Chris Cornell, a gladiator with pain in his soul and grit in his voice, was one of rock's good guys
"Black hole sun, won't you come and wash away the rain..." That was the mournful, monumental soundtrack to my life in 1994.
Soundgarden's Black Hole Sun is the devastating centrepiece of their finest album, Superunknown, a sad, raging, defiant cry for change, set to a backdrop of sludgy rhythms, ringing open chords and fuzzed up distortion. It is a track that builds in power as it circles around and around.
It is a call for things to be wiped away and renewed. But it sounds too like an elegy for something or someone lost: “No one sings like you anymore,” sang Chris Cornell, silenced now at only 52.
Yesterday, he was found dead in a hotel bathroom in Detroit, just hours after playing a show. In a statement, his representative Brian Bumbery said he had suffered a “sudden and unexpected” death, the cause of which is currently unknown, though police are investigating it as a possible suicide.
Chris Cornell, Soundgarden and Audioslave frontman - in pictures
In this country, Cornell is perhaps best known for You Know My Name, his theme for 2006 Bond film Casino Royale But his place in the musical firmament rests on far more than that: his was a considerable talent that made a genuine contribution to the history of pop music.
As one of the key architects of the grunge scene, Cornell helped restore faith in rock and roll. In the early nineties, amidst the flouncing blow dried pantomime of American hair rock, whilst rave, hip hop and trip hop seized the controls, a trio of American bands brought back some muscle, purpose, power and dignity to guitar music: Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden.
Cornell's quartet were actually the first of the original Seattle grunge groups to sign to a major label, although the last to really break through commercially.
Cornell sang, played rhythm guitar, and wrote all their key songs. The group took their cues from Black Sabbath's open tunings and threatening grit, and Led Zeppelin's blazing swagger and attack, while adding a welcome hint of Beatles-y melodiousness.
He had the command of four octaves, a big range for any singer, which allowed him to shift gear from low gritty intensity to a howling wail that soared high above the band's thunderous drive.
Superunknown was their fourth album, their first to reach number one, and it is as fine a rock record as has ever been made. I am blasting it out right now, in Cornell's honour, reliving again the threatening political anger of The Day I Tried to Live, the ragged desperation and longing of Spoonman. Cornell had pain in his soul; there was a sensitive, depressive aspect to his character, which he openly grappled with in the dark bluesy vortex of Fell on Black Days, and it was there to be heard in the grain of his voice.
But there was fortitude and defiance too, very gladiatorial qualities. He was a good-looking man who bestrode the stage with vigour and charisma. It is easy to see why, when they wanted to introduce Daniel Craig's new James Bond with a tough, rough, masculine modernity, they picked Cornell for the soundtrack. He was about as far from the camp cabaret of Shirley Bassey as it is possible to be.
Soundgarden broke up in 1997 after a series of intra-band clashes. In 2001, he then went on to form alt rock supergroup Audioslave - essentially a collaboration between Cornell and heavy-rap rock act Rage Against The Machine - he came close to really achieving his full potential as a rock star.
With the blazing Tom Morello on guitar and Cornell's powerful, soulful vocals, they had the potential to be one of the all time great bands. But Cornell was beset by his own demons, primarily problems with alcohol and drugs, and despite flashes of brilliance, the group stuttered and broke up in the mid-noughties after three albums.
Cornell also made five solo albums, and reunited with Soundgarden in 2012. They were in the process of recording a seventh LP, a follow-up to 2012 comeback record King Animal; some reports have claimed it was already completed before yesterday’s shocking news.
This year has not yet proved as awful as 2016 for popular music. By the end of last December, it felt as if we were caught in a tsunami of reckoning, as whole generations of pop music were being wiped away. Part of it is just the inevitable process of mortality, a reminder that rock and roll is reaching the end of a human lifespan. But there is surely no doubt that the destructive lifestyles associated with fame and in particular the dark hedonistic aspects of the rock and roll existence have taken their toll.
We don't yet know what part, if any, Cornell's addictions played in his death. In interviews, it seemed he had struggled but overcome his personal problems. Cornell went through rehab in 2003 and has spoken candidly and maturely about the experience. He talked about overcoming “the drudgery and depression” and admitted “you have to want to not do that crap anymore or you will never stop and it will just kill you.”
He was married twice, had three children, and with second wife Vicky Karayiannis ran a foundation to support vulnerable children facing poverty and homelessness. Cornell was one of the good guys, something that clearly comes across in his voice and his music.
The Black Hole Sun has set and Cornell's sad hook line, “No one sings like you anymore” will forever take on a different meaning now.
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