by Lonn Friend
Seattle was still mourning Andy, four months after his death. You could see it in the eyes of the local kids and feel it in the fog moving in off the bay. Everyone loved the pudgy blond singer. His charisma had been as infectious as the smack-induced highs that ultimately killed him. Evidence of his potential is in every note of the band’s one and only long play, Apple, the unsung masterpiece of the era that had just hit record stores in July. “Crown of Thorns,” the epic, purging track on the record, like Alice’s “Box,” was a lament of desperation, a plea for faith from across the brown River Styx. Monkeys jumped from vine to vine in this soon-to-be-discovered northwest burg. You could score heroin sitting at a bus stop or standing on the street in front of a club.
Love Bone bassist Jeff Ament and guitarist Stone Gossard approached me, extended their hands, and introduced themselves. They were easy to talk to, though somewhat shy, and took me under their wing instantly, educating me on the ways of the ‘hood in the wake of their friend’s death. “You really should talk to Xana,” they said. “She was Andy’s girlfriend. She’s going to be here soon.”
On the avenue after the show, a gathering of the tribes ensued. Nick and Kevin introduced me to Alice in Chains. Drummer Sean Kinney and bassist Mike Starr were affable, even comedic, cracking wise about the “visiting rock journalist.” (Why is it that the rhythm sections are so often the fun guys in a band? That might be a stupid stereotype, but keeping the beat seems to possess some sort of magical balancing power. I mean, wasn’t it Paul and Ringo who were always smiling and John and George who wore the frowns?)
Guitarist Cantrell was distant, removed, guarded in his words and demeanor, as if he carried the burden of an imminent future that would see this little township of devoted, uncorrupted artists suddenly incorporated into a gigantic image-and-marketing campaign that would spawn millions of records by a handful of acts making their mark on rock history.
I stood in the parking lot for two hours, engaged in conversation by Gossard, Ament, Cantrell, and a bizarre but beautiful young girl who’d claimed the heart of the fallen Wood. She introduced herself as Xana, “Andy’s girl,” and commenced to chatter effortlessly on the immense loss of her beloved. She openly spoke of Andy’s light while my tape rolled, freely proclaiming his legacy and their devotion to one another while gently indicting the so-called friends who kept his veins flowing with H. I was almost certain she was stoned herself.
At the end of the night, Jeff approached me with three people. “These are our managers, Lonn,” he said, introducing Kelly Curtis and Susan Silver, partners in Curtis/Silver management, who provided artist representation for Mother Love Bone, Alice in Chains, and Soundgarden, the band fronted by Susan’s husband, Chris Cornell. Chris was well respected and regarded by the street folk as the leader of the local music scene.
Our small group walked and talked while Kevin and Nick went to a local bar with the Alice boys. Susan wanted to connect with me about something. From the instant I made her acquaintance, I trusted her. Her honesty was unfiltered, rare for anyone engaged in daily battle with the demons of the recording underworld. She told me that night of Layne’s addiction. The dialogue was uncharacteristically open for two people who had just met.
The pall of Layne’s addiction had been exacerbated by the drug-induced death of his friend and musical colleague. Success, this savvy lady knew in her heart, would only further corrupt the fragile artist’s already tenuous state. But it was too late to stop the locomotive of song and culture that was about to run over the hair farmers, making future millionaires of a bunch of shabbily dressed, angry young men whose mission was, not to entertain us, as the cynical Cobain sang, but rather to make us stop dead in our tracks and take a look at what was going on around us.
“So, can we do something with Alice and RIP?” asked Kevin and Nick on the plane ride home.
“Absolutely,” I responded. “And thank you, guys, for this trip. It was far more than I expected.” I had a feeling that a lot of record weasels were going to be descending on Seattle very soon.
“Lonn, I want you to hear something first,” said Goldie, the PolyGram talent scout. It’d been months since I’d heard from him, but he was up to something with Jeff and Stone, who had confessed to Del James in the December 1990 RIP, “We’ve come to the conclusion that we are not going to continue as Mother Love Bone. The main reason being that the MLB image—and for that matter, name—was so closely related to Andy’s trip that it would not feel right to just try and replace Andy.” The grieving was over and it was time to create again, in a new context. What Goldie brought to my office that day shook the earth like a good old West Coast quake.
