PHOTOS: Looking northeast, toward New Jersey. Persimmon Gap (top). Emory Peak (bottom). Big Bend National Park, along the Rio Grande, somewhere in southwest Texas.
Scott Weiland died last Thursday.What does that mean?
Everything, and nothing. Weiland's the latest grunge hero to plunge. Heroin is dangerous. We are (were) six months apart in age. What does it feel like to die on a tour bus? Kissing my college flame to Plush (bittersweet). How could so many years have passed? Is there a point to any of this?
They were — they are — they were — the last rock stars. The final moments of big money big labels signed artists signed advances pre-internet music is owned by someone send in the lawyers music as business. Zeppelin at end of days. Son of a Page. A boom...a bust. The Federal Reserve bubble, reserved for copyright.
It's been a long time since I've listened...
The distinctive relaxed snap of grunge snare. GRUNGE SNARE. Late. Just enough. Hi-hat half-closed...don't give a fuck...the flick to the ride opening the beat and meaning so much. Into the chorus...
I don't know about you, but for me a certain feeling of the bottom dropping out of my stomach listening to Pearl Jam's Black or the saccharine-strychnine melody of any STP hit. First crush, lost. What does it mean when someone "doesn't love you" anymore? Am I supposed to feel this for the rest of my life?
Meeting Jerry Cantrell in a studio in Philly. I didn't know who he was. "Dracula rises from his coffin."
Driving all night to Upstate New York through a snowstorm. Ten on loop. My first wife asleep on the passenger seat of our F-150.
Art is struggle...
I've moved my guitar shop seven times since 2012. Not by choice. The moves, anyway. The choice has been to keep climbing. That is always the only choice.
Life is a rock wall. We free solo until we don't. There's a moment of decision preceded by indecisions. Gravity is a constant. The six second Tour of the Canyon is a given. What do you want between now and then?
So much has happened this year. Unreal, literally. We'll need to talk over beers some Saturday night when you've got time. But I can say...I will keep climbing. I enjoy the pounding of my own pulse in my ears, sunlight at 8,000' and the taste of mixed nuts in a ziploc (or stray wood shavings in a sandwich).
My takeaway...home is wherever I am. Home is not...that memory...
PHOTO: With friends. Thanksgiving. Thanks, Annie for the pic.