Endless Loop: I Hate Myself and I Want to Die

nirvanaHave you ever had one of those songs that gets stuck in your head for days…weeks…years? Sure you have. These are the songs that always make the cut. The songs on repeat. We all have them. I have a ton. Welcome back to Endless Loop.

“I Hate Myself and I Want to Die” by Nirvana

“Runny nose and runny yolk…”

Endless Loop: Aneurysm

nirvanaHave you ever had one of those songs that gets stuck in your head for days…weeks…years? Sure you have. These are the songs that always make the cut. The songs on repeat. We all have them. I have a ton. Welcome back to Endless Loop.

“Aneurysm” by Nirvana

Kurt Cobain would have been 47 this Year

nirvanaI should have written this piece a week ago.

Somehow, it escaped my notice over the last 10 days that this April marked the 20-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. And that shit was everywhere. Basically starting last fall with the 20-year anniversary of In Utero, through the nomination and induction of the band into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the performances last week with Kim Gordon, St. Vincent, Joan Jett, and Lorde, and culminating with the onslaught of internet article after internet article regarding Cobain’s legacy, I’m not sure how I missed it all. Evidently, I live in my own little bubble, oblivious to my surroundings and the outside world at large.

Having Your Cake and Hating It: Nirvana ‘In Utero’ 20th Anniversary Super Deluxe Unit Shifter

nirvanaA shotgun hole is so absolute. The vacuum a suicide leaves behind so engulfing, it’s the epitome of ambivalence in its dichotomy of grief and resentment. A disavowal. A denial. The crepuscular introduction of ‘Heart Shaped Box’ heralded summer’s decay on August 30th 1993, through the pregnant fluff-bubble of a cassette tape piped down wires that ran through the cobwebs, pipes, atrophying plaster and laths of the cellar ceiling, up into the kitchen speakers after school as the clouds bruised with the impending deluge. ‘In Utero’ would accompany me on a walkman through the rigor mortis of autumn, to the decidedly funerary flavour of ‘Unplugged in New York’, the snowy satellite TV-taped VHS of which us siblings watched on the bright, crisp, February 1994 morning we interned my mother in the furnace after cancer had turned her black.

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