Come As You Are

by Michael Azerrad

  The way Kurt looks at it, Exploitation Records might turn out to be a much-needed source of income. “It’s too bad because I spent almost all the money I made off Nevermind fighting for my child because of the insane rumors created by the media and now I don’t have anything to live off of for the rest of my life,” Kurt says. “If this record doesn’t sell—you have to sell eight million records to make a million dollars and the average middle American family makes more than a million dollars in a lifetime—I’m not going to be set for life. I’m going to have to get a job in ten years.”

  FINAL CHAPTER

  Over the course of writing this book, I got to know Kurt Cobain pretty well. You can’t spend that much time with a person and not become friendly, especially when that person has told you his entire life story. After this book came out in October of ’93, we stayed in touch. We’d hang out when the band came to New York for a TV appearance, sometimes I’d fly to Seattle to see everybody, and for two one-week stretches, I tagged along on Nirvana’s final U.S. tour in late ’93. In between, Kurt and I would hold marathon phone conversations every couple of weeks. Sometimes we’d talk about whatever music we were listening to, sometimes we’d gossip a little, sometimes we’d talk about the upheavals in our lives, but always, Kurt would complain very candidly about his career.

  Things were fine between us until Kurt fell into a coma after ingesting a reported fifty tablets of Rohypnol, a powerful depressant, and some champagne in a hotel in Rome during the band’s last tour in March of ’94. It didn’t dawn on me that this was a suicide attempt until much later (I should have known immediately—see this page of this book). In the meantime, I spoke to CNN and to a reporter I knew at People magazine about it. This definitely upset Courtney and perhaps Kurt, too, although his mom assures me Kurt didn’t care. I’ll never know for sure.

  In my heart of hearts, I had known that my being a journalist and my friendship with Kurt were on an inevitable collision course. I just thought I could provide some responsible commentary on what happened. But maybe I shouldn’t have done it. At any rate, I never spoke to Kurt again.

  It hardly makes me feel better, but I later learned that virtually everyone close to Kurt had a similar story: Something went terribly wrong right at the end and, as a result, their grief for him is riddled with the same crippling mixture of confusion, regret, and guilt.

  If his music was any indication, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Kurt’s end was so sudden. After all, not one Nirvana song ends on a fade-out.

  And just as his music played loud against soft, aggressive against melodious, the violence of Kurt’s death contrasted with its quiet aftermath. On an uncharacteristically sunny Saturday afternoon, the day after his death was announced, a dozen or so young fans gathered in the small park next to the house, where someone had set down some candies and flowers. Everybody spoke in hushed tones. There was no music—no boom boxes played, nobody strummed Nirvana tunes on an acoustic guitar; there was just an eerie stillness, a deafening silence that hung over a strange, haunted scene.

  But there were more representatives of the media than fans hovering around the sprawling, gray-shingled Cobain home overlooking Lake Washington, On hand were MTV, “Entertainment Weekly,” “1st Person with Maria Shriver,” Details, and a gaggle of local media. Several photographers skulked through the undergrowth that covered the hill behind the house, poking their cameras over the fence for a view of the two-story garage where it all happened. Uniformed security guards with microphones and headsets guarded the driveway, occasionally dipping the yellow police-line ribbon for arriving family and friends. “This is sick,” said one guard to another as he surveyed the scene. “It’s only a house.”

  With so much media and so few fans, many of those mourning in front of the house attained a widespread if fleeting celebrity. The mascara-stained face of young Renae Ely made CNN, Newsweek, and the front page of the Seattle Times. Although many fans were quite ready to talk to the media, Seattle scene insiders were another story. Or rather they were no story at all. In a remarkable show of unity, the key players in the Seattle scene closed ranks decisively and refused to talk to any press. After not one, not two, but three waves of intensive media exposure, they had all learned some hard lessons. The media blackout in the wake of his death very effectively protected the privacy of Kurt’s friends and family. If only he were alive to see how well it worked.

  Sub Pop briefly considered barring the press from its long-planned sixth anniversary party at Seattle’s Crocodile Cafe that Saturday night, but then realized the media would simply write a story about how they couldn’t get in. Still, cameras were not permitted inside the club, so partygoers were greeted by a small media army on the sidewalk outside. Reporters thrust microphones in people’s faces and asked, “Why are you here?” In the wake of suicide, the question gained an existential force.

  Some had been calling for the party to be canceled, claiming it was disrespectful. But going ahead with the party was the best thing to do. As Sub Pop’s Bruce Pavitt said at Kurt’s memorial service the following day, “The most important things in our lives are our friends, our family, and our community.” The Seattle scene was founded on a strong sense of community—community gave rise to the music, nurtured it, kept its most successful members grounded, and provided solace in the face of calamity, as when Mother Love Bone’s Andrew Wood died of a heroin overdose in 1990, when 7 Year Bitch guitarist Stefanie Sargent fatally overdosed in 1992, when the Gits’ singer Mia Zapata was murdered in 1993. And so gathering at the Crocodile, a popular musicians’ hangout where Nirvana played the occasional surprise gig, was downright necessary. Still, very few partygoers talked about what had just happened.

