← DISGRACELAND
DISGRACELAND
Mark Lanegan: Kurt Cobain’s Drug Runner, Liam Gallagher’s Tormentor, and Matt Dillon’s Firestarter
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- [00:00]
Jake Brennan
Foreign Elvis. It's hot guys. Summer is here in full force down in the part of the country where I'm at. I'm emptying out my closet. I'm reorganizing and donating a bunch of clothes I don't wear anymore. What do I wear? What? What am I constantly going back to my Quince short sleeve T shirts. Quince's base layer T shirts are gonna great. They're lightweight and they look good if I'm going out to dinner or if I'm just chilling at home working throughout the day. I rock the black. I rock the green. I rock the navy. These are high quality T shirts like everything else at Quint, high quality and reasonably priced. Quint works directly with top artisans to cut out the middlemen and give us luxury pieces without the markups. I've even turned my wife onto quint. Quint has 100% European linen shorts and dresses for $30, luxe swimwear, Italian leather plat sandals and so much more. And again, the best part, everything with Quince is half the cost of similar brands. Give your summer closet an upgrade with quints. Go to quints.com disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. That's Q-U-I-N-C-E.com disgraceland to get free shipping and 365 day returns. Quints.com disgraceland so one thing you probably don't know about me is that I just picked up golf and as you can likely assume, I am horrible at it. Okay? That said, I'm also loving it. And I don't care how annoying it is to be trapped behind me on the course. I might not be banging any holes in one anytime soon, but I am banging back 5 hour energy transfusion shots on the course. That's right. It's inspired by the unofficial golf cocktail. This energy shot tastes great. Hints of grape, ginger, lemon and and. And it's all without alcohol but with as much caffeine as a premium cup of coffee. So look, if you're playing behind me and I just missed my chip shot for like the fourth time a chill B know that I'm doing the best I can, man. I'm hitting that five hour energy transfusion to keep me going as fast as I can. And you should be doing the same. It's easy to stash your five hour energy anywhere in your bag. Ready for your early morning tea time, a late round, whatever 5 hour energy is there to help you tee off 5 hour energy transfusion flavor is available online or in stores. Head to www.fivehourenergy.com to order yours today. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about violence, about heroin, about the real man who made Liam Gallagher quit Oasis. Hint it wasn't his brother. And it's about some seriously underrated rock and roll. Great music. Great music made by a man named Mark Lanegan, singer and leader of Screaming Trees, and later one of the singers from Queens of the Stone Age. Mark's music was very much unlike that music that I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Kurt's Night Porter MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to We Don't Talk about Bruno by the cast of Encanto. And why would I play you that specific slice of weird animated Uncle Cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on February 22, 2022. And that was the day that Mark Lanegan, after years of rough fights and even rougher nights, after recovering from a nearly three week coma, gave in to his own demons and died at the age of 50. On this episode, Violence, Heroin, Matt Dillon on fire, Liam Gallagher scared shitless, and Mark Lanigan. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace Lanigan. Are you as dumb as you fucking look? You're a piece of shit, that much is true. But my mouth to God's ears, son. I know you're a piece of shit. Your mama knows you're a piece of shit. But don't be going all dumb on me now too. Got it? Okay, then I'm gonna ask you one last time. Which one of your shitbag friends is stealing all the goddamn stereos out of the goddamn cars down at the dealership? 