Alice in Chains

by David de Sola

  According to James Bergstrom, they would have band meetings at the Denny’s in Ballard, where over breakfast they would plan their stage moves. Johnny Bacolas compared their planning to a Las Vegas production.1

  Jeff Gilbert’s day job at the time was working at a silk-screen shop called Silver Screen Graphics, where he got a design for an Alice ’N Chains T-shirt, consisting of the band’s logo and a photo of the four members. “It looked like Poison’s first album cover—four guys with pouffed-up hair. They had kind of a badass logo that they just kind of wrapped around.” Gilbert made the T-shirts, which would come back to haunt Layne a few years later.

  * * *

  According to David Ballenger, it was at some point in early 1987 that he began taking over the day-to-day operations of running the Music Bank from Scott Hunt. Nick Pollock had a job there, running the keys and letting people in and out of the building, but Ballenger decided to fire him after seeing him drinking on the job. Pollock said he never really had a job there, only that he helped out occasionally. Layne eventually convinced Ballenger to give him Pollock’s job, which, according to Tim Branom, paid four dollars an hour in credit toward room rent. “No money ever changed hands,” Ballenger said.

  Ballenger and Layne became friends. At one point, during conversations about his biological father, Layne said to him, “I wish you were my dad.” “We had long talks about his dad, not that he didn’t care for his dad, but he thought his dad was never around for him,” Ballenger said. Layne invited him to his parents’ home, where he met the family.

  “Is Layne being a good boy?” his mother asked Ballenger.

  “Oh, yeah. Layne’s being a real good boy.”

  After she was out of earshot, he said to Layne, “You owe me for that.”

  Darrell Vernon arrived at the Music Bank at some point in 1986 as the guitarist in a band called De Oppresso Liber—later named Triathlon. Though he wasn’t supposed to, he had been living in his room at the Music Bank and eventually got a job there running keys. Vernon said of Layne, “He was definitely a big presence there.” He said that under the previous management, there was “a lot of snobbiness and sort of meanness at first,” and that even Layne could come off that way.

  Their friendship began while both were living at the Music Bank. Vernon got to know him because he lived there and had a few necessary supplies—hair spray and a hair dryer—that Layne would borrow on occasion. He and Layne spent many late nights sitting around the office. There was a TV and VCR, and if nothing was going on, they would watch videos of The Terminator or Purple Rain.

  “One of my main [memories] of Layne is, every time when I would come into the rehearsal space in the Music Bank, he’d be in the office with his feet up on the desk watching Purple Rain, like a million times,” Dave Hillis recalled. “It could be a week later: I’d come in, and he’s still watching Purple Rain.”

  According to Vernon, “They had this really old, like, bootleg copy of The Terminator. It was just kind of a joke. ‘We’ve got nothing else better to do. Put The Terminator in again.’ And it got so worn out it was almost unwatchable, but we still put it in.”

  Layne would also practice. He’d put on Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)” on the PA and sing along until he had gotten it perfect—to the point where he nailed every note in the wail near the end of the song. One time Layne was in the office when he started singing a song by the band Mistrust, whose singer, Jeff L’Heureux, had somewhat of an operatic voice, which Layne mimicked perfectly. At that point, the people in the office saw L’Heureux himself walking up, having heard Layne. He watched Layne through the office’s window, remarking, “What the hell is going on?” According to David Ballenger, “Everyone [was] just laughing like crazy.”

  Pranks and practical jokes were part of life at the Music Bank, although sometimes they could push the envelope. Layne put a dead rat inside the bass drum of the band Sex. As payback, someone from Sex set up a large cup filled with flour, mounted it on top of a door, and tied it to the doorknob. According to James Bergstrom, Layne had a big date that night, which he had taken time to prepare for. He stepped through the booby-trapped door and was covered with flour. Bergstrom isn’t sure, but he thinks the members of Sex may have followed up the flour immediately by dousing him with water. Layne was furious and suspected Bergstrom was behind it because he was there at the time, a charge Bergstrom denied.

