by Everett True
‘Return Of The Rat’ was more obviously early Eighties, post-punk influenced – unsurprising, bearing in mind the song’s origin. It was released on June 20 by Portland’s T/K Records, as part of the seven-inch box set Eight Songs For Greg Sage And The Wipers.
“We’d talked about it,” says Barrett about the session. “Kurt was like, ‘You have a studio. We should record with you.’ It was quick and easy, even though my studio was the worst possible set-up, no separation between the equipment and the small room. Everything was live except for the vocals, which took a second take.”
Despite the recordings, relations between the band members were at an all-time low – so low, in fact, that Nirvana briefly split up around this point. The split was brought about by Kurt’s insistence that the publishing royalties needed to be renegotiated. Prior to this, they’d been divided evenly, but Kurt – brooding alone in LA – began to resent his bandmates their good fortune, figuring that if he did the majority of the songwriting, he should get the majority of the money: 75/25 of the music, and 100 per cent of the lyrics. Worse, he wanted the percentage retroactively.
Dave and Krist were livid – they felt he was taking money out of their pockets – but Kurt thought the other two were being greedy, and told the band’s lawyer Rosemary Carroll he’d split the band up if his bandmates didn’t agree to his demands.
“Everybody blames Courtney but it was really Kurt,” explains Carroll. “That was one of the reasons he wanted a different lawyer to Nirvana’s old lawyer. Alan Mintz was perfectly good but he’d been present when they’d decided to split the publishing money equally. Kurt decided afterwards that he wrote all the songs – the music, the lyrics, everything. Once it became clear to him how significant the publishing money was, he wanted what was his. He thought it would be easier to get that through a different lawyer. Whether to split your publishing money equally is entirely down to the band: R.E.M. do, Sonic Youth do, Billy Corgan doesn’t. Not only did Kurt want it going forward but he also wanted it retroactively. Krist and Dave still have an interest in ‘Teen Spirit’, but all the other songs are Kurt’s. That did lead to Krist and Dave having to pay back some money.
“Did he say he’d ‘break up the band’ if he didn’t get his way?” she queries. “I don’t think he ever said those words, but that was certainly the implication.”
The situation certainly wasn’t helped by the fact Kurt was taking heroin again by the end of May – the same month that Nevermind finally dropped out of the Billboard Top 10. He told a friend he was now on a $400 a day habit.
Not the best time to start a new European tour.
For logistical reasons, the Kurt Cobain interview takes place in his LA apartment, second week of June, a couple of weeks before Nirvana’s short tour of Europe. The day’s cloudy, the room dim and slightly messy. Scraps of diaries containing lyrics and ideas from Kurt and his wife plus a couple of guitars and amplifiers litter the main room. A few weird-looking stick dolls, made by Kurt for use in a future video, nestle next to multicoloured bird feathers and jars full of flowers. In the front room, where Kurt lounges in an armchair, looking studious in his ‘geek’ glasses and short, bleached hair, a Patti Smith record plays quietly in the background. A small kitten darts about, tiger-ish. Courtney, several months pregnant, is asleep in the bedroom with her TV tuned quietly to daytime MTV.
Earlier, Kurt had shown me the video to Nirvana’s new single, ‘Lithium’, on the same TV set. Compiled by director Kevin Kerslake from live footage of the band at last year’s Reading Festival, a Halloween gig in Seattle and a show in Rotterdam where he first romanced Courtney8, it’s breathtakingly ferocious. Live videos usually suck, this one doesn’t. Work it out for yourself.
The phone rings. It’s someone from a radio station, wanting to know what type of music Kurt listens to. He tells them Adult-oriented Grunge. It rings again. It’s Corey Rusk from Touch And Go, seeking Kurt’s advice over a problem that has arisen with Kurt’s management over a projected joint Nirvana/Jesus Lizard single. Kurt listens carefully and promises he’ll resolve the situation with his manager.
Despite reports to the contrary, Kurt looks a lot healthier than the previous times I’ve met him. I wouldn’t say that he glows, but he definitely radiates something – happiness in his new-found stability of marriage, perhaps.
