In Chicago, three days later, the band ended a show without playing “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and there were boos. Kurt sat down that night with Rolling Stone’s David Fricke and began, “I’m glad you could make it for the shittiest show on the tour.” Kurt’s interview with Fricke was so full of references to his emotional turmoil, it could have just as easily appeared in Psychology Today. He talked about his depression, his family, his fame, and his stomach problems. “After a person experiences chronic pain for five years,” he told Fricke, “by the time that fifth year ends, you’re literally insane....Iwasas schizophrenic as a wet cat that’s been beaten.” He reported his stomach much healed now, and admitted to having eaten an entire Chicago pizza the night before. Kurt announced that during the worst of his stomach problems, “I wanted to kill myself every day. I came very close many times.” When he discussed his hopes for his daughter, Kurt argued: “I don’t think Courtney and I are that fucked up. We have lacked love all our lives, and we need it so much that if there’s any goal that we have, it’s to give Frances as much love as we can, as much support as we can.”
After Chicago the shows improved, and so did Kurt’s spirits. “We were on the upswing,” recalled Novoselic. Everyone enjoyed playing the In Utero material, and they’d added “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?” and a gospel number called “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.” During parts of the tour fourteen-month-old Frances traveled with her father, and Kurt appeared happier when she was around. At the end of October the Meat Puppets opened seven shows, uniting Kurt with his idols Curt and Cris Kirkwood.
For some time Nirvana had been in negotiations with MTV about playing the network’s “Unplugged” program. It was while touring with the Meat Puppets that Kurt finally acceded to the idea, inviting the Kirkwoods to join the show, thinking their supplementary presence in the band would help. The idea of playing a stripped-down show made Kurt nervous, and he worried more in advance about this particular performance than any since the band’s debut at the Raymond kegger. “Kurt was really, really nervous,” remembered Novoselic. Others were more direct: “He was terrified,” observed production manager Jeff Mason.
They arrived in New York the second week of November and began rehearsals at a New Jersey soundstage. But as with every interaction the band ever had with MTV, more time went to negotiations than rehearsal. The Kirkwoods found they spent most days sitting around waiting; additionally, they were warned by Nirvana’s management to refrain from marijuana around Kurt. They found this particularly grating, since Kurt was consistently late for rehearsal and obviously was high. “He would show up looking like the apparition of Jacob Marley,” Curt Kirkwood observed, “all bound up in flannel, in a cutting-up-a-deer hat. He looked like a little, old farmer. He thought this disguise would make him fit in with the locals in New York.”
Though Kurt had agreed to do the show, he didn’t want his “Unplugged” to look like the others in the series; MTV had the opposite agenda, and the debates became contentious. The day before the taping Kurt announced he wasn’t playing. But MTV was used to this ploy. “He did it just to get us worked up,” said Amy Finnerty. “He enjoyed that power.”
On the afternoon of the show, Kurt arrived, despite threats otherwise, but he was nervous and in withdrawal. “There was no joking, no smiles, no fun coming from him,” allowed Jeff Mason. “Therefore, everyone was more than a little concerned about the performance.” Curt Kirkwood was worried because they hadn’t rehearsed an entire set: “We played the songs through a few times, but never a rehearsal set. There was never any concerted practice.” Finnerty was troubled because Kurt was lying on a sofa complaining about how poorly he felt. When he said he wanted Kentucky Fried Chicken, she immediately sent someone to locate some.
But he really desired more than just KFC. A member of Nirvana’s crew told Finnerty Kurt was throwing up, and asked if she could “get something” to help him out. “They told me,” Finnerty recalled, “that ‘he’s not going to make it on the show if we don’t help him out.’ And I was like, ‘I’ve never done heroin, and I don’t know where to find it.’ ” It was suggested that Valium would help Kurt through his withdrawal, and Finnerty asked another MTV employee to purchase a supply from a corrupt pharmacist. When Finnerty handed them to Alex MacLeod, he reported back, “These are too strong—he needs a Valium 5 milligram.” Eventually a separate messenger showed up with a delivery Kurt himself had arranged.