  Another time, Tim Branom was on duty with the keys one night when Layne brought a girl back to his room for a tryst. Branom and a group of about a dozen people were standing outside. They barged in and pulled the two of them apart. “I remember the condom flying in the air and us all laughing, but Layne never got back at me or anything. That was all part of being friends. The girl was screaming, of course, but she wasn’t screaming that bad. It was almost like you just knew that was going to happen.”

  One night at the Music Bank, Layne; Dehumanizers drummer Infra Ed; Barry Oswald, who worked at the Music Bank; and graphic artist Steve Alley were watching This Is Spinal Tap—“in an altered state of being,” according to Alley—after which everyone decided they could do it better. They formed a band called Penis NV—pronounced “penis envy”—which Alley designed a logo for. They booked a show at a club under the Aurora Bridge, which sold out. Before the show, Layne and Ed drank a fifth of Jack Daniel’s by themselves. When they took the stage, Ed tripped and kicked his drum set into the crowd. After this, Layne went to the microphone, said “Thank you,” and walked offstage. The performance lasted about two minutes, and they didn’t play a single song. “We had a bunch of pissed-off people who spent five bucks to get in the door,” Alley said. “But they got what they got.” They hurried out of there as fast as they could.

  Drug use was also part of life at the Music Bank, usually marijuana, cocaine, and acid. Multiple sources consistently say heroin was not part of the scene. “I didn’t know anybody that did heroin back then, but pretty much everybody did coke. It was just standard,” Tim Branom said. “It was the eighties—everybody did it. It wasn’t considered that bad, because people weren’t doing it out of control. It was just like somebody would drink a beer, they would do a few lines.”

  “I don’t even know when the whole heroin thing happened for them. I know there was a little bit of blow going around at one point and we were all doing it like nobody gave a shit,” Music Bank cofounder Scott Hunt said. “[Heroin] just hadn’t hit Seattle yet. If … it was going to hit anywhere, [you think] it would have hit us. We never saw it.”

  Music Bank manager David Ballenger offered a similar recollection, with a slight caveat. “There was a problem with cocaine around, but I’m not saying there wasn’t heroin around. Cocaine was a real scourge around the Music Bank. I’ve got some hellacious stories about that, involving psychotic people with guns.”

  There is some evidence of heroin use at the Music Bank. Layne and Hit and Run drummer Dean Noble went to the room occupied by the band Broken Toyz, who had a larger room and whose singer, Rob Brustad, was always down for getting stoned. “We were smoking some weed, and Rob broke out some heroin and offered it to us. I looked at Layne and he looked at me and we’re like, ‘No thanks. You go ahead—we’ll just stick with weed. We’re cool.’ That was pretty much it. It wasn’t like a hard sell or anything like that. At that time, Layne wasn’t interested in that.” Duane Lance Bodenheimer, singer of the band the Derelicts, who had his own struggles with heroin, agreed with Noble’s assessment. “A heroin junkie doesn’t turn down heroin.”

  Darrell Vernon offered a surprising account of Layne’s views at the time. “Back then, he was very against heroin. They were doing just about everything else. There was lots of cocaine, like, and LSD and stuff like that, and everybody is smoking pot and that sort of thing, but it was ironic that he became a heroin addict, because he was so against heroin at that point in time.

  “There was like sort of a line where junkies weren’t cool,” he added. “Generally, there wa
s this sort of peer-pressure thing that the heroin was definitely not okay. Junkies were bad, but all other sort of drugs were okay, but that wasn’t.” Brustad would later die of an apparent drug overdose in 1996. He was thirty-one years old.2

  Regardless of his opposition to heroin, Layne was developing a growing appetite and tolerance for drug use, enough that his bandmates were becoming alarmed. During one night out in Seattle, Layne and Pollock—“fueled by mushrooms”—were walking around, and there was talk about the movie A Clockwork Orange. “We went out being decadent, breaking shit, that kind of thing. We ran—Layne got caught,” Pollock said. Layne decided to give the police officer, a woman, some attitude. According to the account he heard from Layne later, “He was a smart-ass to her, and she sicced the dog on him and it chewed up his legs. We came by him a little bit later in the evening. The cops had him in the back of a car at 7-Eleven. We just saw him kind of like look up and nod at us. I believe his hands were still handcuffed behind his back.” Someone eventually got Layne out of jail.

