An interview with Kurt Cobain, the Nirvana frontman from the Pacific Northwest who struck a match and lit a generation on fire. As he says, “I was just a guy who screamed his guts out because that’s what I needed to do to get through the day. If that connected with people, then I’m grateful, but I never felt comfortable being put on that pedestal.”
In this episode, I’m interviewing Kurt Cobain (“Kurdt Kobain”), founder and lead singer of the grunge, pop, rock—whatever you want to call it—band from Seattle: Nirvana.
For this interview, we’re both seated in chairs at an empty concert stage. He’s smoking a cigarette and drinking a Rolling Rock beer, his very favorite. And I’m asking questions, sipping on tea. Why not?
Kurt Cobain, to me, was one of the most confusing musical figures of my lifetime. I didn’t understand almost anything about him or his band or his music or his lyrics.
And as a guitar player, I had a really hard time understanding why he was so bad and seemed to care so little. Now I can hopefully get my questions answered from the man himself. Let’s hear what Kurt has to say.
Ron Stauffer: Hi Kurt, how’s it going?
Hey, man. It’s going, you know. Same old chaos. What about you? What’s on your mind?
Ron Stauffer: Well, I mean, let’s start with the basics. First of all, you were what seemed to be a very, very angry person. Why were you so angry all the time? Was your life really that bad?
It wasn’t so much anger as it was frustration, you know? I just felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere. The world’s full of hypocrisy and bullshit, and I was sick of it. I didn’t have the worst life, but growing up, I felt really alienated, and that sticks with you. The music was my way of screaming back at everything that didn’t make sense, and it felt like no matter what I did, there was always this pressure to conform. I hated that. The music industry, society, all of it, trying to push you into a box. It’s suffocating.
I wasn’t trying to be some angry spokesperson, but I guess people latched onto that because the music hit a nerve. It wasn’t really about anger, it was about feeling trapped and not knowing how to deal with it.
Ron Stauffer: What were you trapped by? Trapped by, what, an expectation to be maybe a straight-A student or something like that, or just a normal American kid?
Exactly. Trapped by all that crap, like the expectation to fit into this perfect mold of what people think you should be. Be a good student, go to college, get a job, whatever. That wasn’t me. I never cared about that. I didn’t relate to what people around me valued. I was more into music and art, but in small towns, that makes you a freak. You get labeled, and then it’s like you’re stuck in that label forever.
Ron Stauffer: What were your parents’ expectations of you? What was it that they wanted you to do that you wanted to rebel against?
My parents just wanted me to be, I don’t know, normal. After they divorced, things got weird. My mom wanted me to be this responsible, well-behaved kid, and my dad was more into sports, you know? He wanted me to be this tough, all-American boy, but I was never into that. I hated that whole “be a man” attitude. I was into music, art, and just doing my own thing, but they didn’t get it. It’s like they wanted me to follow this script, and I just didn’t fit. So yeah, I rebelled against it, all of it.
Ron Stauffer: I guess that makes sense. What were your friends doing? Were you kind of a social outcast all by yourself, or were you part of a sort of grungy subculture of a whole bunch of peers who were experiencing the same thing at the same time?
It was a mix, really. I mean, for a while, I was kind of an outcast on my own, especially in high school. I didn’t have a lot of close friends who got me. But eventually, I found people who were into the same stuff—music, punk, counterculture. We were all kind of misfits, you know? There wasn’t this big “grunge” thing back then; we were just a bunch of weird kids who liked making noise. The whole scene grew out of that. We didn’t really fit anywhere else, so we made our own space.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, you said punk. Now, “punk” is a very specific term, both in terms of a subculture and in terms of music, right? How did you fit into that, and was punk something that started before you, and you kind of fit into that, or did you help launch punk as a certain aesthetic, at least here in America?
Yeah, punk was already a thing before me. I grew up listening to bands like The Sex Pistols, The Clash, Black Flag—those guys laid the groundwork. Punk, for me, wasn’t just the sound, though. It was the attitude, the DIY ethic, the rebellion against polished, commercial music. I loved that it wasn’t about being perfect; it was about being raw and real.
We didn’t start punk, but I’d say Nirvana helped bring that punk attitude into the mainstream, especially with Nevermind. People slapped the “grunge” label on us, but at its core, it was just a messy, punk spirit. We didn’t care about fitting into genres. We just wanted to make noise that felt honest.
Ron Stauffer: That certainly makes sense. I mean, the Sex Pistols are probably the best example of that I can think of. If I recall correctly, I don’t even think Sid Vicious knew how to play the bass guitar at all, right? Just some record executives gave him a bass and said, look tough for the camera, right?
