Silver was surprised at how adamant they were about not wanting to be on Sub Pop anymore. They complained Bleach had gotten no promotion, and that the label had never provided them with an accounting for how many copies had sold. Kurt declared he wanted a big-money deal on a major label with the muscle of a big corporation behind him, even though the band was still without a drummer. Such a statement was grounds for public hanging in the court of Calvin, but it was even in contrast to most Seattle bands. It also contradicted what Kurt had said in the press as recently as three weeks before. On April 27, when radio station WOZQ asked whether the band would consider signing with a major, he replied: “We don’t have any interest in a major label. It would be nice to have better distribution, but anything else that goes on major labels is just a bunch of shit.”
But in the time since that interview, his split with Tracy had deprived him of his benefactor. He now declared he wanted a “million-dollar deal,” but perhaps in a nod to the influence of Tobi, he proclaimed that even when Nirvana got their huge deal, they would “still tour in a van.” Kurt had heard of Peter Paterno, one of the industry’s heaviest lawyers, and asked if Susan could put in a word for them. “I’m going to Los Angeles tomorrow,” she said. “If you come sometime while I’m there, I’ll take you to meet him.” Krist replied, “We’ll start driving tonight and see you in a couple of days.”
Two days later, they met Silver in Los Angeles. Silver introduced them to Don Muller, a well-known agent, and when Paterno was unable to make time in his schedule, she connected them with attorney Alan Mintz. He found them “naïve but ambitious.” Mintz’s specialty was new bands, but he discovered that even as new artists, “they were definitely among the scruffiest that ever came through the door.” Sub Pop was also talking to lawyers, attempting to use Nirvana’s growing reputation to get a major label to invest in them. Mintz mentioned this to the band, suggesting they might get the distribution they wanted on Sub Pop. Kurt leaned forward and resolutely replied, “Get me off this label!” Kurt declared he wanted to sell lots of records. Impressed by their tape, Mintz began working to find them a deal that day.
It wasn’t a difficult job. Even by mid-1990, Nirvana’s standing as a dynamic live act, and the budding success of Bleach on college radio, had attracted the interest of “artist and repertoire” agents, employees hired by labels to sign bands. The first A&R man interested was Bret Hartman of MCA, who in early 1990 had been having discussions about their contract with Poneman and Pavitt. Hartman realized his interest wasn’t being passed on to the band, so he acquired Kurt’s home number and started leaving messages on Kurt’s answering machine.
When they returned to Seattle from L.A., Krist and Kurt headed back into the studio, on July 11, to record the single “Sliver,” to release in advance of another U.K. tour. They had hired Dan Peters, Mudhoney’s drummer, for this gig, though they were still auditioning drummers. This would be their ultimate quick-and-dirty studio session, recorded in the middle of a Tad album while that band was on a dinner break. The title was yet another Cobain composition with no relation to the lyrics, but this time the name was the only thing obtuse about the song: It was straightforward and a creative breakthrough. For subject matter, Kurt had mined what he knew best—his family. Like Richard Pryor, who struggled in his comedy career until he started telling jokes about growing up in a whorehouse, Kurt had finally discovered his unique voice, which evolved when he wrote about his family. He had found his gift as a writer, almost by accident.
“Sliver” tells the story of a boy dropped off with his grandparents who doesn’t want his parents to leave. He pleads for his grandmother to take him home, but to no avail. He eats mashed potatoes for dinner. He has problems digesting his meat. He rides his bike, only to stub his toe. He tries watching television, but falls asleep. “Grandma take me home / I wanna be alone,” was the unadorned chorus. The song ends as the boy wakes up in his mother’s arms. “It’s probably the most straightforward song we’ve ever recorded,” Kurt explained to Melody Maker. It also was one of the first Nirvana songs to use contrasting dynamics, which would become a signature for the band: The verses were quiet and slow, but the chorus came in as a thunderous wall of sound. After its release, Kurt was quizzed about its meaning, and he had the audacity to claim it wasn’t autobiographical. But no one, certainly not anyone who knew him, believed this: “It was about being a little boy and wanting to be at home with Mom, not wanting to be baby-sat by his grandparents,” explained his sister Kim.
