132. Chris Cornell
Royal Albert Hall
3 May 2016
There’s a symmetry to this night that I didn’t fully appreciate at the time. My first gig back from a little Seattle grunge pilgrimage, and the first time I’d see Chris Cornell solo. I didn’t know then it would also be the last time he’d ever set foot on a UK stage. With hindsight, the weight of that realisation colours everything.
It was billed as an acoustic show, and normally that’s a phrase that sends a shiver, too often a euphemism for stripping the power out of songs that need distortion to breathe. But Cornell understood. He understood that the human core of Soundgarden, Temple of the Dog, even Audioslave wasn’t the crunch of the guitars, it was the voice. That voice.
The stage was simple: a bank of acoustic guitars stacked behind him, each tuned and waiting, although quite why he needed so many remains a bit of a mystery. A stage companion drifted between a dizzying array of different accompanying instruments, but the spotlight, inevitably, was his. Even after decades, Cornell’s voice still seemed untouchable: supple, rich, torn raw when it needed to be, gentle enough to sound like it might break you in two.
The setlist leaned towards covers, and it was there the magic surfaced. His take on Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” was a spell, his voice and a single cello filling the hall with heartbreak. “Fell on Black Days” became not a grunge anthem, but a lament. He also did a Zeppelin cover in front of Jimmy Page who was up in one of the balcony boxes, a brave man, but Cornell turned it into a hymn.
Then there were the surprises as he mashed U2’s “One” with Metallica’s “One”, delivered with a blend of mischievousness and gravity that made it work, even though a song about a war veteran stepping on a landmine backdropped by U2’s euphoric anthem made for an interesting, if not jarring contrast.
He tells stories, like having to turn down the volume of his Bond theme so the Queen’s ears wouldn’t be rattled at the Casino Royale premiere. These little moments of warmth made the whole thing feel like more than just a concert, it felt like sitting with someone who wanted to share, not just perform.
The highlight was “Hunger Strike”, a favourite song, but here, even without Vedder’s growl, Cornell gave it as though he knew it might be the last time. His voice soared, cracked, soared again. You could feel the air molecules in the hall tighten.
He closed with The Beatles’ “A Day in the Life”. That line about the number of holes to fill the Albert Hall never felt more apt, never landed more heavily. And then he was gone, leaving us with the echoes of something that felt impossibly fragile.
A year later he was gone too. A devastating loss. But that night, under those arches, with that voice, it felt like we’d been allowed into something rare; a final gift, quietly offered, unforgettable.