Growing Feathers in the Rain
When the wave of yet another prominent musician committing suicide washed over the headlines, I was hit once again by the flood of emotions that accompanies loss. The wave turned me over several times underwater, spinning me without a sense of direction, searching for air in the blast of a salty ocean.
I’ll admit, I originally started writing this column after Chris Cornell passed away in May. I sat on this topic, struggling if I should write about it about or not. While the simple act of writing it out was useful, his departure hit deep. So I settled for peppering one of my columns with some of his powerful lyrics.
Anyone who claims to be a fan of the grunge scene in the ’90s couldn’t do so without paying homage to Cornell, who’s massive vocal range paved the way for Eddie Vedder’s powerful baritone growl. I sang along with Cornell’s words in my basement and felt them run through my veins. Here was someone who had the mic and could turn his thoughts, or my thoughts, into art.
Like all great artists, he connected with a vast base of fans who clung to his words, feeling like someone understood them when they thought no one did. We shared his struggle, and in doing so we knew we were not alone.
While it was well known that Cornell struggled with depression — he openly talked about it — it was always assumed that he worked out his demons through his music, as all artists tend to do.
His iconic voice was at times obviously pained in reflection, and regretful acceptance, yet with a subtle rage beneath the surface.
Whatever the genre, transforming your struggle into art is a coping mechanism for many artists, rather that be music, painting, or writing. Like Franz Kafka’s famous “A Hunger Artist,” — struggle makes the best art, because it’s a release of emotion.
It’s therapy or sorts.
While I thought I had begun to slowly stroll away from the tragedy of losing one of my favorite musicians, disaster struck again.
After reading the headlines that Chester Bennington, who was a close friend of Cornell, took his life on what would have been Cornell’s birthday, I couldn’t help but shake my head in frustration once again. I hoped it was some tabloid running amuck in a sea of fake news, as is often these days, but it wasn’t…
I still remember playing my drums to Hybrid Theory as a kid, and screaming alongside Bennington’s eerie vocals in my car while I head-banged away. The way Cornell paved the road for grunge-rockers to speed into the main-stream, Bennington and Linkin Park opened the doors for an emerging musical style that would blend rock and rap.
Like Cornell, I felt that he was just getting it all out in the music. So when reading the latest headlines of his suicide, it was devastating to know he put his dire words into action.
Bennington’s pain wasn’t anywhere near as subtle as Cornell’s, as you could feel the friction in his screams — you could feel his pain. His message was very overt.
Adding to the strain is that Bennington played Leonard Cohen’s heart-breaking “Hallelujah” at Cornell’s memorial in May.
It begs the question: How much producing (art) is enough to keep the demons at bay? How much of a release is needed to alleviate the toture an artist feels to continue on? (I’ll admit that I’ve plugged away on various projects just to keep my mind churning on what I deemed purposeful, and so far that’s worked for me…)
Cornell’s three-dimensional lyrics in “Seasons” ring through my ears as I write these words.
“Now I want to fly above the storm, but you can’t grow feathers in the rain.”
The frightening fact with both Cornell and Bennington is that they had seemingly appeared in the clear (from my naïve perspective) — they were married, had kids, were highly successful, and presumably near the twilight of their career. While they both had publically spoken of their struggles, I was hopeful that they had buried their demons six-feet deep. But as we all know now, they weren’t buried at all, just hidden in the shade.
What’s rarely talked about in these cases is that depression never really “goes away.” It hides. It’s lurks. It can’t be buried.
“My mirror shows another face, another place to hide it all, another place to hide if all.”
I’ll admit, it takes time, lots of time, to rewire your brain into creating healthier habits.
Depression has traditionally been a taboo topic — my own hesitance to write this column is an example of this grey area. But one thing I’ve noticed is that it’s a topic that’s becoming more commonly talked about. As time has progressed, it’s becoming more real, and not just something “in your head.” And while I don’t want to dramatize the topic or glamorize it, I feel it’s important to be open about it — because not talking about something doesn’t make it go away, it just makes whoever’s struggling through something feel more alienated, which only exacerbates the problem.
And while those struggling see suicide as a way to snuff the fire out for good and relieve themselves of their pains, what they’re really doing is passing on the torch to someone else who may have looked to them for strength. They’re leaving the masses they made feel heard, sadly feel unheard again.
Death is inevitable. That’s a fact. But the feeling of being robbed never fades when someone takes their own life, leaving us with nothing more than their beautiful lyrics, ones that made us feel alive and understood.
As two of my musical idols have moved on by, I can’t help but hear Cornell’s final crow echo in my fevered mind.
“I’m left behind, as the seasons roll on by…”