Kurt finally sat down and did a brief soundcheck and blocking rehearsal. He was tentative about the acoustic format and filled with dread. His greatest fear was that he’d panic during the show and ruin the taping. “Can you make sure,” he asked Finnerty, “that all the people who love me are sitting in the front?” Finnerty shuffled the audience so that Janet Billig and some of Kurt’s other associates were in the front row. But even that wasn’t enough to calm him; he stopped the soundcheck once again and told Finnerty, “I’m scared.” He asked if the crowd was going to clap even if he didn’t play well. “Of course, we’re going to clap for you,” Finnerty said. He insisted she sit so he could see her. He also asked a production person to locate some fretboard lubricant; he’d never used it previously, but said he’d watched his Aunt Mari apply it on her acoustic when he was kid.
Backstage, waiting for the show to begin, Kurt still seemed disturbed. To lighten his mood, Curt Kirkwood brought up what had been a running joke between them: Kirkwood would scrape gum off the bottoms of tables in restaurants and re-chew it. “Man, you are fucking weird,” Kurt declared. As they prepared to walk toward the stage, Kirkwood pulled a wad of gum out of his mouth and offered Kurt half— this gag drew Kurt’s first smile of the day.
As the cameras started rolling, that smile was long gone. Kurt had the expression of an undertaker, an appropriate look as the stage was set for a macabre black mass. Kurt had suggested Stargazer lilies, black candles, and a crystal chandelier. When “Unplugged” producer Alex Coletti asked, “You mean like a funeral?” Kurt said that was exactly what he meant. He had selected a set of fourteen songs that included six covers; five of the six cover songs mentioned death.
Though dour in expression, and with eyes that were slightly red, Kurt looked handsome nonetheless. He wore his Mister Rogers sweater, and though his hair hadn’t been washed for a week, he appeared boyish. He began with “About a Girl,” which was performed in a markedly different arrangement, stripping its volume to emphasize the basic melody and lyrics. It wasn’t exactly “Unplugged,” since Nirvana used amps and drums, albeit with pads and brushes. A more accurate title was suggested by Jeff Mason: “They should have called it ‘Nirvana toned-down.’ ”
But Kurt’s emotional performance was toned-up. Next was “Come as You Are” and then a haunting rendition of “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,” with Novoselic on accordion. Only after this third song did Kurt speak to the audience. “I guarantee I will screw this song up,” he announced before a cover of David Bowie’s “The Man Who Sold the World.” He did not screw up, and he felt relieved enough during the next break that he joked that if he messed up, “Well, these people are going to have to wait.” You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the crowd. For the first time in the night he seemed present, though still addressing the audience in the third person.
Kurt’s tension had manifested itself in the crowd: They were reserved, unnatural, and waiting for a cue from him to fully relax. It never came, but the tautness in the room—like that found during a championship game—served to make the show more memorable. When it came time to do “Pennyroyal Tea,” Kurt asked the rest of the band, “Am I doing this by myself or what?” The band had never managed to finish a rehearsal of this song. “Do it yourself,” Grohl suggested. And Kurt did, though halfway into the song he seemed to stall. He breathed a very short breath, and as he exhaled, he let his voice crack on the line “warm milk and laxatives,” and it was in that decision—to let his voice break—where he found the strength to forge ahead. The effect was
remarkable: It was like watching a great opera singer battling illness complete an aria by letting emotion sell a song, rather than the accuracy of the notes. At several turns it seemed as if the weight of an angel’s wing could cause him to fold, yet the songs aided him: These words and riffs were so much a part of him he could sing them half dead and they’d still be potent. It was Kurt’s single greatest moment onstage, and like all the high-water marks of his career, it came at a time when he seemed destined to fail.
After “Pennyroyal Tea” the rest of the songs hardly mattered, but he grew more confident after each one. He even smiled at one point, after a request from the audience for “Rape Me,” joking, “Ah, I don’t think MTV would let us play that.” After ten songs, he brought the Kirkwoods on, introduced them as “the Brothers Meat,” and performed three of their numbers with their backing. The Kirkwoods were venerable misfits, but their strangeness fit perfectly into the Cobain aesthetic.