  On another occasion, Nick Pollock drove to Layne’s parents’ home to pick him up for band practice. He was driving across the 520 bridge when he noticed Layne’s eyes were extremely dilated. “His eyes were just totally crazy, but he had this really calm look on his face.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Pollock asked.

  “I took some acid.”

  “How much?”

  “A sheet.”

  “The man had a constitution for drugs,” Pollock would later recall. “He could ingest so much stuff, and it just didn’t mess him up. We went out one night with a bottle of tequila somehow he got a hold of. I remember imbibing enough of it to get me pretty wasted. But he drank all the rest of it.” Pollock estimated Layne drank more than half of the bottle by himself. “I always remember that the guy just could do a lot. He could drink a lot, he could do a lot of drugs, and it didn’t seem to slow him down too much.”

  On another occasion, Layne brought Pollock into a room at the Music Bank. His motives for doing so were unknown to Pollock until they actually did it: they freebased cocaine.

  Pollock was shaken because he enjoyed it so much that it scared him. “I walked away from that and said, ‘I will never, ever do that again,’ because it felt way too good,” Pollock said. “I remember feeling like I was standing at the opening of an abyss, and then I turned around and walked away.” Layne and Pollock talked about it after, and both agreed they would never do it again. Pollock doesn’t know if Layne did it again.

  Layne’s drug use got to the point where Pollock, Bergstrom, and Bacolas organized a band meeting at the Music Bank to confront him at some point in 1987, not long before their band broke up. “I think he [was] doing more and more and more of it, and then we started to notice, band-wise, like, ‘This is freaking us out,’ because we’re worried for our friend. We had something of an intervention with him. There were tears involved,” Pollock said.

  “I’ll take care of it. It’ll get better. I’ll stop doing it,” Layne told them.

  Bergstrom had a similar recollection. “I remember at one point during the Music Bank days, he did, I think, start doing a little bit of cocaine. I remember us having a band meeting about it because we didn’t know and he wasn’t singing as well, and then we found out. I remember us scheduling a band meeting and sitting down with him and all of us talking about it. I remember Layne crying and saying, ‘I’m not going to do that anymore.’”

  Asked if he agreed with Pollock’s description of this meeting as an intervention, Bergstrom said, “In its own innocent way, it was. Absolutely.”

  “We’re probably seventeen- or eighteen-year-old kids at that time. It was like, ‘Dude, we love you, man. We don’t want to see you get involved with that and ruin your life, affecting your great talent.’ I remember it hitting home with Layne.” Their intervention consisted of a private band meeting between the four of them—there were no family members or counselors involved. That wouldn’t happen until a few years later.

  * * *

  On May 1, 1987, Alice ’N Chains was the opening act on a three-band bill at the Tacoma Little Theatre.3 “This next song is a little creepy,” Layne said while introducing “Glamorous Girls.” “There’s actually a little story. We used to be kinda tacky, me and Johnny here especially—we used to be kind of tacky. We had this fetish of, like, being with girls and taking their clothes, you know? And keeping them, and wearing them. Just like some strange obsession, you know? We wrote this song, ‘Glamorous Girls,’ and this is what it’s about.”

  Before the band started the song, someone in the audience could clearly be heard yelling, “Fuck you, Layne!”

  “You know who that was? That’s the guy whose face looks like the moon,” Layne responded, to roars of laughter from the audience. “You should really, seriously think about investing in Stridex, you know, not just buying some for yourself.”

