Somnolence
I remember when the floor was open time and time again.
I remember then, starting over time and time again.
I saw the storm rip through my home and the rain pour down my soul.
I lost my way.
Off the beaten path is where I lay.
I remember now, the point of living is not the when but how.
But I keep looking down, pensive, trembling, so afraid to drown.
I heard the rain. It pierces and stings. Burn my skin, I lie in wait.
I will stay a while to figure out where I've run aground.
[circa 2005]
Details of a Devil
The liars are strangers donning faces of friends and the words of a lark strut and pretend like a canary in a mine prophesying the end of an era as the real work begins.
Fall on dollars that turn into dimes inside of butterfly pockets salted with lime which are good for ridiculous topics forgotten with time under the guise of wisdom, wicked or benign.
Quaking boots writhe and quiver on a foot organic that toe taps in a shrapnel based rhythmic panic attempting to conquer clarity in the land of static, humming atonal melodies that are caustically manic.
But I digress in the midst of understanding how the mind circumvents itself into defending against fallacious direction, self induced and demanding, because it is only as real as a lie recanted.
[written 2017.06.25]
Unilatetal
I'm bored.
Waking up to break away, I'm sore.
Lying down to pull my weight forward.
Waking up to soiled chains, I'm sore.
Got no use for legs that hesitate.
Ignore latent prints upon my skin.
Adore. Cut yourself for recompense.
Absorb blood to prove the depth of your belief.
Ignore the way you take it out on me.
Like the wind siren whirl, I make autarchic sounds.
What for?
Waking up to break away, I'm bored.
Drink myself to apathy once more.
Waking up to soiled chains, I'm sore.
Got no use for legs that hesitate.
Like the wind siren whirl, I make autarchic sounds. I hate autarchic sounds.
Remorse, I risk of every choice I make.
Discord results if I deny my fate onward.
Waking up to soiled chains no more.
Got no use for legs that hesitate.
[2016 © Dirty Metal Lefty]
1964 - Forever
Brother, Father, Husband, Bandmate, Friend, Smart Ass, Mentor, Inspiration, Muse, Composer, Gifted, Rock God, Genre Architect, Philanthropist, Beacon of hope, and a million other things to a million other people.
But right now, by crooked steps, he is the hole inside my heart.
A little background about me: I was born into Soul, Funk, and early Hip-Hop; raised by Blues, Jazz, Metal, and 'Grunge'; and currently live by whatever song oozes from my fingers or drips from my lips. In an existence where the only constant is change, music remains the ubiquitous entity able to skate around the variable constant as a helix, shifting sounds with time yet always unapologetically present.
Somewhere along the way, I gravitated toward the vibes emanating from Alice In Chains and Soundgarden. Their music contained elements of my upbringing infused with crashing guitars, thunderous rhythms, off-kilter time signatures, introspective brooding, and preternatural voices that will haunt me for the rest of my life. Little did I know their respective lyrics and writing styles would become some of the most crucial navigational charts I would ever use to weather future storms. Or to what extent their influence would indelibly affect my creative calibre.
Jerry Cantrell and Chris Cornell, The Bear and The Snake as I like to call them, are two ever present slices of the eight part collective. As a songwriting guitarist, it's only natural I would grow fondly attached to them both. Jerry's approach to writing, with his esoteric metaphors and wordplay, has a brutally honest way of telling it like it is. His vocal harmonies with Layne Staley reverberated into my bones, forcing me to own up and face whatever particular truth I was fighting so hard to deny at the time. Chris's approach, also equally clever, would confirm said ugly truth. His voice however; be it banshee wail or velvet croon, was the poignant reminder that everything would eventually be okay. A simple reminder that I already had the strength to overcome anything. Be it rough seas or smooth sailing, band efforts or solo projects, neither one has ever let me down.
A fracture happened. After the release of "Down On The Upside", Soundgarden broke up. Like a kid in the middle of a proverbial divorce, my attentions went primarily toward AIC and Jerry's first solo record, "Boggy Depot". I visited Chris with his "Euphoria Mourning" record (and later Audioslave) on weekends. Jerry got me through the end of high school; the devastating loss of Layne Staley (the then conclusion of Alice In Chains); the first couple of college years; mortuary school; and the shit show that was my life between 2005 and the beginning of 2009.
