Chris Mundy from ROLLING STONE
Sometime before twilight on Tuesday, April 5, Kurt Cobain sat alone in the room above the garage of his home near Lake Washington, meticulously laid a piece of identificatication next to his body and, with a single shotgun blast to head, ended his life at the age of 27. It was an action that occurred in the instant it takes to twitch one finger, a last act ensuring that Cobain's complex and contradictory biography will be punctuated only with question marks. In life, Cobain pleaded that he not be held up as a representative or spokesperson for anything other than himself. In death, this wish should be respected.
Born into a generation that doesn't want heroes but simply someone who understands, Cobain understood. Even his suicide note ended with "Peace, love, empathy." Yes, he was a remarkably gifted songwriter and singer, but he was special not so much because he was unique but because he was one of many. Disenfranchised and cynical. Awkward and unsure. For an enormous collection of individuals, Cobain's passing is the equivalent of a death in the family. He wasn't a hero or a guru of any sort. He was simply one of them, someone who grasped what they were going through, even though he was powerless to control these forces in his own life.