  The most important thing about that show had nothing to do with anything the band said or did during the performance. Rather, the unforeseen and ultimately life-altering consequence of that show was one of the people in the audience watching: a twenty-one-year-old guitarist from Spanaway named Jerry Cantrell, who immediately knew he wanted to be in a band with Layne.4

  * * *

  Jerry’s father, Jerry Cantrell, Sr., was a soldier who served three years in Vietnam; his mother, Gloria Jean Krumpos, raised Jerry and his two siblings by herself for several years.5

  “One of the first memories I have was my dad coming back from Vietnam in his uniform when I was three years old,” Jerry told Rolling Stone. “And my mom telling me he was my dad.”6 After the war, Jerry’s father was assigned to various U.S. military bases. His parents divorced when he was seven. Jerry moved around, having lived in Texas, Pennsylvania, and Washington. Jerry developed an interest in music at an early age. Shortly after learning to write, he was given a copy of Dr. Seuss’s My Book About Me. He filled in the sentence “When I grow up I want to be a…” with two words: “rock star.”7

  Around 1980, the fourteen-year-old Jerry was inspired to learn guitar by listening to Elton John’s Caribou and Captain Fantastic albums. Jerry and his friends would play along to Def Leppard, though they didn’t have any instruments. “We played on milk cans and buckets and stuff, and I had this guitar that played through a stereo,” Jerry told Rockline. “We didn’t have instruments, so we made our own, and we’re trying to play like On Through the Night.”8

  Jerry eventually moved back with his mother, who was living in Spanaway, a few miles outside Tacoma. The family lived through difficult times, during which they were on welfare and food stamps. Jerry was jamming with friends and acting in high school plays. He also engaged in typical adolescent antics—egging cars and smashing mailboxes with baseball bats. When he was seventeen, he was arrested by police officers for trying to get oral sex in a park. What worried him most was that his grandmother might find out from her police scanner, which she would listen to every day, telling him every time one of his friends got busted. Fortunately for him, the scanner malfunctioned that night, so she never heard anything.9

  While Jerry was a student at Spanaway High School in 1982, a teacher named Joanne Becker asked him and his friends to try out for choir. Jerry spoke highly of his experience with Becker. “She was one of the few teachers I actually had fun being around,” he told The Seattle Times in 1991. “We did everything from modern pop to some really great classical stuff. It was really happening.” Becker is credited with alleviating Jerry’s fear of performing onstage—a crucial skill for his future profession. She eventually had him performing fifteenth-century a cappella music.

  “You didn’t feel intimidated,” Jerry said. “That’s something that really stands out in my mind. I was really into rock and roll at the time, and I was getting into bands and jamming, and that was my only musical outlet. I’d seen teachers in other schools that had music programs, but I was never impressed with their attitude. And that’s
something I look for now when I’m working with anybody, is somebody who doesn’t talk down to you.”10

  In his senior year, Jerry was president of the choir, which had a quartet that sang the national anthem at basketball games and won competitions, getting ones from the judges—the highest possible mark. Years later, Jerry said his choir and drama teachers really pushed him early on in his quest for a music career. After Facelift was certified gold for sales in excess of 500,000 copies, he sent both of his former teachers gold records.11

  Jerry graduated from high school in 1984. A year later, he moved to the Dallas area to join a band with a couple of friends and worked at the Arnold and Morgan Music Company.12 At some point in 1985 or early 1986, Jerry moved back to the Tacoma area. Bobby Nesbitt and Scott Nutter were the singer and drummer in a local band named Phoenix, which had their practice space at a storage facility, along with several other local bands. Nesbitt and Nutter were checking out the other bands when they walked into the unit where Raze—Jerry’s band at the time—had their rehearsal space. Raze didn’t have a singer—at the time the band was a trio with Jerry on guitar, future Pretty Boy Floyd bassist Vinnie Chas (real name: Vincent Charles Pusateri), and a drummer. They recognized Jerry’s talent immediately.13

  “Our guitar player was going to be fired, but we heard of another band in the facility. It was Jerry,” Nutter recalled. Nesbitt added, “Basically we ended up kind of stealing Jerry from that band because we saw him and we were like, ‘Wow, this is the guy, totally,’ and it fit.”

  Shortly after Jerry joined the band, they changed their name to Diamond Lie. “He didn’t like the name [Phoenix] right away, and he came up with the name Diamond Lie. I want to say he said it was some lyrics from a song that he had heard on the radio,” Nesbitt said, but could not recall the name of the band or song.