Sexual Chocolate, Baby: My Account of the Alice in Chains Reunion in Seattle, May 2006

There was some opening band. Silent Sister, I think. They were eh.

Then there was a comedienne. I couldn't understand a damn thing she was saying, and for some reason Graham could, so he translated for me. Except it wasn't worth it, because she was so far from entertaining that I crapped my pants. I've never heard anyone boo'ed so badly. Nevvarrrr.

Clarification: I couldn't understand her because the acoustics were kind of strange up in our cozy (read: stuffy and cramped) second balcony, not because I'm stupid. (I am, but that wasn't the issue last night.) I never even realized the Moore HAD a second balcony- usually I'm down on the floor, and what's the point in looking up behind you when you're down there?

Before I get into the meat of the show, allow me to lay out for you exactly what it meant to me to attend. Through middle school and most of highschool- until they were subjugated by the Cult and COC- Alice in Chains was my favorite band. I doubt I need to explain what a favorite band means to a 14 year old; they were an integral part of my adolescence. But apparently I'm going to explain anyway. Their music absorbed me so fully that when listening, I was completely oblivious to my sister falling down in front of me or cats peeing on the couch next to me. I recall with an odd fondness the number of times my mom became angry with me for being dead to the world when Dirt was in the walkman- considering it takes quite a bit to rile her, that's an effective measure of just how immersed I was in the AIC entity. You could say I was the very picture of obsession- walls plastered with photos torn from Rip magazine; lyrics scrawled in the margins of schoolwork; the Dirt "sun" logo replicated in aching detail on my desk, books, and person (I needed to see what it would look like on my ankle, because maybe it would be a great tattoo idea someday); myriad AIC shirts strewn about- all too large, as was my wont at the time, but in designs you've probably never even seen bought from independent music stores (when there still was such a thing). I prowled downtown Seattle at every opportunity, hoping to catch a glimpse of my boys (the problems here are twofold: one, it didn't occur to me that they'd be anywhere but downtown, when chances are they were nowhere near it, and two, Layne was unlikely to be anywhere but holed up in his opium den).

Dirt was my favorite; Facelift came second. Jar of Flies was good enough to tape the video for "I Stay Away" every. fucking. time. I saw it on MTV. Sap was the first CD I ever owned, even before I had a player on which to listen to it. Even though I didn't find the self-titled album all that great, they redeemed themselves with the promo video behind it, The Nona Tapes. Highly recommended for anyone who likes the band- or even the grunge era in general- and contains the namesake for my truck, Scumbucket. The scene in which the original Scumbucket appears was, incidentally, filmed at a no-longer-existant ranch down the street from my house (seriously, like a mile away) called the Aqua Barn, where I took my first dance lessons. That place had a Flintstones prize machine that would say "Yabba Dabba Doo, Dino Loves You!" when you put in a quarter, and you'd get stuff back like little rubber glow-in-the-dark bats with suction cups on the belly. They tore the Aqua Barn down a few years ago to build houses. Houses in which one of my cousins now lives. A cousin who once owned a Rooster shirt that I coveted. Oh, how I coveted it. See, this all comes full circle.

But I digress. I can't say that the band necessarily got me through hard times, because let's face it, I was a middle class white chick with good grades and decent parents. My "hard times" were being asked to turn off MTV's "Rock Videos That Don't Suck" ("but mooooommmm, Paw's 'Jessie' is on! He's a GOOD DOG!") and get to dance class. Nor did Layne sing about anything I could relate to- I didn't feel like a man in a box, I wasn't sitting in an angry chair, and perhaps in my most glaring departure from his lyrical subjects, I never did heroin. Yet still it appealed to me, innate meaning notwithstanding. Perhaps it was the overall mood that struck me, or the solid overall songwriting, or the timbre of Layne's voice. I'd like to say it was the tone of Jerry's Strat or Sean's hard hitting, but back then I didn't pay attention to those elements in their own right. Hell, I barely knew what a bass WAS (but I knew Mike's hair was gorgeous). I just recognized that I liked "heavy," and these guys were good at it.

And then, seemingly at the precise SECOND I was old enough to attend concerts without parental supervision, the band quit touring. I wasn't quick enough to get tickets to the show they were slated to do at Memorial Stadium with Metallica and Suicidal Tendencies, which I honest-to-god cried about because that's what 14 year olds do, but no matter- they pulled out because of Layne and were replaced by Candlebox at the last minute. Shortly thereafter, Layne took up with Madseason, who I ALSO- inexplicably- never saw (another incidental: the show taped for the Madseason home video was performed at the Moore as well). And then, when the self-titled album was released...no tour. Nothing. The band went on an indefinite hiatus, released a greatest-hits package, and still didn't tour.

I was getting impatient, and then Layne went and expired on me- and literally across the street from citizenkafka's house. We didn't know what the aid cars were for until we recognized the familiar suncatcher hanging in his window on the news later. I'd been walking past the home of one of my favorite singers on the way to school for several months, and was none the wiser. I say with absolute certainty and no shame that his was the only celebrity death I've ever cried over. It had long been assumed that a reunion was improbable, but this cemented the deal: I'd never see Alice in Chains live.

So, when they announced a tour with a new singer, I was dubious- this wasn't the Alice I knew- but curious. And when Graham informed me that he'd procured tickets to a surprise practice show, I was stunned. Rightfully so, it turned out- Layne may not have been onstage, but the spirit of the band still holds strong. They missed some beats, fucked up some notes, and played what felt like an incredibly short set, but damn if they weren't captivating and moving. It was unreal watching these 3 men on stage who were my world back in the day, and who I was resigned to thinking I'd never see play together live. And Jerry hit every fucking note of his solos.

Here is what you must know:
- they played mostly Dirt and Facelift material. Just a couple of things off the self-titled, and nothing from Sap or Jar of Flies.
- Kim Thayil played on It Ain't Like That.
- Chris Degarmo played on...a bunch.
- Duff McKagan played (guitar) on...a bunch more.
- the fat Wilson sister (I can never remember which is which) sang harmony on Rooster.
- William DuVall is excellent. I think they chose well with him. He's got good energy, can hit the high stuff no problem, and is *just* nasally enough to replicate the way the songs originally sounded without being over the top.

Not even the rum-drenched, elbow-throwing, lighter-waving, howling, sweaty, shirtless love child of Sean William Scott and Mick Foley in front of us who threw happy tantrums, repeatedly screamed "DO YOU REALIZE HOW IMPORTANT THIS IS???" at us and fell over backwards, almost hitting Graham, could ruin it. I remember thinking at one point that if the ancient building we were in collapsed and I knew the end was imminent, I could take it stride and die happy. THANK YOU GRAHAM.