#meanwhile nirvana is the only grunge band he listens to

[lucystark12]

rip mike wheeler you would have loved living in seattle listening to nirvana and being pretentious about it

[jjmichie]

The Day I Touched Eddie Vedder’s Ankle

March 25, 1992

It was cold, as March in Minnesota tends to be.  

But this March was colder than usual.  Brian was gone.  And I had a horrible case of mono that I had succumbed to immediately after he dumped me, which led me to drop the majority of classes I was taking that semester.  My financial aid situation was now a mess but I was too sick to go to work and my money supply was dwindling.  I had pushed my friends away.  I didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone or go anywhere or do anything.   

It had been this way for over a month.  I spent long days in bed, with barely the energy to eat or even sit up.  My muscles and my head and my whole body hurt whenever I tried to move or even think.  I couldn’t distinguish whether it was from the sickness or loneliness or aching for Brian but it didn’t matter.  I just knew everything hurt and everything felt dark, cold, empty, dead . . . hopeless.    

But sitting on the nightstand next to my bed were two tickets to an all ages show at First Avenue.  Pearl Jam.  It was coming up soon.  I really didn’t want to go.  I was supposed to be going with Brian.  We were supposed to go together.  We were supposed to BE together.  But the tickets continued to sit there, mocking me, reminding me of what my world had been just a short month ago, but now of what was gone, what was lost, and reminding me of how badly I had fucked it all up.  

But I also hated to let the tickets go to waste.  I had paid for them.  So, as a reluctant Plan B, I convinced my sister to join me.  She was older, but always seemed younger.  The kind of sister you end up scooping up off the floor of a closet at the end of the night when you bring her to a party, or who takes off on a motorcycle with a random guy she doesn’t know. or disappears for so long in a shopping mall that you end up freaking out and contacting mall security . . . but anyway.   

Night of the event.  I made myself pull out my standard rock concert clothes, which consisted of knee high black suede boots and a long black velvet jacket thing, which was tapered at the waist then flared out into a skirt in the most lovely feminine way.   It was adorned with brass buttons down the front, and two in the back. I loved that jacket.  It usually cheered me up every time I put it on.  But this time it didn’t.  This time I was just going through the motions.  

When we got inside the already-packed venue, I could immediately feel Brian.  I swear I could smell him.  I knew he was there.  There was no way he would miss this.   But he was upstairs, in the balcony where 21-year-olds were allowed, not corralled on the main floor, in the kiddie pen, where I was humiliatingly sequestered.  I let my head turn towards the balcony, let my gaze drift up there, as if I might see him.  As if he might see me and actually come down.  

Scrunching ourselves as best we could onto the main floor, my sister and I tried to push our way towards the stage, but didn’t get very far.   In fact, not very close at all.  In my weakened state I just didn’t have the energy.  We ended up in the back of the room, near the sound board, more Mike-side than Stone-side, although at the time I didn’t know the difference between the sides.  I didn’t know their names yet.  

“Oh weird,” I commented to my sister, as I looked around us.  “Every single guy here is wearing a flannel shirt.”  

She rolled her eyes at me. “Of course they are,” she said in her big-sister voice. “That’s what they wear now.”  

I hadn’t realized the extent to which Pacific Northwest attire had already permeated the burgeoning grunge crowd in the midwest.  For some reason I thought me and the Record Store Boys were the only ones who knew about this.  But it was literally Every. Single. Guy.  in the room was wearing plaid flannel.  When had this happened?  I felt kind of stupid, as I realized I was looking WAY out of place in my velvet finery.  

And it was interesting to note the ratio of males to females.  Easily over 80 percent male.  And most of the females appeared to be tag-along girlfriends.  Me and my sister were definitely the minority.  Which is weird when you think about it.  Given how handsome everyone in the band was, why weren’t there more girls?  

But then they started to play.  

We stood still, as did everyone around us on the floor, completely captivated by the unbelievable power that was suddenly filling the room and pelting us like someone had fired off a flurry of rockets.  We watched the surreal energy on the stage, bouncing, whipping their hair, growling out song after song.  All I could think was  . . .  WHUT!!!??!!! 