15 year old mark Lanigan shifted uncomfortably in his chair while his aggressor, Captain Limp Dick here from the local sheriff's department, loomed over him from where he sat on the edge of his desk. Of course, Lanigan knew who was taking the stereos. Bad recognizes bad and all that. And when it came to bad, right now, in the year 1979 in the dead end city of Ellensburg, Washington, Mark Lanigan was about as bad as it got. He was a thief, a trespasser. He was drunk or stoned 24 7, covering public walls with spray paint and piss, barely tolerated by his teachers and abused physically and mentally by his miserable mother. He did what he had to do in order to survive in what he saw as a dead end town and thus survived the authority, apathy and stupidity that ran amok there. And yeah, technically Ellensburg was a city, but it was such a backwards podunk shithole of a city that it had that permanent small town stink all over it. In just a few years from now, by the time Lanegan was a senior, he would destroy his probation officer's van with a sledgehammer, the cherry on top, as it were, of a long list of alcohol, drug and theft related offenses, and those offenses in total would earn him an 18 month prison sentence, a sentence that a lenient judge would suspend on the condition that Lanegan completes substance abuse treatment. The judge, bless him, thought that Mark Lanegan could change. Captain Limp Dick, on the other hand, despite all his obvious flaws, most glaring of which was the cast he was currently wearing on one arm due to an injury he no doubt sustained while beating on some other unlucky miscreant, Captain Limp Dick knew that change wasn't something a kid liked. Lanigan was capable of. The bottom was where he was born and the bottom was where he would stay. There was no amount of blackout drunk nights that could make him forget that, and no matter how hard he fought, he'd never claw his way out. That didn't mean that Lanigan wouldn't put up a fight trying. In fact, violence was one thing that Mark Lanigan trafficked in from a very early age. Come on, kid, the captain said. I'm gonna ask you one more time and you fucking A better give me a name this time. Who took the goddamn stereos? Lanigan cocked his head upright, finally making eye contact, and said, I don't know. Captain Limp Dick's face went red with rage. He lunged at Lanigan and he swung his busted arm at the side of Lanigan's head, connecting with a thud, knocking Lanigan off to the chair and onto the floor where the captain was now standing over his teenage prey, ignoring the throbbing pain shooting up and down his arm. He wanted to see the abject fear in the kid's eyes, but instead he saw the eyes of Victor, a look of satisfaction even down there on the grimy floor, and that pissed Limp Dick off to no end. You had this coming, boy, he said, grabbing Lanigan by a shirt collar with his good hand, cocking back his bad arm, and then the punch landed squarely on Mark Lanigan's jaw. He stumbled backwards. The cold salty air of Asbury Park, N.J. stinging his lip where it had been split open, he drunk himself into a stupor again tonight. So the pair of angry bouncers now standing before him looked like a quartet. These meatheads were Planet Fitness big, not brick. Shithouse big like the Connor boys, Van and Gary Lee or Barrett Martin, the guys who collectively, along with Mark, comprised the tallest and most intimidating band from the Pacific Northwest, Screaming Trees. But Van and Gary Lee? Where the hell have they gone off to? Lanigan grabbed a piece of wooden signpost that was rotting in the gutter and waved it at the bouncers who were coming to finish what they started. He turned to see Barrett at his side, his arm dangling in a way that was not natural. Screaming. They broke my arm. They fucking broke my arm. The piece of wood felt too heavy in Lanigan's hand. It was wasted enough that he knew that an attempt to wield it would be a force, or at least of drunks. So he tossed the weapon to the ground, put up his fists and went in swinging. It was October 1992. Mark Lanigan had long since put Ellensburg behind him, saved from a life as a town barfly by the only thing that mattered. Rock and roll. The Sex Pistols, the Stranglers, Iggy Pop, Gun Club. Discovering music like that, music that no one was listening to in Ellensburg, that was like discovering a new language. And while Mark Lanegan may have felt like the only long haired punk rocker in a city full of jocks, in reality there were a few others. So when he met Van and Gary Lee Conner, who not only understood his musical vocabulary but made their own music too, Lanigan knew he'd found his ticket out. Mark Lanigan didn't play an instrument, but he could sing. And within a few years he had honed his voice into the one we know today, the resonant baritone that was gruff like Tom Waits and gravelly like Billie Holiday, if Billie Holiday sometimes had a beard. And by the early 90s, the screaming trees had evolved from Nuggets era garage rock into a powerful behemoth of sound that was as formidable as they looked, while also being as catchy as anything the so called grunge scene was producing at the time. And just like Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and the other bands that they'd come up with, the Screaming Trees quickly found themselves riding Seattle's rising