At five-seven, 125 pounds, Kurt was slight, painfully thin; he’d wear several layers of clothes under his usual cardigan and ripped jeans just to appear a little more substantial. His complexion was often bad, which was due just as much to a lack of sun and a strict diet of frozen dinners as it was to his pharmaceutical intake. It was amazing that such an insubstantial body could produce such a soul-rending sound, just like it’s amazing that a tiny eight-pound baby can make such a piercing wail.
He had discovered what this fragile frame could withstand several times already, but what tormented Kurt wasn’t merely physical. All that talent and charisma packed into such a brittle little package recalled Robert Fripp’s description of Jimi Hendrix as a thin wire with too much current running through it. It was a horrible, unspoken piece of common wisdom among close friends and fans alike—Kurt wasn’t long for this world. Every minute spent with him was precious.
It was well known that fame did not sit well with Kurt Cobain. There were a lot of good reasons why and not simply that he was a shy person. Kurt needed to monitor every aspect of Nirvana. If the T-shirts weren’t just right, it cut him to the quick; his reputation as an artist hung on every frame of every video the band made not because he was a control freak but because his art was his life. That was obvious to anyone who heard, really heard, the music. Kurt was able to oversee his career for a long time, probably longer than he thought he could, but by the time of In Utero, the Nirvana organization had definitely sprawled too far.
One aspect that Kurt vainly tried to keep tabs on was the press. Realizing that interviews were another facet of his art, and justly traumatized by the Vanity Fair debacle, Kurt was hypersensitive to his portrayals in the media. The slightest nuance could send him into a fit of panic. He once called in the wee hours of the morning, pleading for me to delete something from this book. “If you keep it in,” he said, “I might as well just blow my head off.” It was a list of his fifty favorite albums.
Kurt complained constantly about the media prying into his personal life, but unfortunately the often painful (albeit not always truthful) candor of his music extended to his interview style. The man seemed not to be familiar with the phrase “no comment.” He answered every question I asked him for this book and openly told me things which I had to beg him to take off the record.
But his privacy wasn’t the only casualty of Kurt’s celebrity. Iconoclastic as he was, Kurt couldn’t help living out at least one other cliché of success—he lost contact with most of the people he came up with. None of his friends had money; their entire creative and social lives, even their grunge fashion (an oxymoron if ever there was one), were based on poverty. He knew his wealth distanced him from his old pals and skewed their relationships. When he bought a Lexus in the winter of ’93–’94, peer pressure made him trade it back in and stick with his trusty old gray Volvo with the one bald tire.
Indeed, friendship is one reason Kurt stayed in the band. Chris and Dave were two of the best, most loyal friends he had left. And he couldn’t deny the power of the music they made together. Even when his stomach was excruciating, he said the pain would go away during a performance because of the endorphin rush the music created in him. That’s why he sometimes hurled himself into the drums at the end of a show—to prove that he was feeling no pain. That he had reached nirvana.
But in the last year of his life, Kurt was clearly growing apart from the thing he loved most. He knew he had to reinvent his music. In Utero, Kurt conceded, was virtually a remake of Nevermind, only recorded indie-style. As Kurt once pointed out, the Beatles went from “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” to Sgt. Pepper in just three years. Kurt was capable of such staggering artistic progress. The fact that there now appears to be no other musician who could say the same is just another facet of the tragedy.
At the April 9, 1993, show at San Francisco’s Cow Palace, Kurt arrived to find a large entourage filling the dressing room. He slouched in a folding chair against the white cinder-block wall. There was another chair right next to him, but nobody would just plop down and talk to him. So I did. He smiled, said hi, and plunked Frances down on my lap. We chatted about “Speed Racer,” one of his favorite TV shows. He sang me the theme song as several self-appointed minders eyed us worriedly.
That night, Kurt changed what side of the stage he played on, from his usual stage left to stage right. “It kind of makes it interesting again,” he explained. It seemed a bit trivial at the time, but hindsight says otherwise.
On July 23, 1993, the band played another high-pressure gig, an unannounced show at the Roseland Ballroom in New York for New Music Seminar attendees. Things went well, despite the finale, a painfully anticlimactic acoustic set. Two months later, Nirvana made its second “Saturday Night Live” appearance. Backstage, Alex Macleod tried to clear the dressing room, which was crowded with friends. “No, the more the merrier,” Kurt quietly asserted. Everybody stayed just where they were.
