Kurt Cobain's suicide: Why it's time to move on

Kurt_Cobain_Heart_Shaped.jpg
Screengrab from Nirvana's "Heart Shaped Box (Director's Cut)" video

Twenty years ago, in the chilly, early twilight hours of the Pacific Northwest, Kurt Donald Cobain sat alone in a room on the property he shared with his wife and 20-month old daughter. He was arguably the world's biggest rock star. In minutes, he would be the world's most famous suicide victim. He loaded a syringe with enough black tar heroin to kill several people, injected it into his right arm, steadied himself, and pulled the trigger on a shotgun, ending his life instantly. He was 27.

He left his wallet open on the floor so the body could be identified, an oddly courteous act during the final motions of a life's sudden, violent denouement. He also left a note, most of which would be read aloud by his wife, Courtney Love, at a gathering near Seattle's Space Needle a few days afterward. For a few weeks, time almost stopped, or at least appeared to.

I was 17 in April of 1994, and this somehow seemed like the most important thing that had ever happened to me. It felt like my childhood was ending. But, in looking back on it, the two decades of nearly endless dissection of the event itself and the months leading up to it, I've come to a disturbing conclusion: Kurt Cobain's death wasn't nearly as important as people would like it to be.

See also:
Nirvana's In Utero vs. Nevermind: Which is better?


I didn't always feel like this.

After news broke of his body being found, I spent two days in the family room in my parents' home, glued to MTV, clinging to the hope that it all might be a mistake. From 1992 until his death, which took place just seven weeks before I graduated from high school, he was my one and only hero. He was a rock star unlike any I had encountered prior: he looked and dressed and thought like I did. He was awkward and shy and tried to hide the fact that he was smart, until he needed to look smart. In him, I saw me. Saw that I could be successful, saw that one day my life might more or less be ok. But then his wasn't and I was back at square one. I hated him for that.

As time has passed and I myself turned 27, then 28 and so on, I slowly realized how stupid Cobain really was. How hurtful, cowardly and senseless it was for him to run away from his problems in the most permanent manner possible. Increasingly, I've felt like I've wasted so much energy and allotted too much space in my brain trying to keep -- well, I just don't know what -- alive, that it's a bit embarrassing. People die. Sometimes they are famous people. And sometimes people die by their own hand, whether it be intentional or accidental. We've been through this with Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Ian Curtis, Marc Bolan and countless others. We went though it soon after Cobain with Blind Melon's Shannon Hoon, and it's happened time and again since.

We lend too much weight to Cobain's death, especially at this late hour. In the last year or so, I finally started listening to Nirvana's albums on a regular basis again and what stuck out more than anything else was how much more I liked the Foo Fighters' first album than anything Nirvana recorded -- ironic, considering that the Foo Fighters might not have happened if Cobain had lived. I'm torn about that statement, but it's the absolute truth.



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