Last week, we suffered the loss of yet another great artist to suicide. Chris Cornell, of Soundgarden and Audioslave, killed himself in his Detroit hotel room at the age of 52.
Chris was one of the great vocalists of the Grunge age. While I was not a big fan of Grunge, I was a fan of Chris Cornell. His voice was a true artist’s instrument, able to communicate effortlessly and emote flawlessly. As a performer, there are two vocalists I have always secretly wished I could sound like. Chris Cornell was one of the two. (Full disclosure: Johnny Cash was the other.)
Which always made it very frustrating that, during my time as a musician, I never worked in a band that could cover a single song by one of Chris’ bands. I had the vocal power, but never the vocal range I needed. The other vocalist I worked with primarily, Brandon, had the vocal range, but at that time was just coming into his own as a singer and didn’t have the power yet. It saddens me to think that Chris is gone, and I never sang one of his songs in front of an audience. It’s a musician thing. You might not understand.
That said, I didn’t know Chris Cornell. I never met him. I never got to see him perform live. But a song he performed on the Singles soundtrack, “Seasons”, remains on my personal “favorite songs ever” list. My only relationship with him is my relationship with the music he created.
Nevertheless, Chris and I share a certain kind of kinship: a pharmacological one.
Ativan is the drug that I get shot full of every time I am admitted to the hospital for a seizure that won’t stop. (Status Epilepticus, the condition is called.) It is apparently also used for the treatment of long-term depression. And it is the drug that Chris Cornell apparently took extra doses of right before hanging himself.
I can tell you from personal experience that Ativan effectively shuts down the ability to reason clearly. The folks wearing lab coats call this “disinhibited and dangerous behavior.” And I can perfectly understand that, under the effects of Ativan, I might make the same decision that Chris did. There is a reason I am never left alone and unsupervised after an Ativan injection.
Depression strikes the successful and the despondent alike. Chris apparently had everything going for him. He had seemingly kicked his drug habit. He was widely known as an artist and a philanthropist. He seemed to enjoy a healthy relationship with his wife and kids. His band had entered a renaissance and was headlining a successful tour.
And all it took was one bad night and a handful of pills that are designed to shut down the ability to reason clearly. All I can think, sitting here writing this morning, is “There but for the grace of God, go I.”
We never know what lies beneath the surface.
So, good night, sweet prince. I would ask for flights of angels to sing you to your rest. But none could ever sing as sweetly as you did.
With A Heavy Heart,