In October, Nirvana began their first U.S. tour in two years. On second guitar was Pat Smear, formerly of L.A. punk legends the Germs. Pat bolstered Kurt’s powerful but sometimes erratic attack with chunky, propulsive chording and passionate lead work, as well as a genial and energetic stage presence. Pat also found himself another, perhaps more crucial role—radiating a remarkably upbeat brand of cool, he rarely failed to lift Kurt’s spirits.
But nobody could lift Kurt’s spirits like Frances, who traveled with Kurt while Courtney recorded Hole’s new album. Frances was almost literally the light of Kurt’s life—whenever she was around, Kurt’s face would brighten, a rare grin would spread across his face, and the entire room filled with his joy.
The band had resolved to make roadwork pleasant—they picked their favorite bands to open, including the Breeders, the Butthole Surfers, Chokebore, Come, Half Japanese, the Meat Puppets, Mudhoney, and Shonen Knife. They indulged in two band buses, nice hotels, and a masseur. They booked plenty of days off and brought along wives, fiancées, and friends. Maybe that’s why they played the most consistently amazing concerts of their career, transcendent shows where you almost felt your feet weren’t touching the ground.
Halfway through the tour, a day off at an isolated hotel two hours from Boston had left everybody stir-crazy. Dave found out that the legendary punk-pop band the Buzzcocks were playing in Boston, so a bunch of us drove down to catch the set. Few at the club noticed the diminutive figure in the Holden Caulfield hunting cap; those who did simply smiled at him. Backstage afterward, the Buzzcocks kept saying what an honor it was to meet Kurt, but over and over he softly insisted, “No, it’s an honor to meet you.” Later, he hung out in front of the club, chatting with some punk rock kids who simply treated him as a peer—they didn’t even ask for autographs. Kurt was very happy.
Not everyone found him so approachable. Kurt’s piercing blue eyes, his moodiness, the question of whether he was high or not, his fame, and especially his almost palpable charisma were extremely intimidating. But by ignoring all that and treating him normally, one could meet a kind, sweet man who listened sincerely, who was capable of dispensing thoughtful advice and comfort.
I discovered those things when I traveled with Nirvana on that tour for two weeks, partly to see the people who had become my friends, partly to see what were the greatest rock shows I’ve ever seen, and partly to escape some personal and professional crises. By the time the tour reached New Orleans in early November, I was in serious trouble and needed a sympathetic ear. From a pay phone on Bourbon Street, I made a midnight call to Kurt. He said to come over to his hotel room and we’d talk.
I arrived to find Kurt lying on his bed watching a TV broadcast of a Pete Townshend concert with the sound off. Ever the guitar showman, the aging Townshend sang and played with unqualified gusto. “Look at that guy,” Kurt said. “His music isn’t even that good anymore but he’s still so passionate about it. I wish I still felt that way.” I couldn’t quite believe he meant it, so I let it drop.
Kurt was e
xhausted but still eager to talk; he spoke of his own history of failed relationships and creative lulls with a wisdom I didn’t know he possessed. Then, at around 4 A.M., I was in the middle of a sentence when he just shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep. He wasn’t high, he simply couldn’t stay awake anymore. “Why’d you leave?” he demanded the following morning.
At tour’s end in November, Nirvana appeared on MTV’s acoustic music show “Unplugged”. Kurt was in great spirits, cracking jokes between songs and singing with a cathartic intensity worthy of the most highly charged arena show. He chose an unprecedented amount of covers and, revealingly, they were either about fame, death, or both. In the Meat Puppets’ “Plateau,” there’s little more than a bucket and a mop—more work—at the top. Another Meat Puppets’ tune, “Lake of Fire,” pondered the fate of damned souls, while on David Howie’s “The Man Who Sold the World” Kurt intoned, “I thought you died alone a long, long time ago.” “Don’t expect me to cry for all the reasons you had to die,” he crooned on the gospel standard “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
That was the last time I saw Kurt Cobain. He hugged me goodbye.
