I Found My Friends (37 page)

JONATHAN BURNSIDE:
Kurt was a sweet, gently-spoken guy to be around. The surrounds didn't bother him and he seemed like he'd be more comfortable in an edgy neighborhood than in an upscale one. He never had a dime in his pocket and he still owes me pizza money. Most days at Razor's Edge, he'd sink into the couch and stare wistfully at the covers of the albums that adorned the studio's walls. Like Nirvana's earlier label, Sub Pop, they were small to medium-sized companies: Boner, AmRep, Nettwerk, Sympathy, 4AD, Rough Trade. The records had all been recorded without label oversight and with little hype. Sadly, Kurt was out of it. He would take long trips to the restroom, clutching his embroidered Mexican pouch. He'd emerge wobbly, his pupils pinpricks. Then he'd have a nap on the couch. A week into the recording, we were throwing around overdubs and the Melvins asked Kurt to play guitar on the song “Sky Pup.” Until then, I wasn't aware he was going to play on the album, and a left-handed guitar wasn't around. Worried about Kurt changing his mind, I quickly handed him the Fender Mustang I had been given by Helios Creed, guitarist from the acid-metal band Chrome. It was charred from a meth-lab fire on Ashbury Street and smelled bad, but it tuned up. He noodled around on the upside-down guitar and I twisted the knobs on stomp boxes. At the end of take one, he shrugged and handed me back the Mustang … At times, the sessions were a dog-and-pony show, with the record company and press attending. Evelyn McDonnell from the
L.A. Times
joined us while we were tracking the songs “Hooch,” “Joan of Arc,” and “Sky Pup.” “The session moves quickly because Crover, Osborne, and Burnside have worked together for so long they can step into each other's heads,” she wrote. “Cobain is the somnambulant lord of this strange manor. He sleeps, he hardly says a word, he misses whole songs and lets Burnside run the show.” As the three weeks of tracking drew to a close, sometime in March, April '93, I became dissatisfied with Kurt being credited as producer of the album and broached the subject with the Atlantic Records A&R rep. He said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I've been at the sessions. I understand how you feel, but he's
Kurt Cobain
!” Kurt was there in name, and that was obviously the important thing for the marketing department. Never mind if his head, heart, or soul weren't anywhere present. Never mind that he seemed very depressed. At that point, I saw where things were coming from and where they were going. After tracking seven of the album's songs, I mixed them, mainly on my own. Melvins drummer Dale Crover sat in the most. During the fine adjustment stage, I'd call in Kurt, the Melvins, and whoever else was around. When Kurt heard the studio reverb I had automated to blast out the already huge sound I had captured on the double snare hits of “Hooch,” he made his only comment on a mix: “Wow! That sounds awesome!” Objecting to the album credits had made me persona non grata, and when the album came out in September '93, I didn't receive a production credit. Worse, Kurt and the Melvins were credited for all my mixes, without my name listed. I don't believe Kurt was party to this. His name was just brand recognition, and he knew it. He seemed pretty over caring about the machinations of a sleazy industry. But I took this major-label con-job hard. Before this, I had believed in albums I recorded and in the people I worked with. Getting my mixing credits stolen felt hubristic and vindictive. I couldn't believe that a band I had worked so hard with would do that. Now I realize that it's nothing unusual. Lesson of the day: don't piss on the hype parade. And get credits in writing before you twist a dial.
Houdini
had a relationship body count for everyone involved. I guess no one looks back on that time too fondly. A talented, lovely guy was spinning down and there were those spinning right with him, getting strung out with him, abetting him, profiting from him. But over the years, you have to let go. Life's too fucking short. I hope everyone involved in
Houdini
has made their peace with it.

Cobain would make one more visit to a studio session in 1993, popping in at Hole's sessions for their debut on DGC Records.

ERIC ERLANDSON:
It wasn't a day in the park. It all came with a scenario that I was hoping to keep out of the studio. But it was a lot of fooling around, and nothing serious. I personally did not want him on our record, and I'm sure he didn't want to be on it either. Luckily he just mumbled over two tracks and none of it was usable. We had some fun jamming, though.

While Sub Pop was becoming a major-label subsidiary and the last big names of the grunge explosion had moved on, the rest of the Seattle scene had a chance to retrench and laugh at their recent history.