Fast forward to 2013. Out of the blue, I had an unyielding desire to hear Chris's voice. I took my mp3 player and set everything I had of his on it to a playlist. I'd fallen in love all over again. To my disappointment, the digital collection only contained "Superunknown", "King Animal", one single from "Euphoria Mourning" and two singles from Audioslave's first record. I dug up old tapes and CDs, even ordering a few replacements to refill the discography tank. From the radio, other cars at stop lights, at the pub, over store PAs, to movie soundtracks, that distinctive siren call began to follow me everywhere. "Okay Chris, you've got me. I'm listening. What are you trying to say?"
In April 2014, there was a karaoke party at a local recording studio. I sang "Fell On Black Days", the sobering anthem that often comforted me during beatdowns of unexplainable sadness. From there, I was invited back a few more times and recorded a few extra covers before being encouraged to start bringing in original material. Somehow spending time in the studio opened the flood gates wide enough to decimate a decade long writer's block. Chris's "Scream" and "Songbook" records suddenly became the soundtrack of an endless summer that me lead on an unprecedented whirlwind road trip to NYC where I found Bleecker Street Zeke (the infamous 6-stringed love of my life); to NJ where I finally wrote a second verse to a song I'd started in 2005; to VA Beach for a continued celebration of Soundgarden's reunion and 20th anniversary of Superunknown, and back home to numerous local shows in between everything else. Working up the gumption to try out my new material for the inaugural attempt at open mic should have been a fitting conclusion to an exciting year. Yet a dark cloud of unfulfilled longing lingered.
While sitting in the kitchen one evening, knee deep in a research paper and mindless listening to Scream, I heard somebody say "Get up!" Frustrated at the audacity of interruption, I unburied my head from my work and loudly retorted "What!?" It took a moment to realise I'd just yelled at the stereo. Unphased by the outburst, Chris went on to sing:
Get up/ Get off the floor/ I said Get up/ Do something more/ You need a backbone to roll with the world/ You gotta get you one to run with bulls/ You ready?
That was it. I replayed track 4. Every word eerily paralleled my life at present. Who would've guessed the record many wagered would be the musical undoing of the great Cornell would turn out to be the conduit of my reawakening.
In January 2015, my long time friend and vocal coach, Kriston, suggested I enter NPR's Tiny Desk Contest. I, along with a few thousand others, lost to Fantastic Negrito (and rightfully so). His dirty grit sound reminded me of my own and his story inspired me to keep pushing forward; to, as he would later pen, "Hump Through the Winter". So I did. No fucks given. We became friends on Twitter and I've been following his work ever since.
By May, I had gone into the studio to record my debut solo effort with no label support, no budget for session musicians, and no time to wait on anyone. The dog days of August brought the first official Dirty Metal Lefty gig; however, the crisp airs of autumn would be the moment of truth. "Nevá On Sundays" dropped on October 16. Two days prior to release, I drove to Rockville, MD to see Chris during the first run of the "Higher Truth" tour. I left an advanced copy of my CD on stage before the show started, not so much for him but more so for me. As a matter of fact, he almost stepped on it during a Bob Dylan cover. That didn't matter because the gesture was meant to signify finality, a turning point if you will. I had crossed the rubicon heading toward how I'd plan to occupy the rest of my days.
2016 brought more gigs around town and shot Fantastic Negrito's career into the stratosphere. To my pleasant surprise, Chris tapped him to open on the European leg of Higher Truth's second run. I'd never been more proud, truly a win for every indie artist working to crawl out of the underground. Not long after, local punk band, The Weak Days, picked me up to hit the road with them too. Dirty Metal Lefty jumped out of the fish bowl. The highway offered new fans, new friends, and long hours of reflective contemplations. Negrito told me he didn't know for certain if he would continue his residence as opener for the North American dates so, I got to thinking. . .No fucks given. . .and placed a one-time bid for the slot when the tour stopped in Richmond, VA. The tour folks actually followed up expeditiously. Turns out Negrito would in fact stay on to finish out the rest of his tenure.
If you've never had an opportunity see Chris Cornell live in any capacity, then you have my genuine sympathies. Youtube videos and concert footage don't quite do the experience justice. The rock shows will keep you out of your seat, leaving you elevated with ringing ears and a hoarse voice. The acoustic gigs are a completely different monster entirely. I felt more in tune with those since I could relate to the unnerving quiet of being on stage armed with only a guitar and the timbre of your own voice. Exposed and raw. All of your vulnerabilities lay bare to the mercy of an unforgiving (and at times, intoxicated) audience. But he did it. He gave us his all seemingly with little to no effort, room by room, night after night. I swear, that man could sing the dictionary or the federal tax code and I would buy it no questions asked.