Mostly my eyes were glued to the lead singer.  It was hard not to stare at him.  He just completely broke the mold of what your typical rock star guy was at the time.  But I also remember the rest of the band, that Jeff was wearing a cool hat and looked so solid and muscular, although I didn’t know at the time that his name was Jeff.  (The advantage of being Mike-side is that you get Jeff too!)  And I remember the guitarist on the other side smiling.  Smiling.  And the way the guitarist on my side was belting out solos!  My god!  

I recognized most of the songs, because Brian had given me a homemade cassette tape (I couldn’t afford a CD player), which had Ten on one side and Nevermind on the other and I played it endlessly.  At first I had gravitated towards Nirvana, and only listened to the other side because it was too much of a pain in the ass to hit rewind and wait wait wait for it to get back to the beginning.  Might as well let the other side play.  But then something happened.  Something changed.  And the more I listened the more I liked it.  The more Brian played it, whenever we were together, alone in his room, the more it became my favorite.  Our favorite. 

But then Pearl Jam began playing the opening chords of Black.  

Shit. 

No.  

Don’t do this to me.  

I was instantly back in his bedroom, the CD player going.  Brian and I had come to agree at some point that Black was the best song on the album.  It was our song.  The song we made love to.  We didn’t realize everyone else felt that way too.  But from the cheer rising from the sea of flannel, it was obvious that this was a favorite of everyone at First Avenue.  Brian.  Brian.  I screamed for him with my mind, begging for him to hear me in his mind, and then I couldn’t see the band or the flannel or anything any more because my eyes were blurred and tears were gushing down my face blinding me and I missed him so much and I knew he was right above me hearing this too, hearing this right now.  All the love gone bad . . . Was he thinking about me too?  Why wasn’t he coming down the stairs?  I couldn’t go up, but he could come down if he wanted to.  He must have known I was there.  Why was he letting me cry alone?  Why did he leave me?  Why did I let him?  Didn’t any of it even matter to him?  . . . in somebody else’s sky . . . 

And my stupid sister didn’t even notice, and neither did all the flannel-clad minions who were trying inappropriately to mosh to this song, unable to contain their passion, unconcerned and not deterred by the slow melodicness that clashed ridiculously with their movements. 

End.  Please let this end.  

It did.  When Black finally ended I stood there, hearing the next song and the next, but still feeling sort of numb, not bothering to wipe away the mascara that now dirtied my cheeks.  

But a short time later my attention abruptly shifted from my own sorrow back to the lead singer, who, to everyone’s surprise, was leaving the stage.  Making his way toward the railing of the stairs, he began climbing.  He was climbing up the railing, up towards the balcony.  And all the flannel-clads turned their backwards-baseball-capped heads upward in unison to follow his progress.  

Meanwhile the First Avenue security guys looked at each other and then began  inching closer, inching their way over to the railing, looking serious, looking concerned.  What was this guy doing?  

He was now up on the balcony, but he was OUTSIDE the railing, on the tiny piece of floor that extended beyond it, barely enough room for his boot.  He must have been, I don’t know, 30 or 40 feet above us all.  His arm was wrapped around the railing to hold himself in place, and he turned around and looked down at us.  

This is my most vivid memory of the show.  The look on Eddie’s face.  The unbelievably intense look of concentration he gave the crowd while he looked down from that perch. He looked only mildly scared.  But you could tell he was assessing us, visualizing what he was about to do, and judging exactly where to jump and seeking out those he could trust, literally making eye contact with some key dudes, the bigger, taller dudes, with their hands raised, communicating silently with only his eyes, making sure it felt right. 

Once assured of that, once assured he could trust them, he turned back around, facing the balcony and the railing  . . . 

 . . . and he let go . . .  

I know logically that Eddie’s body must have followed the laws of physics and fallen at the normal speed that humans fall when they fall, but it didn’t seem that way.  He seemed to float.  The fall seemed to take forever.  He drifted down, arms outstretched, eyes closed (although I couldn’t see his eyes, somehow I knew they were closed), so elegantly, so delicately, like a snowflake.  

