ALICE IN CHAINS PROM NIGHT: A Glimpse Into the Mid-80s Before the Darkness Set In

Before the heavy riffs, haunting harmonies, and soul-wrenching lyrics — before Seattle’s skies turned grey with the sound of grunge — Layne Staley, Jerry Cantrell, Mike Starr, and Sean Kinney were just teenagers navigating the awkward, confusing world of high school. Picture this: four future rock icons, scattered across different schools in the Pacific Northwest, each attending their own prom, circa the mid-1980s.

Layne Staley, with his sharp cheekbones, bleach-blond hair (probably spiked and sprayed to the ceiling), might’ve shown up in a thrifted suit jacket over a vintage band tee, already exuding that rebellious cool. Quietly intense, he’d be on the edge of the dance floor, observing everything, his mind perhaps already turning lyrics over in his head. His prom date? Maybe a fellow misfit — someone just as uninterested in slow dances and more into sneaking off to listen to Mötley Crüe in the parking lot.

Jerry Cantrell, the small-town shredder from Tacoma, probably had the classic long hair already going, dressed in a leather blazer over a skinny tie — somewhere between hair metal and rock rebel. He might’ve taken a prom date who liked Bon Jovi and Van Halen, and he’d charm everyone with a half-smile and a sarcastic sense of humor. Maybe he even ended the night jamming with the DJ’s equipment, trying to figure out how to plug in his guitar.

Mike Starr, the stylish and streetwise bassist,

definitely brought the edge. Think flashy accessories, a bit of eyeliner, maybe even a single glove — channeling that L.A. glam rock vibe with a Seattle twist. He’d be on the dance floor, moving with swagger, laughing loud, already carrying the energy of someone destined for bigger, louder places. Prom for Mike was a performance, a chance to be seen before the world saw him.

Sean Kinney, with his wicked grin and drummer’s restless energy, might’ve been the class clown — spiking the punch, mocking the slow songs, and dancing like no one was watching (even though everyone was). His tux might’ve been half-worn, bowtie undone, sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t there to follow the rules — he was there to flip them over and see what kind of beat they made when they crashed.

Four teenagers. Four very different nights. Unaware of each other — for now. But fate was already tuning the strings.

Within just a few years, their paths would collide in a Seattle rehearsal room, and the world would never sound the same again.