Part of my life, the part I don’t broadcast, is an avid listener of so-called grunge/rock music. I was torn up inside when Kurt Cobain killed himself. I was drawn to his music.
Chris Cornell committing suicide cuts me to my core. His music helped me through some dark dark days.
Gospel music can help me pray for absolution, Soul music gets me tangled up in emotional bondage be it broken heart or new love, Hip-Hop lets that inner thug-life diva I’m known to be stretch her arms and embrace my essence; but the sound of so called grunge, that rock and soul is what I want to hear when the curtains feel like they are falling fast and the audience has left; when I’m standing on the stage alone; trapped between anger and pain and I don’t want either to win.
I wither into melodies created by artists who know my demons, have dined with them yet offer them nothing but a beating drummed up fear and loathing which can not be heard over the din of guitar and syncopated rhythms; soothing savage beasts of burden.
It is selfish, it is odd, it is revealing something about me I have never freely given. But I am profoundly saddened by his death; by his own hands.
Perhaps he should have leaned into his own music just a little deeper.