tide. Sweet Oblivion, their second album for Epic Records, in their sixth overall, also their first to feature Barrett Martin, who replaced his original drummer. Mark Pickerel, set them up for the big time, but never actually got them there. Months before it was released In September of 1992, its lead single, Nearly Lost yout had been featured on the soundtrack to Cameron Crowe's movie Singles, a fictionalized take on grunge in Seattle starring Matt Dillon. But when Mark Lanegan felt found out that every other band on the soundtrack got paid while the Screaming Trees were told to waive their sync fee in the name of exposure, that pissed him off to no end. Mud Honey got $20,000 and the screaming Trees got fuck all. It made Lanigan feel like he and the boys were swimming at the bottom of the barrel. At least he was familiar with the bottom of the barrel and glass being half full and all that. There was only one way to get out of the bottom. But not tonight. Tonight on the boardwalk in Asbury park, outside a club called the Fast Lane, where the Screaming Trees were scheduled to play a gig tomorrow night, the bottom embraced Mark Lanegan tonight. When the bouncers told the Trees bassist Van Conner he couldn't take his drink outside, Van told the guy to go fuck himself. And when the bouncer told Lanigan the same, Lanegan knocked the tyrant's ass off his little stool with one punch. The fist fight that followed ensured that the Screaming Trees would not play at the Fast Lane. Not tomorrow night or any other night for that matter. They did tape a performance of their great song Nearly Lost yout on the David Letterman show the next day, but did so with drummer Steve Ferrone sitting in for Barrett Martin, since Barrett had dislocated his shoulders in the melee. Lanegan, however, was front and center, Van and Gary headbanging behind him, Lanigan gripping the mic stand with both hands like he was holding on for dear life, looking very much like the last dude you'd ever want to with and sporting a huge shiner on his left eye for maximum effect. This was not Matt Dillon with phony long hair in a soul patch up on a movie screen trying to be a singer from Seattle. This was not singles. This was the real deal. This was uncompromising rock and roll at its most violent, underappreciated best. It didn't give in to anything and it didn't give anything up. Just like young Mark Lanigan wouldn't give up any names to Captain Limp Dick all those years ago. Some things are better kept a secret. Some things you take to your grave. Join the fun on DraftKings Casino, ranked the number one online casino experience. They've got everything you've been searching for. Thousands of exciting games, huge jackpots, exclusive offers and more. New players get a 10 day welcome offer 500 spins on Huff and more puff when you play just 5 bucks to start. Download the DraftKings Casino app, sign up with Code Disgraceland and spin your favorite slots. The crown is yours, you gambling problem. Call 1-800-GAMBLER in Connecticut. Help is available for problem gambling. Call 888-789-7777 or visit ccpg.org Please play responsibly. 21/physically present in Connecticut, Michigan, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, West Virginia only void in Ontario eligibility restrictions apply. New customers only. Non withdrawable casino spins issued as 50 spins per day for 10 days. Valid for featured game only and expire each day after 24 hours. See terms@casino dr.com promos ends 8 hours, 24 minutes and 25 seconds at 11:59pm ET. Number one based on Eilers and Krachik 2H24 product analysis hey discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly After Party Bonus episode where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these After Party Bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails and DMs and discuss your thoughts on the wildlives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638 disgracelandpodmail.com orisgracelandpod on the socials and join the conversation every Thursday in our After Party Bonus episode.
- [16:31]
Kristen Bell
Hi, I'm Kristen Bell and if you know my husband Dax, then you also know he loves shopping for a car. Selling a car? Not so much.
- [16:38]
Jake Brennan
We're really doing this, huh?
- [16:39]
Kristen Bell
Thankfully, Carvana makes it easy. Answer a few questions, put in your VIN or license and done. We sold ours in minutes this morning and they'll come pick it up and pay us this afternoon.
- [16:50]
Jake Brennan
Bye bye Truckee.
- [16:51]
Kristen Bell
Of course, we kept the favorite.
- [16:55]
Jake Brennan
Hello Other Truckee.
- [16:56]
Kristen Bell
Sell your car with Carvana today. Terms and conditions apply.
