Essentials

For Doug Pinnick, King's X's bassist and most-time lead vocalist, it all comes down to one simple thing: the guitar's (and bass's) low E string tuned down to D. "Grunge, to me, is drop-D songs. It's not Seattle. The whole world drop-D tuned within a year…" And this, more than any regionalisms or individual musicians or producers or executives, led to the explosion of so-called grunge (and adjacents) in the 1990s.

Personal Life

Lehi, Utah, and Los Angeles, California, 2021

I decided to have a chat with Doug. It had been over a decade since I'd seen him, nearly three since we'd had any kind of regular contact. I was nervous, but I needn't have been. He readily agreed and, when he Zoomed in, greeted me warmly, recalling past conversations and correspondences as if we were old friends, which I'd dared not claim, but which he readily acknowledged. "Those letters I wrote…" he said, "they never were letters of 'I'm Doug Pinnick, a rock star and this is a fan.' It was always, 'this is my friend'… it's a friendship thing. … Friendship is way better than being a rock star."

Origins

"The quickest way to get a whole generation to change the way they're playing is to do something that any kid can pick up his guitar and play immediately," says Doug, crediting Limp Bizkit's Wes Borland with the idea, and I believe them. I suspect nobody can really tell me who "invented" drop-D (such a slight variation from standard EADGBE tuning, in which the low E string is flattened a whole step to a D, thus allowing "flat fingered" barring on the lowest three strings, producing a ready power chord), but a bit of superficial research reveals that this simplest of variations has long been used in blues and bluegrass, and it appears on plenty of rock songs long before the '90s.

"When I talked to Kim Thayil about a year ago," Doug continues, "he told me that he introduced Chris [Cornell] to drop D tuning in '85. But they didn't really write anything. And Ty [Tabor, King's X guitarist and second-most-prominent-lead vocalist] wrote 'In the New Age' in 1985. And he said, 'This is bluegrass tuning. I just wanted to do something that I felt like was what I'm going for, like Beatles metal.' Whatever that muse was, he was talking to Ty and he was talking to Kim. I believe the muse had to talk to those two guys to tell us, because me and Chris took off and ran with it. When we both heard the drop D tuning, seems like almost everything we wrote had something to do with that; it started happening at that point. A lot of our songs became similar. 'Black Hole Sun' sounded like a King's X song. 'Outshined': people called me up and said, 'Dude, Soundgarden's ripping off King's X again.' There were a lot of similarities. Not to say he was copying us. What I'm trying to say is we were pushing each other without knowing. When I was introduced to drop D tuning, it just opened the whole world up."

It seems futile, honestly, to seek the kind of "credit" so many people are interested in locating with this or any other question of originality, a fact that Doug readily acknowledges ("A lot of us who were 'innovators or inspirational,' we're the ones who didn't get the glory or the money; it really humbled me and helped me realize that we still are a part of this.") But we should all acknowledge, as have so many musicians in so many of the wildly popular "grunge" bands, that King's X, musicians' musicians all, were right there in the early mix, beloved by and influencing others.

Seattle, 1988

Without claiming too much, offering that this is what was reported to him, and you can believe what you want to believe, Doug recalls the band's visit to Seattle in support of their first album. The venue was "really small," he says. "I looked out the back door and you could see the bay. We played for like 30 people. And you know what we sounded like, … so I know that we impressed them, but I didn't think that they liked us. Well, about a year later, I remember coming home from the road and I turned on Headbangers Ball, and every band was drop D tuned except Bon Jovi. And I went 'what in the world has happened?'"

What had happened may have been what Richard Stuverud, the drummer, later reported: "'Hey, Doug, you know, every band in town was at that show.' Nobody went to see bands in Seattle but people in bands, because nobody cared. All the bands would go if it was a national act. So, basically, we played for a house full of musicians. A lot of those guys in a lot of those bands."

Maybe you already know this, about drop D, or maybe you only notice a general low-key vibe in the popular music around the turn of that decade, but for confirmation, here's Rick Beato, a former producer and current YouTube musicologist, recalling that "I was in drop D…for years. My guitars were only tuned in that tuning, because every heavy band from the early '90s through 2012… almost all their songs were in drop D."

Whippany, New Jersey, 1991

At the Catalina Bar & Grill in 1991
(L to R: Pinnick, Gaskill, Tabor)

This was before cell phones, at least for me. I was working as a janitor at the sprawling AT&T campus down Whippany Road, which work afforded me plenty of time for reading and listening to the radio. All month I'd been calling into WDHA for entries into a drawing to attend a special King's X acoustic breakfast show at the Catalina Bar & Grill in Cedar Knolls, giving the phone number for my boss's office. As I packed my things to go home for the day, disappointed that my name had not been announced, the phone rang. Because some of the winners couldn't make it, I was in. My friend Joe and I (two halves of our unsigned band The Tords) arrived at 8 AM the following Monday to find Doug Pinnick, Ty Tabor, and Jerry Gaskill eating breakfast around the bar, a bit shy but generous with their time to chat, sign autographs, take pictures. We found them to be humble and friendly, utterly egoless, unhierarchical. As they sat down on a six-inch riser to play, amplified but just barely, effected only minimally, Joe and I sat cross-legged on the floor in the front row, awash in the lush grooves and angelic vocal harmonies, smiling from beginning to end at the tightness and innovation of the sonically naked three-piece in front of us.

