As part of the promotion of their self-titled album, Alice in Chains landed in David Letterman’s Late Night show in 1996, bringing their thumping sound to a global audience in a world before social media and live streaming.
The image of a deformed three-legged dog retouched with a filter of green and yellow tones, was the art chosen by Alice in Chains for their third and self-titled album in 1995. As part of the promotion of this work, the band landed in David Letterman’s Late Night show, bringing their thumping sound to a global audience in the way that was customary in a world before social media and live streaming.
After a brief introduction by the presenter, there was no room for waiting. Leaving no space for an instrumental innuendo or a catchy hook, Sean Kinney beats the countdown with his drumsticks for Mike Inez on bass and Jerry Cantrell, the fucking boss on guitar, to begin this distorted, almost industrial-sounding block that kicks off their single “Again”.
The studio lighting offers an ambiance in the range of pink, blue, and magenta. Those colours that go through fog machines with reflective lights create a purple atmosphere, a gloomy and funeral tone that gives the perfect accompaniment to that doom sound. In the center of this scene, as the main figure, the silhouette of Layne Staley poses almost motionless.
As if taken from a saintly book, with the aura of a dejected angel, and protected by his sunglasses, he joins this rhythm with a deep voice: “Hey, let them do it again. Hey, you said you were my friend.” With a single unalterable gesture, his job is to translate into words the human experience that the band seeks to express: “Hey, turn me upside down. Hey, feelin’ so down”.
A rise in tone in the voice is the key for energy to grow and give way to a chorus. For the rest of them, bouncing their heads and joining the trance is impossible to avoid. Jerry loses his sunglasses at that moment. The sound takes over Mike’s long hair. But Layne remains still, clinging to the microphone, with the resignation and disenchantment that his words show: «You made a fool of me again.»
Returning to the opening sequence, Jerry takes advantage of the moment of tense calm to kick his sunglasses, now on the floor, aside. Perhaps as a premonition that a much greater energy is coming. In this section, we get to perceive a bit of keyboard offered by the host musician Paul Shaffer to provide an air of much more mysticism. It will not be the last time that music relies on the show musicians to achieve the desired dynamism.
So, after another electrifying chorus, the band builds to an exploding climax with a stoppage of all instruments except Cantrell’s strumming guitar in between. The command that he offered to the band from its origin is naturally shown there. Being the exceptional guitarist that he is, he knows that he has nothing to prove.
Since his 1990 debut with “Facelift” it was evident that this reserved and gloomy fellow was capable of crafting highly technical guitar riffs and solos. However, his genius lies in knowing when a strum of a couple of chords is what the song requires. Thus, he concentrates on maintaining this strum to give entrance to an explosive instrumental part in which multiple guitars are found along with the groove of Kinney and Inez.
The house musicians directed by Shaffer, surely trained in jazz, sheet music, and ensembles, remain at the service of this Seattle quartet to add a small but definitive detail that gives the 6-string instrument its stellar moment. That peak moment is used by the band to send us back (like a punch in the face) to their first album, the opening track with which many fans met the band: “We die young”.
This unmistakable riff stands out as a dark statement of principles that expels the feeling of the Northwest coast of the United States. This crushing wall of sound allowed Alice in Chains to be the first band in the grunge movement to be signed by a major label. This gang thus paved the way for a whole scene, in which they stand out as one of their biggest and most definitive representatives.
Sadly, this manifesto would later become a reality with the premature departure of Layne Staley in 2002, an icon with a prodigious voice and an intimidating stage presence. His murky relationship with drugs and the tragic weight of depression turned off one of the best rock voices early. Perhaps his case allows us to see that a multimillion-dollar career, fame, and success are not a guarantee for fulfillment. It is intriguing to think what would have become of Layne if he had turned to his art and he was still alive.
With the last note played in a block by the band, we hear Letterman’s shout and the standing ovation. While he applauds, addresses each of the members to congratulate their performance and thank them for their participation in the show. Respect and admiration can be heard in his words, surely knowing that those he greets are not a media trick, demographically segmented, but musicians of the highest level.
Layne is ready to leave the scene and the applause at the end of his work. Being the center of attention doesn’t seem to be in his interest, but by shaking his hand Letterman pulls him back to remark “Nice job. Thank you very much” and give some more applause for this exceptional performance. This is how the frontman leaves the stage, leaving his band to receive the ovation, and humbly escapes from that applause.