- [17:03]
Jake Brennan
Did you call for the Night Porter? You asked this of your buddy Kurt Cobain, who was looking at you through the crack of the half open front door at his house out on Lake Washington. The Night Porter is Kurt's nickname for you. Your friends call you all sorts of things. Old Scratch, Dark Mark, a homeless crack addict that you once ran a scam with to scare up drug money, used to call you Whitey Ford, but only Kurt calls you the Night Porter. He does so on account of the fact that you run Dope all over Seattle like a bike messenger. But you don't have a bike. And you do your work under the COVID of darkness. There's a gaping hole in town that needs filling. And just as you'd sing in one of your later songs, you're there to janitor the emptiness. Everyone in town benefits from your quicksilver ass baristas making minimum wage at Starbucks, tech millionaires at Microsoft, and your good buddy Kurt Cobain here, who just so happens to be the biggest rock star on the planet. You benefit too, because ever since you cut alcohol from your life and replaced it with heroin, your habit is all consuming. And that habit costs a pretty penny. You are not Kurt Cobain or Chris Cornell. Shit, you're not even Eddie fucking Vetter. The money you make from Screaming Trees and from your solo career, which is running on a parallel track next to the bands, it's not enough. It's never enough. So your side hustle helps make ends meet, and it also keeps you within arm's reach of some killer brown. Anyway, when Kurt sees that it's you at his door and not some crazy fan who's figured out where he lives, this huge smile bursts across his face. Face. And he shouts your name, Lanigan. Like some God fearing old bitty shouts Amen at Sunday service. Because amen, brother. You are the light. You are the flesh and the blood. You are the fucking night porter. And you've got the goods. Kurt knows your situation and does what he can. And you understand that there are some things he can't do. Like go out and score heroin now that he's the most famous person in Seattle. Kurt always repays the favor. Once he took out three grand in cash from the bank, stuffed it in your fist, just for you, being you. For being there for him. For being, as he once told you, one of the only real friends he had. Kurt didn't just have your back, he was your champion. The two of you almost made a record of Lead Belly songs together. But when that didn't pan out, you had to settle for Kurt guesting on your cover of the Bluesman song Where did you'd sleep last night? From your solo debut album, the Winding Sheet. That's right. Be proud of that, man. Everyone connects that song with Nirvana and their Unplugged album, as they should, because it's incredible. But you did it first with Kurt. You put him onto that Lead Belly shit. And then two years later, later in 92, when the screaming Trees were banned from all European festivals, after you got blackout drunk at Roskild and fought the stage crew at the end of your set like a cornered animal. Kurt was the one who orchestrated your redemption. He told the organizers at Reading that Nirvana would pull out of that festival unless the Screaming Trees were back on the bill at fucking Reading. One of the most iconic Nirvana performances of all time. And it almost didn't happen because Kurt liked you too much. Still, after a while, it became a lot to manage all this Night Porter business, because being a junkie was hard enough as it was. All the running around trying to find your guy and then finding out your guy got pinched or he skipped town, so you gotta find another guy. Then that guy is holed up in the sketchiest part of town, where if you don't have a piece stuffed down the front of your jeans, you're either incredibly fucking stupid or you're about to be dead. And if you're not at home when you score, then you gotta find somewhere to shoot. And let's say you do, you find a place. Then you have to find a working vein to shoot in because you're always running out of good veins. Next thing you know, you're pulling down your pants, staring at your cock, specifically at the big vein that runs upside it, wondering, well, it's a vein, isn't it? It'll only hurt for a second, right? And then as soon as the needle breaks the skin, you watch that same vein balloon up and you're like, fuu. Am I gonna lose my cock now? Just like you thought you were gonna lose your arm. That one time in Quebec, there was no such thing as a clean needle. At least not on tour buses in the 1990s, everyone shared everything. And once you were high, you didn't worry about that shit anyway. But this time, before the bus crosses the Canadian border, you shoot up with that dirty needle you hide in one of the van's interior panels, and your arm just fucking goes poof. It inflates to twice its size. It's fire red and hot to the touch. You wind up in a hospital where the doctors are telling you, monsieur, your arm. We made it to. How do you say? Remove it. So you're sitting there in a bed waiting it out for 24 hours to see if the blood infection really raging away inside you is going to come down or if they're going to