In August Nirvana went on the road for a short West Coast tour, opening for Sonic Youth, with Dale Crover as their temporary drummer. The tour was a chance for Kurt to meet Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth, whom he considered just short of royalty. His self-esteem rose when he found they treated him as a peer. The two bands immediately struck up a friendship, and best of all, Moore and Gordon offered business advice, suggesting Nirvana consider their management company, Gold Mountain.
They certainly needed help. Despite the honor the tour afforded, they were paid poorly, following Sonic Youth’s huge bus in their absurd little Dodge van, looking more like starstruck fans than stars themselves. At the Los Angeles show, MCA’s Bret Hartman and his boss Paul Atkinson went backstage to visit the band after their set, and found Kurt and Krist packing up their gear; they were too poor to afford roadies. Atkinson invited the band to tour MCA, but Krist said they had to drive back for his job. The conversation came to a halt when Krist explained he had to go sell T-shirts—they needed gas money to get out of town.
When the tour arrived in the Northwest, interest in the hometown boys was greater than for Sonic Youth. In Portland and Seattle, they were burgeoning stars; after each show a growing number of fans were speaking their praises. Yet Kurt’s personality didn’t seem to change with the attention, observed Sally Barry, who was in an opening band on this tour. “He was the first person I ever saw fling himself into the crowd with his guitar and not give a rat’s ass,” she recalled. “With other people, you could see a conscious thought to it. But with Kurt, it was instant and honest.” Almost every show ended with Kurt leaping into the audience, or the audience leaping into him. This tour, Kurt spared his drummer, since Crover had announced he would pound Kurt within an inch of his life if his kit was damaged.
Crover had to return to the Melvins, so Nirvana hired Dan Peters as their new drummer, and began planning a U.K. tour. But even as Peters pounded the drums for the band at a September 22 concert, in the audience was another candidate Kurt and Krist had flown in to audition. The gig, for which Peters had played well, was his one and only show with Nirvana.
The newly arrived drummer was 21-year-old Dave Grohl. Originally from Virginia, Grohl had played with the bands Scream and Dain Bramage. The transposed letters of the latter name was probably enough to endear him to Kurt, since it showed, if nothing else, that Grohl shared his sense of humor. It was Buzz who had hooked Grohl up with Nirvana, stepping back into his mentor role, and it may have been the greatest gift he ever bestowed. The instant Kurt and Krist practiced with Grohl, they knew they had their final drummer.
Just twenty days later, Dave Grohl was playing his first show with Nirvana, barely familiar with the names of the songs, much less the drum parts. But with Grohl it hardly mattered: As Krist and Kurt had discovered, he was an animal behind the kit. Kurt had struggled with drummers in the past, his perfectionism stemming from his own tenure playing drums. During most soundchecks, Kurt regularly moved to the drum kit and pounded out a few songs for kicks. But Grohl was the kind of drummer who made Kurt glad he’d picked up the guitar.
Grohl’s first show was in Olympia’s North Shore Surf Club. The night marked some of the worst technical snafus of Nirvana’s entire history; an electrical malfunction caused the power to blow repeatedly, and the band had to turn off half their amps to avoid further blackouts. The only illumination available came from audience members holding flashlights, creating an eerie effect like something out of
a cheap independent film. Playing with a tiny kit, Grohl proved too strong: He hit the drums so hard he destroyed the snare.
A week later, the band toured England to promote the “Sliver” single, which, in typical fashion, didn’t come out until the tour was over. Still, they played to rabid audiences, their fame in England being far greater than in the U.S. at the time. While in London, Kurt went to see the Pixies, one of his favorite groups. The next day he called up Pixies manager Ken Goes and asked if he would manage Nirvana. Goes wasn’t familiar with Kurt but agreed to meet.
When they met in a hotel lobby, Goes found Kurt was more interested in talking about the Pixies than in promoting his own group. “He wasn’t your average fan, like the type we always see outside of stage doors,” Goes recalled. “In fact, he wasn’t so much a fan; he was a student of the band. He obviously had a massive amount of respect for what they were doing. He went on and on about it.” During their conversation, a commotion ensued when Charles Thompson, the lead singer of the Pixies, walked into the hotel. Goes offered to introduce Kurt to his idol, but Kurt froze at the suggestion. “I don’t think so,” Kurt said, backing away slightly. “I, uh, I can’t.” And with that, Kurt beat a hasty retreat, acting as if he wasn’t worthy to be even in the presence of such talent.
