Heavier Than Heaven: The Biography Of Kurt Cobain
Charles R Cross
Hodder
£17.99
When I went to work at the New Musical Express as a sweet young thing of 17, I was both amazed and appalled to discover that not everyone had - how shall we put it - seen as few summers as I. The sight of old blokes of 28 and beyond still seeking to find the meaning of the world in a plastic platter filled me with horror and, when I left full-time music journalism at the stately age of 19, I swore I'd never go back. In the years since then, it has become far worse. When my young friend Emma Forrest went to work for the Sunday Times at 15, they told her she was "too young" to write about popular music, and should stick to current affairs instead!
Perhaps I overreacted to this, but a good deal of my post-teen years have been spent obdurately refusing to be down with "the kids", rather in the manner of an old judge asking "But who is Emily-Em?" I far prefer my attitude to that of the artificially hip hep-cats who chase the latest musical trends, but occasionally it can have somewhat hilarious consequences. For instance, when I finally admitted to myself that I loved the Smiths, they'd been defunct for five years - something that didn't stop Morrissey, on hearing of my girlish swoon, from knocking on my door unbidden one morning and putting me through three of the most boring hours of my life.
Of course, poor Kurt Cobain, my latest belated crush, is in no position to do this, as he shot himself in the head in the greenhouse of his Seattle home in 1994. But as I last heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit" - absolutely my favourite song ever, which is about as bold and original as saying that Citizen Kane is your favourite film, but never mind - only a few weeks ago, I was very glad to read this biography, the result of four years' research and 400 interviews, not to mention the sainted Kurt's police and medical records, and his unpublished journals. I was in hog heaven all the way through - in a caring, wistful way, of course.
I've said it before, but to some extent all biographies are murder mysteries - though whydunnits rather than whodunnits - even if no one dies. The killing of the old unloved self so that the shiny new icon can emerge intact involves just as much shame and subterfuge as your average homicide, and Kurt Cobain's reinvention as "Kurt Cobain" was a sadder story than most, especially as he discovered too late that being famous was the last thing he wanted. Unlike the fake angst of your average crooner, this was the real thing. Troubled from adolescence by a mysterious stomach ailment which left him permanently nauseous and led to his initial self-medication through opiates, Cobain also carried what he called "the suicide gene" - two uncles had not only killed themselves but committed a very stoic, tenacious type of suicide (they both missed first time, but stuck at it), which sent a stir of echoes into his own multiple-death experiences. Suicide wasn't just a casual thing with him; it was his one true love.
From the moment fame hit, his life was a black, farcical round of ODs, rehab and suicide attempts, Cobain running about trying to dispose of himself with Courtney Love, his paid minders and his record company in hot pursuit to keep the cash cow alive. He first died - clinically, actually died - less than seven hours after "Teen Spirit" was played on MTV; or, in the words of Charles Cross, at "the very moment an entire generation fell in love with him". He was genuinely repelled by the fame game: soon after Nirvana first made it and every sucker in showbiz wanted to be his friend, Cobain and his wife Courtney Love left a party in his honour and, after rejecting amicable advances from the likes of Keanu Reeves, retreated to their hotel room where they hung a sign on the door saying "No famous people please, we're fucking". But the idea that he was "faking it" became an obsession. From his first hit - "With the lights out it's less dangerous/ Here we are now, entertain us/ I feel stupid and contagious" - to his last note,"The fact is I can't fool you. Any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending I'm having fun," he was simply the man who knew too much, certainly far too much to be a silly, shiny thing like a pop star. He signed his note "Peace, love, empathy, Kurt Cobain", underlining the word "empathy" twice; he had used it five times in all in his suicide letter. True to his word, he shot himself in the greenhouse so as to make less of a mess, and left a pile of clean towels beside his body lest anyone discovering him should be sullied by his blood.
American downfalls always seem bigger and sadder than other types - attain instant gravitas - because we seem to hear the lonesome wind of the American dream, the settling and the savagery and the submission of all else, howling through one simple life. (That's why, say, American Beauty and American Gigolo sound like such profound titles compared with Belgian Beauty and German Gigolo). But, like Marilyn Monroe, Kurt Cobain really did live a life of quite startling sadness and achievement, and it is not being too creepy to call his life a genuine American Tragedy. Here's a laugh: while reading this book in a foreign hotel room, tears streaming down my face, with BBC Choice on for comfort in the background amid a host of phlegm-clearing German channels, I was amazed to hear the opening bars of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" - on Top Gear , of all the filthy items. Hearing St Kurt's finest three minutes being used to sell boys' toys designed to appeal to all that is dumbest, dullest and meanest in mankind made me squeal with anger. Kurt wouldn't have reacted like that, though, and that's why he was so cool. You get the impression that he - poor wise, defeated boy - never would have expected anything else anyway.
Nevermind.