amputate. You're doing this while also sweating out the final vestiges of the heroin left in your system. You're going cold turkey right there, and you feel like shit. Your drum tech takes pity on you and hits the bricks to find a Montreal prostitute with huge lips to come give you one last blowjob as a two armed man. But he can't get her past security, which is a huge buzz kill for your equally huge blue balls. The next day the doc tells you that you can keep the arm, which is great news because there's a mic stand somewhere that needs leaning on. Its entire purpose is to be there for you, to grip it tight with not one but two hands and that gargoyle power stance you strike designed to scare off all comers, all posers. And if any shit talking roughneck knows any better, they know to keep their distance from Mark fucking Lanegan. The only thing you haven't figured out yet is how to ward off the demons. Lanigan stood at the foot of a set of stairs outside Kurt Cobain's house, smoking a Lucky Strike non filter. He exhaled and looked up the stairs to where they led, a room above the garage. Kurt was missing. He had escaped from a detox facility in LA and caught a plane back to Seattle, but no one knew where he was now, and his wife, Courtney Love, was freaking out. Geffen Records was freaking out too. Lanegan's lawyer, the one he shared with Kurt, he was also freaking out. Lanegan shadowed a private investigator, took him to drug houses on Capitol Hill, bought dope with the PI's money, going everywhere and anywhere he thought Kurt might be hiding out, places to fix, places you checked into but would never leave. But no dice. They called Kurt's friends and searched Kurt's house. Nothing outside. Lanegan took another puff off his cigarette. Just days earlier, Kurt had called three times and left three messages on his answering machine. Said he wanted to hang out and listen to music. In other words, cop some dope bro, and bring it over and let's get high. Lanigan never answered and never called him back. All that night Porter business, it was too exhausting, and Lanigan had no idea that Kurt was AWOL when he called, and now he wished he had picked up. He looked up at the stairs and at the door leading into the room above the garage. He didn't feel compelled to make the climb, so instead he tossed the butt on the ground, crushed it with his boot, and left. The next day his phone rang. Kurt Cobain was dead and they found his body in that room above the garage, just steps away from where Lanigan had stood. Courtney called him soon after and told him that Kurt had been listening to Lanigan's new solo record, Whiskey for the Holy Ghost, for days before he pulled the trigger, which just fucked Lanigan up to no end. He didn't need to hear that. But there was no one hearing it now, just like there was no unthinking the thought that he was the last person Kurt ever called. His friend was gone on his watch, and Mark Lanigan was left to contemplate his place in it. We'll be right back after this.
- [25:46]
Kristen Bell
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- [26:56]
Jake Brennan
Reynolds here from Mint Mobile. Now I was looking for fun ways to tell you that Mint's offer of unlimited premium wireless for $15 a month is back. So I thought it would be fun if we made fifteen fifteen dollar bills. But it turns out that's very illegal. So there goes my big idea for the commercial. Give it a try@mintmobile.com Switch upfront payment.
- [27:17]
Kristen Bell
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- [27:30]
Jake Brennan
Reputation is everything in the music business. Owner or the whatever business doesn't matter. Your reputation precedes you if you're doing it right. Some have to work on building the reputation, but for Mark Lanegan it came naturally. Authentically. Just by being himself did his reputation evolve to where it was firmly established in the mid-1990s? And it didn't really change from There, everyone knew Mark Lanegan took no shit. Didn't matter who you were, if you got on Lanegan's bad side, if you pissed him off, watch yourself. And that goes for hecklers in the audience calling his bandmates fat. Or even for those same bandmates when they did something that he felt was deserving of his well documented physical retaliation. I mean, have you seen Van and Gary Lee Connor? Those dudes were nine foot tall. Andre the Giant looking motherfuckers. But shit, man, sheer size did not faze Lanigan one bit. He even challenged Liam Gallagher to a fight when the Screaming Trees opened Oasis brief American tour in 1996. This after Liam insulted him, insulted his band and in general acted like a proper cunt, as they'd say in his native Manchester. Liam fancied himself a brawler, but Lanigan knew the type. His idea of fighting was a loud movie mouth that wouldn't shut the hell up. So when Liam Gallagher told Mark Lanegan that he'd throw down mano a mano at the tour's final stop in Miami, Lanegan could rest assured that all this time spent around this prick would be worth it when he got to break Liam's nose at the end of the line. But they never got to the end of that line, because right