I suggest to him, when he eventually comes off the phone, that he seems much more relaxed. “Oh yeah,” he replies. “But that’s because when we last met [in October 1991], I’d been on tour for five months, and I haven’t played for a while now. Plus, I was getting pissed off doing commercial radio station interviews with all these DJ voices not having any idea who the fuck we were. How much exposure does one band need?”
(Melody Maker, July 18, 1992)
The tour wasn’t a success.
Nirvana played at Dublin’s Point Theatre on June 21, with The Breeders supporting – but already Kurt was complaining of stomach pains, caused by his reliance on methadone. The next night, in Belfast, a security man punched Kurt repeatedly in the stomach after the singer tried to break up an altercation between security and a fan. The following morning, he collapsed at breakfast and was taken to hospital. Nirvana’s British PR Anton Brookes found himself in the slightly surreal situation of trying to shift journalists waiting to conduct interviews from the lobby of Nirvana’s hotel while simultaneously orchestrating Kurt’s departure to hospital.
Someone spotted Kurt, and despite Anton’s best denials – “It’s a weeping ulcer, I’ve known him for three years and he’s always had it. It’s because he eats a lot of junk food” – by the end of the day CNN News was on the phone asking whether the rumours of an overdose were true.
In Paris on June 24, Gold Mountain hired a couple of security guards to keep an eye on Kurtney and make sure the pair didn’t leave their hotel room to score drugs. Kurt was indignant: “I was being treated like a fucking baby,” he complained to Michael Azerrad. Kurtney immediately changed hotels, purposely forgetting to tell management, checking in under their favourite false names, ‘Mr and Mrs Simon Ritchie’ (Sid Vicious’ real name). Krist and Dave hung out with the crew, rather than become embroiled in the subterfuge and innuendo and distrust that was beginning to follow Kurtney wherever they went.
The live shows became secondary to the media circus. Page Hamilton, singer with Helmet, may remember the band being extraordinary at the Roskilde Festival in Denmark – where Nirvana headlined the 60,000-capacity stage – but if it’s true, it was a one-off. None of Nirvana was happy with their status as an arena rock band, and their performances reflected it – no hurling the bass in the air, no spontaneous demonstrations of improvised destruction, just tired rituals and cursory run-throughs of the more famous numbers and the odd flash of humour. Kurt would announce, “And I would now like to play a guitar solo,” and then play a mock 10-second distorted anti-solo – or start up the opening chords to ‘Teen Spirit’ before turning the song round into the bitter ‘Rape Me’. Meanwhile, frenzied clapping drowned out ‘Polly’, adding to his frustration.
“In that summer of ’92, when Courtney was pregnant, at Roskilde, they were at their most drugged out,” says Christof Ellinghaus. “That was the saddest moment of my knowing them. Jesus Christ they were so clearly fucked, it was sad, really sad.”
In Oslo ( June 28), I walked along outside the arena’s fenced-off perimeter with Kurtney as the pair hurled abuse at bootleggers, trying their damnedest to spark fights. Courtney told me that I reminded her of her first husband, Falling James, a sensitive man who wore tights to bed. When I came to interview the band, it was pretty much the first time they’d spoken to each other since the Laundry Room sessions. I watched TV with Kurt and Courtney, the only visitor allowed within the Holy Couple’s room.
The next day, on a day off, several of us went down by the river and up a hilltop to smoke some weed, while Kurt and Courtney traversed the town looking for Nirvana bootlegs to liberate and give to kids wearing official Nir
vana T-shirts. Yes, you could say they were obsessed. Back at the hotel, everyone except Kurtney – Krist, Dave, Nirvana’s road crew including the near-legendary Big John, and support act Teenage Fanclub – stayed up until 6 a.m. performing karaoke favourites.
“Janet, Kurt and Courtney were in bed together when I went up to Kurt’s room to talk about using some pictures,” recalls Melody Maker photographer Steve Gullick. “At one point Kurt came downstairs and was standing at the back just watching us. He picked up a big ornate rock and threw it on the floor, seeking attention – it was like he really wanted to be there with us, but had to go back to his bedroom. The rest of the night was fantastic because it was a continuation of the stroll – that tour was the lowest point I saw them at, which is probably why those couple of days were such fun. They were a release.”
