By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
But Kurt Cobain, the gifted leader of the Seattle-based rock trio called Nirvana, was surely not a pretty sight when his remains were discovered on Friday morning, April 8. That's because Cobain used a shotgun to end his life, splattering his precious bodily fluids all over the room he occupied. Having grown tired of the world around him, he apparently decided to punctuate the note he left behind with blood and brains. Only by flinging himself into a whirling airplane propeller could he have made a bigger mess.
It's impossible to know precisely what Cobain was thinking at the moment he pulled the trigger, but that hasn't stopped a great many of those who were touched by his music from speculating. And as one might expect at a time of shock and grief, most of the motives ascribed to Cobain thus far have been strikingly noble. Some have suggested that he was unwilling to sell out to a corporate music industry built on compromise and hypocrisy, while others believe he was so true to his manic-depressive muse that he felt compelled to follow his art to its logical conclusion.
What these appraisals don't take into account, however, is that suicide is an essentially selfish act usually committed by people who aren't looking past their own noses at the times of their deaths. Cobain fit this description perfectly: He admitted to self-destructive mood swings and suicidal thoughts, and his idea of dealing with the chronic, agonizing stomach problems that plagued him for years was to treat himself with heroin. He had his reasons to stay alive--fame, fortune, respect, a baby daughter (Frances Bean) and wife Courtney Love, whose new album with her band Hole is called Live Through This--but he must have felt that extinguishing his hurt, mental and physical, took precedence over all of them. Anyone who believes Cobain's decision established his integrity and artistic credibility is only deluding himself.
How, then, should we remember Cobain? The most obvious answer can be found in the music he left behind. Nirvana's first album, Bleach, produced on the cheap by Seattle's own Jack Endino and released on the Sub Pop imprint, was no landmark, but Nevermind, the followup issued by Geffen, certainly was. The album was filled with memorable songs--"Smells Like Teen Spirit," "Come As You Are," "In Bloom," "Lithium"--delivered with passion, intelligence and desperation. As Cobain told Rolling Stone writer David Fricke late last year, the musical style developed by him and his compatriots (bassist Krist Novoselic and drummer Dave Grohl) played on dynamics; listeners were seduced by modest, melodic verses rife with pop virtues before being bludgeoned by powerhouse choruses. Cobain characteristically saw this approach as formulaic, and maybe it was, but it was also damned effective, drawing in folks who'd previously been resistant to punk rock without alienating those who had loved the stuff for years. More important, Cobain topped the material with searing, instantly identifiable vocals, and lyrics that mated graveyard humor with personal confessions of the sort even the most honest singer-songwriters likely would keep to themselves. He put his pain on display for our entertainment.
After releasing Incesticide, a stopgap record made up of musical odds and ends, Nirvana made In Utero, a disc as provocative as its predecessors but considerably more challenging. The difficulty Cobain had in dealing with the acclaim earned by Nevermind was exemplifed in the grating sound mix whipped up by producer/provocateur/loudmouth Steve Albini. Cobain literally seemed to be testing his audience, determining for himself which fans understood his music and which ones had jumped on the Nirvana bandwagon simply because doing so seemed fashionable. The single "Heart-Shaped Box" was a caustic valentine--in it, Cobain says he wants to eat someone's cancer--and the other material was relentlessly corrosive. "Rape Me," for instance, was an antirape song that offended feminists as incapable of discerning irony as those critics who accused Randy Newman of racism for using the word "nigger" in his Seventies-era antiracism song "Rednecks."
Contrary to the image presented by Nirvana-heads after Cobain's death, not everyone passed the test. In Utero entered the sales charts at number one but didn't stay there long. When it failed to stir Nevermind-esque excitement, Nirvana scheduled a major tour that did well in some cities, poorly in others. Denver fell into the latter category: In spite of the presence on the bill of another terrific band, the Breeders, the Nirvana gig last December at the Coliseum (capacity 5,000) was far from packed.
In spite of the moderate turnout, Nirvana put on an exciting show spiced with indications of Cobain's artistic dissatisfaction with his band's current direction. An extra guitarist, ex-Germs member Pat Smear, made the set's punky moments punkier, but Cobain seemed most interested in acoustic interludes featuring a guest cellist, Lori Goldston. The crowd was not enthralled by such moments, but these softer stylings clearly prefigured Cobain's creative mindset. Soon Nirvana, supplemented by two members of the Meat Puppets, could be seen on an episode of MTV Unplugged, and Cobain claimed in interviews that he hoped his group's next disc would sound less like Nirvana and more like R.E.M.