TERRY LEE HALE:
The only ones having the impression that the “scene” had been hollowed out were the music-business sharks trolling the clubs looking for another clone Nirvana/Alice in Chains/Pearl Jam/Screaming Trees band. There seemed an overabundance of those kinds of bands actually, but the real bread-and-butter bands (i.e., Chemistry Set…) that made Seattle such a great and diverse place to live in were at least working in a city suddenly loaded with venues and receptive audiences.

RYAN LOISELLE:
Nevermind
and all that, Mudhoney being popular—everyone here, 99.9 percent of people thought it was hilarious. They were making fun of grunge—everyone thought that was the most stupid term ever and we were laughing at it so big: “Oh my God, are you effing serious? This is the stupidest thing we've ever heard!” … Everyone here in the Northwest hated it so much they made fun of it. Everyone hated that term—it was really annoying.

JOHN PURKEY:
It's embarrassing—people in the city just trying to make money off it. There was a level of embarrassment. A lot of bands deserved more attention than they got or a lot of bands would get a little record deal or something and it would destroy the band because they were all getting picked up but very few of them would end up putting out records—it would end up destroying the band … A lot of small labels started—some of them very shifty: they'd get a ton of money and throw it at bands, and the bands would not be realistic.

JAIME ROBERT JOHNSON:
Things didn't feel that different for me until around 1991 or so, when the whole world seemed like they were kind of losing their minds over the grunge thing … After a while it became a total circus and I became somewhat suspicious of newcomers … I personally lived hand-to-mouth and ignored the absurdities I witnessed (the guys moving to Seattle to “make it”) and distanced myself from people like that because they usually turn out to be soulless clowns and I have better things to do with my time.

MARIA MABRA:
That cesspool of major-label guys coming around trying to sign bands—just signing what was poppiest. They don't sign the most hardcore or what people are listening to. They take a genre of music and just regurgitate it over and over again … Especially after the movie
Singles
came out, Seattle was full of label guys. I remember all the guys—Tad and everyone—all down at the OK Hotel doing some stuff, filming it. Some of it was shot across from the house I was in at the time, but they just wanted grunge bands. We were like, “What's a grunge band?!” That's what was funnier. It was a big laugh—oh please. No, we don't hang out with grunge bands. You could imagine every fucker wanted to be in a grunge band—here came the influx of long-haired rock 'n' roll metal dudes trying to sound like Soundgarden and Nirvana—it was so bad … All of a sudden the frumpy look, the long beards, that Northwest thing became a fashion—we all looked frumpy! It's the fashion that comes from it being really cold and raining a lot and we're musicians and we need to walk our gear to band practice, so yeah, we have on boots because it's raining. Then all of a sudden it's a fashion? I think it was a constant joke, to be honest with you—a constant joke but also a constant reality. That's what it's like when you're in a music scene and it suddenly becomes famous. I remember when
Vogue
did the slang thing, their grunge layout—I just laughed my ass off. Dr. Martens, some gaunt-looking chick with a flannel tied around her waist—it was ridiculous and funny and kinda cool all at the same time.

TY WILLMAN:
A&R representatives were up here and different people actually would give you their card—Gary Gersh literally cornered me in a room just to give me his card—I had a bunch of cards from people. These people would come up, take you out, hang out. If you were somewhat good you could get a deal, everybody did. When you have three hundred record execs coming here to seek out bands, then the chances are pretty good.

There was certainly not a lot of commercial ambition visible in Nirvana's stuttering live performances. Nirvana's return to the New Music Seminar was a true low; Cobain had overdosed beforehand but still took the stage with his friends shepherding him on.

DAVID YOW:
The Roseland show was pretty sad. Kurt was very fucked up and Krist was playing the role of babysitter/handler/dad. I don't recall if we were any good that night, but Nirvana certainly wasn't—they phoned that one in.

There was no plan anymore, just ad-hoc events. What was still present, however, was their genuine zeal for pro-female causes; their April show was a benefit supporting rape victims in the Yugoslav conflict while later Cobain would join Courtney Love for a Rock Against Rape performance.