For the final encore, Kurt chose Leadbelly’s “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?” Before playing the song, he told the story of how he’d considered buying Leadbelly’s guitar, though in this rendition the price was inflated to $500,000, ten times what he’d said three months before. Though Kurt was prone to exaggeration in telling any story, his offering of the song was understated, subdued, ethereal. He sang the tune with his eyes shut, and when his voice cracked, he turned the wail into a primal scream this time that seemed to go on for days. It was riveting.
As he left the stage, there was yet another argument with MTV’s producers—they wanted an encore. Kurt knew he couldn’t top what he’d already done. “When you saw the sigh on his face before the last note,” Finnerty observed, “it was almost as if it was the last breath of life in him.” Backstage, the rest of the band was exhilarated by the performance, though Kurt still seemed unsure. Krist told him, “You did a great job up there man,” and Janet Billig was so moved she wept. “I told him it was his bar mitzvah, a career-defining moment, becoming the man of his career,” Billig recalled. Kurt liked this metaphor, yet when she complimented his guitar playing, this seemed a step too far: He lambasted her, announcing that he was “a shitty guitar player” and that she was never to commend him again.
Kurt left with Finnerty, avoiding an after-show party. Yet even after a transcendent performance, his confidence seemed no higher. He complained, “No one liked it.” When Finnerty told him it had been incredible and that everyone loved it, Kurt protested that the audience usually jumped up and down at his shows. “They just sat there silently,” he grumbled. Finnerty had heard just about enough: “Kurt, they think you are Jesus Christ,” she announced. “Most of these people have never had the opportunity to see you that close. They were totally taken with you.” At this he softened, and said he wanted to phone Courtney. As they entered an elevator in his hotel, he nudged Finnerty and bragged, “I was really fucking good tonight, wasn’t I?” It was the only time she ever heard him admit to his own skill.
Yet an event that occurred two days before the “Unplugged” taping was more indicative of the internal Kurt than anything on MTV. On the afternoon of November 17, the band prepared to leave their New York hotel to head to an “Unplugged” rehearsal. As Kurt walked through the lobby, he was approached by three male fans holding CDs, asking for autographs. He ignored their pleas, walking to a waiting van with his hands over his face in the manner used by countless felons to avoid being photographed leaving a courthouse. The trio seemed surprised he was so ungracious, though as cellist Lori Goldston recalled, “There was something about them that didn’t seem completely displeased. Even though they hadn’t gotten an autograph, they’d had a connection with Kurt, which was what they really wanted.” Even a “fuck you” from their enigmatic hero was reason for celebration.
As the van filled with the rest of the group, a crew member was slightly delayed, so they waited. It was apparent that if the van were to idle there for days, these fans would remain for the duration, simply to stare at Kurt, who would not return their gaze. While they were waiting, Krist remarked to Kurt, “Hey, that guy called you an asshole.” Novoselic most likely said this in jest—no one present remembers hearing anything disparaging. The missing crew member finally jumped into the van, and the driver began to pull away.
But at the moment the vehicle lurched into drive, Kurt yelled, “Stop!” with the same forcefulness a man might yell “Fire!” at the first sight of flames. The driver hit the brakes, and Kurt rolled down the passenger-side window. The fans on the sidewalk were stunned he was acknowledging their presence, and thinking, perhaps, that he was finally going to offer them a precious autograph. But rather than reach out the window, Kurt stretched his long, thin body out of it, not unlike Leonardo DiCaprio on the Titanic. Once fully extended, he arched his back and launched a huge wad of phlegm from the deep recesses of his lungs. It languished in the air, in what seemed like slow motion, before landing squarely on the forehead of a man who was holding in his hand a copy of the eight million–selling Nevermind.
Chapter 22
COBAIN’S DISEASE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
NOVEMBER 1993–MARCH 1994
And the title of our double album is “Cobain’s Disease.” A rock opera about vomiting gastric juice.
—From a journal entry.
The day of “Unplugged,” Kurt had a secret that colored his mood: His stomach problems were back, and he was vomiting bile and blood. He had returned to doctor-roulette, seeing multiple specialists on both coasts, or wherever the tour stopped. While he received many different opinions on his ailments—a few thought it irritable bowel syndrome but the diagnosis was uncertain, and he had tested negatively for Crohn’s disease—none of the treatments gave him relief. He still swore heroin helped, but whether he was off heroin long enough to know if it was the problem or the cure was debatable.
