Jar of Flies

I guess I've always been attracted to special vocal timbres, but it was Layne Staley who made me realize how much pleasure I got from finding them.

There are voices that are odd, others prime, and there are others that are not served by any set, with which arithmetic cannot, because they are errors of creation, exceptions in the normal course of destinies; that is why when one finds them one becomes frantic, like the faithful who experience miracles. Billie Holiday had one of those voices, and so did Layne Staley. They are such unique timbres that evaluative adjectives such as "beautiful" or "ugly" do not help them. You have to knead the language well until you find the label that is closest to them, although we already know that it will be small and tight, because there are things with which language simply gives up, throws in the towel, and see how you do. fix.

What can I say, I'm going to try it: it's a nice exercise for a pandemic afternoon.

The voice of the singer of what for me is the most interesting band on the scene grungy and 90s rock —passing me Brit Pop through the lining— you don't like it, it's not pleasant like chocolate ice cream or the wooden flute, it's a hit, it's addictive. An internal voice, ventriloquist. The voice normally arises in the throat, is propelled by the diaphragm and comes out. not this one This is formed lower down, deeper inside, it already has all its attributes when Staley opens his mouth; doing so is just a procedure that does not define it. It creeps, or at least travels closer to the ground, it weighs down the air. It is not just voice, it is contaminated, it is loaded with countless other substances, impurities that make it toxic. It is a blunt, rusty knife that cuts deep into the flesh and causes poor healing. The "wound" Layne Staley never closes.

Boyfriend of pain, he is one of my favorite performers of any genre. I heard it first in MTV Unplugged (Columbia Records) from 1996, with Alice in Chains, when he was already pretty screwed up, not knowing that this had been one of his last live performances. I remember I really liked the acoustic version of Angry Chair, but months later, with the Jar of Flies (Columbia Records, 1994), specifically with nut shell, the second track, came the certainty that this was not just another band. That of "We chase misprinted lies / We face the path of time / And yet I fight this battle all alone…” tried it. I did not understand this letter immediately. It was not necessary. I knew, however, that something was wrong with that subject. Then I read his biography and saw a concert where he appeared cadaverous, without teeth, wearing long sleeves and gloves so that his stung arms would not be seen: a human being's lament. They should have told him: the body could not bear his voice; because what sustains the beast, what feeds it, is the pain, the wound, the grief. No one with such a band of sadness could have come out of the set alive.

PS: Next time, Jerry Cantrell and the dirty (Columbia Records, 1992). Today the only thing that came to mind was Layne Staley.