Euphoria at the Warfield

Hammett resting.

Last Sunday night, I went to the best concert I’ve ever been to in my life: Alice in Chains, my longtime favorite band, playing to a hall full of absolutely ecstatic fans at the Warfield in a sold-out show.

AIC have not performed together for 10 years. Their lead singer, Layne Staley, died of a drug overdose in 2002, so we thought we would never see them again.

The very brave William DuVall was there as lead singer, at moments sounding eerily like Layne and at other times not, which was fine. He seemed to have a slightly different sartorial vision from the rest of the band, in skintight spandex pants while the others were in jeans.

The audience danced and screamed. We were euphoric. We sang along. We’ve had to get by with just the CDs for a long time, so we know those songs very well. Before one song, Jerry Cantrell said, “We’d like for you to sing along. You’re invited,” which was sweet. I like every single Alice in Chains song, so the show was one peak moment after the other.

During it, I reflected that the only one of my favorite bands that I haven’t seen is Metallica, and that I probably never will see them, because they play larger venues that I, who hate crowds, would avoid.

AIC finished their set and left the stage. The audience carried on until they returned to play an encore. Jerry said, “We’d like to introduce our friend,” and JAMES HETFIELD OF METALLICA WALKED ONSTAGE and sang one of the encore songs.

I was thrilled out of my mind, as was the woman next to me, who, beaming, bumped me with her shoulder and shrieked, “What the fuck?” I departed in a daze of pleasure.

Earlier that day, there was an exciting incident in which Hammett unrolled and shredded 15 feet of toilet paper while I was busy in the kitchen. When I wadded it up and tried to flush it down the toilet, the toilet overflowed, soaking the vast amount of cat litter redistributed by Hammett onto the bathroom floor that I hadn’t gotten around to sweeping up.

“I’ll have to get the plunger,” I said to Hammett, whereupon I discovered I don’t own a plunger. Fortunately, Tom has one. It took an hour to restore order.

I was bemused that Hammett had made such a tremendous mess, but had to admit it was I who left the cat litter on the floor, not to mention I who tried to flush too much toilet paper down the toilet. Hammett merely unrolled a bit of toilet paper, which is, after all, his job.

I have finished A Widow’s Walk, in which Marian Fontana brings her husband, Dave, a firefighter who was killed on 9/11, vividly to life.