  Small clutches of journalists gathered and did a lot of well-lubricated soul-searching about the ethicality of what they were doing; were we guilty of exploiting a sad story or were we documenting an important historical event? The fact that many of us had so much affection for Kurt compounded the problem painfully while the media blackout by the insiders drove it even further home. The rise of tabloid journalism had soured us on our own jobs, but it had also soured Seattlites on journalists, making them, in the words of one insider, “instant assholes.”

  Said Charlie Campbell of Pond, a Sub Pop band from Portland, Oregon, “Some woman from some magazine called me up and I didn’t even know the guy. I just wanted to say, ‘This is exactly the kind of conversation that killed the poor guy.’ ” “One of our own has been taken away from us by outside forces,” adds Ron Rudzitis, singer-guitarist for Seattle’s Love Battery. “There’s some resentment.”

  On an overcast Sunday afternoon, while Kurt’s friends and family attended his memorial nearby, a candlelight vigil was held in a park at Seattle Center, in the shadow of the Space Needle. The tented stage bore a modest collection of flowers and other offerings. A bootleg single of “Lithium” bore a note which began, “This song gave me strength during a difficult breakup …” A small bouquet of flowers also contained a miniature plastic shotgun.

  Before about seven thousand grieving fans, a minister intoned, a poet recited, a trio of local DJs reminisced, a crisis counselor pitched, and a DJ read a bittersweet letter from Kurt’s uncle Larry Smith, Don’s second wife’s brother, about his memories of Kurt as a teenager.

  Smith began by noting that his grandfather thought a lot of Kurt and enjoyed his company very much.

  “One time Gramps invited Kurt along on one of our steelhead fishing trips. We were spread out a few hundred feet apart along the Wenatchee River. All of a sudden we heard this horrendous combination of screaming, warbling, and yodeling from Kurt, who was upstream and out of sight. Gramps told me to run up there and help Kurt who must have hooked into a big fish. When I reached Kurt he didn’t even have his line in the water. When I asked him what was going on he just looked at me with those piercing eyes and a huge grin and he said, ‘I’m just trying to thicken my vocal chords so I can scream better.’

 
“Kurt didn’t feel the general mold of society in a logging town and so he was beaten on by people who didn’t understand him. One day I heard he was in a fight a few blocks away. When I ran to the scene, the fight was over, however I heard from a friend that Kurt was assaulted by a burly 250-pound logger type. Evidently Kurt did not even fight. He just presented the bully with the appropriate hand gesture every time he was knocked down until the bully gave up. [This got a big cheer from the crowd.]

  “A wonderful picture comes to mind. When I peeked out the window into the yard, there was Kurt with some kind of contraption on his head that resembled a tin-foil hat, sneaking around the yard followed by a half a dozen laughing toddlers. Kurt had that million-dollar grin on his face and I could tell he was definitely in nirvana. I guess you could say he was the Pied Piper of compassion.

  “I hope that these little examples of happiness will show that even though Kurt experienced pain in his teenage years, he still did not let that pain stop him from loving life as fully as he could. We should never condemn Kurt for leaving us. We should instead look inward and thank him for loving us enough to share his feelings with us. Let us all learn that no amount of pain should ever stop us from loving life. We must all maintain respect for the significance of our own lives as well as for the lives of others.”

  But the most powerful messages were from two people who weren’t there. In their taped speeches, Chris and Courtney sent two very different messages. Chris made a brief but wonderful statement about the egalitarian punk rock ethos that Kurt stood for.

  “On behalf of Dave, Pat and I, I would like to thank you all for your concern at this time. We remember Kurt for what he was—caring, generous, and sweet. Let’s keep the music with us. We’ll always have it, forever. Kurt had an ethic toward his fans that was rooted in the punk rock way of thinking. No band is special, no player royalty. If you’ve got a guitar and a lot of soul, just bang something out and mean it. You’re the superstar, plugged into the tones and rhythms that are uniquely and universally human: music. Heck, use your guitar as a drum, just catch a groove and let it flow out of your heart. That’s the level that Kurt spoke to us on—in our hearts. And that’s where he and the music will always be, forever.”

  Courtney’s typically rambling message was a loving tirade, full of the affection and anger, resentment and pity that everyone felt. It reduced much of the crowd to tears, leaving virtually the entire 7,000-person assembly shuddering with emotion. Courtney being Courtney, she couldn’t help interjecting her own rejoinders. While they occasionally seemed overly bitter and even of questionable taste, like any good artist Courtney was only being honest; she reflected the deepest feelings of everybody there. It was a sort of dialogue, so I’ll present it that way.

  COURTNEY: I don’t really know what to say. I feel the same way you guys do. But if you guys don’t think that when I used to sit in this room when he played guitar and sing and feel so honored to be near him, you’re crazy. Anyway, he left a note. It’s like a letter to the fuckin’ editor. I don’t know what happened. I mean, it was going to happen. But it could have happened when he was forty. He always said he was going to outlive everybody and live to be a hundred and twenty. I’m not going to read you all the note because it’s none of the rest of your fuckin’ business. But some of it is to you. I don’t think it takes away from his dignity to read this considering that it’s addressed to most of you. He’s such an asshole. I want you all to say, “Asshole” really loud.

