Anything Could Happen.” But by the mid-’90s, the band had changed its name to Dump, and their sound turned darker, as had the general trend in Seattle. What was once a celebration was now a funeral dirge. That was apparent when the band performed at the Sub Pop 20th anniversary celebration in 2016. Lead singer Jason Slotnot sang “Black Star,” an early Dump track, with his head down, eyes closed. His guitar was turned up loud and sounded like a cry of agony. Slotnot, in a suit, looked like a homeless man. It was as if he was ashamed of what he had become. He didn’t know how to explain why he was no longer proud of his music. He couldn’t say the things he once did without getting “called out.” In the end, Dump is all that Seattle had to show for its wild run as an alternative music mecca. Nirvana and Pearl Jam might have gone on to become the biggest bands on Earth. And Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Mudhoney, Screaming Trees, the Posies, Treepeople, My Bloody Valentine, and countless other bands have achieved varying degrees of success. But for whatever reasons — poor business decisions, bad drugs, changing trends, or plain old stubbornness — these bands never fully took advantage of the good things that were given to them in Seattle. The story of the ’90s is a story of a band that just wants to be able to play in the living room of your house. A band that just wants to be appreciated for its talent, just wants to be an everyday musician. For Seattle musicians like Dump, there has always been something sad about it. You had to really love what you were doing, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to keep doing it over and over again. What about you if you’re not that great? What if you make some mistakes? A Dump song from around 1994 or 1995, called “Celebration,” captures the idea of the band and its time perfectly: Look around, you see no one else is gonna hold you I don’t care what you had or had not What makes you so special, let it all go Celebrate What’s sad about the song is that all the songs about wanting to feel celebrated are also about finding themselves in a city that didn’t really care about that kind of stuff. If they did care, wouldn’t it be great if someone appreciated all the effort that you’re putting in? Maybe you’re in a good band and you work really hard. If that’s the case, maybe you don’t have to be depressed. Maybe what’s sad about Seattle is that most of the time we never even thought about why we felt the way we did. We just felt it. There were very few bands in the ’90s that put out records that were honest and real about that feeling. When you grow up in Seattle, being sad isn’t weird. It just is. It’s just part of the landscape. Being sad is as much a part of being a Seattleite as rain and coffee beans. Everything seems okay and maybe you’re even okay with how you feel. But what if you’re not? What if you’re just sad and depressed and that’s not okay? But what if it’s not even that? What if it’s just that you want to feel something other than sadness, and it doesn’t seem like anyone else wants to feel the same way? You can’t really blame a band like Dump for feeling how they felt. They were doing what they loved, and they did it for years. I get that. I feel like they deserve more than just sadness. And as a generation of Seattle musicians, we’re not done paying for it. Because we’re not even at our lowest point yet. Brent Bamberger has an MFA from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts. He lives in Los Angeles. Editor: Elyse Rozelle Copy editor: Laura Basu