Alice in Chains

by David de Sola

  With Layne now of legal drinking age, going to bars and clubs became a much more frequent and easier endeavor. Before, he technically wasn’t even supposed to be in some of the venues where the band had played. The compromise solution, according to Jerry and Sean, was Layne had to stand outside until the band was ready to perform. He would go straight to the stage, play the set, and then have to leave immediately.17

  Alice in Chains still had their room at the Music Bank and owed rent. Because Layne wasn’t working as many hours, Ballenger gave his job to somebody else. “I didn’t figure I’d ever get paid, because normally there was never, ever any money that changed hands,” Ballenger said. To his surprise, Jerry came back one day with cash to pay the outstanding balance.

  In the months after the drug raid, Bengt Von Haartman and Gabriel Marian were trying to hand over ownership of the Music Bank to Ballenger, even going so far as to present legal documents to the city of Seattle. At the same time, Ballenger was still friends with Scott Hunt, who was involved in a lawsuit against them. Hunt was confident about the prospects of getting the building back and asked Ballenger if he would keep running it.

  Ballenger politely declined, saying he had no interest in running the Music Bank and that there wasn’t enough money in doing so. Von Haartman and Marian got wind of this discussion, and about a week later they told Ballenger, “We put you in place here. We can kick you out just as easily.” Ballenger called their bluff. “And who would run it?” Ultimately, nothing changed.

  Ballenger was nervous about possibly getting involved in litigation in connection with the marijuana operation and sought advice from an attorney. “I told him about what I was doing, about the pot bust. I told him I was worried about getting sued, about losing my equipment. I was terrified of [Von Haartman] and [Marian] at that time,” Ballenger explained.

  According to Ballenger, the attorney’s response was, “Just go. They don’t have a better case than you. You don’t have a better case than them. It’s not in their best interest or moneywise for them to chase you.” He began making plans to leave Seattle. According to Music Bank accounting records, the final rent payments were received in late February or early March 1989. On February 6, 1989—a date Ballenger remembers because it was his sister’s birthday—he told Scott Hunt he was shutting down the Music Bank.

  “You kept it open way longer than it ever would have been,” Hunt responded.

  The decision had been made, but not the date. Ballenger eventually packed his things and got out of there, taking everything to a motel room in West Seattle. Ballenger called a few friends, said his good-byes, and moved to Portland.

  The federal government’s case in the Ballard marijuana operation went to court at the beginning of 1991 but never made it to trial. According to the terms of a plea bargain negotiated by his attorney, Gabriel Marian agreed to plead guilty to conspiracy to grow marijuana. He was sentenced to a thirty-three-month prison term and had to pay a $7,500 fine. Court records show that Bengt Von Haartman failed to appear at his initial court arraignment. The prosecutor handling the case subsequently discovered that Von Haartman had left the United States and was residing in a country that would not extradite him.18

  Chapter 8

  We’re fucking happening!

  —JERRY CANTRELL

  AS A CONDITION OF HIS parole, Randy Hauser was subject to regular urine-analysis testing. Because of this, he wasn’t using any drugs himself, although he admits to having kept some around in case anybody wanted some. “Drugs and alcohol have always been part of my life, but money was the most important part, and so it was nothing for me to have coke around and not use.” At some point in fall 1988, Hauser’s drug test came back positive for cocaine. Hauser’s parole officer tested him again, and it came back negative. About two weeks later, Hauser tested positive again. A second test yielded the same result, and Hauser went to jail. Despite his denials, Hauser spent the next fourteen months in prison and wasn’t released until January 1990.1 By that point, the band was already signed and working on their debut album.

  By late 1988 or early 1989, Ken Deans and Kelly Curtis’s business relationship was falling apart. At that point, Deans said he approached Susan with a proposition: “I’m not confident that Kelly has enough interest to see the Alice in Chains project all the way through. I want you to take my half of the partnership of the band, and I’m going to go into concert promoting. If we do this deal, then I want to be the promoter of Alice in Chains in the Northwest for as long as the band exists.”