While in a hotel room in Stockholm on June 30, Courtney produced Kurt’s lyric book – a scrappy, lined A5 ring-binder affair, full of crossing-outs and amendments, written in blue biro. “Here, I thought you might want to take this, Everett,” she cried blithely, seemingly oblivious to Kurt’s annoyance. “What about the lyrics to that song, for starters.” Like many songwriters, Kurt hated his most famous song with a passion, and often refused to play it live.
There were so many questions behind these shows that I never thought to ask at the time, the most important one being: who was forcing Kurt to go on tour and play festivals to audiences of metal kids he transparently despised? He didn’t need the money.
Why were Pearl Jam able to quit, not Nirvana?
Nirvana
Isle Of Calf Festival, Oslo/ Sjohistoriska Museum, Stockholm
They don’t deserve this. Forget any reports you may have heard that rock is alive and kicking. The world’s only credible arena rock band is close to cracking. Kurt Cobain is barely able to cope with the restraints of his position, the kids who are out there watching his band because Guns N’ Roses aren’t in town till next week and Bryan Adams was on yesterday. His band are afraid to play any new songs knowing that, if they do, bootlegs will hit the streets running. So, numbed by the intensity of their unlooked-for role as some kind of spokesmen, Nirvana attempt to inject meaning into the old as best they can.
Which means: no emotion shown, if that’s the only way they can retain self-respect.
First night in Stockholm, I’m watching MTV with Kurt and Courtney in their hotel suite, waiting for the new Nirvana video to come on. Eddie Murphy flashes by, typically unfunny. “He used to be funny once, didn’t he?” Kurt remarks. “Back before he became famous and complacent, back when he was still struggling to be heard, back when he had to try.” There’s no need for Kurt to elaborate. We know whom he’s talking about.
But Kurt still tries. Otherwise, why is he in so much pain? Not for the first time this year, I begin to realise why Bono and Axl and Bruce and all those other would-be rock Messiahs are so crap. The market forces, the record-buyers, are that powerful – you either succumb or you go insane. Is there a third choice? Nirvana are struggling against it – they’re struggling real hard and they’re struggling real strong – but it’s impossible to make sense of much of this confusion.
In Oslo, Kurt stands immobile as 20,000 kids go berserk, uncaring as to what reactions his band may or may not be getting. And the audience, with their ritualised clapping and banners and shoes tossed in the air and bare chests, couldn’t give a damn about how good or otherwise the band on stage are. Why should they? This is corporate entertainment, however much the band decries it. To most of these serenely beautiful, sun-kissed Scandinavians, it doesn’t matter that it’s Nirvana up there. It could be anyone. It’s a festival, see. They couldn’t give a damn about Flipper or Shonen Knife or punk or Courtney Love or any of the things so close to Nirvana’s heart. Why should they? What matters is size.
Festival crowds know what to expect, or so they think. They had the parameters of how they choose to spend their leisure time mapped out long ago. On this scale, art counts for virtually nothing. Rebellion? How can anyone be rebellious once they’ve conquered the American market? By throwing it all away again? Then you’re just termed a failure, or worse, a one-hit wonder.
In Oslo, for all it matters, Kurt could be rampaging drunk and breaking equipment, Chris could be throwing his bass 10 feet in the air, and Dave moshing hard, like they used to. But they aren’t (OK, Dave is). Sometimes, Kurt flicks his floor switch from reverb to normal, sometimes Kurt looks across to see if Chris is playing the correct bass part, sometimes Kurt will try and make a self-deprecating remark and fail. There’s precious little emotion, humour, angst here – a bunch of incredible songs turned to shimmering dust, some brutally beautifully evocative lyrics which now mean less than shit, now that the whole world has learnt its part and reduced them to the everyday, the mundane.
Yet Nirvana still sounds glorious.
Yet ‘Polly’ and ‘Stay Away’ and ‘On A Plain’ still evoke, chastise, berate, uplift. Fuck knows why. Maybe familiarity doesn’t always blunt. Maybe we’re talking love.
