Sometime between yesterday and Thursday, 10 years ago, Kurt Cobain went into a room on his property, shot up a massive dose of heroin and ventilated his head with a big damned shotgun.
Apparently, that was enough to depress my entire generation.
Sorry kids, I just don’t see it. Did Nirvana change music? Only in that their sound – ripped off as it was – managed to hit it big. I don’t know how that happened. I doubt they expected it. I know their record company didn’t expect it. It just happened that they were there at the moment where punk suddenly filled the musical needs of an entire generation rather than a few malcontents.
I like Nirvana. Sort of. Given the choice of listening to them or to Stiff Little Fingers or the Clash or the Sex Pistols or the Dickies I’d choose any of the latter. I can’t forgive Nirvana for starting the pseudo-punk-pop trend that’s given us any of the eminently forgettable one-hit wonders who clutter the airwaves and festivals these days – Blink 182, Good Charlotte, Alien Ant Farm – even though I like some of those cats’ tunes as well.
And I have no sympathy for suicides. Regardless of the good you may have done, the lives you may have touched or the classics you may have created if you don’t have the moxie to smack yourself in the face, realize there are others that have it worse than you and that your life is never entirely your own you’re a wimp. Plain and simple. This world is no place for the weak.
Ten years later then all I have to say on the subject is the cold-hearted bitterness I think every time I hear of a suicide:
Thanks. Thank you for not wasting my air. Candy-ass.
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