When Nirvana returned from England, Dave Grohl decided to move to the Pear Street apartment—he had been staying with Krist and Shelli. That same week, MCA sent tickets for Kurt and Krist to fly to Los Angeles to tour their offices. The label wasn’t the band’s first choice—it had been so long since MCA had a hit, people joked their name stood for Music Cemetery of America—but they couldn’t turn down a free ticket. The label put them up at the Sheraton Universal Hotel, and after they arrived Bret Hartman went to inquire if the accommodations were satisfactory. He found the mini-fridge ajar, and Kurt and Krist sitting on the floor surrounded by tiny bottles of liquor. “Who put this stuff in our room?” Kurt asked. Despite the fact that the band had toured the U.S. five times and Europe twice, Kurt had never seen an honor bar. When Hartman explained he could have anything in the fridge and MCA would pay, Kurt looked at him incredulously. “I realized,” Hartman recalled, “that perhaps these guys weren’t as experienced as I thought they were.”
They didn’t know honor bars, but they knew they were being slighted the next day when they toured MCA. Hartman and Atkinson had circulated copies of Bleach, along with a memo urging the staff to be warm and gracious. Yet when they escorted the band through the building, it appeared every bigwig was at lunch. Angee Jenkins, who ran the publicity department, spoke with them briefly and encouraged them, as did the guys in the mailroom, who were among the handful of MCA employees who had listened to Bleach. The topper came when the group was wheeled into the office of Richard Palmese, who briefly shook hands with them before muttering, “It’s really great to meet you guys. I really like your music but I’ve got a lunch appointment in five minutes. I’m going to have to excuse myself.” Kurt wasn’t even sure who he was meeting, so he turned to Atkinson and asked, “Who is that guy?” “That’s the president of MCA,” Atkinson replied with a grimace. And with that, MCA was out of the running. While in Los Angeles, Kurt and Krist hooked up with Sonic Youth, who again pushed Gold Mountain Management and told them they should sign with their label, DGC, part of Geffen Records, one of the few labels who so far hadn’t expressed interest.
By the time Kurt returned to the Northwest, Grohl had moved in, and his presence temporarily lifted Kurt’s spirits. Living alone was never good for Kurt’s mental health, and his isolation reached a peak during the summer of 1990. He bore all the signs of a child who had gone through a severe trauma: He stopped talking except when spoken to, and he spent hours every day doing nothing but stroking his wisp of a beard, staring into space. He and Tobi weren’t seeing each other as much, and when they did get together he seemed unable to move the relationship to the next level. He bitterly observed in his journal, “The only difference between ‘friends who fuck every once in a while’ and ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’ is the official titles given.”
When Grohl moved in, things improved provisionally; he was as easygoing as Kurt was withdrawn. “The house,” remembered Nikki McClure, “became boy-land. Now Kurt had someone to hang out with all the time. It kind of had this husband-and-wife feel to it.” Since Kurt was virtually incapable of picking up anything, Grohl did things like wash Kurt’s clothes for him. Few others could have handled the state of the apartment, but Grohl had spent the last several years on the road. “Dave was raised in a van by wolves,” explained Jennifer Finch. He taught Kurt how to create homemade tattoos using a needle and some India ink. However, when Kurt decided to imprint his arm with the K Records logo—a “K” inside a shield—he went to an Olympia tattoo parlor one day with another friend.
The tattoo was yet another attempt to impress Tobi—and Calvin. To anyone who wasn’t familiar with K Records, Kurt explained the tattoo by pronouncing his love of the Vaselines. Curiously, the Vaselines weren’t on K, though they were distributed by the label. “Who knows what he was thinking with that tattoo,” said Dylan Carlson. “I think he liked the records K distributed better than the records they put out. He should have had the tattoo read, ‘K Distribution.’ ”
A better idea would have been to etch “the Vaselines” on his arm. Ever since Kurt added the band’s “Molly’s Lips” to Nirvana’s repertoire, he’d been singing this group’s praises. They were the perfect band for Kurt. They were childish, amateurish, and unknown outside of the U.K. and a small U.S. cult. Soon after hearing the Vaselines, Kurt began one of his many multi-draft letter-writing campaigns in his journal, attempting to befriend Eugene Kelly of the band. These letters were always chatty (in one Kurt mentioned his “ridiculous sleeping schedule where I retire in the wee hours of the morning and successfully avoid any hint of daylight”) and inevitably ended with some laudatory comments about how brilliant the Vaselines were: “Without trying to be too embarrassingly sappy, I have to say the songs you and Frances have written are some of the most beautiful songs ever.”