In Stockholm, Kurt at least tries, buoyed by the news shouted to him across the stage by his wife that the concert has been undersold by 6,000. “Hey! We’re on our way out,” he gleefully shouts at me, stumbling across stage to change guitars. But then, Stockholm isn’t part of a two-day festival like Oslo – it’s a Nirvana show, for fans solely. So Kurt changes the set-list seconds before taking the stage, starting with a classic American punk number, ‘The Money Roll Right In’ (irony!), playing an impromptu ‘D-7’ upon request and ‘Molly’s Lips’, even making a few jokes. Dave and Chris look happier as well. For the encore (a searing, purposeful ‘Teen Spirit’ and a rampant ‘Territorial Pissings’), the band drag 50 kids waiting to get in by the back gate on stage – and, hell, spontaneous bonhomie can work on this level, even if it does recall something off The Arsenio Hall Show.
But the main set is still as bad as I’ve seen Nirvana play, in terms of spirit, excitement and inspiration (everything that Nirvana used to have in spades) – even if I am almost crying during ‘Lithium’. It seems so appropriate, somehow. And Oslo was way, way worse.
Contrast the difference between Nirvana and their support band Teenage Fanclub at the Stockholm soundcheck. First, Nirvana: a roadie stands in for Kurt as the band run through a lacklustre ‘In Bloom’ and a flat ‘Teen Spirit’, sounding oddly like Weird ‘Al’ Yankovic 9 himself. Then, Teenage Fanclub – all the band present and visibly enjoying themselves, running carefree through a Todd Rundgren number, Sixties bubblegum pop, Big Star singer Alex Chilton, anything they’ve loved. Once, Nirvana delighted in their togetherness, forged through years of constant touring through the cesspits of America. Now, it seems, Kurt would rather be anywhere than hangin’ with Chris and Dave.
Pressures, dude. But Nirvana still sound life-affirming.
How could they otherwise? Especially when Nevermind never did justice to the excitement and genuine power of their live sound.
So, Oslo is a mess of contradictions and contrary emotions. The day’s so glorious, the babes are so beautiful, the sound is so exemplary, Teenage Fanclub’s support slot so buoyant and inspirational, it’d take some kinda churlish fool or pining Aberdeen type not to enjoy themselves. Yet, even with the inspired choice of Tori Amos’ version of ‘Teen Spirit’ as an intro tape, it’s apparent that Kurt is torn – torn between his loyalty to the kids who genuinely appreciate and love his music, and those who are into them as a fad, as a cuter, punkier Ugly Kid Joe10 alternative.
His voice is still inexhaustibly expressive, emotive, his guitar still bleeds angst, but his demeanour . . . remember, this is the band who built a career out of being rampant on stage, whose new video (‘Lithium’) mythologises the whole guitar-smashing ethos with a grandiose finality. Kurt won’t even admit that he has any frustrations left. Not in public. But he has. Oh man.
Second night in Stockholm, the assembled Nirvana and Fanclub crews are watching an MTV clip of [Pearl Jam singer] Edd
ie Vedder going off the rails in Denmark. There’s no appreciable glee at a well-publicised rival losing it, just a sad empathy, a feeling of genuine pity that perhaps here is another singer who is unable to cope with the lies and pressures and trauma of fame, who loathes and despises the distance forced between him and his audience, who can’t see any way out of the trap, the role forced upon him simply because he’s written lyrics that reach people (it’s not his fault his band sucks). Pearl Jam cancelled the remainder of their European tour the same day. Bet Kurt was jealous.
The way people talk it right now suggests that, even if Nirvana aren’t going to split up, Reading Festival will be their last show for a very long time. (On the phone the next week, the singer flatly denies this. “We’ll be touring in November,” he tells me, “but no festivals this time. Definitely no festivals. And, if Chris wasn’t in Greece, we’d be in the recording studio laying down tracks for the new album right now.”)
Let’s hope to fuck that Nirvana learn how to adapt and survive. We desperately need people like them up there to give people like us down here hope, hope that you don’t need to be an Extreme11 or an INXS or a Bryan Adams to succeed.
(Melody Maker, July 25, 1992)
Only one other British journalist interviewed the band during this period: NME ’s Keith Cameron. He travelled all the way out to Spain, only to be confronted by a far more recalcitrant Cobain, unwilling to say more than a few words to someone he had previously considered a friend.