Genuineness

Patrick Madden's cache of Doug Pinnick letters and postcards

When I was young(er) and foolish(er), more susceptible to fawning obsequiousness, I wrote earnest letters to Doug and he wrote back, generously and genuinely, sometimes including bootleg cassettes of live performances (Woodstock '94, etc.) or demo tapes, once sending a selfie (pre-digital, holding a red point-and-shoot over his eye in a mirror) after he'd braided his signature Mohawk. After every show, he and Ty and Jerry would appear in the parking lot or alleyway next to the venue to visit with fans, sign autographs, take pictures, as many famous folks do, I suppose, but over the years it became clear that Doug was remembering people, asking followup questions, having real conversations, keeping up with our lives. Once, I met three members of Dream Theater after a show, when they gave their new CD (Images and Words) to Ty. Once at a show in Manhattan, I caught Will Calhoun of Living Colour as he stage dove during "Moanjam." At that same show, same song, for reasons unknown and unknowable, my neighbors cleared out when Mark Poindexter of Atomic Opera dove off the stage, leaving me alone to absorb his momentum. To the floor we both went, and with a "sorry!" and a hand to help me back to my feet, he was gone. After the show, in the alleyway next to The Ritz, I overheard him telling a friend, "I tackled a poor guy!" and I sidled up to say, "That guy was me!" Once I arranged with Doug to attend the soundcheck for their Long Island show, and I brought along my younger brother and his two friends. When we discovered that it was an over-21 show only, Doug talked with the venue's management and got us all in anyway. Once, after I'd been gone on a Mormon mission for two years, missing the Dogman album and tour entirely, I went to a King's X show in Philadelphia with that old friend whose letter introduced me to the band years before. During a vocal break in the opening number, "The Train," Doug scanned the crowd and, eyeing us a few rows back, said, "Hey, Pat!" with an enthusiasm so genuine that even my friend, whose name is also Pat, felt it, and I remember it warmly to this day.

The result of a Lennon/McCartney-like musical rivalry, and a devastating break with their long-time manager, whose financial finagling left the band with nothing but their name, "Dogman" (the song's title was also used for the album) comes from a time of anger and uncertainty. Ty Tabor, who wrote the song, says that "it's kind of disjointed artistically, on purpose, and trying to express that feeling of not standing on solid ground… The thing is, I write lyrics because I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling. "

Ty's original demo used "to be a good man" for the chorus, which he and everybody else in the band knew wouldn't fly, but I still believe in that underlying sentiment whenever I hear it. The replacement phrase "to be the dogman" is typical King's X ridiculousness (see Gretchen Goes to Nebraska or "Charlie Sheen" or Ogre Tones). According to a Doug Pinnick interview at Songfacts, "Whenever King's X has an artistic decision to make, if we can't come up with anything, whoever comes up with the stupidest thing, we'll go for." Doug remembers that after everyone tossing about plenty of colorful adjectives, he threw out "let's just call it 'to be a dog man,'" and the phrase brought new peals of laughter and band agreement.

That's one of the things I love about the song: its juxtaposition of the solemn and the inane, the jumble of images from light bulbs to powder to books to horse races to business luncheons to "leaves in need of raking," suggesting poverty and prayer and pain and depression, instabilities and vertigos that the driving guitar, bass, and drums confirm and complicate.

Ament, Pinnick, Cantrell
(unknown date, venue)

Musically, the song came from Tabor and Pinnick's friendly competitiveness, "like two guys in a race," Doug describes it, "trying to write the best, baddest, biggest tune." And he's proud of the results: "I feel like we came to a place where we kind of understood what was going on with the King's X sound. We were very angry by how we were manipulated by [our previous manager]. We wanted to be that band that slammed you in the face like we were live. Ty said he wanted to write the baddest-ass riff he ever wrote in his life, and it is, probably one of the best riffs ever, in my opinion, and I'm jealous of him, because I wish I had written it." Drummer Jerry Gaskill remembers that the band wanted the record "to be so heavy that it sounds like big monster creatures are walking through the town, and they're crushing everything." Nuno Bettencourt, of Extreme, writes that "when I hit play on ...Dogman, I nearly drove off the road I was so pumped." Mick Mars, of Mötley Crüe, says that "my favorite [album] is Dogman." Jeff Ament, of Pearl Jam, recalls of this period that "[King's X] were one of my two or three favorite contemporary bands at the time." While I've got you here, let me add that Andy Summers, of The Police, said " I think they’re easily one of the best rock trios anywhere. I don’t think they’ve been equaled." And Billy Corgan, of The Smashing Pumpkins, believes that "They were really ahead of their time. If you listen to the music that followed, they really figured things out that took many bands ten more years to figure out." (You can find these quotes and more in King's X: The Oral History by Greg Prato.)

