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Jake Brennan (1:07)

Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Chris Cornell are insane. He was a latchkey kid who doing weed, pills and LSD by the age of 14. A traumatic experience with PCP turned him into a recluse. For years, music pulled him out of the darkness when he discovered his four octave voice by accident. He was robbed by crooked DEA agents, developed an addiction to oxycontin while trying to jumpstart a creative comeback. It was part of the only rock band in history to send a song that featured a guy playing the spoons up the charts. That song, like the best of Chris Cornell's songs, was great music. Unlike that loop I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Montage Mystique MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Cold Hearted by Paula Abdul. And why would I play you that specific slice of Lakers girl cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on September 5, 1989. And that was the day that Chris Cornell's band Soundgarden released Louder Than Love, an album that got them on tour with Guns n Roses, inspired Metallica to write one of their biggest hits of all time and pushed Chris Cornell to the forefront of a new musical movement in America. On this episode, PCP a four octave range, Crooked Dea Age, the Spoon man and Chris Cornell. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. Chris Cornell killed himself. That sucks. Suicide sucks. It's happened too many times to too many great artists. Kurt Cobain, Michael Hutchins, Chester Bennington, Anthony Bourdain, and Chris cornell. Dead in 2017 at just 52 years old. If you've ever heard Soundgarden, Audioslave or Temple of the Dog, then you know that Chris Cornell had a monster voice. Four octaves of sheer power. Power that Chris Cornell once had no idea that he possessed. Imagine standing in front of a microphone inside a recording studio and laying down a track with your band. The guys in your band are so loud that you have to push your voice to the limit in order to be heard, only to find that you're now pushing beyond that limit. Everyone's like, dude, what? What are you doing? How'd you do that? And you don't know. You just did it. And now you can access that power anytime you want. That's how it was with Chris Cornell, stumbling into that God given talent with ease. But if you've heard Chris Cornell's acoustic cover of Nothing Compares to youo, the ballad written by Prince and made famous by Sinead O'Connor, you know the real reason he was one of the greatest to ever do it? Because he was capable not only of great power, but of tremendous restraint. And that restraint, that nuance, is why, on his best day, nothing compared to Chris Cornell. Chris never met Prince, but he did run into him at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Chris was walking down a hallway when a guest room door up ahead swung open. His royal badness appeared, no shirt, rocking a purple headband, struggling to wheel a room service card out into the hallway. Prince locked eyes with Chris Cornell, and Chris could see the shock, the panic. Prince wrestled with the room service cart some more, the silverware and plates now clanking around and making a hell of a racket. With great effort, he finally managed to move the cart fully into the hallway and then slammed the door behind him without saying a word. Prince, such a rock star that he couldn't even say hello to a fellow rock star. I'm not judging. And neither was Chris Cornell. He didn't take offense. He could relate. Chris was shy, private. He was allergic to the fame side of this business. All that being recognized everywhere. Business. Especially the being expected to engage with the person who recognized you business. Chris Cornell's definition of a working musician was simpler than that. But as soon as Soundgarden got famous, he discovered that the world of rock and roll was anything but simple. 1992, Soundgarden's third studio album. Bad Motor Finger, the one that was supposed to make them huge, was doing just that. Not. Never mind huge, not Nirvana, huge. But it was all good Kurt grunge, Seattle. That rising tide was lifting all boats. It lifted Soundgarden. And that's Chris Cornell, of course, and guitarist Kim Thale, bassist Ben Shepard and drummer Matt Cameron to an opening slot on Guns N Roses. As usual, Illusion tour. And as openers, there were strict rules to follow. One, no upstaging Axl Rose. Two, no walking out onto Axl's metal catwalk, which extended from the main stage. And three, don't leave yourself out in the open backstage, where, God forbid, Axl could run into you. Which is where Chris Cornell found himself now, standing backstage after Soundgarden's opening set, when suddenly, here comes Axl fucking Rose. Baseball cap, tight red shorts, fur coat, sunglasses, doing that street walking cheetah strut with his