On Top Of The World

The journey to the ashram at the top of Karinboque Peak is perilous to say the least. One 14-hour plane ride, a 10-hour train, 2.5 hrs by van, and you’ve finally reached the base of this mountain at the edge of the world. Despite its inhospitable nature, the area is a political hotbed lying on the border between China and the Uttarakhand state of Northern India. In the winter, temperatures can drop to -50 degrees Fahrenheit, and impromptu blizzards and avalanches have claimed the lives of many.

At 21,000 feet, it is one of the highest points on the planet. When we arrive at 4 AM and I gaze upon the jagged cliffs I can’t help but think two things: 1. How the hell did a stoner music journalist end up in a place like this? And 2. Perhaps literally being “on top of the world” is a fitting place for the ego of Earth’s greatest Rockstar.

By this point, we’ve all heard the stories and music of Grayson Alistair Jack, known simply as “GRAY”. The legendary rockstar’s catalog still boasts the most hit records across nearly 4 decades with his iconic group The Asphalt producing some of the most transformative albums of the 20th century. Becoming one of the largest bands in history, The Asphalt has generated over $1.2B in sales and gone on to become a cultural staple of rock music.

At the center of their success was their bombastic frontman, whose troubled mind had produced some of the most emotional and heart-wrenching songs of our time. Yet Gray’s brilliance came at a cost - rampant drug use led to manic stretches that lasted months on end, and volatile celebrity relationships ranging from sexual flings to marriages and affairs brought an unwelcomed microscope to Gray’s life. In 1976, Gray famously showered the front row of a crowd at LA Coliseum in nearly $300,000 worth of cocaine. Refusing to be taken into custody quietly, he set his dressing room on fire and led the LAPD on a two-day chase into the desert outside of Palm Springs, ultimately being arrested naked as he clung to a rock in Joshua Tree National Park. The image would go on to be the cover of The Asphalt’s iconic “Give Me Death, Give Me Joy” double-platinum LP.

Ultimately, Gray’s tumultuous nature proved too much for the group, leading to their infamous split in 1982 after the sudden, somewhat mysterious death of their lead guitarist, Mickey Preston. The relationship between Gray and Preston was rocky to say the least, leading many to speculate foul play on Gray’s part, however, no formal investigation, charges, or evidence has ever been linked to such speculation. The decline in public opinion led to a withdrawal from public life but not from music. As legend has it, Gray locked himself into his Graveltown Studio located on his estate in the English countryside. For 2 years he wrote, recorded and produced tirelessly, until revealing his first solo album and magnum opus, Shades of Gray. With acclaimed hits such as “Down The Stairs” and “Army of Tears”, Shades of Gray would go on to be the best-selling album of the 20th Century, ousting the likes of Zeppelin and The Beatles.

However, Gray’s return to the spotlight came with the unwanted attention of PBI Records – his former label whom he famously split with 3 years prior by sending then president of PBI, Rudy Hoffman, his contract nailed to the severed head of a stag. In 1985, Gray was sued by PBI for the publishing rights of Shades of Gray, which even at that point were worth millions. While Gray and PBI ultimately settled (Gray relinquished more than 50% of his publishing), the drawn-out battle and public attention took its toll on Gray who needed to go on tour to cover the cost of his legal fees. For nearly two years, Gray toured the world playing his hits in sold-out stadiums to adorning fans. Hundreds of thousands would make the journey to see his legendary live performances. In 1991, Gray was slotted as the headliner of Glastonbury leading to the largest crowd in the festival’s history of over 200,000. Unfortunately, Gray didn’t complete his set. Midway through “Down The Stairs”, Gray removed his guitar, doused it in whiskey, lit it on fire, and walked off the stage. He has not been seen or heard from since.

To go from (no pun intended) the top of the musical and cultural mountain to an apparition takes a tremendous amount of effort, planning, and resources. Wherever Grayson Alistair Jack was in the world, he was content with not being found. 

When I first received correspondence from Gray, I believed it to be a cruel practical joke. My friends had poked fun at the array of Gray posters and the extensive discography of The Asphalt which remained in heavy rotation well into my 30’s. So when a bald courier had arrived outside of my shitty Bushwick apartment in a 1968 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow – a car so ostentatious that again I believed this all to be a part of an elaborate joke - I scoffed as he handed me a sealed letter that he claimed to be from the legendary rockstar. I had been a music journalist for not even a decade, freelancing my way across publications. A scathing album review I had done for Pitchfork caught the attention of Noah Weiss, Editor of Rolling Stone Magazine, and I was offered several featured articles. Up until I was handed this sealed envelope, I was under the belief that I was at the peak of my professional life – what more could a music journalist hope for than to be a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine? Well, the answer would come in the form of a two-page handwritten letter from the troubled hero that got me into music in the first place.

The letter began by applauding my previous works, but not the ones I had been expecting. Whoever wrote this letter had done some extensive digging – including an essay I wrote for a college term paper that extolled the sonic brilliance of The Asphalt’s sophomore album, Cry Incorporated. Perhaps I wanted so badly to believe that Gray was the author of this letter that I did not question its authenticity. When I got to the section that invited me to sit down with him for a final interview, or as he put it, a “farewell and fuck off to this earthly domain”, I was all but convinced. However, the rules for this interview were clear: I had 48 hours to accept this invitation. I would not know where I was going, how long it would take, or what my accommodations may or may not be. Most importantly, this story would not run in the “artist bashing, cum-rag, diaper rash of music journalism known as Rolling Stone Magazine.” Woof. Walk away from a steady paycheck from the most reputed publication in my field? Or accept the mysterious invitation from a man claiming to be a personal hero? The choice wasn’t much of a choice. Per the words of my favorite song off Cry Incorporated - “You can’t win if you don’t play the game, live or die it’s all the same.” I handed in my resignation and set out on a 7,500-mile journey across the globe.

So what do you do when you find yourself jetlagged, on the back of a mule at 21,000 ft, staring off the edge of the world? You climb.