Chris Cornell

He or she could sing the phone book...

It's one of those rare cliches that actually means something.  It's never used for the Britney Spears or Donny Osmond's or even the Paul McCartneys of the world.  It's reserved for the unique, the special, those whose talent is so remarkable that "talented" sounds insulting. 

The Adeles, the Whitneys, the Freddy Mercurys and yes, the Chris Cornells all merit that cliche.

Those who write; be it, lyrics or novels or simplistic pieces as I am doing now, all find a common thread in our self-described art... Inspiration: the intangible stimulant that gets our creative juices flowing. 

For some, it's heartbreak.  What better way to honestly emote the suffering you feel at a given moment than writing?  Joy; such as falling in love is another catalyst for artists.  When you experience moments of joy you want the world and the individual responsible for it to know and feel it. 

For me, yes, those are the two themes I consistently stick with when publicly and vulnerably throwing these into the outside world.  However, there is a third one:  Nostalgia.   What really is nostalgia?  It's when something tangible (i.e. a song on the radio, a scent, a simple name) reminds us of past intangibles like heartbreak or joy.

Two nights ago, the world lost Chris Cornell.  Like many from my generation, it left a hollow feeling of emptiness in me.  Was I one of his "biggest" fans?  Not really... but I am a fan of extraordinary talent. 

Talent is an aphrodisiac.  Rock stars, actors, athletes.. go ahead, pick a career that takes spectacular talent; you'll find the least attractive get the most attractive.  It's not the money or fame.  It's talent.  Those who shine the brightest...

Chris Cornell shone brightly in a perpetually overcast and dreary city called Seattle. 

Seattle is credited as the birthplace of grunge; the angst ridden music genre that transitioned us from the vapid hair bands of the 80s and was the precursor to the ridiculously choreographed boy bands of the mid to late 90s. 

Grunge meant something to us.  It was dirty.  Honest.  Joyless.  Hopeless.  Grunge was the genre of dysfunctional and often severely unhappy musicians talking TO young people and kids like me.  It was relate-able.  Seattle, its birthplace, makes perfect sense.  It's not happy sunny Hawaii.

It's no mystery why the great ones from that era are almost all gone.  Cobain, Scott Weilland, Layne Staley, Andrew Wood and now, Chris Cornell; either, from suicide or drug overdoses.

Joyless people or those wallowing in hopelessness not only sing about it, they live it.  And ultimately, die from it. 

I know a good dozen cliches for those who ponder suicide or want to taste faith and hope.  I know the 12 steps of recovery.  I could add a few paragraphs with some self-righteous inspiration to end this neatly with a bow so whomever reads this might possibly feel good.

I'm not going to do that.

Chris Cornell killed himself two nights ago.

The world is now darker without his talent.  And I find myself nostalgically longing for the days when I was younger shaking my head in agreement as Nirvana or Soundgarden and the other grunge bands lamented their hopelessness.

Chris Cornell could sing the phone book.