jack bodyguard by his side. Shit, Chris thought, maybe Axl won't notice. Maybe his bodyguard will take pity and won't beat the piss out of me. Axl was close now, passing right in front of him. The moment of truth. Chris braced himself for a lecture, a kick to the nuts, some hardcore welcome to the proverbial jungle shit. He tensed up. Axl made eye contact and then Axel said, hey, bro. Hey, bro. Axl Rose and his bodyguard kept walking. There was no dressing down, no penalty. The so called rules. They were a joke. It all was. I mean, look at these guys. Guns N Roses, once a lean five piece that required nothing but themselves to absolutely kill in some tiny club on the Strip. And now playing hockey arenas with two keyboard players, two keyboard players, three backup singers, giant inflatables flying around. It was crazy. Axl was pricing out blimps for the next leg of the tour. Chris Cornell watched this unfold before his eyes. Not with awe or even respect, but with fear. Fear that this was where a Soundgarden was headed. That in order to reach this level, you had to change, compromise who you really were. He didn't want to do that. Not for a record label, not for an audience, and certainly not for Axl Rose. Which isn't to say that Chris Cornell and Soundgarden didn't want to write hit songs. Their new single, Outshined was holding up pretty well on the rock charts. But Chris was proud that they've made it happen their own way by remaining true to themselves and by being authentic. There's this fallacy that American indie bands in the 1980s and 1990s were allergic to having hits, and that's simply not true. Soundgarden, for example, would gladly have a hit. Just look at Sub Pop Records. One of the most important American indie labels during this period. And also the label that released Soundgarden's first single, an ep. When Bruce Pavitt, Jonathan Poman co founded Sub Pop In Seattle in 1986, they had Motown on the brain. They went after a certain kind of band and a certain kind of sound. They hired an in house producer, an in house photographer, and they even flew in a journalist from England to write about the thing that they had created. Thus drumming up interest. For what? For the cool factor? Fuck no Interest. So that they could sell more records. That's not to say that indie music and later grunge didn't enjoy being imperfect. Imperfections like flannel shirts and lace up Doc Martens were all the rage. It made the music human. But Chris Cornell had, as Bruce Pavitt put it, a seemingly flawless nature. He was polished in looks and in sound. A long haired Pacific Northwest Adonis with a voice as smooth as the bare chest that he routinely took to exposing on stage. And because of this, Chris Cornell stood out from everyone else in Seattle. But this didn't happen overnight. For a while, all Chris wanted to do was not stand out. In fact, all he wanted to do was hide. 1978. 14 year old Chris Cornell was freaking out. A latchkey kid for years now, left to his own devices. Smoking, drinking, getting high. One thing led to another. Weed, pills, lsd, booze. But the PCP was clearly a mistake. It turned its good day into a bad day. The worst kind of day. A black day. A day that envelops you, suffocates you, shuts out the lights. Everything in your own head, twisted and haunted and blanketed in a drop tuned doom. Chris just wanted it to go away. Whatever was now invading his own mind, that is just to leave him alone. But it wouldn't leave. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. For about two years in his teens, Chris Cornell was a shut in. All because of a bad trip on Angel Dust. A trip that turned him into an agoraphobe. One who fears public places. He dropped out of school. He isolated. Then his mom bought him a snare drum. Soon he picked up the remaining pieces of whole kit and he rescued a stack of Beatles records from a neighbor's basement. He met Hiro Yamamoto, a bass player. Hiro's bug. Kim Thale, a guitarist. Both Seattle transplants from Chicago. The first day the trio jammed, they wrote three songs. The next day they wrote five more. But within two months they had 15 songs. And they just needed a singer. None of them, least of all Chris knew that one of Seattle's greatest voices was currently sitting on his ass behind the drum kit. But like all young and hungry indie bands, if you need something, you do it yourself. Chris didn't expect his voice, though, to do that. And when it did, Chris Cornell sealed his feet in an instant. And that fate was not to be stuck inside his own head, some pathetic PCP casualty, but to be compelled by the act of making music, knowing without any reservation that he was going to make music for the rest of his life, even if that meant washing dishes or cleaning fish guts on the side until he was 80 years old. Play Sing Tour this was Chris Cornell's life now. And it was simple. Simple. Marvel