29. Soundgarden
O2 Academy Brixton
18 September 2013
Fast forward to today and revisiting this Soundgarden gig at Brixton Academy feels a bit like leafing through a doomed yearbook, full of the knowledge that it all went sideways not long after. This was not peak Soundgarden and knowing how things ended just added a bitter chaser to what was already hard to swallow.
The venue didn’t help. Brixton Academy’s sound crew clearly interpreted “grunge” as shorthand for “accidental sewage leak”. And yet, despite the tragic mixing, the lukewarm energy, and the lighting that seemed lifted from a school production, there was still something faintly thrilling about seeing them live.
Here was a band who always lived in the shadow of bigger, shinier Seattle exports. Nirvana had the mythology and the tunes, Pearl Jam the mass appeal, and Alice in Chains… well, they had the terrifying ability to sell out 10,000-capacity venues to unleash pure chaos. Soundgarden? Always the bridesmaid, never the mosh pit.
And that, weirdly, was part of the appeal. They were the weirdos. The psychedelic Sabbath-punks who made heavy music that somehow still managed to sound smart. But here, in front of 2,000 politely bobbing heads in Brixton, it felt less like a celebration and more like a contractual obligation with guitars.
The stage setup didn’t help. Three blokes with guitars, a drummer buried behind a rental kit, and a backdrop that looked like it had been printed at Snappy Snaps. The lighting rig whispered, “budget meeting,” and the band themselves looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. To call it lifeless would be cruel. So, let’s say it was… under-rehearsed. Low energy. Vibes optional.
There were flashes, of course: “Superunknown” and “Rusty Cage” stirred something primal. For a moment, Cornell’s voice, still achingly powerful when it decided to show up, cut through the mire like a siren through fog. But then the murk swallowed it again, and we were back to wondering if the support act had actually been better.
And that’s the real tragedy here. Superunknown wasn’t just an album, it was a seismic event. A swirling, crushing, melodic masterpiece that proved grunge could be psychedelic and poetic and punch you in the kidneys. It deserved a show that matched its scope. Instead, what we got felt like a moody Tuesday rehearsal in Brixton, dimly lit and emotionally half-mast.
When the house lights came up, there was no elation. Just a few half-hearted claps, some shuffling toward the exits, and a collective feeling of “Was that… it?” Not bad. Just sad.
And maybe that’s the end that was always coming. Soundgarden always carried a certain darkness with them, a sense that they never quite belonged to the world that briefly tried to worship them. But tonight, they didn’t burn. They barely flickered.