Red Mosquito

CopperTom wrote:I want to Fuck their management.

Birds in Hell wrote:That news about the band documentary being shelved and repurposed into a Cornell vehicle has left me a bit unsettled about the band's future, I must admit.

Hopefully not a sign of old cracks slowly reappearing.

lecherouslittlestump wrote:Cornell's always seemed like a decent bloke to me, at least to his fans.

Birds in Hell wrote:I dimly remember him cancelling a show for a fashion shoot but I could be mistaken.

fyfe79 wrote: Btw, I'm shocked they couldn't get Corgan to submit a demo of "Drown"... the guy releases everything else!

This is an excerpt from the 1994 SPIN article “Hammer of the Gods” by Jonathan Gold.


A couple of days and a harrowing plane flight later, the band makes it to a resort town called Surfer’s Paradise, which is more or less the Miami Beach of Australia, a skinny coastal town about an hour south of Brisbane, pounded by waves and plagued with jellyfish, crowded with high-rise hotels popular with Japanese honeymooners. Surfer’s Paradise is the jumping-off point for the Big Day Out tour, a sort of Australian Lollapalooza that Soundgarden will headline this year. In the lobby bar of one of the tallest hotels, Cornell and Thayil are settling back with a couple of beers when Billy Corgan from Smashing Pumpkins wanders through, and decides to join them for a strawberry margarita. Corgan chatters about the pain of his life, the supposed incompetence of his band (everybody rolls their eyes), the lifesaving virtues of Jungian therapy, bands that suck. Cornell gets up to leave. Corgan tells Thayil how important Soundgarden used to be to him, and he baits him by saying that the Pumpkins sometimes do a cover of Soundgarden’s “Outshined” that segues into a Depeche Mode song or something.

“I’m thinking of making my next album really new wave,” Corgan says, “like ’83-’84 new wave, not like Berlin. I spend all my time doing things that may be a bit tangential, but I think I’m going to go back to the core, the heart music. Echo and the Bunnymen.”

This is standard stuff to anybody who has read even a single Billy Corgan profile, the basic curriculum of Pumpkins 101. But Thayil isn’t buying. He’s sore.

“Don’t you see,” Thayil says, “you’re this incredibly talented guy. People like your music. You have a good band. You sell a lot of records. You don’t need all this…stuff.”

“What sign are you?” Corgan asks.

“What do you mean, what sign am I?” Thayil says. “What difference could that possibly make?”

“C’mon,” wheedles Corgan, “when is your birthday?”

“All right, goddamn it: September 4th.”

“Aha!” Corgan says. “A Virgo. You’re argumentative.”

“Damn right, I’m argumentative,” Thayil says, and takes a long, angry pulll at his beer, “which you should know because I’ve been arguing with you for half an hour, not because of any sign.”

“I’m a Pisces,” Corgan replies. “We pick up on those things.”

A minute later, Corgan, still probing, finally finds the key to Thayil’s heart: “I hate how in magazine pictures, they always stick me somewhere in the back.”

Thayil explodes: “What do you mean? You write all the songs, and you do all the interviews. You play the instruments on the album. You control the band to the extent that most people think of Smashing Pumpkins as the Billy Corgan Experience, and all you care about is some photograph?”

“But I hate it,” Corgan says, “it means they don’t think I’m the cute one.”

“Ooh,” Thayil says a little too loudly as Corgan walks away, “I’ll bet he’s going to call his therapist in Chicago, wake her up at four in the morning, and tell her about that big, mean bear who made fun of him.”

The next day at the Big Day Out festival, Thayil is talking to Kim and Kelley Deal in the Breeders’ dressing room when Corgan walks past wearing a long-sleeved Superman T-shirt like the one your four-year-old nephew probably owns.

“You hurt me deeply,” Corgan says, touching the giant S on his chest and pouting. “You hurt me deeply in my heart.” The Pumpkins go on to play the best set anybody has ever heard them play, their usual passiveness and precision overlaid with an unfamiliar scrim of anger that throws their music into brilliant relief.