In my mind, I always imagined that there were other contemporary bands who I loved just as much as Nirvana, but looking back it truly was a watershed moment. In ’92, before Nirvana, I was listening to The Beatles, The Jam, The Stone Roses, The Doors, U2 and R.E.M. Even if I wanted to think of U2 and R.E.M. as current, they had both existed for over 10 years. By ’94 I was listening to Pavement, Sebadoh and Teenage Fanclub, all because of Nirvana. Instead of looking to the past for inspiration, I began to take enjoyment in what was happening right now. Something about ‘Lithium’ hit me really hard. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the song contained the lines “I’m so ugly”, “I’m so lonely” and “I’m so horny“. It managed to sum up my feelings of confused masculinity, my sense of repulsion as teenage hormones flooded my body and seemed to insist that I objectify all the women around me, but I was not one of those guys. Stuck with powerful sexual impulses, I convinced myself that to act on them was disrespectful and cheap. The power dynamic behind male/female relations weighed heavily on me. How would I ever know if my impulses were going to push a girl into doing something that she ultimately did not want to do? My crippling self-consciousness and acne meant that I wouldn’t have to worry about the sexual act for a while, yet the nature of masculinity and male sexual urges still haunted me.
Yes, this is where all the trouble began. By embracing Nirvana I also embraced the idea that Nirvana stood for something, that there was a thread of rebellion running through music, and this was the latest incarnation. The idea that Nirvana were a compromised beast never occurred to me. My 60s dream of an important guitar band also being the highest-selling had become real, it had become contemporary and it filled my head with all sorts of outlandish notions. Looking back, it’s easy to see that the success of Nevermind was what made major labels see dollar signs dancing in front of every vaguely ‘alternative’ act. Yet without its success there’s a chance that I would have been forever stuck in a retro daydream, cut off from more knowledgeable friends who would have clued me in regardless. At age 16 I was truly friendless and Nirvana made it possible for me to read about completely obscure musical acts in magazines that I could buy in my local corner shop. Nevermind may have pointed major labels to the indie world as a source of revenue, but it also showed the way to those not savvy enough to know who Nirvana were in 1989. Every great thing casts a dark shadow and Nevermind was no different. To a whole generation it gave a glimpse of a world unknown, a world that would be destroyed by the very thing that, to people like me, first indicated that such a world existed.
By the time Kurt Cobain died by his own hand I had given up. The overdose a month before convinced me that he was doomed. My mum woke me up to tell me of his death and I felt nothing but numbness. It was a bad day all around due to some heavy-duty family unhappiness that was occurring at the time and, in a way, everything had become too much. Too much drama. Too much sadness. Just too much. My idea of the ‘embarrassed straight male sexual being’ passed on to Richey James of the Manic Street Preachers, then eventually to Elliott Smith (I know, I know). I began to have suspicions about the kind of music that I was drawn to, about whether my warped sense of masculinity would ever find a positive outlet. Yet, for all that, I do not look back on my Nirvana days with cynicism or shame. At the same time, I do not miss them. We live in an age when to look back is to be accused of nostalgia, the worst most pitiable crime of all, and so the anti-nostalgia essay is as common as the glassy-eyed remembrance. Our motives are explained and filed away before our minds have even formed coherent thoughts.
When I listen to Nirvana now, however, it is not to relive lost moments of my youth. It took me so long to play Nevermind again that its connection to my 16-year-old self had been severed. Purged of an emotional link there was only the music, and I was surprised to find that the music was still great. At times it was downright amazing. To the world at large, Kurt is either a ghostly phantom of the lost power of rock, a sacred cow that thousands will take glee in pissing all over, or another strung out casualty of fame. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t mean anything. He’s dead. The music is still good and maybe that’s the best we can hope for. It’s probably the only thing that Kurt really hoped for out of this whole affair.
(This article originally appeared on Collapse Board)