He passed through my door holding a cassette tape with two songs on it, rough mixes off a debut album by a new band he’d signed to his new label, Epic Records. “Just put the tape in, crank it up, and then I’ll tell you the story,” he said.
The next several minutes were as surreal as any I’ve ever experienced in my lifetime as a music fan. My office was shaking. It was one of those career-launching hooks. Like the Edge’s locomotive grind that opens “I Will Follow” or Ray Manzarek’s seductive keyboard at the outset of the Doors’ volcanic first volley, “Break on Through.”
Then the voice.
Son, she said, have I got a little story for you.
Cognac-smooth yet unspeakably strong, the vocal presentation was completely captivating. So many bands, so many front men, metal screechers like Dickinson and Halford or glorious growlers like Hetfield and Danzig, or those that trekked somewhere in between, like the indefinable Axl. But this, this was new and breathtaking in its boldness. Part lounge croon, classic, Mel Tormé velvet fog; part Morrison throaty, bowel centered, brave, and brutal. I was ready to cross over completely. “Let there be chorus!”
Oh, I, oh, I’m still alive.
I, oh, I’m still alive.
Goldie sat quietly on my sofa and stared at my face as it faded to white, smiling that smile, the kind that said, “I know, brother. I know.” As the song ended, I stopped the tape. “Oh, my God, dude,” I fumbled. “What the fuck was that? And who is that singer?” Whereupon the talent scout began to humbly recount the talent on the tape.
“This is Stone and Jeff’s new band,” he explained. “It doesn’t have a name yet, but we’re calling it Mookie Blaylock for the time being [referring to Ament’s favorite basketball player, from the New Jersey Nets]. It’s pretty good, huh?” Shift the gift of understatement to Goldie. “Good?” I replied. “Dude, this is amazing. Michael, who does that voice belong to, and how did you find him?”
He paused for a second, like he was preparing to tell a story that he knew he would recount a thousand times throughout the course of his life.
“His name is Eddie Vedder,” he began. “And I didn’t find him. I had nothing to do with it. The guys found him. He’s a surfing buddy of Jack Irons.” Irons was the drummer for the Red Hot Chili Peppers who later went on to do a stint with Pearl Jam after the departure of their original skin basher Dave Abbruzzese.
“Eddie was born in Chicago and lives in Escondido near San Diego,” Goldie continued. “It’s one of those magical things, Lonn. Jeff and Stone met him and it just happened.” No one ever saw Seattle coming. There was no script or grand promotional plan. Grunge rock was never meant for the masses. Its success, like all authentic rock creations, was an aberration. Fans discovered it and passed it along like a joint among friends. But this secret toke would not stay secret for long, no matter what course the kingmakers would map out. And Goldie knew that.
“Dave Glew [the president of Epic Records at the time] is really behind this,” he continued. “But we’re not going to over-promote it. The band doesn’t want that. They want to tour and let it happen naturally. They have no expectations. I mean, who would have thought that after Andy died something like this was even possible?”
After Goldie played “Even Flow,” the second song on the tape, I sat there trying to retrieve the breath that
had just evacuated my lungs. “Look, buddy,” I said, “this is going to be huge, no matter what you or Epic or anyone else does. It’s a foregone conclusion. Congratulations! I hope you still take my calls in a year.”
He hugged me and left. It wasn’t long after that day that Eddie hit on the name Pearl Jam for the band, inspired by his grandma’s homemade jelly. And so their most uncommon journey began, uncommon because Pearl Jam did everything in their power not to be enormous. They had no choice in the matter. The debut LP, Ten (Mookie’s number), operated under forces of nature unbeknownst to the record industry.
RIP began to cover the Seattle scene diligently with Alice in Chains and Soundgarden as Pearl Jam was shredding rock radio, thanks in great part to the timeless efforts of Epic hard-rock promotional dude Michael Schnapp. Mentored by Epic’s guru of radio promotion, Harvey Leeds, Schnapp became an influential force of nature in hard-rock radio. A born-and-bred New York stoner good guy who called everyone “dude,” Schnapp miraculously convinced skeptical rock programmers that Pearl Jam was as heavy and right for their format as the other act he was working at the time, Ozzy Osbourne, who was then riding high with his most successful solo effort to date, No More Tears. Schnapp was not a record guy. He was a music guy. There was a huge distinction.