. . . and landed softly and securely on the hands of the big dudes he had just vetted.  From there a swarm of hands seemed to rise up out of nowhere and wave like seaweed in an ocean and before I knew it the graceful ragdoll was floating towards us.  My sister and I both stretched as far as humanly possible to reach out and touch touch touch!  I felt my hand on his skin, right above the line where his white sock met his bare flesh. Wet  Hot.  Solid muscle.  Coursing with life.  Wow . . . But I could only touch him for a few seconds before he floated on, was passed on, passed back towards the stage.  

My sister and I both gasped at our hands, staring at them, and holding them out in front of us, giggling with glee, feeling so ridiculously groupie, and realizing we were acting as dumb as the Beatles fans we used to make fun of on TV.  But the guys around us seemed to be having the same reaction too. They were thrilled to have participated.  Many of them were high-fiving each other with the hand that just seconds earlier had been connected to their new hero.  

I didn’t realize it until later, but at some point during the crowd-surfing ceremony, all of my thoughts of the guy upstairs were forgotten.  I no longer felt lonely.  I no longer felt sick.  I no longer worried about my missed classes or my dwindling bank account.  I no longer cared that my outfit was out of place.  There was no where in the world I would rather be than right there. Right then. On the main floor.  Participating.  Hearing this mind blowing shit kicking fucking awesome too good to be real music.  And reliving the feel of the delightfully sweaty ankle that I had just helped to push along.  

The ankle was now safely back where it belonged, up on stage with the smiling guitarist and the cool hat and the power power power that the whole band was thundering out, filling the small venue with ungodly energy and life.  

And as I listened to it . . . I let go too.  

I let go of the memories, of the loss, the despair, the darkness, the hopelessness, and let the flannel forest envelop me.  The group moved as one, and I was part of it, leaning on them, letting them lean on me, swaying with them, riding wave after wave of bliss and feeling every word and note and chord and drum pedal kick.  I let go and trusted them to support me and lift me . . . just like Eddie had done on the balcony. 

When it was over and we finally had to leave, we carried the energy and the high with us.  Totally happy.  Totally alive.  

Things turned around after that.  

The snow melted.  The sky was less dark.  I resumed classes and doubled up during spring semester in order to graduate on time.  I was so inspired by McCready that I ramped up my own electric guitar playing abilities and joined a band.  We actually played at First Avenue ourselves about six months later.  Granted it was just “new band night,” and granted, we were pretty shitty, but still.  I stood exactly where Mike had been standing.  Before long I fell in love with the singer/songwriter in my band and we are still living happily ever after, together after all these years. 

So . . . thank you Pearl Jam.  Really.  Thank you.  That night gave me the jolt I needed to pull myself out of a horrible place and find the strength to take control of my life and build a happy future for myself.  And my life has turned out pretty fucking good.  Thank you.  You made a huge difference.   

[listentothismaguro]

Back to the Past: “Nevermind”, by Nirvana

NNirvana! One of the most famous bands of all time, who had a massive popularity during the 90′s and still is very popular, 23 years after their tragic end. The band was active between 1987 and 1994 (year when Kurt Cobain killed himself). The members were Kurt Cobain, Dave Grohl (who is now the frontman of Foo Fighters) and Krist Novoselic. They released three albums, but in this post, I will only talk about their second and most popular album: Nevermind (no, I’m not leaving. It’s the name of the album).

Nevermind was released on 24th September 1991 and was Nirvana’s first album with Dave Grohl as their drummer (because the band had a fuck ton of drummers before Grohl. It seemed like they were collecting drummer, actually) and had Smells Like Teen Spirit, Come as You Are, Lithium and In Bloom as singles. Before the release of the album, there were not very good expectation about it. But after releasing the single Smells Like Teens Spirit, which is still today considered one of the best songs of the decade, the album quickly gained attention. In January 1992, Nevermind surpassed Dangerous, by Micheal Jackson, on US Billboard 200 and since then, the album never abandoned the ranking, being now in 170th place, which is really fantastic, considering that the album was released 26 years ago.