A six-week European tour began in early February and ended with the overdose in Home on March 6. Ilaving survived a suicide attempt, Kurt had to endure the abject misery of continuing to live a life he no longer wanted. The band returned home to Seattle. On April 8 came the news.
A few days later, a Seattle limo driver who had often squired Kurt around town remarked, “Nice young man. Very quiet. But I guess he had a lot of hurtin’.” Hurtin’ occupied most of Kurt’s waking life. Between stomach pain, chronic bronchitis, and scoliosis, even his own body was a hostile environment.
It wasn’t like Kurt didn’t have a sense of humor about his own misery; on the release form he signed for this book, Kurt listed his address as “Hell on earth.” Like most suicides, Kurt provided plenty of hints, virtually all of which were amply documented in the slew of media coverage after his death; a few more appear in this very book. In retrospect, those clues weren’t cries for help, they were announcements.
Much was made of the fact that Kurt died at precisely the same age as Joplin, Hendrix, and Morrison, but Kurt didn’t act out some hackneyed rock truism about living fast and dying young. When he said in his suicide note that “it’s better to burn out than to fade away,” it was his sarcastic way of showing that he knew full well how his death would look.
Kurt was the first rock musician of his stature to take his own life so deliberately, rather than simply fritter it away through misadventure. A local Seattle newscast that weekend called Kurt “one of rock and roll’s latest victims,” but rock and roll never killed anybody. His suicide was a personal decision and it probably would have happened anyway, fame or no fame, riches or no riches, talent or no talent. But to speculate on precisely why he did it is a pointless parlor game. Although Kurt was clinically depressed and suicide ran in his family, no one will ever really know why he did it.
In the wake of his death there was one image of Kurt that refused to leave my mind. It was from the Heading Festival back in the summer of 1992, Still wearing the full-length doctor’s smock he’d worn during the show, Kurt walked off stage, hand in hand with a little boy who it turned out had terminal cancer and had wangled his way backstage. Kurt slowly descended the stairs from the stage as a tone Kleigl light beamed down on him. All in white, his blond hair gleaming, he looked just like an angel, the boy a cherub. There was a horde of people all around Kurt, but somehow the light never hit them. No one made a sound. It was very quiet, especially after the thunderous noise of the show. The crowd followed him down an alleyway made by the backstage tents and then he turned a corner, still hand in hand with the little boy, and was gone.
NIRVANA U.S. DISCOGRAPHY
SUB POP
“Love Buzz” b/w “Big Cheese” single. November 1988. SP 23
Limited edition of 1,000 hand-numbered copies.
“Spank Thru” on Sub Pop 200 compilation album. December 1988. SP 25
Bleach. June 1989. SP 34
First 1,000 copies on white vinyl. Next 2,000 contain special poster.
Remastered in April 1992 for CD and cassette. CD version contains “Downer” as bonus track.
“Sliver” b/w “Dive” single. September 1990. SP 73
First 3,000 seven-inch singles on blue vinyl. CD single includes live versions of “About a Girl” and “Spank Thru.”
Split single “Molly’s Lips” b/w “Candy” by the Fluid. Sub Pop Singles Club #27
Limited edition of 7,500 copies. First 4,000 on green vinyl.
TUPELO
Blew EP. December 1989. TUP 8
GEFFEN/DGC
“Smells Like Teen Spirit” b/w “Even in His Youth” and “Aneurysm.” September 10, 1991.
DGC 21673
Nevermind. September 24, 1991. DGC 24425
First 50,000 CD copies do not include untitled bonus track.
“Come as You Are” March 3, 1992. DGC 21707 b/w “School” and “Drain You” recorded live at the Paramount Theater, October 31, 1991.
“Lithium” b/w “Been a Son” (live) and “Curmudgeon.” July 21, 1992.
DGCDM 21815
CD single includes complete lyrics to Nevermind.
Incesticide. December 15, 1992. DGC 24504
In Utero. September 14, 1993. DGC 24607
TOUCH AND GO
Split single “Oh, the Guilt” b/w “Puss” by the Jesus Lizard. February 22, 1993. TG83
CD, cassette, single. Limited to 200,000 copies worldwide.
COMMUNION RECORDS
Split single: a cover of the Velvet
Underground’s “Here She Comes Now” b/w “Venus in Furs” by the Melvins. 1991.