Through Schnapp’s relentless effort, “Even Flow” lived at rock radio for months as low-budget live clips for it and “Alive”—both accentuating the power of Eddie’s onstage allure—saturated MTV This was about the time that my staff and I were beginning to plan the 1991 fourth-anniversary RIP magazine party We had secured the Hollywood Palladium and a date in October, but I’d just begun to slate the bands that would come out and play live, for free, to celebrate the publication and the passage of another successful year.
That’s when Susan Silver called me. “Lonn,” she said, “do you have any bands booked for the RIP party yet?”
I paused for a moment, allowing my toes time to tingle. Susan was not about small talk. “We’re just getting into it,” I replied. “What have you got in mind?”
“Well, how would you like Soundgarden to play? I’ve talked to Kelly and Chris and they’re into it.”
I was blown away by the proposition. “Soundgarden?” I responded. “Are you kidding? Yes! Done!”
I could hear the elation in her voice. “They have to headline. Is that okay?” she asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” I replied. “Oh, Susan, listen, if you have any other thoughts, the bill is still pretty open and I’m all ears.”
A week later, I received the phone call that took the kinks out of my beard. It was Susan. “So, Lonn, how would you like to have Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, and Soundgarden all play your party?” I was numb. “Eddie and Chris are even talking about a Temple of the Dog jam at the end. Would that be cool?”
The Temple of the Dog LP—the hybrid project written and recorded in a remarkable fifteen days by members of Soundgarden and Pearl Jam—had been released on A&M Records (Soundgarden’s label) that past April. The tracks “Hunger Strike” and “Say Hello 2 Heaven” were making inroads at rock radio, but no one there was working the record too hard out of respect to Andy. They didn’t want to come off as whores by overhyping the project. Seattle bands wielded tremendous influence on their record companies. The music had to come first; it was organic, cultural, and owed little to the image makers of the big music industry machine that, up until recently, would spend untold hours figuring out when to drop the power ballad and hair metal, MTV’s bread and butter. Grunge ultimately assassinated the power ballad and dismantled the wind machines, but more on that later.
The Seattle RIP party delivered everything promised and more. I even got Chris’s favorite faux icons of metal, Spinal Tap, to do a set, aware that Soundgarden loved to cover “Big Bottom” in concert. On top of that, Epic A&R exec Bob Pfeifer helped secure supershredding axe prodigy Joe Satriani to sit in on lead guitar with the Tap.
Pearl Jam played second on the bill, following the unknown Australian rockers Screaming Jets. After the set, I walked backstage and told the guys how awesome they were. That was the first time I met the man whose vocal style would influence a generation of pipes. From STP to Creed to Nickelback and a hundred others that borrowed (sometimes shamelessly) from Eddie’s tender yet triumphant technique, he remains the postmodern archetype.
That night, he was toting a bottle of red wine, an early passion, something that connected him to the spirit of another great rock original. Eddie was Morrison-esque to me that first performance, thirty minutes of heart and soul, slightly dysfunctional yet real.
For the jam that followed Soundgarden’s house-crumbling, one-hour set, Eddie joined Chris onstage for “Hunger Strike” and both men took flight, launching off into the four-thousand-capacity grunge-mad audience, a stage dive for the ages.
Susan was beside herself and so were the bands. The great American satirist Harry Shearer recalls that gig with huge fondness, being it was the only time the Tap was on the same bill as grunge-era legends and on the same stage as Joe Satriani. I adored these groups and the dedication they had to their music and did what I could to further the cause.
After the RIP party, Pearl Jam hit the road. MLB never really saw much of America outside Bellingham, Washington. Jeff was relishing the experience and shared that feeling by sending postcards to the magazine from the road. The first one, postmarked November 25, 1991, read, “Hello from beautiful Normal, Illinois…. The Peppers is rocking most of the nation. See yuz at the Sports Arena…. Thanks again for the amazing time at the RIP party. Unforgettable. Jeff A. Pearl Jam.”