Yeah, exactly. Sid wasn’t really about skill—he was about the image, the attitude. That’s what punk was in a lot of ways: it wasn’t about being technically good. It was about the energy, the rebellion. And that’s kind of what we were about too. I mean, I didn’t consider myself a great guitarist or anything, but I didn’t care. It was more about the feeling, the raw emotion, and not giving a damn if it was perfect or polished. That’s what connected us to punk, even if we didn’t sound exactly like those early bands.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, now you say you weren’t so great at playing the guitar, but actually, I heard Pat Metheny one time say that you were actually kind of a virtuosic guitar player. I think your punk aesthetic belied your innate sense of music and musical artistry, right?
I appreciate that, but I don’t really see myself as a virtuoso. I wasn’t into the whole technical side of things like some guitar players who were shredding solos or whatever. I kept things simple because that’s what felt right to me. But I definitely had a sense of melody and structure that maybe people didn’t always notice because the songs were loud and raw.
I didn’t want to be lumped in with grunge because it became this label for a whole scene, and a lot of it was just noise with no heart. I wasn’t about just making a racket for the sake of it. I cared about songwriting. I wanted every song to mean something, even if it was chaotic. So, I guess, in a way, maybe I was more thoughtful about the music than people gave me credit for. But I never wanted to be seen as some guitar hero or anything like that. I just wanted to make something real.
Ron Stauffer: Now you said “songs with heart.” That’s kind of ironic because a lot of your imagery was filled with death and suffering and corpses and dead bodies. So what would you say is a “song with heart” in that sense?
Yeah, it’s ironic, but that was kind of the point, you know? The darkness, the death, the suffering—that was just part of how I saw the world, or at least how I processed it. Life is messy and painful, and I didn’t want to hide that in the music. But when I say “songs with heart,” I mean they were honest. Even if they were about dark things, they came from a real place.
Take “Heart-Shaped Box,” for example. It’s filled with dark imagery, but it’s about vulnerability, obsession, and longing. It’s a love song, in a way. Or “All Apologies,” which is more about feeling inadequate and confused but still searching for some kind of peace. The heart comes from the honesty behind it, not the happy-go-lucky themes. I wasn’t going to write bubblegum pop. I was going to write about what I felt.
Ron Stauffer: Who were the artists of the time that came before you that you were explicitly trying not to be? Just name maybe a couple of genres or record labels or particular bands or acts that represented what you didn’t like and didn’t want for yourself musically.
Definitely the whole glam rock scene. Bands like Mötley Crüe, Poison—all that flashy, overproduced stuff. It was all about image, sex, drugs, and excess, and it felt so fake to me. Those guys were playing into the whole rock star fantasy, and I wanted nothing to do with that.
Then there were bands like Bon Jovi, who represented that commercial, radio-friendly rock. I couldn’t stand how polished it all was. It felt like music made just to sell records, not to say anything real. That’s exactly what I didn’t want Nirvana to be—a packaged product. We were the opposite of that. Real, messy, flawed—that’s what mattered to me.
Ron Stauffer: Why then, no offense, did you sign up with Sub Pop Records and eventually whoever else the big record company was, I think it was Geffen at some point, right? Weren’t you kind of walking into the dragon’s lair at that point and selling out and joining the enemy? If your focus was all about being independent and avoiding flashy radio hits, I don’t know that you accomplished your goal… or did you?
Yeah, man, I get that. It’s a fair point. With Sub Pop, we thought we were staying true to that underground DIY ethic. They were small at the time, and they had that rough, raw vibe that matched what we were doing. But as things grew, we kind of outgrew them too. And yeah, signing with Geffen… that was complicated. It felt like we were walking into the machine, but we also wanted to reach more people. We didn’t want to stay in a basement forever, you know?
Did we sell out? Maybe, but it wasn’t about chasing fame. It was about getting our music out there on our own terms. Nevermind wasn’t supposed to blow up the way it did, and when it did, it was weird, man. Suddenly, we were everywhere, and it felt like we’d lost some control. But at the same time, we were still trying to keep the heart of it. We didn’t change the music to fit in with anyone’s expectations, we just wanted to be heard. So, yeah, it’s a contradiction, but that’s life. Nothing’s ever as black and white as people think.
Ron Stauffer: I suppose that’s a fair point. I know you had some songs that were definitely controversial and were sure NEVER to be played on the radio, including the song “Rape Me,” which I believe is actually about your record label or at least some record producers in the first place, right?
Yeah, “Rape Me” was definitely not a radio-friendly song, and that’s exactly why I wrote it. It wasn’t just about record labels or the industry, though. It was about exploitation in general. The media, the way people use others, the way I felt like I was being commodified by everyone—fans, press, the whole machine. It was my way of taking back control, saying, “You can’t own me.”
The title was meant to provoke because it’s such a violent, ugly word, and that’s how the whole thing felt to me—like being violated. People tried to twist it into something it wasn’t, but at the core, it was about defiance. We weren’t going to let anyone define us, whether it was the industry or anyone else.