before the Miami date, the final night of the tour, Liam Gallagher bailed. He quit Oasis and flew back home to England. Yes, Liam Gallagher briefly quit his own band in 1996. And it wasn't because of his dysfunctional relationship with his brother Noel. It was because he was terrified that Mark Lanegan was going to beat the shit out of him. If Lanegan shared something with Liam, it was that intimacy with dysfunction, the Screaming Trees. Dysfunction was one thing pushing him further into a solo career, but in 96, the trees remained an important part of Lanegan's revenue stream, which was necessary in order to maintain his all consuming drug habit. That was the other part of Lanigan's reputation. He was known as a junkie and a fiend and an amateur cook who made crack cocaine in his kitchen that he could sell on the side when he wasn't shooting or smoking, whatever he could get his hands on with friends like Lane Staley from Alice in Chains, who incidentally filled in for Mark Lanegan at the Screaming Tree show in Montreal, when Lanegan was laid up in that hospital wondering if he was going to lose his arm. But I digress. But in a bad part of town in Rockford, Illinois, home of Cheap Trick, where the trees were passing through as part of the Lollapalooza tour that Same Year in 1996. Mark Lanegan's reputation didn't mean shit. He was just another mark with crumpled up bills in his pocket looking for a fix, some brown, some rock, some of whatever came easy. And the old guy standing guard outside this dilapidated drug den said it was 10 bucks to get inside. And then he looked over at the tall dude standing next to Lanegan. Josh Homme, formerly of Kyuss and a new addition to the Trees as their touring second guitar player. Short red hair, white puka shell necklace, nice polo shirt. His Palm Desert jocko fucko vibe was in direct conflict with Mark Lanegan's strung out shoulder length hair and beard. That's 10 bucks each, the old guy corrected. Lanigan forked over the cash and then he and Josh walked inside. The place was dark. Cigarette smoke hung from the ceiling. Ready or not by the Fugees was blaring from a set of shitty speakers behind a bar where a dope head, nodding off made a show of nursing liquor from a dirty glass. Some skinny piece of ass draped herself on Lanigan's arm. Give me a 20 and I'll take you to score. Lanigan reached into his pocket and pulled out another Andrew Jackson price of doing business, and the woman stuck the money down her bra and began to walk up a set of old stairs. She stopped, turned back, and motioned that Lanigan and Josh should follow, and Lanigan could feel it already, the rush, the high, the escape. They reached the second floor where the woman knocked on a wood wooden door. It opened and no sooner had Lanigan and Josh stepped inside, the three dudes, big dudes, leaped at them, chests out, antenna up. The fuck is he doing here? One of the guys yelled. Are you a fucking cop? Lanegan had never been accused of being a cop before, but then he realized he wasn't being accused. They were all staring at Josh Homme. Shit, Lanigan thought, looking at his friend through the eyes of a paranoid drug dealer. Yeah, he could see it. Josh had narc written all over him. Look, man, we're not cops, lanigan said, trying to defuse the situation, get his fix and get out. You may not be a cop, but he is, motherfucker. Lanigan panicked and Josh slowly began to reach for his back pocket, which is where as as Lanigan knew, he kept his switchblade. Shit. All three of these mean looking bastards were no doubt strapped. If Josh snapped open his blade, they were fucked. Lanigan put his hand on Josh's shoulder as if to say, cool it, Clint Eastwood and then calmly addressed the room. Excuse me gentlemen, but I think we've made a mistake. We will see ourselves out. You're fuckin right you will, old man. Take your bitch ass cop with you. Now Lanigan and Josh were back out on the streets of Rockford, $40 lighter, with no direction home. They'd been dropped off in this neighborhood earlier and had no idea which way was out, so they started walking up the road a piece. Lanigan spotted some dudes loitering under a broken street light. Definitely looked like they were holding, and he still had a few bucks on him, so he told Josh to hang tight for one minute and went to score. Josh stood stone solid, watching helplessly, and before Lanegan could say anything to the guys he hoped had what he so desperately needed, he heard footsteps come up on him fast from behind. And then the feeling of cold steel pressed into the back of his neck, followed by the sound of a pistol caulking. Keep walking, cop. Lane wasn't running now, but he was moving faster, away from another potential score, those early symptoms of dope sickness beginning to set in. Josh Homme was there with him every step of the way, freaking out but trying not to show it. Then headlights. A car was making its way toward them, engine humming, the muffler doing God's work. It began to pick up speed, and as it got closer, Lanigan and Josh could see the barrel of a gun hanging out the rear driver's side window. They had no time to react. The