Then, in July, while Cobain and Love were sheltering in a rented apartment in Seattle, something happened to stun the entire music community in Seattle. Mia Zapata, lead singer of the Gits, was murdered on July 7, 1993.

STEVE MORIARTY:
It was a small scene in a small city and we all hung out in the same areas. Tad lived nearby and would come by for barbecues and there was a rehearsal space right next door to the bar we hung out at, so we'd all comingle. Mia was a waitress at this dive bar all the bands would go to, so she knew a lot of people. I knew people because I booked bands at the OK Hotel, which was a major all-ages place where Nirvana did their last show before they got in the van and headed down to record
Nevermind
—they needed gas money … we had plans to go to Europe and tour with Dead Moon … We'd also had a US tour with L7 and Seven Year Bitch going from New York back to Seattle from up the West Coast, same cities that the pope was going to be visiting … We were going to be on an antipope tour, like the Damned song, because they were talking about abortion rights, so that was going to be really cool. All set up. We were finishing our second album, Mia wanted to recut a couple of different vocal tracks, so we got back after playing for Atlantic and this guy wanted to sign us so we were considering them … For the first time we could have [made] a living playing music, we wouldn't have to work other jobs—what a concept! So that day we went into the studio, two days later we were going to leave on tour, she was murdered the night before she was going to finish her vocal tracks. Couldn't find her to go to the studio, so we looked and looked and eventually about two in the morning we called the morgue.

MARIA MABRA:
Mia's death was … I remember it like it was yesterday. That sounds like a cliché, the opening to an epic movie, but I really do. I remember it and it was a very crazy time and for me that was the essence of confusion. In a murder situation there's not only confusion among you and your friends, but we were all musicians too so all of a sudden all of your band mates are, if they're male, all under suspicion of murder. So not only do we have this music scene filled with all these people we had played with—we were tight—suddenly all of the guys in our group and in our scene are being investigated. It was unreal.

STEVE MORIARTY:
The process when it comes to suspects is you start with the boyfriend, then look at the band, then go up from there. It was crazy—a dark time for a few years … Nirvana kinda bookended the Gits' short career in Seattle—our second show was with them and then the first benefit to find the killer. We needed money to hire a private investigator. I was sitting in my house bummed out thinking, What the fuck can I do? Then I get a call on the phone and it's Courtney Love: “Hey, this is Courtney, me and Kurt are here and we heard that you were doing this benefit and we were really sorry to hear what happened—so we were thinking, maybe we could get some more people out if Nirvana played? They haven't played in a while, they need to practice and they'll all do it.” Then Kurt got on the phone and was like, “Yeah, it really sucks what happened, we've been listening to the band, it's really good—I remember you guys—anything we can do to help…” They said they'd do it but were clear we couldn't do an announcement to the press until after four p.m. and they wanted to go on at eight p.m. I think he was really going downhill—but when he was really bummed out he was still able to reach out and help someone and I think that's admirable. I was moved. A guy Tad knew called Mike Nicholls was really responsible for calling the venue and setting it all up. He was the tour manager for a lot of the bands back then, great guy. We got down to the show, hung out, talked—he was the same sort of Kurt, kept himself to himself, and Courtney was like a whirlwind around him. Nirvana went on, did “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin to start—they did it like a rehearsal or a jam, like they were playing a basement party. People were still filing in—it was really casual and really cool. They didn't go nuts or break stuff, they just played. Krist sang a couple of songs, they had a good time—then they gave us a lot of money.

MARIA MABRA:
She and I played music together in several things outside the Gits—like Hell Smells. I was also one of her vocal teachers, so not only were we best [friends] but we were inseparable—we would always sing together … When people die they put them into these strange states of angelic being. She was my best friend. I had no problem telling her, “Fuck off, you're full of shit”; she was my sister, we fought a lot—we might be in a corner at a party fist-fighting and rolling around on the ground then we'd make up twenty minutes later. Sisters, inseparable. She meant everything to me … That show in 1993, I was really glad Nirvana wanted to do the show—as much as they inspired everyone else at that time I was glad they looked back at us and recognized one of their own and were willing to help. That made me love them more too. Thanks, guys, I'm glad you did that. They honored where they came from because we all came out [of] the same scene.