  Susan explained how she got involved with Alice in Chains. “Ken gave me a cassette tape of some of the songs that Alice had done, and they were so catchy and so wonderful. I went to see them live and thought they were great fun and very energetic and entertaining and spent a little time with them, and they were hilarious. In a matter of time, the fellow that they called their manager, who was a hairstylist slash coke dealer, took a second vacation to prison. Ken asked Kelly and I if we both wanted to work on the project together, so we said we’d give that a try.”2

  Hauser disputes both Deans’s and Susan’s accounts. According to him, he was sitting in a county jail in Everett, Washington, where Kelly Curtis and Susan came to visit him. Hauser says they offered to take care of Alice in Chains for him while he was in jail, an offer he gladly accepted. Hauser spent the next several months incarcerated while challenging and appealing the parole violation. Nearly twenty-five years later, he still insists he had not used cocaine at the time he tested positive, nor would he have had any reason to do so. Regardless of which account is accurate, it was the beginning of a long professional relationship between Susan and the band that continues to the present day.

  Susan Jean Silver was the oldest of Samuel and Jean Silver’s three children. Years later, she wrote that she was inspired by the creative process early in life, doing volunteer work with organizations and theater groups that were involved with music. This eventually led to her involvement with the short-lived but highly influential Metropolis.3

  In 1982, a French-born ski instructor, Hugo Piottin, moved to Seattle after working several years as a commercial fisherman in Alaska. When he got there, he “connected right away with a group of young folks dabbling with video production.” They realized they needed a place to create videos, and because Piottin had about fifty thousand dollars in the bank from his fishing work, he wound up financing everything.4

  They found a venue at 207 Second Avenue in downtown Seattle. It had a history of being a nightclub going back to the Great Seattle Fire of 1889. It was tiny—with a legal capacity of three hundred. According to Susan, “Hugo’s idea was the Factory West Coast, a place for people to come and express themselves in any way: hear music, see films, and make art projects together. And then commercial needs took over, so it morphed into a showplace.” The Metropolis opened its doors in May 1983. Piottin was later joined by the singer/guitarist for Red Masque, Gordon Doucette, as a business partner.5

  To be an all-ages club, no alcohol would be served. According to a 1983 Seattle Times article, “Traditionally, nonalcoholic nightclubs haven’t lasted long in Seattle. Teenagers don’t seem to be much interested in them, and it’s been hard for such clubs to make a profit without highly lucrative liquor sales.”6 Susan came in to run the juice bar. According to Doucette, “Susan’s involvement in Metropolis was just monumental. She had a great business savvy. She’s a woman with a huge heart. There’s a lot of clubs where the owners are never present—they’re shrewd businessmen counting cash in the office—but Susan, Hugo, and myself were always out there; we were part of the crowd and directly involved. So ninety-five percent of the people who walked through the doors of Metropolis knew us by name.” Susan and Doucette started dating.7

  Standing next to Susan at the bar, Bruce Pavitt, the future founder of Sub Pop Records, was the DJ, spinning records ranging from Minor Threat to Run-DMC. Pavitt called the Metropolis “an amazing opportunity for young people to perform in front of their pe
ers.”8 Among the club’s regulars who cut their teeth there were future Mudhoney members Mark Arm and Steve Turner, and future Guns n’ Roses bassist Duff McKagan. McKagan’s band Ten Minute Warning was the opening act when the Replacements played at the Metropolis on November 30, 1983.9

  For that show, Susan, Piottin, and Doucette made an effort to make the place look nice. According to Susan, the band was not as respectful. “After the Replacements left, we went into the dressing room, and they had just trashed it. They pissed in there and graffitied all over the walls—they drew a caricature of Fred Flintstone with somebody shitting in his mouth. It was juvenile, it was imbecilic, but, beyond all that, it was disrespectful. I was gutted.” This incident influenced her mind-set as a manager years later, telling her clients that sort of behavior was unacceptable.10

  The club would not last long—only about a year and a half. According to Piottin, they were renting on a month-to-month basis. When the building next door started being developed into a condo, it was decided that having a club crowd next door on weekends was undesirable.11