car was rumbling directly past them now, and the kid holding the gun was squeezing the trigger. And suddenly Lanegan and Josh were sprayed with water, standing there soaking wet, the car's taillights fading into the night. Lanegan and Josh laughed. It was the only appropriate response to thinking you were just about to lose your life on some back end street in Cheap Trick's hometown, only to find out that the joke was on you. Moments later, Homme went quiet, his smile fading, and he said, if you ever do that to me again, I'll fucking kill you. Josh Homme did not kill Mark Lanegan, but a few years later he did hire him as a secondary lead singer in his new band, Queens of the Stone Age. Being asked to join Queens in the year 2000, when Lanigan was 36 and at a personal and professional crossroads, it saved his life. And I'm not being hyperbolic here either. Let me set the scene. Screaming trees had finally broken up, but not before that close call in Rockford, Illinois some years prior had gone full blown bad omen and Lanegan was robbed in Amsterdam at 19, knife point while trying to score. And then in London, it happened again. Only this time, Laneigan's old school captain, limp dick defying fight or flight instincts kicked in and he beat the living out of this would be mugger. And when he got home to Seattle, he was broke. His phone and his electricity had been shut off. And before he got himself evicted, he was frantically cooking up batches of crack cocaine that he could sell for a few bucks on a Coleman propane camping stove. Soon he was homeless, sleeping under a tarp near the freeway. Lanegan was then saved not once, not twice, but three times. First by Courtney Love, his unexpected benefactor, who put up cash when Lanigan needed it most, just like Kurt used to do back in the day. She paid for Lanigan to live at drug treatment facilities and halfway houses in California for nearly a year so that he could get clean. Next, by Seattle resident Duff McKagan, bass player for Guns N Roses, his unexpected sponsor, who helped Lanigan get back on his feet as the caretaker of his two houses. And then by Josh Homme and Queens of the Stone Age, his unexpected new boss, who gave Lanegan a new creative lease on life, not to mention a great gig. Lanegan used to say that being in Queens was the best because he only had to be the center of attention for one third of a show. Following his brief but impactful tenure with Queens of the Stone Age, Mark Lanegan continued making great solo records and continued to find inspired collaborations with Greg Dooley of the Afghan Whigs and Isabel Campbell of Belle and Sebastian, and with Soul Savers Moby and Uncle. He was the go to guy for discerning musicians and their fans with a voice like top shelf bourbon. And it was a voice that only comes around once in a great while. You can't learn that voice or teach it. It's just always been inside you. Just like your attraction to violence and hard drugs and conversely, to close fellowship with those who get you and are worthy of your good graces. It's all part of what makes you so authentic, for better and for worse. Because above all else, inauthenticity is the greatest sin. And to that end, you find yourself in a bar in New York one night after a show and someone taps you on the shoulder. You turn around and take a drag off your Lucky Strike and narrow your eyes. Mark, do you know Matt Dillon? The actor? Sticks out his hand to shake yours, says he's a big fan. Eh, thanks, man. You don't have much beyond that to say to him. So you stand there smoking your cigarette and feeling awkward. Nothing personal, but every time you see this guy, all you can picture is him wearing that stupid wig in that stupid movie that turned your friends into a cartoon and screwed your band out of thousands of dollars. Someone else catches Dylan's attention and he turns his head away from you, and as he does, you drop what's left of your lit cigarette and Dylan's suit jacket pocket and it begins to smolder. And then Dylan's jacket catches fire and he's wildly stamping out the flames with his hands now, looking around to see who did this to him, but you're long gone out the door onto the sidewalk, and there but for the grace of God, into the emptiness. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. All right, hope you dug this episode. Apple Podcast listeners, make sure you have auto downloads turned on so you never miss an episode of Disgraceland. This week's Question of the week, guys. Who is your favorite but most underrated rock star? Is it Mark Lanegan? Is it someone else? I want to know who and I want to know why you love them. Hit me up voicemail and text 617-906-6638 and let me know. I can also be reached on Instagram, Facebook, xisgracelandpod and disgracelandpodgmail.com if you want to do the email thing, leave a review for the show on Apple Podcasts or Spotify and win some free merch. All right, here comes some credits. Disgraceland was created by by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening, as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. 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