Smashing Their Heads On The Punk Rock
Remarkable. Unprecedented. Phenomenal. The stupefying success of Nirvana left a band, a city, and an industry irrevocably changed, and shoved a reluctant Kurt Cobain into the media spotlight. Darcey Steinke goes sleepless in Seattle.
SPIN - October, 1993. By Darcey Steinke.Fame has a vaporizing effect. It lifts and floats the celebrity into our most private venue: dreams. But for Kurt Cobain, our collective obsession seems like a car's stark headlights, freezing its unassuming victim in the glare. "In my dreams, there's always this apocalyptic war going on between the right and the left wing," he says, sitting on the plush burgundy couch in his Seattle living room. "The last dream I had like this was two nights ago. Courtney and I were in the Hollywood Hills, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was my neighbor. I was completely disgusted by the whole idea of living next to these people." Cobain speaks in a lilting Pacific-Northwestern drawl, like a grungy Quentin Crisp. "So I went down to where the oppressed people were starving on the streets, killing each other for a quarter. In one part of the dream I was being honored for something and the ceremony was at an S/M club, but it was a really nice one. It didn't have chains on the wall, just beautiful flowers. Lots of stars went there." Cobain glances up at the small plastic doll in a nun's outfit propped up on the mantel, one of the hundreds of dolls that he and his wife, Courtney Love, leader of the band Hole, have collected. "I had to make an entrance from the top of the stairs, and because of the way people think of Courtney, she happened to be this two-foot-tall black midget with huge feet. She waddled like this…" Cobain sways back and forth like Charlie Chaplin. "As soon as she made her appearance someone kicked her down the stairs. I just started screaming."
As it would with anyone, the past 18 months have taken a fierce toll on Nirvana and the Cobains. They’ve struggled coming to terms with their gargantuan stardom, straining to get their footing on the unfamiliar and sometimes brutal landscape of fame. The terrain has been dotted with obstacles: some mere potholes, some treacherous landmines. With the follow-up to Nevermind, In Utero, due on September 14, the Seattle-based trio hopes to trade in its celebrity status for the more comfortable role of rock band. But erasing the lunacy of the months gone by may require more than a bracing blast of punk rock.
Last September, Vanity Fair ran a much-publicized piece on Love. The article quoted her as saying, among other things, that she used heroin while pregnant with their now one-year-old (and healthy) daughter, Frances Bean, which she later denied. Cobain refers to Conde Nast, which publishes the magazine, as "a bunch of right-wing, high-fashion, Christian Satanists. They have the power to eliminate anything that threatens them."
Cobain tends to go to extremes when discussing the abuse he’s taken from the mainstream media. His outrage borders on a persecution complex, but the press has left him feeling terminally unprotected, his day-to-day life and love compromised in ways he never imagined. He’s horrified about rumors that have been circulating concerning a recent trip to New York City, where he and Love were supposedly so high they were puking in the back of a cab, and when they got out they left little Frances Bean behind in the backseat. The story continues with the cabby driving around for hours not knowing there was a baby in the car.
"It’s like the Rod Stewart semen story," I tell him. "You’re a part of modern folklore."
"Geez," Cobain says. "I could live with that, Kurt Loder saying, ‘There was a half gallon of semen found in Kurt Cobain’s stomach.’ That at least is funny."
Notoriety doesn’t really bother bassist Chris Novoselic. He says he makes himself available so often he’s gotten over any phobia, but he admits to awkwardness when meeting people. "If you introduce yourself they say, ‘I know who you are.’ And if you don’t they think you’re arrogant."
Dave Grohl, Nirvana’s drummer, figures the reason he’s seldom recognized is because people can’t really see him behind his drums and his long hair. Though he’s never been stopped on the street, something he recently heard did freak him out "There’s a guy in New York City that goes into this record store every single Sunday and claims he’s my father. It’s creepy."
Both agree that while stardom is sometimes hard for them, it’s hell for Cobain. "It’s a load of shit on Kurt’s mind that he doesn’t deserve," Grohl says. "You can tell when he’s upset, and it ends up bothering all of us."
"You know how Tabatha Soren’s delivery is usually kind of flat and calm? I’ve noticed whenever she reports anything on us, she really gets into it— her eyebrows raise, and she gets this venom in her voice." Cobain says this as we settle into a booth with Novoselic at the Dog House Restaurant, a diner in Seattle that’s been open since 1934. A sign above the counter says ALL ROADS LEAD TO THE DOG HOUSE. Cobain’s intensity is startling, practically electric, like the hum from overhead power lines. A bad case of scoliosis as a child has left him permanently hunched, and in his plaid hunter’s cap, flaps down over his ears, and visor pulled low for privacy, his ice-blue eyes are transfixing. His black tennis shoes have "Fugazi" written on the toes in black magic marker, each foot with a different spelling. He lights yet another cigarette, his fingernails a splatter of chipped red nail polish.
Cobain is referring to a July 12 MTV news segment based on a piece in the Seattle Times. The article reported a domestic disturbance at the Cobain home, claiming the couple were physically fighting over their possession of several handguns and an AR-15 rifle.