Ron Stauffer: Clearly. I guess in that sense, you never did. Although, the whole shock thing, I understand there’s a reason and a time and a place for that, but I’ve heard some unbelievably shocking things about you. I read in one of your biographies at the beginning of one concert, you came up to the microphone and said, “My name is Kurt Cobain, and I like to f*ck pot-bellied pigs.” What was all that about? Were you trying to make everybody hate you?
Yeah, I remember that. I said a lot of ridiculous stuff just to mess with people. It wasn’t about making everyone hate me—it was more about pushing back against expectations. People would come to shows with all these preconceived ideas of who I was, what I should say or do, and I just liked to throw them off balance.
Sometimes, it was funny to say the most absurd or offensive thing because it broke the whole “rock star” illusion. I didn’t want to be taken too seriously, and I didn’t want people to think they knew me based on some image they saw. So yeah, I’d say stupid shit like that just to shake things up, make people uncomfortable, or maybe even make them question why they were there in the first place. It was all part of rejecting the bullshit that came with fame.
Ron Stauffer: So if people were supposed to question why they were there in the first place, what would you have said was the reason that they should be there at your concerts, and what is the reason they should not be there?
If they were there for the music, to feel something real, then that’s the reason they should be there. If they connected with the songs, the emotions, and the rawness, that’s what mattered. It was about the experience, the energy, and that feeling of not being alone in whatever pain or frustration you were dealing with.
But if they were just there because we were the hot band of the moment or because they wanted to say “they saw Nirvana,” then they were missing the point. I didn’t care about being some celebrity or rock star. If they were there just to be part of a scene or to fit in, they probably shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t about the image—it was about the music, the chaos, and the emotion behind it.
Ron Stauffer: What is the lesson people should learn from chaos? Throughout history and art history, sometimes artists come in with a wrecking ball and completely demolish the school of thought that came before them. So, if that were the case, and there’s a sort of reimagining of art from or starting from the ground up, did you intend on reshaping pop music in any sense? And if so, what is the direction you would have gone? Surely you didn’t want to just spawn 5,000 clones of Nirvana, right?
Yeah, definitely didn’t want 5,000 clones of Nirvana running around—that would’ve been a nightmare. The whole point was to shake things up, not to create a formula that people would copy. Chaos, in a way, is about freedom. It’s about breaking down what’s become stale or oppressive and creating space for something new. I didn’t have some grand vision of reshaping pop music, but I did want to tear down the bullshit, the polished, manufactured crap that dominated the industry.
If there’s a lesson in chaos, it’s that art shouldn’t be confined. It should be messy, unpredictable, and challenging. Music should evolve, not stay stuck in some safe, commercial zone.
If anything, I wanted people to feel like they could do whatever they wanted with music—be weird, be loud, be quiet, be whatever the f*ck they wanted, as long as it was honest. I wasn’t trying to lay down a blueprint for the future of music, just showing that there are no rules.
Ron Stauffer: Well, but there were some rules, right? Which, in your case, was: “don’t follow the rules.”
Yeah, exactly. “Don’t follow the rules” was pretty much the only rule. It’s like, the minute someone tells you how things are supposed to be done, that’s when you’ve gotta question it, break it, or do it differently. The rule was more about rejecting what was expected, especially when those expectations were empty or just there to keep things comfortable.
Ron Stauffer: Well, okay, so you talk about success in the very beginning. I think you said you never wanted to be a rock star, right? But you did become, in a sense, at least for a while, a sort of international superhero of sorts. Probably people all over the world knew who you were. Did that take you by surprise, and did you like that, or did you not like that?
Yeah, it definitely took me by surprise. I never wanted to be a rock star, not in the way people usually think about it. When Nevermind blew up, it was surreal. One day we were just playing small clubs, and the next, we were everywhere—on TV, on the radio, and I couldn’t walk down the street without someone recognizing me.
At first, I was confused, maybe even flattered a little, but I quickly started to hate it. The fame felt like a trap. I didn’t like being put on a pedestal or being treated like some kind of superhero. It was suffocating because people had these huge expectations and were constantly watching. I just wanted to make music and be left alone. The fame made me feel more isolated, not connected. It was the exact opposite of what I wanted when I started.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, I’m not necessarily saying this, but some people might say, “Waaah, I became rich and famous, and I’m a superstar. Boo-hoo, woe is me.”
Yeah, I get that. It sounds ridiculous, right? Like, who wouldn’t want to be rich and famous? But it’s not what people think it is. The money and fame don’t fix anything; if anything, they make the problems worse. It’s not a pity party; it’s just that fame comes with all this pressure and expectation that you’re not prepared for. It’s isolating, and you lose your sense of self in it.
