When a Tribute Becomes a Conversation Across Time
Let’s cut straight to the heart of this: covering a Chris Cornell song is like trying to sculpt smoke. The man’s voice could carve space in the air, turning raw sound into something almost spiritual. So when I heard Lzzy Hale took on Birth Ritual—a deep cut even most Soundgarden diehards forget—I didn’t just want to analyze the technicals. I wanted to know: Can a new voice resurrect a ghost without getting burned?
Why We Keep Revisiting the Alt-90s
First, let’s admit something uncomfortable: the ’90s alt-rock nostalgia machine is now its own genre. But King Ultramega’s project feels different. This isn’t Gen-X comfort food—it’s a generational handoff. Hale, Cameron, and Menghi aren’t karaoke singers; they’re archaeologists digging through Soundgarden’s discarded demos. Birth Ritual wasn’t even finished until it soundtracked a Hollywood blockbuster. Now, decades later, they’re treating a B-side like scripture. Personally, I think that’s fascinating. We’ve moved past tribute albums as mere homage; this is closer to musical exhumation.
Lzzy Hale: Channeling Cornell Without Becoming a Parody
Let’s dissect the madness here. Cornell’s vocals on the original Birth Ritual weren’t just powerful—they were predatory, like he was hunting the microphone. Hale doesn’t mimic that. Instead, she does something riskier: she softens the edges. Her voice coils around the lyrics like steam, not smoke. In my opinion, this is where the tribute transcends imitation. She’s not rebuilding the past; she’s interrogating it. “I wanted to dance with it,” she said. That choice of verb matters. Dancing implies partnership, not conquest. She’s not trying to win a duel with Cornell’s legacy—she’s improvising a duet across time.
The Guitarist’s Gambit: Worshiping Through Wiring
Joe Hottinger’s approach to Kim Thayil’s riffs reveals something deeper about how we engage with musical DNA. He could’ve played it safe, but instead, he weaponized his gear—Bogner amps, of all things. Why? Because authenticity isn’t about replication. It’s about energy transfer. What many people don’t realize is that Thayil’s original style was built on dissonance as texture, not just volume. Hottinger didn’t just copy the notes; he copied the intent. That’s the difference between a cover and a séance.
Matt Cameron: The Unseen Bridge Between Eras
Here’s the overlooked genius: Matt Cameron on drums. The man played on both the original Badmotorfinger sessions and this remake. That’s not just continuity—it’s a time capsule. His restraint here isn’t humility; it’s curation. From my perspective, Cameron’s the real MVP. He’s the only person who could’ve anchored this experiment in both eras without making it feel like a gimmick. His cymbal work isn’t nostalgia—it’s a metronome counting the pulse of rock’s evolving identity.
The Bigger Picture: Why B-Sides Matter More Than We Think
Let’s zoom out. Why focus on outtakes? Because the Singles soundtrack version of Birth Ritual was already a compromise. Hollywood demanded accessibility; Soundgarden delivered a mutant. Now, King Ultramega’s iteration feels like a third mutation. This raises a deeper question: Are we witnessing the birth of a new canon? When tributes prioritize forgotten tracks over hits, they’re not just honoring artists—they’re rewriting their legacies. The “rarities” become essential. The scraps become scripture.
Final Thought: Is This Tribute a Beginning or an Ending?
I keep circling back to one truth: Cornell’s death wasn’t just a loss—it was a rupture. Projects like this try to mend that tear, but maybe they’re actually expanding it. Each cover doesn’t close the chapter; it opens a new annotation. By the time Hale screams, “I’m alive!” in the chorus, you realize the real trick isn’t honoring Cornell. It’s making us hear mortality—and immortality—in the same breath. This isn’t a tribute. It’s a mirror. And for a fleeting four minutes, the reflection isn’t Soundgarden or Hale—it’s us, screaming to be heard across the void.