Now let’s talk about the album itself: Nevermind has 12 tracks. My favourite is the second one: In Bloom (Even though Territorial Pissings and Lithium are not that far behind). I like the “Grunge Vibe” that In Bloom gives us, even though the lyrics don’t really make a lot of sense (but that happens a lot in Nirvana. Don’t worry, I’ll explain it later). But I think I like In Bloom more because it was the first Nirvana song I heard, alongside with Smells Like Teen Spirit. But I don’t really like Smells Like Teen Spirit as much as I used to. Probably because it is popular, so I got bored of it. It still plays many times on the radio and everyone listens to it. Actually, I usually don’t listen to Nirvana, but sometimes I decide to listen to one of their songs and I get addicted to it for a while. A month or so (like now). Meanwhile, my less favourite song of the album is Come as You Are. I find it very monotone and boring, considering the rest of the album. It doesn’t really fit the album, in my opinion. Polemic opinion? Welp, I created the blog to express my opinion anyway, sorry. BUT I don’t find it bad, just not as good as the rest of the album.

The album had many changes, comparing to the previous album: Bleach (Fact of the day: One of the reasons that Tite Kubo had to give Bleach as the name of his mangá was this album), which was more Noise Rock than actually Grunge. But the change was worth it. They gained more popularity with it (even though I personally prefer the first album).

Let’s talk about music videos now. Well, Nirvana’s music videos are very simple, but creative. If they were made today, I wouldn’t say that though. Why? Well, Nirvana influenced many bands, such as The White Stripes, Evanescence and Socotra. And you can actually see that in their music videos. It’s not a copy (except Socotra, who are trying too hard to be the new Nirvana), but it’s very similar. Another example is the music video of Duality, by Slipknot. It reminds me a bit of Smells Like Teen Spirit‘s music video. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that Nirvana were kind of pioneers when it comes to this kind of music videos. My favourite music video of the album? I'm really undecided between Smells Like Teen Spirit and In Bloom. Even though I got sick of Smells Like Teen Spirit, I can’t deny it is a great song and it has a great music video. I understand why is it so popular, and I understand why was Kurt Cobain so pissed off at the song as well. It got too popular. I can’t imagine how popular it was back in 1991/1992. I bet it played a million times per day on MTV.

Now let me point something about Nirvana’s music videos and lyrics. Many, many, many of you say that Kurt Cobain was suicidal (probably was, yeah), and it was visible on the lyrics and music videos. But there are arguments against that. I’ll quote something that Kurt Cobain said back in 1993. “There are some songs that, brother, believe me, they are not what they seem”. Okay, he didn’t say EXACTLY this, but I can’t find the quote and this is what I remember of it. Well, what I want to say it that Kurt pointed many times that, most of the times, he wrote the lyrics with a lot of procrastination, and they ended up not making a lot of sense. I’ll give the example of (now I’m dodging the subject of the post) the song I Hate Myself and Want to Die, from In Utero. The title of this song actually comes from something that Kurt read on the Rolling Stones magazine. What I mean by this is that Nirvana’s lyrics were showing Kurt’s feelings, but overly pessimistically, according to Cobain himself. On the other hand, there’s Kurt Cobain’s suicide, which is itself a proof that Kurt was suicidal, unless the theories telling that Courtney Love killed him or hired someone to kill him are true, which I really have no idea if it is true or not. But let’s not talk about the death of the poor guy! The best way to remember him is by appreciating his art and not by discussing his death or searching for documentaries like Soaked in Bleach. Don’t be like me, kids. Stay just with the music.

Well. In general, the album was pretty great. It deserves the title of “one of the best album of the decade”, and consequently the title of “The band that marked that generation”. I think Kurt Cobain was a very talented man who left way too soon, and I think frequently about the type of music Nirvana would release if Cobain staid alive (he would be 50 years old now!). Maybe one day I’ll make a post about that. Who knows?