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By Kurt Cobain
(Riverhead Books, 304 pages, $29.95)
Eight years after his death, the voice of Cobain rises from the ashes through this 304-page copy of his notebooks. Technically painful to read and no mark of his talent, it is a disservice to the artist and to his work.
The book was pre-hyped with published excerpts of titillating backstage teasers: drugs, Courtney, the rise of a rock star. It promised to be a great read. But once you get past the "gee whiz" factor of his handwriting and puzzling doodles, most of what's left is rather mundane.
The letters that are included, however, are different, showing a droll, feisty Cobain. In one, he describes a made-for-movie scene in which he and Nirvana bandmate Krist (Chris) Novoselic drop acid while watching Paul Revere and the Raiders on TV. Disgusted by the pre-fab performance, they start smashing bad albums in the house: "We busted about 250 shitty Chris Novoselic records. Not only did we clear more space in the living room, Chris declared that he feels cleansed and revitalized."
Beyond the letters, though, the book, which consists mostly of disconnected drawings, lists and lyrics, offers little insight. The actual journal entries, which are few, are mostly "this is your brain on drugs" babble. A more thoughtful set of footnotes might have helped answer why any of this matters.
It's a struggle to reconcile these words to the voice. Most of what knocked everyone out about Nirvana was Cobain's mesmerizing vocals. A contained explosion of sex, lust and world-weary wisdom, they sounded a maturity that belied his 20-odd years. Journals, however, is more "Dude, where's my rock band?" It discredits Cobain more than it enlightens his fans. Teresa DiFalco
WWeek 2015