A Requiem for Chris Cornell

Along with millions of other fans around the world, I felt the shock, numbness, and pain upon hearing the heartbreaking news of the sudden tragic death of Chris Cornell last month. He was one of my main music influences, a uniquely talented yet troubled artist who amassed an extensive catalogue of music over the past three decades.

In the late eighties, Chris Cornell fronted Soundgarden, and along with other Seattle bands like Nirvana, Alice in Chains, and Pearl Jam, ushered in the 1990s “Grunge Rock” era, music often characterized by loud distorted guitars and gloomy lyrics, though such categorization diminishes the extraordinary talent of these authentic artists who pioneered the Seattle music scene. I was viscerally drawn to Chris Cornell’s music when I first heard it in my early twenties. This past week, I perused my music library, pulling out piles of his DVDs and CDs I’d purchased over the years, including: Temple of the Dog, Soundgarden, Audioslave, his solo works, and movie soundtracks, in order to reflect upon this music I have returned to again and again when my mood, circumstance, or preference called for it.

Chris Cornell was an immensely talented artist. His distinctive multiple octave vocal range could convey anger and aggression (like in Soundgarden’s “Loud Love,” and “Outshined,” his solo “No Such Thing,” or Audioslave’s “Cochise”), or tender melancholy, fragile introspection, and internal pain (in songs such as Temple of the Dog’s “Say Hello To Heaven,” “Seasons” from the Singles Soundtrack, Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” or Audioslave’s “Like a Stone”). The combination of his sublimely poignant lyrics, along with the powerfully gifted vocals that conveyed them, could ignite your nervous system, cut through your skin, pierce the recesses of your heart, and penetrate the very marrow of your bones, especially when he let out one of his trademark primal screams that often began in the low to mid-range and modulated up into the higher registers, permeating the ether and momentarily connecting with the fiber of your being.

Because I am generally an outwardly positive person, it may come as a surprise to some that I am such an avid Chris Cornell fan and that his music speaks to me. Though I am genetically predisposed to depression through heredity, my condition was exacerbated early on by some very difficult circumstances that occurred in my formative adolescent years, and I entered high school with a secret heaviness I tried to keep hidden from others. I gravitated to literary writers like Edgar Allan Poe and bands like Blue Oyster Cult and Black Sabbath to feed my adolescent angst and embrace my dark side, while at other times turned to artists like the Beatles to bring me solace from it. During these years, my depression would periodically require me to travel through what I call the “tunnel.” Many people mistake depression for sadness. Everyone gets depressed sometimes, when sad events or bad things happen to cause you to feel despondent and dejected, but depression is not sadness. Rather, it is emptiness, a temporary void, a lack of any emotions, where you become an unfeeling hollow shell, and at times, it can be quite frightening. While those good intentioned, patient, understanding people around you try in vain to provide comfort, it is a path one must walk alone until reaching the end of the tunnel and emerging safely on the other side from your episode of darkness.

Music can be a great healer, distraction, or companion while traversing the tunnel, and with that comes a deep respect and high regard for the artists who save us from ourselves. Though I was out of my adolescence and into my twenties, I was still searching for my identity and a sense of self. Chris Cornell’s music came at an impressionable time, reaching out to my residual angst and rage. I couldn’t help but be moved by his vocal performance and the depth and breadth of his lyrics. He sang about the complexity of the human condition, and by doing so, provided some hope, as listeners could live vicariously through his painful, stark, and honest words, which gave some sense of respite and temporarily filled that existential hole inside. Chris Cornell epitomized raw human emotions, wore his heart on his sleeve, and bore his troubled soul for all to hear, and those of us who could relate, found solace in his solemnity (sadly, being a purveyor, he apparently could not provide the same for himself).

Chris Cornell’s personable yet enigmatic off-stage demeanor and compelling charisma during live performances made him intriguing. Over the past decades, I’d tune in to watch any time he was the musical guest on various programs or late night talk shows, watching him perform his songs, movie tracks (like “The Keeper,” and most recently “The Promise”), or duets with the other artists. His performances often left me spellbound, and I’d find myself rewinding and re-watching the performances; one of my favorites was when he joined the Avett Brothers’ on their song “Vanity” on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, which may still be found on Youtube. His musical talent, vocal prowess, personal charm, and innate fragility comes across on his 2011 “Songbook” CD–a collection of his solo acoustic performances, stripped down versions of songs from all his musical endeavors along with some choice covers–that I highly recommend.

As one of his many humble fans, I send out a prayer for the restful soul of Chris Cornell, and for all those in this world who continue to live with the darkness, trudge through the tunnels, and tread the edge. Know that there are those here around you, fellow suffers who wear the mask, hide the pain, and use the same music you do to help heal inner demons. I am thankful to be able to continue to appreciate Chris Cornell’s artistic genius, talent, beauty, and humanity, and the music medicine he provided for the sometimes intolerably painful malaise of life felt by many anxiety-ridden human souls out in the world. Rolling Stone editor Rob Sheffield once suggested that, “When we die, we will turn into songs, and we will hear each other and remember each other.” Chris Cornell is now a song, one that will remain with many of us, and one that we will continue to sing along with as we navigate through this thing called life.

Photo by Gabe McIntyre