The morning of “Unplugged” Kurt spent an hour filling out a physician’s questionnaire on his eating habits. In it he told the story of a lifetime of near starvation, both spiritual and physical. He wrote his favorite flavor was “raspberry-chocolate,” and his least favorite was “broccoli/spinach/mushroom.” When asked what dish his mother made he liked the best, he replied “roast, potatoes, carrots, pizza.” To the question, “What did you feed the family dog under the table?” he answered, “Stepmother food.” He described his top take-out choices as Taco Bell and thin-crust pepperoni pizza. The only cuisine he professed to hating was Indian food. When the questionnaire inquired about his general health, he failed to mention his drug addiction and simply wrote “stomachaches.” As for exercise, the single physical activity he reported was “performance.” And to, “Do you enjoy the great outdoors?” he wrote a two-word answer: “Oh, please!”
He recorded the progression of his gastrointestinal problems in his journal, spending pages on minute details like describing an endoscopy (a procedure whereby a tiny video camera is inserted through the throat into the intestines, something he’d had done three times). He was both tormented by his stomach and, in some small way, entertained by it. “Please Lord,” he pleaded in one entry, “fuck hit records, just let me have my very own unexplainable rare stomach disease named after me. And the title of our double album is ‘Cobain’s Disease.’ A rock opera about vomiting gastric juices, being a borderline anorexic, Auschwitz-grunge boy, with an accompanying Endoscope home video!”
Though “Unplugged” had been an emotional high, ten days later in Atlanta, he hit a physical low, lying on the dressing-room floor clutching his belly. The tour caterers had disregarded his request for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese—instead, they concocted a dish of pasta shells, cheese, and jalapeño peppers. Courtney carried the plate of pasta in to manager John Silva and demanded, “What the fuck are jalapeños and jack cheese doing in this macaroni?” As she held the plate aloft like a waitress, she displayed Kurt’s rider where in bold type it stated “only Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.” To emphasize her point, she tossed the food in the trash. “
She didn’t care what Silva thought of her, she just wanted to make sure Kurt got food he could eat,” Jim Barber, who was in the room, recalled. “She said to John, ‘Why don’t you just let Kurt be who he is?’ ” To further illustrate her point, Courtney forced Silva to examine Kurt’s vomit, which contained blood. After Love left the room, Silva turned to Barber, and said, “See what I have to deal with?”
The relationship between Kurt and his managers had deteriorated to the point where the Nirvana organization resembled a dysfunctional family—in truth, it bore a similarity to Kurt’s own family, with his bandmates playing the role of step-siblings, while his managers were parents. “Kurt hated John,” recalled one former Gold Mountain employee, perhaps because Silva reminded Kurt a bit of his father. By late 1993 Kurt’s distrust of Gold Mountain was so strong, he routinely employed Dylan Carlson to look over his financial statements because he felt he was being cheated, and Kurt had most of his interactions with Michael Meisel, Silva’s assistant. For his part, Silva openly described his most famous client as “a junkie,” which was accurate, yet, to those who overheard it, it seemed disloyal. It was also true that Silva—like everyone in Kurt’s life, Courtney included—simply didn’t know what to do about Kurt’s addiction. Was tough love better than acceptance? Was it better to shame him or enable him?
Kurt’s other manager, Danny Goldberg, had worked as the press agent for Led Zeppelin during the height of that band’s debauchery; consequently, tasks like locating drug rehab doctors usually fell to him. Kurt grew to treat Danny as a father figure, even while he thought Danny’s company—Gold Mountain—was screwing him. Their personal relationship was complicated by their professional one: Goldberg’s wife, Rosemary Carroll, was attorney for both Kurt and Courtney. It was an incestuous situation that raised eyebrows. “I don’t think it was in his overall best interest, and I say that without comment to [Carroll’s] abilities as an attorney,” observed Alan Mintz, Cobain’s prior lawyer.
Heavier Than Heaven Page 36
