August 18, 2017
There’s a reason people don’t talk about it: that looming specter in wait to claim another life. One taking many men long before their time. And you rarely ever recognize it, even in reflections cast by other’s eyes. But the urgency is real. Some might say their loss was to a lifestyle, citing all those who’ve wandered down that same path. What they don’t acknowledge is musicians are no different from neighbors, family members, and friends.
One Sunday morning years ago, I awoke to a silent scream. That’s the vibe a person puts off when sound can’t carry their pain. It came from a man who’d stumbled upon the lifeless body of the woman next door. She left this world minutes earlier in the confines of home. We had barely spoken but I often saw her tending a garden behind the house. Maybe that was her way of trying to foster vitality. The man sat there mum, alone on the curb near a police cruiser, waiting for them to sort things out. Our street was hushed by uncertainty and wonder, as parents held their children closer, while we all took a moment to reflect on the nature of existence.
"In The End," It Really Does Matter.
Responders came and went, followed by daylight, leaving only a tape-guarded entryway that couldn’t keep out thoughts. Beside, her abandoned car mirrored despair. Its sheen had been coated by the elements and the left front tire was slowly deflating. As I stood there, part of me empathized with her struggle. You always wonder if some small ripple at the right time may have changed everything. But I was equally concerned for the man who found her.
I knew he’d never forget looking for her that morning and turning that fateful corner. The awestruck that comes watching your inner world crashing down as the outside appears entirely frozen. I imagined questions might linger about the choices he made: perhaps sleeping in, taking the scenic route, or stopping for coffee. And I knew those demons had found refuge in the chambers of every person who cared about her.
The following weeks offered little more than the shedding of tears and a host of belongings to sort through. Eventually, a car to tow away. There was nothing to romanticize about any of it, no poetic denouement, only the simple truth that a community suffered a loss. Recently, it seems to be happening all too often.
Scott Weiland
These three men are irreplaceable. So are Layne Staley, Michael Hutchence, and many others deceased or surviving. Through their trials emerged a voice that resonated with complete clarity. Like wolves howling at the moon, our cries were shared in a darkness as consuming as it was deeply rich and unifying. Each serrated song leads to some unique place and time. The soul’s ability to produce diamonds through enduring pressure never ceases to amaze.
In their absence, I find those notes riding the airwaves a little heavier. What remains more than a loyal companion now also tugs at my shirtsleeve. It reminds me how precarious this world can be. Somewhere today, road rage is an outlet for a guy battling reality in general. He keeps a gun on hand to show he’s a force to be reckoned with, realizing too late that using it means losing himself. Elsewhere, trolls in cyberspace will send a teen over the edge. The conflict of being in two places at once can leave you guessing which is the real you. But throughout, what touches deep is when we fall under these trances, life can hinge on a single distraction.
Seasons have passed and grass covers once tilled ground. It’s warm enough to roll the windows down and let “Plush” or “I am the Highway” wash over, as my mind drifts off imagining where I'd be without the contributions of people who can never see the full reach of their efforts. And I think about the garden.
