Layne Staley

Jerry Cantrell and I built our sound in a room soaked in mildew and beer, where heavy riffs met harmonies that clawed at the dark corners of the soul. *Dirt* wasn’t an album; it was a map of my bones, each note a dirge for the living. Onstage, I hid behind sunglasses and sleeves, but when I leaned to the mic, I bled truth. They called it grunge, but it was gospel for the forsaken. Later, my voice thinned like smoke—still haunting, still true. I painted monsters. I loved my dogs. And I never stopped hearing the rain.