COBAIN'S GIFT
MUSIC, IMPACT CLEAR DECADE AFTER DEATH
MUSIC ON THE MENU
April 9, 2004
Cobain was
27 at the time, just a few months older than I, and though some considered him
the spokesman of my generation, I never connected with him, nor his band,
Nirvana, that much. Truthfully, I just didn't understand him.
He seemed
to carry his fame and Nirvana's commercial success like a cross, yet wasn't it
he who signed a big record deal with a major label? Wasn't it he who appeared
in those expensive music videos?
If he had
chosen, Cobain simply could have kept playing Seattle's clubs, but, at least
initially, he tried to become a rock star, and when "Nevermind" sold 10
million copies, it seemed he'd gotten just what he wanted.
But he didn't want it. And I didn't get that, nor did I get too excited about his band's sometimes gloomy persona.
I grew up
seeing very charismatic bands in concert that were not only great musicians, but also
great showmen. Yet Cobain, the biggest rock star in the world and the recipient
of much critical acclaim, also was one of the the so-called angst-filled "shoe-gazers." These were the
groups - and there were others from the Seattle grunge scene - that seemed like
anti-entertainers.
Some said
the grand performers of the '80s were too indulgent, but to me, copping a
"we'd-rather-not-be-here" attitude while on stage before a house full of fans
was equally self-absorbed.
And so, at least initially, I didn't get Kurt Cobain.
After his
death, and even in the months leading up to it, some media reported he had
suffered from depression, which was completely foreign to me then. How could a
seemingly happily married man with a beautiful baby and the founder of the
biggest band in the world be depressed, I and many others asked. But now, 10
years later, after seeing depression up close, I no longer judge him on that.
It is a serious condition and very real, and no matter how pretty a picture you
might paint of your life, it can still consume you.
Even
though it seemed so cowardly at the time, I now have some understanding and
even some empathy for Cobain in the way he ultimately decided to deal with his
condition. Condone it? No. Understand it? Yes, partially.
Grunge
offered change, and Cobain was at the forefront. He mattered.
I get that
now, and I get him a lot more.
The night
his body was found, I was at Market Street Square seeing a band called Tribes.
They were one of the biggest groups in town at the time and specialized in
covering the big alternative sounds of the day. About 2 a.m., as the night was
winding down, they played Nirvana's "Heart Shaped Box," which I always
thought was their best song.
It was a
moment I've always remembered and one I now hold with some fondness.
Someone
asked me last week if Cobain's death marked the end of the grunge movement.
Probably not. It would have come anyway. By the mid-'90s, "shoe-gazing" and
bands like Silverchair, Bush and even Stone Temple Pilots, whom some considered
Nirvana and Pearl Jam copycats, were already getting some backlash. And I'll
never forget the day I saw a mannequin in Boscov's dressed in flannel.
Grunge, despite its purest
intentions, was not immune to corporate America. It had become fashion, and
fashion always dies.
Cobain
missed most of that. Maybe that's how he wanted it. He will always be 27,
blond-haired and wrinkle-free, and rather than be remembered for all the silly
things some bands that stick around too long are sometimes remembered for, he's
remembered for what mattered to him most: his music.
