He would have been 46 today. Ten years older than me. I loved him since I was 11. When I first saw the video for "Man In The Box" I had the hook in my heart. The guy looked like living proof of everything I wanted to be and everything I could feel myself becoming. Maniacal. Great Voice. Fearless. I learned how to sing by singing along with him. Every song, every word, every record.
And it did rain on the day he died. It also rained today.
Many out there will howl "Dead junky! Who cares?" Well, I care, shitbrick. I fucking care. When Kurt Cobain killed himself, I didn't cry like a lot of people my age. I didn't, because I loved Layne more. His words, his voice, his fearlessness. Look at the lyrics for the song "Dirt." Or "Shame In You." Or "We Die Young." Or "The Real Thing." His life was never, not once, a shock or a surprise to him. He knew exactly what he was getting into and exatly how he wanted to fucking do it, and goddammit, so do I.
No, I did not cry when Cobain fell. It hurt, yes. But I did not cry. When Layne died, I did. In John Bruni's car. I think I managed to cover up my tears by singing "Rain When I Die" but I doubt it. And I don't care.
Thank you, Layne. For everything you gave me. Words, wisdom, shit, even the BAD stuff. Yes, even THAT. Without it I would not be the artist I am today.
I owe you my life. Rest In Peace.
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