  Susan started her managing career in 1983 working with the U-Men. She didn’t have much experience but did it anyway, booking a U.S. tour from her bedroom using fanzines, 411, and a phone book. Tensions were building between bassist Jim Tillman and the other members. Because the others were too cowardly to do it themselves, they made Susan fire Tillman.12

  Although involved with the music scene, Susan had a day job. She noted that “none of this was a way to make a living.” She worked at a local clothing store, which may have had an impact on her future clients. In the 1980s, this store was one of the few in Seattle that carried Dr. Martens boots and shoes. The British brand had been around since the early 1960s as working-class footwear. Different youth subcultures over the years embraced the brand. Coincidentally—or perhaps not—members of Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains wore Dr. Martens, associating the brand with grunge in the process. In the early 1990s, all three bands were managed by Kelly Curtis and Susan. After the grunge scene took off and Seattle rockers were seen wearing them, Charles R. Cross noted sales of the brand skyrocketed, and the shoes were soon being sold at Nordstrom.13

  One day a local musician named Chris Cornell walked into the store, and Susan caught his eye. He kept coming back to try to get her attention, but she wasn’t reciprocating. She had broken up with Gordon Doucette a few months earlier and, in her words, was in “a pretty dark space.” Around Halloween 1985, Susan went to a party accompanied by a friend, the performance artist and singer Chuck Gerra. Gerra dressed Susan as himself in drag for the party—in a long blond wig, platform shoes, a kimono, and makeup. That party was the first time she saw a local band named Soundgarden, which featured Cornell pulling double duty on drums and lead vocals. Her impression: “It was mind-blowing—they were amazing.”14

  After their set, Cornell came up to her and recognized her even in disguise, which Susan said “he got huge points for.” Cornell told her Soundgarden was trying to get a show in Vancouver, Canada. Susan told him she was going there for a show the following week, and, if he wanted to meet, she would take a tape for them. About a week after, they ran into each other at the Vogue, after which they headed to a twenty-four-hour diner. They tried to go back to Susan’s place afterward, but she had lost her keys. They made out for a while, and then he took her to her mother’s home.15 This was the beginning of a relationship that would eventually blossom into marriage.

  As Susan and Cornell started dating, Cornell decided to step down as drummer to focus on singing, and Scott Sundquist was brought in to play drums. At the same time, the local buzz about the band was growing. According to Kim Thayil, they needed someone to answer phones, make calls, and book gigs. Labels were showing interest, and the band was about to make a record for Sub Pop, so they were anticipating the need for lawyers and an accountant. At the time, Susan had no intention of managing Soundgarden, since she was already doing that job for the U-Men and a pop group called the First Thought. She wound up helping them out however she could, despite her initial reluctance to take the job because of her relationship with Chris and the parallels of their situation to the film This Is Spinal Tap.16

  Though they weren’t her clients, a few years later Nirvana would come to Susan’s office, where bassist Krist Novoselic asked about lawyers and record labels. She agreed to introduce them to Peter Paterno, the Los Angeles–based attorney who would later represent Alice in Chains. When that meeting fell through because of a scheduling conflict, she introduced them to Alan Mintz, who became the band’s attorney. More than two decades later, Novoselic publicly thanked Susan for introducing the band to the music industry during Nirvana’s induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.17

  Susan’s main responsibility as a manager was to promote and defend the interests of her clients. One night, Soundgarden was playing a show with Redd Kross, Malfunkshun, and Green River. An A&R person was there to see Green River, but because Soundgarden was the first act, Susan was able to sneak the A&R person out during Green River’s set. At the time, there was no frenzy to sign Seattle bands. According to Green River guitarist Bruce Fairweather, his bandmate Jeff Ament was furious with Susan for a long time after that.18 Susan had been managing Soundgarden for several years by the time she agreed to represent Alice in Chains.

  * * *

  Thad Byrd was still working on his Father Rock movie when his producer, Mike Bentley, heard “Sea of Sorrow” playing on Seattle radio station KISW. He recorded it on a cassette and told Byrd, “I heard Layne on the radio, and they have a song!”