Communion 23. Limited edition of 1,000 seven-inch singles.
Also available on Heaven and Hell, Vol. I, a Velvet Underground tribute album. 1991.
Communion 20. Out of print. All three formats.
C/Z
“Mexican Seafood” on Teriyaki Asthma Vol. I.
November 1989. CZ 009
Seven-inch limited edition of 1,000.
Also available on the CD compilation Teriyaki Asthma Vol. I-V.
Compilation also features Babes in Toyland and L7, among others.
November 1991. CZ037
“Do You Love Me” on Kiss tribute album Hard to Believe. Features the only recorded appearance of Jason Everman with Nirvana. August 1990. CZ024
KILL ROCK STARS
“Beeswax” on Kill Rock Stars compilation. August 21, 1991. KRS 201
Compilation also features Melvins, Bikini Kill, Mecca Normal, Nation of Ulysses. Limited edition numbered set of 1,000 features hand-screened cover signed by artist.
TIM KERR RECORDS
“Return of the Rat” on Eight Songs for Greg Sage and the Wipers. June 20, 1992. T/K
0917010 TRIB 2
Four seven-inch record set also features Hole.
Limited edition of 10,000 (6,000 colored vinyl).
CD release on March 15, 1993, features six extra tracks including track by Thurston Moore.
INDIVIDUAL NIRVANA MEMBERS ON RECORD
K RECORDS
Kurt appears on “Bikini Twilight” by the Go Team (Calvin Johnson and Tobi Vail). July 1989. Go Team single.
SUB POP
Kurt appears on the Earth EP Bureaucratic Desire for Revenge. October 1991. SP 123
Kurt and Chris appear on “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” on the Mark Lanegan solo album, The Winding Sheet. May 1990. SP61 First 1,000 copies on red vinyl. CD and cassette have extra track.
RAS
Dave appears on the Scream album No More Censorship. August 1988. RAS 4001
DISCHORD
Dave appears on the previously unreleased Scream album Fumble. July 1993. Dischord 83
YOUR CHOICE LIVE SERIES
Dave appears on a self-titled Scream live album. YC-LS 010
(German import only)
KONKURREL
Dave appears on the Scream album Live at Van Hall. 1989. K001/113
DSI
Dave appears on the Scream single “Mardi Gras” b/w “Land Torn Down.” 1990. DSI 16
Both tracks also appear on Fumble.
BONER
Dave, as “Dale Nixon,” plays bass, drums, and guitar on King Buzzo, a Buzz Osborne solo album.
TIM KERR RECORDS
Kurt plays noise guitar on “The Priest, They Called Him,” a spoken-word piece by William S. Burroughs. Summer 1993. T/K
9210044/92CD044
Available on ten-inch vinyl EP and CD single.
Chris appears on the cover in a priest’s outfit.
NIRVANA U.K. DISCOGRAPHY
SUB POP
Import only.
TUPELO
“Spank Thru” on Sub Pop 200 compilation album. December 1988. Vinyl only. Rereleased on CD 1990.
Bleach. June 1989. UK release has “Love Buzz” instead of “Big Cheese.” Rereleased on CD on Geffen in April 1992 with “Big Cheese” and “Downer” as bonus tracks.
“Sliver” b/w “Dive” single. January 1991.
Blew EP. December 1989.
GEFFEN/DGC
“Smells Like Teen Spirit” b/w “Even in His Youth” and “Aneurysm.” September 9, 1991.
DGCS5.
Nevermind. September 23, 1991. DGC 24425.
“Come as You Are” b/w “School” and “Drain You” (live). March 2, 1992. DGCS7.
“Lithium” b/w “Been a Son” (live) and “Curmudgeon.” July 20, 1992. DGCS9.
“In Bloom” b/w “Sliver” and “Polly” (live). November 30, 1992. GEF34. Picture disc and CD. Seven-inch version b/w “Polly” (live) only.
Incesticide. December 14, 1992. GEF 24504.
In Utero. September 13, 1993. GEF 24536.
TOUCH AND GO
Split single “Oh, the Guilt” b/w “Puss” by the Jesus Lizard. February 22, 1993. TG 83 CD, limited edition blue vinyl single.
COMMUNION RECORDS
Come As You Are Page 39