Lehi, Utah, 2021

No room inside a box
of King's X memorabilia

I've discovered (once again) that it can be uncomfortable to revisit one's past self. In my case, to find some of my awkwardly fawning letters, to see evidence of my obsession played out in a stack of photocopied articles and interviews, dozens and dozens of bootleg tapes and CDs, many of which I made myself with colorful inserts and liner notes, and to realize that although I still have this cache of King's X memorabilia, it's been sitting in a box at the back of the closet under the stairs for nearly two decades. So much of what was once essential to me is now just an asterisk. Which is not to say that I'm embarrassed by the music or my enthusiasm for it (I'm still a fan; I still listen intently and feel inspired, and not just for nostalgic reasons), but by my approach to it. Or maybe I'm simply realizing that what was once so important is now only ancillary, and that I cannot quite access the ways these influences have played out in my life (and yet here we are, bringing my musical obsessions into my writing). All this is well and good. Then I was single and shielded from serious responsibility. Now I am a husband and father (to six children) with a rewarding and time-consuming job, so thank goodness I no longer have time to create and distribute a monthly King's X fan newsletter. And it brings a strange kind of hopefulness to return to all these relics and to try to reconnect with such an earnestly invested past self. That guy was sure a nerdy ingénu, but he was unabashedly enthusiastic and sincere. Sometimes I miss him.

Pinnick, Staley, Gaskill
(unknown date, venue)

There's an inevitable argument inherent in this essay, despite my wishes to avoid it (because it's been made so many times before, to no avail; because it's too late; because questions of credit and originality are inescapably convoluted; etc.): that among the infinite converging factors that gave rise to the woolly thing we recognize as "grunge," King's X was central, particularly with their first few albums, though they were never quite invited onto the bandwagon that parted from Seattle in 1991 to conquer the world. So it's fruitless to make bold claims, or to ignore the circling swill of influence that was this particular time in American music. Influence never flows only one way anyway. Doug readily admits to rushing right out to buy the first Alice in Chains EP; to chatting/plotting (about crooning!) with Chris Cornell during the recording of Dogman and Superunknown; to wishing King's X were invited along the Lollapalooza tour (but Perry Farrell, as reported by one of his bandmates, thought King's X was "pretentious bullshit"); to believing that King's X were "too spiritual and Christian and pretty" for the scene, like "the Bee Gees" with their gorgeous vocal harmonies; to putting on a prerelease copy of Alice in Chains's Dirt and discovering "everything that I wanted King's X to do, be, and sound like. I was so disheartened that I couldn't play side two" (meanwhile recalling a story about Layne Staley running down the street after Jerry Gaskill to joke "Keep writing great songs so we can keep stealing your shit").

"They were like my kids," Doug muses (having just turned 70 last September, while most grungers are somewhere in their 50s now). "They looked up to me; they had this innocence about them. From the day I met them all, they were respectful." Maybe that's the word: respect. Not credit or influence, not a fruitless argument about who came first with what new thing. But mutual respect among people caught up in this unexpectedly popular musical movement.

Pre-rock

It's worth mentioning, if only briefly, that nothing is created ex nihilo, and musical genres and subgenres come not from individual geniuses in isolation, but from recombinations of past works passed through and reformed by multiple consciousnesses. In the case of King's X, some of these include utterly un-grungey Sly and the Family Stone, Curtis Mayfield, Yes, Led Zeppelin, Chuck Berry, KISS (this list is shamefully shorter than the one Doug would provide), and even the Andrews Sisters, whose "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" inspired similarly tight vocal harmonies on "We Were Born to Be Loved." Having grown up in the 50s, at the birth of rock and roll, Doug appreciates so many musical styles that it is nigh impossible to unravel and trace the various threads of influence on the sounds he, with others, now creates.

Repeating Himself

It occurred to me as Doug and I spoke that the poor man is relegated to repeating the same stories and same explanations he's shared hundreds of times. In the old days, when information was more localized in newspapers, on radio shows, this was an appropriate way to spark interest or satisfy curiosity in different places (ahead of a concert, for instance). But with the rise of the internet and the dispersion of ubiety, to the nth power amidst a pandemic, everybody with enough interest in a subject seeks out (or is presented with, by the algorithms trained to train us) the same information no matter who does the interview, no matter where they're sitting during the conversation. Doug is good-natured about all this repetition, perhaps with a peripheral thought about promoting the band, but more prominently with that same genuine interest in talking with a friend, sharing stories, marveling at how things have gone, grateful for the journey's unexpected and even disappointing meanders. "People think that we're hurt, or feel bad about everything that happened," he says. "I wouldn't change a thing. Not a thing. Because I wouldn't be the person I am today, and I'm finally OK with me. The other thing is, there's a lot of people in my life that I wouldn't know and would never have met and loved, and gotten so much love from. To know that that wouldn't have happened… I'm all good."