  Byrd was impressed. He was twenty-one or twenty-two years old at the time and got a very ambitious idea, implausible as it might sound: he would finance and shoot a music video for “Sea of Sorrow,” which he would sell to the record label Alice in Chains signed with, who would then get it played on MTV. Byrd went to the club where Alice in Chains was performing and was reintroduced to Layne through Mike, where he pitched his idea of making a video.

  Byrd recalled that Mike was the one who was most enthusiastic about making a video. “Mike was always the guy that was hovering around me every time I was with the band, and he was always like the buddy-buddy guy: ‘Hey, come on! I gotta show you this!’ He was such a nice guy; that was my impression. If you wanted to have a good time, Mike Starr was the go-to guy.”

  Layne told Byrd he’d have to discuss it with their manager and gave him Susan’s business card. He called her shortly after, and Susan invited Byrd to a meeting at her office with her and Kelly Curtis to pitch his idea. Byrd’s plan was to hire a cinematographer friend and Steadicam operator. By doing so, they would have access to his camera cranes, have a production manager and crew, and shoot the video using sixteen-millimeter film. Byrd estimated he could do all this with a budget he would put up of five to seven thousand dollars—a feat possible only because the crew was working for free as a favor to him. Otherwise, the video could have cost as much as twenty to forty thousand dollars.

  Susan and Curtis gave Byrd their blessing, and Susan gave him a copy of the band’s demo. Byrd thinks Susan offered suggestions for which songs might be best for a video. As he recalls, they considered “Killing Yourself” to be one of their best singles and were kind of leaning toward that. Byrd set up a meeting with the band at their house.

  When he arrived, he noticed that planes were flying so low and making so much noise that when you were outside, you could hear only about half of a conversation. Once inside, Byrd recalled, “They all lived there in absolute poverty. It is not cool. These guys are really dedicated, because most people would not be willing to do this.” The initial plan was to do “Killing Yourself,” when Byrd said he liked “Sea of Sorrow.”

  “Jerry was a little bit hesitant. He wasn’t sure we could do it because Jerry had a very specific vision. He had written a song, and he had a very specific vision in mind. In fact, out of all the music videos I’ve ever done, I’ve never seen a musician who was m
ore specific.”

  Byrd recalled Jerry’s ideas: “He wanted to do a spaghetti Western, and I convinced him we could do anything … Jerry started telling me what he wanted was, it was going to begin with the four of them riding into town during the little musical intro. And then they were going to go into a saloon with a brothel upstairs, and they were going to romance the hookers. Then there was going to be a shoot-out in the saloon.” The video would cut back and forth to live performance scenes, which would be filmed at the Redmond stage being used as Queensrÿche’s rehearsal space at the time.

  The plan was to shoot over the course of two days in Winthrop, a small town several hours away from Seattle. It was going to be a big production, with horses, a shoot-out, and then the band members would ride off into the sunset. “There were things in the song that said, like, ‘I aim my smiling skull at you.’ Jerry showed me the skull tattoo on his arm. He wanted a shot of him pulling out a gun, and the camera was going to zoom in on the smiling skull. He very much wanted things that he had written for the lyrics to synch up with the visuals.” Mike had a cowboy hat with a clothespin on the front that looked kind of funny. With the hat in mind, Byrd had the idea of making Mike’s character the comedic relief, an idea Mike embraced. Byrd began storyboarding his treatment for the video.

  One time Byrd went over to the band’s house, which happened to coincide with Jerry’s birthday, for whom he brought Heineken as a gift. The band members had been out partying all night, but Layne was the first one to get up. Byrd and Layne went to a convenience store up the street. Layne was so broke, he couldn’t afford to buy a pack of cigarettes. He would scrounge up enough change to go to this convenience store and buy a single cigarette at a time. Byrd felt so bad for him, he bought Layne several cigarettes. When they returned to the house, the other band members eventually woke up. His recollection was, “I remember every other word out of Jerry’s mouth was ‘fuck.’ ‘Yeah, man! We’re fucking happening!’ ‘Fuck yeah!’ ‘Fuck!’”