I've rediscovered Nirvana, that favorite band of old. I was a precocious fourteen-year old when I was first lured by the hypnotic music of these pioneering grunge musicians.
For a whole year I was a guitar-toting wannabe rock chick in an all-girl Catholic school, fashionably morose, proudly brandishing the calluses on my fingertips. I strummed and sang, lived and breathed Nirvana with a small group of similarly-inclined girl friends.
Then on April 1994, the group's front man put a shotgun in his mouth and fired. For months it was all I and my girl friends talked about. I shed tears, and listening over and over to the band's Unplugged album I realized it was too much for a young and impressionable girl like me to handle. I stopped listening to Nirvana altogether when I realized I had repeatedly toyed with the idea of killing myself more times than might have been prudent. As Butch suggested, Kurt channeled his anger well through their music.
Fast forward ten years later. I'm much older, hopefully wiser and better able to control suicidal tendencies should they arise. A decade has passed, Kurt's widow has disgraced herself and her husband's legacy one time too many, grunge has come and gone, empty hip hop is the new pop, but Nirvana still rocks.
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