  CROWD: Asshole!

  COURTNEY: This note should be pretty easy to understand. All the wording’s from the Punk Rock 101.

  KURT: Over the years, it’s my first introduction to the shall we say ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community, has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with really writing something for two years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. For example, when we’re backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins, it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury [Courtney laughs], who seemed to love and relish the love and admiration from the crowd …

  COURTNEY: Well, Kurt, then so fucking what—then don’t be a rock star, you asshole.

  KURT: … which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can’t fool you, any one of you. It simply isn’t fair to you or to me. The worst crime I can think of would be to pull people off by faking it, pretending as if I’m having 100-percent fun.

  COURTNEY: No, Kurt, the worst crime I can think of is for you to just continue being a rock star when you fucking hate it. Just fuckin’ stop.

  KURT: Sometimes I feel as if I should have punched a time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it and I do. God, believe me, I do. But it’s not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists [Courtney gives a bitter little laugh] who only appreciate things when they’re alone. I’m too sensitive.

  COURTNEY: Awww.

  KURT: I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child. On our last three tours I had a much better appreciation of all the people I know personally and the fans of our music. But I still can’t get out the frustration, the guilt, or the empathy I have for everybody. There’s good in all of us and I simply love people too much …

  COURTNEY: So why didn’t you just fuckin’ stay?

  KURT: … so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad, a sad little sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces-Jesus man.

  COURTNEY: Oh shut up, bastard. Why don’t you just enjoy it?

  KURT: I don’t know.

  COURTNEY: Then he goes on to say personal things to me that are none of your damn business, personal things to Frances that are none of your damn business.

  KURT: I had it good—very good—and I’m grateful. But since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful toward all humans in general only because it seems so easy for people to get along and have empathy …

  COURTNEY: Empathy?

  KURT: … only because I love and feel for people too much, I guess. Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the last years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody person and I don’t have the passion anymore. So remember …

  COURTNEY: And don’t remember this because this is a fuckin’ lie.

  KURT: … it’s better to burn out than to fade away.

  COURTNEY: God, you asshole.

  KURT: Peace, love, empathy, Kurt Cobain.

  COURTNEY: And then there’s some more personal things that are none of your damn business. And just remember, this is all bullshit. And I want you to know one thing. That eighties tough love bullshit, it doesn’t work. It’s not real. It doesn’t work. I should have let him, we all should have let him have his numbness, we should have let him have the thing that made him feel better, that made his stomach feel better. We should have let him have it instead of trying to strip away his skin. You go home and you tell your parents, don’t you ever try that tough love bullshit on me because it doesn’t fuckin’ work. That’s what I think. I’m laying in our bed, and I’m really sorry. I feel the same way you do. I’m really sorry, you guys. I don’t know what I could have done. I wish I had been here. I wish I hadn’t listened to other people. But I did. Every night, I’ve been sleeping with his mother and I wake up in the morning and I think it’s him because their bodies are sort of the same. I have to go now. Just tell him he’s a fucker, OK? just say, “Fucker, you’re a fucker.” And that you love him.

  ***

  Much later, Courtney visited the sight of the vigil with her old friend Kat Bjelland of Babes in Toyland, and distributed some of Kurt’s clothes to whatever fans still remained.

  The speeches ended and the crowd was directed to move to the huge fountain nearby, where a sound system played an audio tape of Nirvana’s recent
MTV “Unplugged” appearance. Dozens of kids leaped into the forty-foot jets of water to great cheers from the crowd, which still must have numbered around five thousand. When the bowl-like fountain was turned off, it became a circular amphitheater, with people singing along to the music at the top of their lungs, cheering after every song as if they were at a real concert. Many knew the “Unplugged” show so well that they even sang along to the two rather obscure Meat Puppets songs.

  In the fountain people danced, hugged strangers, did the Wave, threw Frisbees and batted around condom balloons, dogs ran around. But when the security detail tried to disperse the crowd once the music was over, they rebelled. A chunky kid with dyed blond hair burst through the circular human chain the guards had made to push kids out of the bowl, and dozens followed, cheering and dancing, then defiantly mounted the fountain’s central dome like the Marines at Iwo Jima. When a policeman waded into the crowd to eject the chunky barrier-basher, people began chanting “Fuck! You! Fuck! You!” and pointing at the cop until he gave up and walked away. Kurt would have loved it.

  When I began this book, I told my grandmother I was writing a biography of a rock band. The very first thing she asked me was, “Do they do drugs?” I had to reply that yes, I was pretty sure one of them did. “But that doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person,” I told her. That was a tough concept for a lot of people to grasp. But Kurt was a really nice person. He could be cranky and moody and stubborn, but those shortcomings were far overshadowed by his better qualities.

  Obituaries and other press accounts centered on the “tormented rebel” and the “troubled voice of a generation.” In death as in life, few if any simply talked about Kurt as if he were a real person. This is the Kurt Cobain that I knew.