He wrote us again on December 30, and when the band hit Europe in 1992, he fired us off a jubilant note from the Sheraton Copenhagen. But while Jeff was knocking out postcards from the road, Stone was checking in with me by phone. There was one afternoon, however, during a break in the tour, when I learned something about myself, thanks to the honesty of a rock guitarist.
Stone had shown a tepid interest in golf, so I hooked him up for a set of sticks through my friend Steve Mata at TaylorMade Golf. Then when he hit town, I put together a foursome that included Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee and Warrant guitarist Joey Allen. It never struck me that the chemistry of this bunch might have been less than perfect.
I picked up Stone at his hotel and met Tommy and Joey at the Westlake Village house on the hill once shared by Lee and then-wife actress Heather Locklear—the same pad long occupied by Heather and her rock-star beau, Bon Jovi axe Richie Sambora. We teed it up at North Ranch Country Club, a swank, private layout that Lee somehow managed to buy his way into. Throughout the day, the dialogue was as glam metal as Lee’s and Allen’s lifestyle, from off-color jokes about women to what new high-priced, four-wheeled toys the guys had bought.
It was role-playing to a certain extent. Shoot whiskey all night on Pantera’s tour bus and rap like a redneck? Sure. Sit with Tori Amos in a coffee house and discuss angels and fairies? No problem. Wax on the wonders of groupies with Hollywood metalheads? Piece of cake.
It was not so easy for Stone, however. He kept up a good front all afternoon, holding his own with a slightly scandalous tale or two, mostly manufactured to keep the crowd engaged. I was out of my mind, a cartoon character, Lonn the metal dude, friend to all, luckiest fucker on Planet Rock. When the day was done, Stone came back to my office with me, and we sat and played a golf video game on my computer. He really didn’t dig the sport, but he wanted to hang out a bit longer. I sensed there was something on his mind.
“Lonn, why do you act that way?” he asked, knocking me a bit off guard.
“What do you mean?” I responded.
“Those guys, they’re fun and all, but that rap and their decadent lifestyle, that’s not you. You’re being phony when you play into their world. It’s not real. I know that you’re a special guy, you care about music, and you care about this magazine. Be yourself, man. Always, be yourself.”
I thought a lot about what
Stone said that night, but I wasn’t in the correct space to make any drastic alterations in my personality or behavior. I was being myself, or at least, one of my selves. His words, however, stuck with me, and in hindsight, I’m thankful for the honesty he showed me that day. If Cobain had been half as candid with me, maybe things could have different between us.
When Pearl Jam returned later in the year for the U.S. leg of the Vs. tour, I had one of the wackiest spontaneous ideas that ever popped into my longhaired head. It was 4 P.M. in our Beverly Hills office and Pearl Jam was playing the old Aladdin Hotel in Las Vegas at 8. I called my wife and said, “Get Megan ready. I’m taking her on a quick road trip.”
Joyce was incredulous. “She’s not even three years old and has preschool at nine o’clock in the morning,” came the response. “And where is it you plan on going?” The Empress was not happy with the Jester. I must have been nuts. “Vegas, to see Pearl Jam. I’m booking two tickets for a 6 P.M. flight, we’ll get a hotel room for the night, and I’ll have her back in time for preschool.”
Looking back, I realize how much my wife supported these wild and crazy days that took me across the globe, most of the time leaving her at home alone to raise our daughter. After Megan was born, she lost interest in hangin’ out. The rope she gave me was long, and she never tugged too hard to reel me back in. If there was such a thing as having too much freedom of movement, this was the case, because Joyce and I eventually floated so far apart, we couldn’t get back together again. I should have taken her and Megan on the overnighter to Vegas. Somehow, it never crossed my mind.
I grabbed a cab, headed for the Mirage, found the hotel president Bobby Baldwin’s daughter, Stacy—whom I had met earlier in the year at the Metallica Snakepit show at the Thomas and Mack Center—in the gym working out. She hooked me up with a room. I gave Megan a bath, fed her, dressed her up, and headed for the venue after calling my brother, who lived in Las Vegas, and telling him to grab Aaron, his five-year-old, and meet us at the Aladdin. Backstage, the whole band came out to greet the angel Megan.