Studios Thunderbolts will take the world by store there's some big bread out there and you're gonna help me stay Stop it Us why? You got some place to be on May 2nd Avengers, you're gone no one's coming to save the day their time I think we could be the people that are coming has come being the hero There is no higher calling let's do this. Marvel Studios Thunderbolts only in theaters May 2nd. Get tickets now. Rad PG13 Some material may be inappropriate for children under 13. Do you know about how Steve McQueen escaped murder at the hands of the Manson family? Or about DWAYNE the Rock Johnson's snatch and grab gang and the Rock's nearly 10 arrests? What about Danny Trejo running a drug protection racket while in lockup? The obsessive killing of Dorothy Stratton? The real life murder that inspired David Lynch's Twin Peaks? The three conspiracies surrounding Marilyn Monroe's death. These stories and more are told in the new podcast Hollywoodland, where true crime and Tinseltown collide. Hollywoodland is hosted by me, Jake Brennan, creator of the award winning music and true crime podcast Disgraceland. Follow and listen to Hollywoodland wherever you get your podcasts 24 chefs 24 culinary showdowns for 24 hours straight. Which chef will outcome, cook, outpace, outlast the competition? No chef escapes the clock. Season premiere 24 and 24 Last Chef Standing Sunday, April 27th at 8. See you first on Food Network stream next day on Max 1988, 24 year old Chris Cornell was doing what he loved. Hitting the road with his band and their Chevy America a blur outside the window as they tore ass through the Louisiana. Chris no longer playing drums but singing lead. His band Soundgarden touring in support of Ultra Mega ok, their full length debut on SST Records. Sst Come on man Are you kidding me? Black Flag, the Minutemen, Husker do, the Meat Puppets. They were all on sst. It was the coolest indie label going. Sub Pop was cool too, no doubt. And those guys were Soundgarden's friends. But SST was sst. And they wanted Soundgarden. They wanted Chris Cornell. But SST wasn't alone. Every record label wanted to sign Soundgarden. Every major label. And remember, this is the late 1980s. This is before the word grunge entered the lexicon. Before Seattle became the new Athens or Minneapolis. Chris Cornell and Soundgarden were that good and they were that compelling. But unlike most bands eager to make that jump to the big time, Soundgarden knew they weren't quite ready yet. Chris Cornell had the wisdom and the foresight at just 24 years old to know that he needed more time. And not a defined amount of time. It could be weeks or months or even years. But the point was to wait until the industry needed them, not the other way around. Because if Chris Cornell signed with me major label A and M Records, at this moment, he knew he would be forced to change, forced to sacrifice his authenticity, which at this point was a polished hybrid of metal, hardcore and psychedelic rock, wholly unique to the split camps of punk and hair metal dominating Seattle at the time. And again, I'm not saying that by turning down A and M, Chris Cornell and the guys in Soundgarden were turning down the opportunity to make a hit record. Being authentic and being a huge star, not mutually exclusive, Chris was turning down the notion of selling out. If Soundgarden went to the big time before they were ready, before the industry was ready, they would fail and they'd never have a hit. The hits would come in due time, the way that they wanted. This particular strategy wasn't just Chris's idea. It was recommended by Chris girlfriend at the time, Susan Silver, who also happened to be Soundgarden's manager. The strategy worked. It allowed Soundgarden to retain their indie credibility. And it got them in with the SST crowd far beyond the borders of Seattle. And it only made the majors want the band more, just like everyone else did. But you can't please them all, particularly members of law enforcement here in Louisiana who assumed that your long hair, Washington state plates and butthole surfers bumper sticker on the back of your van equalled probable cause. Soundgarden's drummer, Matt Cameron, was behind the wheel when he saw the blue lights in the rearview mirror. He didn't panic. He knew the band was clean, cleaner than your Average rock band. Only their sound guy, Hallerman, was holding and that tiny bit of weed was stashed safely inside his toolkit. Matt pulled over, the cops walked up. Chris got a good look. Dark sunglasses, big guns, and their badges. Not local police, not troopers. Dea. The fuck. Everybody out. The narcs had them surrounded. The band did as they were told. Lined up along the side of the highway where L.A.D.E.A were now looking them up and down. Don't even think about making a run for one of the officers said, look behind you. That there's the Louisiana swamp. You