Grohl shared Kurt’s musical taste, but not his obsession with courting favor with legends. He was far more interested in girls, and they were interested in him. He began dating Kathleen Hanna of Bikini Kill— Dave and Kurt would then do the Olympia version of double dating with Kathleen and Tobi; they’d drink beer and make up lists of the most important punk rock records. Most of Dave and Kurt’s amusements were adolescent, but with Tobi and Kathleen around, everyone was more sociable. The situation made Kurt more attractive to Tobi, since the prospect of hanging out as a gang was less serious than individual dating. “Tobi and Kathleen would literally say, ‘Let’s go out with Nirvana,’ ” neighbor Ian Dickson recalled. During one rambunctious night of partying at Kurt’s house, Hanna spray-painted “Kurt smells like teen spirit” on the bedroom wall. She was referring to a deodorant for teenage girls, so her graffiti was not without implication: Tobi used Teen Spirit, and by writing this on the wall, Kathleen was taunting Kurt about sleeping with her, implying that he was marked by her scent.
Yet despite an occasional night of revelry, Kurt was lonely and disenchanted—he spent a few nights secretly watching Tobi’s window from the street like a shy Cyrano. For the first time in years, he was feeling less hopeful about his career, even though labels had continued calling. Strangely, after years of anticipation, as he approached actually signing a contract, he was filled with self-doubt. He missed the togetherness he’d had with Tracy, and their friendship. A few weeks after Tracy moved out, Kurt had finally confessed that he’d been sleeping with Tobi all along, and Tracy was furious. “If you’d lie about that, you’d lie about anything,” she yelled, and a part of him believed her.
He did, very briefly, consider buying a house in Olympia. He couldn’t actually complete any sort of purchase until he got an advance check, but he was confident enough he would elicit a large deal that he paid a fee to procure a list of available p
roperties. He drove around with his friend Mikey Nelson of Fitz of Depression, looking at dilapidated commercial buildings, planning to build a recording studio in the front and live in the back. “He seemed only interested in the houses that looked like businesses,” Nelson said. “He didn’t want to live in a normal house.”
But that idea, and all the other fantasies he had for the future, went out the window during the first week of November, when Tobi broke up with him. He was devastated; when she told him the news, he was barely able to stand up. He’d never been dumped, and he took it badly. He and Tobi had gone out for less than six months. It had been casual dating, casual sex, and a casual romance, but through it all he hoped deeper intimacy was just around the corner. He fell back on his old pattern of internalizing his abandonment, and back into self-hatred. She didn’t leave him because she was young; she left him, he imagined, because he didn’t deserve her. He was so nauseated that, helping Slim move a week later, he had to stop the car to throw up.
In the wake of the breakup, Kurt became more sullen than ever. He filled an entire notebook with stream-of-consciousness ranting, much of it violent and distressed. He used writing, music, and artwork to express his despair, and with his pain, he wrote songs. Some of them were crazy and angry songs, but they represented yet another level of his craft, since the anger was no longer clichéd and now had an authenticity his early work lacked. These new songs were filled with rage, remorse, pleading, and utter desperation. In the four months following their breakup, Kurt would write a half dozen of his most memorable songs, all of them about Tobi Vail.
The first was “Aneurysm,” which he wrote hoping to win her back. But he soon gave up on that, and instead used his songs, as countless songwriters had before, to express his deep level of hurt. One song was called “Formula,” but was eventually retitled “Drain You.” “One baby to another said, ‘I’m lucky to have met you,’ ” went the lyrics, quoting words Tobi had told him. “It is now my duty to completely drain you,” was the chorus; it was both an acknowledgment of the power she had over him and an indictment.
Heavier Than Heaven Page 20
