Layne Staley

August 22, 1967 - April 5, 2002

Dear Gen Xer,

Remember the laughter.

The wisecracks, the breaking of balls, the joy that left you gasping.

You laughed as you bombed around Seattle in Layne’s VW Dasher, soaking pedestrians with wiper fluid through tricked-out window washers.

You laughed when they were still Alice N’ Chains, when Layne would enter the stage on a tricycle, or primp in front of a mirror in between songs like Morris Day in Purple Rain, or put on a Stetson and tuck in his jeans and act like a cowboy for Queen of the Rodeo.

You laughed at the Music Bank under Ballard Bridge, jamming and drinking and playing pranks, spirals of laughter all night long, vibrant sounds loud enough to drown out the Alaskan fishing boats, the grinding of the drawbridge that let them through.

You can hear the humor on Facelift, right at the end of Real Thing, when Layne cops a joke from Coming to America and belts out “Sexual Chocolate!”

You can hear it in AIC’s Unplugged show: Layne laughing as Over Now begins; Jerry imitating Calhoun Tubbs when the song is done.

Layne could do impressions, too.

Neil Diamond, Ethel Merman, Dennis De Young from Styx. He’d knock you out with pitch-perfect jokes, then make you piss your pants laughing with X-rated impressions of Popeye.

That fucking voice, man.

It could make you howl and it could you make you feel.

Gritty.

Shrieking.

Soulful.

Pained.

Angelic registers reaching from below. Flowing from a man who grew out of sync with himself and the world.

Not that the world gave a shit.

The world of Columbia Records. Of Spin and Rolling Stone. Who treated Layne like a commodity. Who took what they could and demanded more.

Or how about the weirdos who hid in the bushes?

The psychos who tore out clumps of his dreadlocks.

The pricks on the street, on the road, at the Safeway, who stepped up to Layne, invaded his space, derided him and called him junkie.

That was the popular narrative, right?

The media blaming Layne for all of the band’s problems. Casting aspersions on his health and his habits. Bleeding the freak for a lousy headline.

As if Layne’s bandmates were in church the whole time. As if these so-called journalists had never indulged in any vices. As if their opinion meant a goddamn thing if their lives actually were that squeaky clean.

Yes, obviously, Layne had problems. Yes, obviously, Layne fucked up. Who the hell didn’t? How stupid were you in your youth?

The difference is we managed to make it. Layne not so much. We only had him for thirty-four years.

But the measure of a person isn’t how long they stuck around. What counts is the effect they had on the world, the mark they left on the people around them.

And everybody loved Layne.

He was gentle and sweet and funny and attentive. He had this enthusiasm, a childlike quality, a light that drew you in and made you feel heard.

And he was generous.

His guest lists when Alice in Chains were on tour were never for celebrities or record execs. They were for kids who couldn’t afford a ticket. Layne remembered being broke. He understood how much music meant; how little wallets mattered.

That’s how it was in the Music Bank days. Everybody working together. Pitching in. Helping each other. Happy to share what little you had.

That’s how Layne came to invite a total stranger to live with him.

He met him at a party, this guy who was struggling. A guy with no money. With no place to stay. A guy Layne offered food and clothes and instruments to. A guy named Jerry Cantrell.

We all know what happened next.

And we know how it ended.

If you don’t, there are plenty of places where you can learn how everything fell apart. How Layne faded away. How Layne was found.

But you won’t find that dirt here.

Here we remember the fun and the laughter. Today we celebrate the man and the music.

So crank it up and sing along.

Be thankful you made it when others didn’t.

Get up off your angry chair and love someone like you mean it.

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