Cobain shakes his head. "I was just so surprised to find the police report so detailed, yet so completely wrong." He sinks deeper into the booth. "What really happened was that Courtney and I were running around the house screaming and wrestling—it was a bit Sid and Nancy-esque, I have to admit—but we were having a good time. And then we get this knock on the door, and there are five cop cars outside, and the cops all have their guns drawn." His voice mirrors the absurdity of the situation. "We were in our pajamas. I was wearing this long black velvet pipe-smoker’s jacket. Not the most desirable thing to be arrested in…" The police explained a new Washington State law that requires that someone be arrested in cases of domestic violence. "That’s when we did start arguing, about who was going to jail. I said, ‘I’m going,’ and Courtney said, ‘No I’m going.’ And I said ‘Noooo, I’m the man of the house. They always arrest the man.’" Cobain smiles. "I kind of regret that now, because the idea of Courtney as a husband-beater is kind of amusing," he says wryly. "She did throw juice at me and I did push her, but it was about who was going to jail."
Novoselic, tall and Abe Lincoln-like, listens sympathetically. "Just as we were going out the door," Cobain continues, "the police said, ‘By the way, do you have any firearms in the house?’ And I said no, because I didn’t want this to turn into an even bigger deal. But Courtney said yes." Cobain’s cheeks flush, his narrow shoulders tense. "I’m in full support of that law though. I’ve witnessed that kind of domestic violence. On one occasion my mom’s boyfriend was beating up on her. He’d done it before, but I only witnessed it once. He was this huge Yugoslavian macho man who drank a lot of booze. She had two black eyes and had to go to the hospital." Cobain’s own eyes grow as big as saucers, as it becomes painfully clear why this accusation has affected him so deeply. "I am sympathetic to this new law," he says quietly.
Novoselic has a calming effect on Cobain, bolstering him verbally, talking him down when he grows too paranoid. He tells how the Seattle Times called his mother for her comments regarding the Cobain-Love allegations. Mrs. Novoselic refused to say anything; Novoselic has trained her not to talk to the press, promising to "give her a new roof on her house" if she kept quiet.
Grohl, on the other hand, deals with the treadmill of catastrophes by staying out of the loop. "I love to play music with Chris and Kurt, but I don’t like all the hubbub that surrounds it," he says. "Some people have to have psychodrama, but I have to not have it."
This current rock’n’roll juggernaut is a long way from the band’s humble beginnings. Cobain’s early years were spent in a trailer park in Aberdeen, 100 miles south of Seattle. Novoselic grew up in Los Angeles before moving to Aberdeen at age 14, where his mother still runs Maria’s Hair Design.
In high school Cobain won a scholarship to art school, but he chose not to attend. He was more interested in music, specifically in local sludge-rock heroes the Melvins. Cobain incessantly watched the band rehearse, and eventually wrote and recorded songs with the Melvins’ drummer, Dale Crover. Novoselic, also a Melvins insider, was impressed by the tape, and in early 1987, he asked Cobain if he would like to start a band together. After forming this early incarnation, both left Aberdeen: Novoselic moved to Tacoma, finding work as a house painter, while Cobain settled nearby in Olympia, a place he’d always thought of as a "cultural Mecca," eventually working as a janitor in a dentist’s office.
They gigged in the area, and soon after booked recording time at Reciprocal Recording with producer Jack Endino. There they recorded a demo tape, which Endino passed along to Sub Pop’s Bruce Pavitt, who was duly impressed. "Love Buzz/Big Cheese," the band’s first single, was released in October 1988, followed by 1989’s Bleach, their debut LP, which they recorded in only three days for a mere $600. It wasn’t until 1990, after going through a handful of drummers, that Cobain and Novoselic drafted Grohl, whom they spotted at a gig behind the kit for the D.C. hardcore band Scream.
As a result of their fans having a difficult time finding their records, and their label, Sub Pop, prowling for a distribution deal, Nirvana began entertaining the idea of jumping to a major label. The band shopped the songs that would end up on Nevermind, recorded by a Madison, Wisconsin, studio owner named Butch Vig. A subsequent bidding war broke out, culminating in Geffen buying out its Sub Pop contract, and offering the band a reported $287,000 spread over two records.
Vig eventually produced Nevermind, with Andy Wallace handling the final mixes. Nevermind, which record executives expected would sell around 300,000 copies, flew out of stores at a breakneck pace. MTV endlessly aired the video for "Smells Like Teen Spirit" (later even saturating America with its parodic partner, "Weird Al" Yankovic’s "Smells Like Nirvana"). The single went straight to the top of the charts, and Nevermind went on to sell five million copies in four months (it has now exceeded nine million worldwide). The record’s unparalleled success has altered the course of music, fashion, the recording industry, and deodorants. Nirvana went from being just another punk band schlepping around from gig to gig in its van to the punk band. Nirvana’s sound helped create and define a category of music. Nevermind also made the band members Rock Stars.
"I really miss being able to blend in with people," Cobain says wearily. "It’s just been lately that I could even handle being recognized."
Cobain tells me about an incident that took place when he went to see a Melvins show in Orange County, California. "One by one, these drunk, sarcastic twentysomething kids would come up to me and say, ‘Aren’t you in the B-52’s?’ Just trying to start a fight One guy came up, smacked me on the back, and said, ‘Hey, man, you got a good thing going, just get
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