always scowl at me (it turns out my girlfriend at the time had unfairly accused him of hacking her email) whenever we’d pass each other in the corridors.
We happened to bump into each other at that pivotal Soundgarden concert right before they started and surrendered to the moment, said “Hey” and shook hands in a very late ‘90s bro way. No use fighting fate.
To this day we are the best of friends, having gone on more than few adventures through two continents and marvelled more than once at Johnny Cash’s reinterpreting of Rusty Cage and Cornell’s towering, celestial version of Ave Maria.
Soundgarden toured here for the Soundwave Festival in 2015 along with Faith No More.
It was nostalgic, sure, but it felt more potent and provocative than most of the half-arse bands on the bill.
Spoonman still sounded like some incantation from a Turkish bazaar that could be from 1977 or 2027.
That Sri Lankan/Scottish mate in London messaged me last week: “loving the facial hair, sir, it’s very late ‘90s Chris Cornell.”
Quite the compliment.
It gave me an excuse to play Mind Riot, Burden In My Hand, Searching With My Good Eyes Closed and Apple Bite.
F--k they sounded great, especially super loud. Invigorating.
Cornell was back in my mind, front and centre.
And he was touring.
Soundgarden played Detroit two nights ago.
They sounded mint via Instagram videos, although Chris seemed slightly detached.
In Cornell’s lyrics, we always noticed suicide was a recurring theme.
It was always a head scratcher.
The songs Like Suicide and Pretty Noose blatantly mentioned it.
One of their must underrated songs (a fan favourite) The Day I Tried To Live was barely more subtle. “I woke the same as any other day, Except a voice was in my head, it said ‘Pull the trigger, drop the blade and watch the rolling heads’.”
I was fortunate enough to speak to him two years ago before his last solo tour here.
By chance, we talked about his total sobriety (no alcohol, no smoking, no drugs), forgetting the words to Black Hole Sun and a near-death experience he had here years back when he nearly drowned.
It appears the 52-year-old may indeed have taken his own life. (Update: this is confirmed. Awful outcome)
I hope not, for his family’s sake (he has a wife, a son and two daughters) and his friend’s sake and his fan’s (that’s you) sake.
There were still a hundred stages he needed to rule, a thousand wannabe rock bands to outshine, there was still the superunknown.
Chris Cornell RIP.
Twitter: @JoeyLightbulb
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