Seattle Preface

"Wanna see a Seattle rock star dude?"
My new friend Chris pointed to a tiny frail figure writhing on his side by the edge of the dance floor. He was clutching his stomach and upon closer inspection I saw that he was vomiting violently. Eventually he rolled on to his back, his eyes wide open and facing the ceiling unblinkingly. Only then could I make out that it was Mike McCready, lead guitarist of what was then the biggest band in the world, Pearl Jam.

Chris, a dead ringer for Jaco Pastorius, was a gifted musician with vicious mood swings and part of a group of struggling Seattle artists who had adopted me in my first week in the city. They would take me around all the parties and hot spots,frequently bribing bouncers with drugs to let me in as I was still underage.
They found my accent hilarious and my exuberance and faith in what they were doing must have boosted their fragile confidence of success in a scene that was already, in retrospect, showing the first signs of over-exposure and decline.
Yet the city nights still crackled with energy, excitement and expectation. Seattle had made a significant contribution to musical culture, providing a true alternative before the term became reduced to a marketing concept. The world music media was focussed upon this relatively small city which had produced such quantity of quality, and everybody wanted a piece. Many of the best musicians in the country had headed to Seattle to find fame, fortune and fulfillment. On almost any given night top-class acts could be found performing in any venue, and even the parties revolved around the typically excellent musicians that would turn up to play.
It was a creative Mecca.

I was there when Kurt Cobain killed himself, and when the shock waves settled, something had changed. The innocence of the Creative Youth Republic of Seattle had been shattered and its mortality had been accepted. Like the last days of Rome, the music scene coped by descending into decadence. The partying scene would gradually become more about the drugs than the music, exacerbating the sense of decay that had crept in.
I stayed another 6 months. When I returned two years later, Seattle was spiritually unrecognisable. It had become (relatively at least) a wasteland, a cultural ghost town.
I bumped in to Jerry Cantrell from Alice in Chains on Brick street, and his eyes said it all. When I had spoken with him in 1994 they were full of light - sparkling with intelligence, humour and conviction. By 1996 they had become dulled, jaded and defeated.