The aura of his presence is physically palpable. I guess that sort of thing happens from candidly sharing your soul with the world for over three decades. Before he utters a word, you feel as if you already know him. In a way, everybody knows him — especially when Chris the Human would slip out in between vocal melodies with his uncanny penchant for the lost art of storytelling. He'd regale us with the origins of our favourite songs, tales from the road, hilarious audience banter, ancedotes of fatherhood and how his wife is smarter than he is, or even occasional commentary on the news of the day. Some days I'd wish he would sit down to write a book of his musings.
Then it happened. One more item marked off the grocery list dreams and personal goals. I met him in Albany, NY (shout out to Linda for helping to make that happen). Maybe he remembered me from the show two nights before or maybe not. Who cares? Nevertheless, it was like catching up with an old friend. I mentioned how "The sun never sets on a badass." and his face lit up. What I remember most is his hug. My head rested briefly in the crux of a branch like limb affixed to the trunk on a redwood of a man. (Due to our height difference, I only came up to his armpit.) The single embrace drained from me every morsel of negative energy, every bit of stress, every residual scrap of unrelated malcontent; allowing room for a fleeting moment of total zen. That shit was magical!
Celebrity aside, I am inclined to believe the prodigious occurrence is a testament of his ever evolving empathetic character. Here was someone who'd braved the trenches, buried friends before their time, fought numerous battles against personal demons and WON; someone who made a point to use his position of influence to act on his own sense of personal responsibility through philanthropy and other altruistic undertakings.
Here was a man who had found his peace. Fates rest the souls of Andy, Layne, Shannon, Kurt, Jeff, Michael, Whitney, Prince, the others who have fallen on the journey. Through every stumble, he always lived to sing and play another day. That's what makes Chris's passing so difficult to fathom. We grew up with him. He was supposed to make it. He was supposed to die a gregarious old man still on top of his game, surrounded by loved ones and respected by all as the best to ever do it.
The trouble with finding peace is realising how much harder we have to work to hold on to it; perhaps even harder than the initial efforts to find it. Peace is elusive. It is the rain that slips between our fingers on a hot day. Even if we cup our hands to catch it, it can still spill over our palms out of our grasp when we're not careful. Thus peace is also precious. As I sit here, hours before his burial, weeping over the night he flew away, weeping for the song we'll never write together, the stage we'll never share, the bands he'll never play with again, the light of a candle extinguished too soon, the unforgettable hug that could easily eradicate cancer or at least my need for morning caffeine; my grief is deeply humbled by the fact that those hugs were probably a duty free routine for Chris's wife Vicky and his three beautiful children. I can't begin to comprehend the volatile tempest surrounding his family and close friends. I weep for them. I weep for Peter. I weep Ben, Kim, and Matt. For Eddie. For Tom, Tim, and Brad. I weep for the bonds of their brotherhood forged by blood and cemented in the music that keeps them together. I weep for the prospect of being forced to carry on with questions no one may ever have an answer to.
I refuse to offer any farewells or goodbyes because through us, the great Cornell is immortal. Instead, I am thankful. I raise my glass to the memories, to the friendships born from shared appreciation and admiration, to the Black Hole Sons conceived during Black Hole Sun, for getting us into trouble while keeping us out of it, for giving us the patience to keep calm and keep on rowing, to the Drop Ds, to the 6/8s and the 3/4s, to the laughs, the humility, the humanity, the middle fingers, to Chris spending the better half of 32 years without a shirt, to tears shed, to autographs, to searching all over town for a desired bootleg import, to standing in rain after a long drive to see the band, to the perfect combination of pizza and music videos, to a smile that continues to melt the shattered fragments of a broken heart, to charitable deeds, to social awareness, to understanding the world extends further than yourself, to the legacy left behind.
But still I weep. And I pray. May the weight we schlep on our hearts grow lighter with each passing step. As we commit his body to the earth today, let us not forget each other in the violet hours of the coming months for grief knows nothing of linear timelines. Listen closely in your moments of despair. Listen for that distinctive siren call. Chris has never let us down before and I don't see any reason he would do so now.
"Though your garden's gray, I know all your graces someday will flower in a sweet sunshower."
Peace and Blessings, Loud Love, Cheers
-"Dirty" Doc Thomas
(Dirty Metal Lefty)
[completed: 2017.5.26 revised: 2017.6.6]
[photo taken 2016.6.22 Richmond, VA]