run up there, you're done for. We'll chase you like we're trained to do, and chances are we'll catch you. But if we don't catch you, the swamp will. Can't even begin to count how many burnouts like you have gone missing out there. Thinking they could run away, thinking they're different. Soundgarden was different. You were more likely to find philosophical discussion in the their dressing room than chicks and dope. Not that the DEA would believe it. Belief was relative. Seeing was believing. And right now, the narcs wanted to see what they believed was there. So Chris Cornell and Soundgarden, stuck between armed DEA officers in a swamp crawling with gators and snakes, consented to having their van searched. The officers found Hallerman's weed, which by their logic, was communal property. And even though it was a tiny amount, half a gram at most. And remember, this was 1988, so half a gram was enough to put them all under arrest. Which was the DEA's intent. That is, until they found the cash. Twelve hundred dollars. Soundgarden's meager earnings from ticket and merge sales on the tour so far. The narcs, though, they defined it differently, of course. In their eyes, it was drug money, subject to seizure. And that was the bad news. The good news was that it made things even. The money settled their tab, so to speak. Well, that and the weed. The DEA kept it all and just sent the band on their way. Humiliated. Stripped of all their cash. Honest cash that was now lining the dirty pockets of dirty cops all the way to their next stop, New Orleans. Where that night they played a show for four people. Three if you didn't count the bartender. If you've ever toured the country as an indie rock band, label or no label, super unknown, as it were. Sorry, couldn't resist. You don't have to share this exact experience to sympathize with what I'm describing here. Life on the road is a struggling band on the come up this equal parts exhaustion and disappointment. Defeat lurks around every corner. It breaks more bands than it makes. But Chris Cornell was determined this is what he was going to do for the rest of his life. Even if it meant he'd be penniless playing for three people at a French Quarter adjacent shithole. It beats sitting inside an empty room, stuck inside his own head, navigating whatever dark spaces still remained following that ill conceived drug trip all those years ago. He'd found his place here in Soundgarden, cranking out their brand of Sabbath and Zeppelin sludge, Kim Thale's heavy riffage threading itself around Chris's four octave voice. But they didn't take themselves or the lineage of their music too seriously. Songs like Jesus Christ Pose and Big Dumb Sex took the piss out of rock and roll martyrs and macho Lothario fuckos alike. Their music was smart, just like their strategy. A strategy that was beginning to pay dividends. As planned. Just as Chris and his girlfriend and manager, Susan Silver hoped, the industry continued to lend an ear to what Soundgarden was doing and continued to up the ante. Before long, A and M Records had tripled their original offer. When Soundgarden finally made that jump to the majors, they made it while maintaining the very essence of who they were. And they didn't forget who got them there. In the liner notes for Louder than Love, their 1989 A&M Records debut, Soundgarden thanked Sub Pop, SST and the Louisiana DEA. The irony being that within about five years time, every one of those narcs that pulled them over outside New Orleans would have a Soundgarden CD on permanent rotation in their shitty Camaros. And Sound Soundgarden would have a lot more than $1,200 in an envelope to show for it. Right now, however, in the fall of 1989, Chris Cornell and Soundgarden just had a killer rep and a killer record. So killer that it directly inspired Kirk Hammett to write the riff to Metallica's mega hit Enter Sandman after he binged Louder Than love at like 3:00 in the morning. Which is, as Kirk knows, the best time to listen to Soundgarden loud. But I digress. Kirk Hammett, he was an early Soundgarden convert, as was Axl Rose, who took Soundgarden out on tour with him just a few years later. And it was on this tour that Chris Cornell once again confronted the fear of selling out. A fear that in order to proceed in the natural order of things, to go from big tour opener to big tour headliner, he and Soundgarden would be required to compromise who they were and what they did. It seemed inevitable how one day you just wake up and everything has changed. And not for the better either. There was no explaining it. It just happened. You found yourself in that place. Chris Cornell knew that place better than most. He put pen to paper and began to immortalize that place in a song. A song that would soon reveal him at his most vulnerable, at the very moment he seemed totally invincible. We'll be right back after this.