I have been reading a lot about Kurt Cobain and maybe you have been too. There's plenty out there if you want it. The twentieth anniversary of his death just passed us by and Nirvana gets inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame right about...now. And If a person wants to doubt anything about the art they can watch the unplugged performance of Where Did You Sleep Last Night and... shiver. The whole night through.
And everyone takes their shot at illuminating something about him and about what happened. It's okay. You take one person, gone, and they are like the sky at night. A thousand people could write brilliant essays, each one shedding the tiniest pinprick of light on the subject of Kurt Cobain. Maybe I could read every good piece written over the past 24 years or so and they will array like the stars in the sky. All those beautiful stars in the sky, but what we mostly see, what we will ever mostly see is the darkness.
And here is my story. I was late as usual, just recently finished with a confusion between The Smashing Pumpkins and Nirvana, and waking up to how Nirvana Unplugged was exactly what I wanted to listen to, forever.
Then he killed himself.
I don't know Kurt Cobain. Or I know him only slightly better than Caravaggio or Tolstoy, for instance. But he was exactly my generation. And I will tell you this dear readers, your generation is always the last generation. And because all this is so I feel I can say:
My favorite album of Kurt Cobain's was the solo album he made in the summer of 2000. I would give all of those stars in the sky, this little one of my own, and then some more, to be able to hear it just once.