As a writer, I deal in myth-making. What is more fundamental to story making than myth creation? One could go so far as to say every story is a myth. I have actively spent a large part of my life creating and participating in myths and myth-making. As someone in his mid-forties, I've long witnessed the cultural events (especially pop culture) of my younger years turn into myth. It's a cycle that's as natural as breathing, perhaps accelerated in this era of mass media culture, but a process that has been going on as long as there have been humans.
I honestly did not realize this as I began writing the above paragraph, but today marks one year since Chris Cornell passed away after a lifelong battle with depression. I guess I must have known subconsciously, because today I found myself reflecting on the myth of grunge, or more specifically, how grunge itself fell victim to very myths of self-destruction it initially railed against. Except that's not true, not really. Grunge was in part a reaction against the shallowness of mainstream rock music, but these bands were full of rock stars. They were just shaded differently. And then the shading went totally black. Grunge's cultural moment can be discussed from a distance now, safely in its myth, but for me personally it's still all too close to home. I don't believe I'll ever have that distance.
1992-93 were arguably the peak years of grunge (at least as far as its cultural impact--the actual scene in Seattle was well into its dying throes by then). In 1992 I graduated high school, in 1993 I lived and worked on my own, college not being a path I could pursue until the end of 1993--and which would only last one semester. I had numerous interrelated demons (depression, anxiety, substance abuse, relationship problems, etc.) Grunge music not only spoke to me--it saved my life. I'm not being dramatic, it truly did. It made me feel less alone, and the darkness inherit in it was a darkness that I well understood, a familiar friend. There were other bands that spoke to me in that time, but grunge (along with Metallica) prevented me from trying to take my own life on more than one occasion. It is one of the greatest gifts art can provide--bringing light and empathy into the darkest corners.
And then the leading lights started dying. And there was nothing glamorous about it. If the famous "27 club" deaths (Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin) had been pitched as almost romantic to those of my generation--live fast, die young--then the violent, bleak deaths of Cobain, Staley, Wood et. al. felt anything but. These deaths would have a long tail. Cornell's death last year shocked me in a way that none of the others did, because I'd bought in to the second, related myth: that of the survivor. That if you somehow made it through the 90s and got the professional help you needed, you had the tools and everything would be, if not fine, at least survivable. I projected my own narrative on it, as we so often do with artists we admire, and that narrative helped me in my own life.
But it's myth. All of it. Surviving is a day-by-day process, and sometimes, tragically, people don't make it. The hurt and darkness that drives so much great art and makes it relatable doesn't vanish. It might recede, but it will always be there. And that's why we need each other. It's why we need love and support, but it's also why we need tools to deal with it. Those tools are out there. You are never alone.
My children have grown up on grunge music and they love it, but it was already a thing of myth when they were born. They know how much it means to me personally, and I've done my best to be open and honest and puncture any lingering rock star myths around it. These deaths are not glamorous and never were. There is nothing romantic about it. The music is beautiful and will continue to resonate. The one advantage my children have is distance--for them, it is about the art and nothing more. As I mentioned above, I don't think I'll ever get that distance, at least not entirely. The sadness at losing so many powerful artistic voices feels personal in a way that's hard to explain. It's not nostalgic--when things are purely nostalgia, they are safely locked up. This music has never been far away and is still a part of my daily life. It is one of my tools for surviving. I so wish it could have helped those who created it for longer than it did.
I'm grateful for the voices from this music that are still here, and I mourn those that didn't make it through. And I can't say it enough: there are people out there who can help. You are not alone. You are never alone. Reach out, as difficult as it might be, and get help if you need it. There are more shoulders to lean on than you realize.
