GONNA END UP A BIG OLE PILE O' THEM BONES

'd like to conduct an experiment. Take two people who didn't pay any attention at all to pop music in the 90's and soak them in modern rock radio and MTV for about a week. One of these people will then be put in a room with every platinum-certified rock record released between 1990 and 1995; the other will watch a marathon of every Behind the Music profiling a rock band that was together at any point from 1991 to 1993. These two will then be tasked to write an essay detailing which early 90's rock bands cast the most influence over the early 00's rock scene.

It's my contention that the BTM viewer, having seen clips from the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video in every episode, will pick Nirvana. The one with the big record collection will choose Alice in Chains.

With the death of singer Layne Staley last month, now seems as good a time as any to sit down and figure out what old grunge means to new -- sorry -- nü grunge. Nü grunge is, of course, the offshoot of nü metal that isn't particularly nü -- no rapping, no DJ's, no bling bling -- and isn't particularly metal, at least not now that it's prettied up for radio. This is the domain of Creed and Staind, of Nickelback and Default. Ironically, old grunge survivors Pearl Jam and Stone Temple Pilots, the only noteworthy old grunge bands still going, are almost completely removed from the current scene, having both decided they wanted to be the Beach Boys back in 1996. Nirvana, while nominally the grunge torch-bearers, were really a punk band who understood the relationship between Pixies-style angular rock, pop hooks and hard rock riffs. Few bands have been able to make it on Nirvana influence alone; only Local H and Silverchair come to mind.

Even though Alice in Chains spent the bulk of their stardom battling with Soundgarden for third in the Seattle rock pecking order, it seems evident that they've left the biggest legacy. Staley's unique vocal style and the harmonies employed by he and guitarist Jerry Cantrell form a sonic textbook for nü-schoolers like Nickelback's Chad Kroeger and Sully Erna of Godsmack, a former AiC cover band that's named after an AiC song. To be honest, the first time I heard Godsmack's debut single, "Whatever," I assumed Alice in Chains had gotten their act together and put out a new record because the song sounded so much like their "Again."

Where these new bands differ is in their approach to pop songwriting. Staind's "It's Been Awhile" isn't all that much different from Alice's "Down in a Hole" but only the former spent weeks and weeks atop the modern rock singles chart. This is likely down to Staind going with a mostly acoustic arrangement, a very lush, safe ballad style of presentation. "Down in a Hole," conversely, is an electric dirge. It has little appeal for anybody who gets excited about, say, LFO or Ja Rule or even Sheryl Crow. Your mom won't listen to it. Your dad thinks your liking it might be a red flag. It's undiluted.

Old grunge will come full circle this summer when Jerry Cantrell tours with Nickelback to promote his second solo album, essentially an Alice in Chains record minus Staley, like his 1998 debut. The record was reportedly completed two years ago but Cantrell couldn't get a label to bite. Then Nickelback started making tons of cash for Roadrunner Records and got them to sign Cantrell. In the early 90's, older influential stars were getting the same treatment. Kurt Cobain was probably responsible for shifting more Melvins records then the band ever could have dreamed of doing on their own. Neil Young saw his highest chart action in years when Pearl Jam did a record with him. It's a weird, new experience to see this stuff happen firsthand, like seeing Green Day haul Pansy Division out on the road with them when the former were essentially upstart overnight successes. The Nickelback/Cantrell tour is coming to town in June but I don't think I can bring myself to go. Staley was what made Alice in Chains work as well as they did but Cantrell's solo material is still nothing to sneeze at and I'm kind of bummed to think of him opening for a band that everyone will have forgotten by 2004.

FOLLOW THE MONEY

ohn Dean says he's going reveal Deep Throat's identity in an e-book this summer. I have a hard time seeing how Dean's personal theory -- unless he points the finger at himself -- necessarily holds more weight than the dozens of other theories from people other than Bob Woodward. However, in the interest of customer service, I am willing to provide my own Deep Throat theory, free of charge and available right now. Ready?

Ahem.

I am Deep Throat. Surprised?

Now, you may be thinking that the Deep Throat character as described in All the President's Men differs from me in many substantial and verifiable ways. This is true; I asked Woodward to obfuscate some details in his portrayal of me in order to protect my and my family's privacy. For instance, Woodward's Deep Throat is a middle-aged man, played in the 1976 film version by then 51-year old Hal Holbrook. In reality, I was still seven years from being born when the Watergate break-in occurred. The dramatized version of Deep Throat is portrayed as a career Washington insider, whereas I have never been within 500 miles of Washington. While some clues to my identity remain in All the President's Men, Woodward's fancy wordsmithing has kept me from media scrutiny for over 25 now.

I hope this revelation will put an end to the speculation and allow to get back to what's really important: examining the publicly available Nixon tapes to determine just exactly how crazy and drug-addled he really was at the end.

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Aaron Veenstra is the managing editor of Etc. House Productions.
The Fast Lane appears weekly.