I wasn’t complaining about being successful. It’s just that the whole “rock star” thing felt fake, and I never wanted to be part of that machine. It wasn’t about the money; it was about feeling like I was losing control of my life, my art, and myself.
Ron Stauffer: So are you saying money made your life worse, or it made it better, or different, or what?
I wouldn’t say money made my life worse, but it definitely didn’t make it better in the ways people might think. It made things different—like, yeah, I didn’t have to worry about rent or scraping by, but it didn’t solve the deeper stuff, you know? It didn’t fix feeling disconnected or overwhelmed. In some ways, it made those things more intense because now I had all these people around me who wanted something—whether it was money, success, or just a piece of me. So, money didn’t ruin my life, but it sure didn’t bring peace or happiness like people assume it does.
Ron Stauffer: I do wonder about that, and again, I read in your biography — or actually, by this point, I’ve read multiple biographies on you — and they all talk about your drug use, and you clearly struggled with… I don’t know that you struggled with alcoholism, but you definitely struggled with some serious street drugs, including heroin. How did that happen, how did that start, and was that a result of fame, or was that something that was exacerbated by fame and fortune, or what would you say to that?
Heroin wasn’t a result of fame—it started before all that. I struggled with a lot of pain, both physical and emotional, even before Nirvana blew up. I had these chronic stomach issues that were debilitating, and nothing seemed to help. Heroin was kind of my way of numbing that pain, at least at first. It was a way to escape, to feel some kind of relief when nothing else worked.
But yeah, fame definitely made it worse. Suddenly, I was dealing with all the pressures and isolation that came with being in the spotlight, and heroin became this crutch. It numbed everything, not just the physical pain but the mental and emotional stuff too. It’s a vicious cycle—you’re already struggling, and then fame just amplifies everything. Drugs felt like the only way to cope, even though I knew they were just making things worse in the long run.
Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that makes sense. Did other people know about your heroin addiction? And how addicted were you? Meaning, was this like a long-standing problem for many years? And was this an everyday habit? Or, you know, is it something that was kind of quiet and kept in the background and people didn’t know and you hit it really well and it was only occasional? I don’t know that much about heroin use.
Yeah, a few people knew, but I tried to keep it quiet, especially in the beginning. I didn’t want it to become this big public thing. For a while, I could kind of hide it, but as the addiction got worse, it became harder to keep under wraps. People around me, like Krist and Dave, they knew something was off, but I think a lot of people didn’t realize just how deep it went.
As for how addicted I was—it became an everyday thing at my worst. It started off more occasional, but once you’re hooked, it’s a slippery slope. Heroin is not something you can just dabble in, you know? It takes over. And yeah, it was a problem for years, not just some phase. It was hard to stop because it felt like the only way to deal with everything going on, physically and mentally. But at the same time, I knew it was destroying me. It’s that awful contradiction—you hate what it’s doing to you, but you can’t stop.
Ron Stauffer: Some of your songs are obviously incredibly dark — I wonder how autobiographical they are. Clearly, there’s an element of fantasy in just about everybody’s songs, yours included, but some of them are just like off the charts in terms of darkness, right? “Something in the Way,” — were you ever homeless? Or songs like “I Hate Myself and Want to Die,” did you actually literally mean all that?
Yeah, a lot of my songs have dark themes, but they’re not always directly autobiographical. There’s definitely fantasy and exaggeration in there, but the emotions behind them are real. “Something in the Way,” for example—that was based on a period where I was kind of drifting, staying wherever I could. I wasn’t full-on homeless, but I did spend time crashing under bridges and in weird places when I didn’t have a stable spot. So, there’s truth in that song, but it’s not like a literal diary entry.
As for “I Hate Myself and Want to Die,” that one was more sarcastic in a way. It was me poking fun at how people viewed me as this tortured artist. But at the same time, yeah, there was real pain behind it. I’ve struggled with depression and dark thoughts for a long time, and that definitely seeped into the music. The songs were a way to channel those feelings, but they weren’t always meant to be taken literally. It was more about expressing the mood, the frustration, and the heaviness I was feeling.
Ron Stauffer: What about the song, one of your biggest hits—Smells Like Teen Spirit—seems to be completely nihilistic and almost nonsensical. What was the meaning behind that song?
“Smells Like Teen Spirit” was definitely one of those songs that kind of took on a life of its own. When I wrote it, I wasn’t really trying to make some big statement or create an anthem for a generation or anything like that. The lyrics are pretty nonsensical, and yeah, there’s a bit of a nihilistic tone to it. A lot of it was just me messing around with phrases and ideas. I wanted it to feel raw and chaotic, like a reaction to everything that was happening around us.
It was inspired by this boredom and apathy I saw, especially in my generation. Like, nothing really mattered, and we were all just kind of going through the motions. But it wasn’t meant to be deep in the way people ended up interpreting it. It was almost like a joke, a play on how people were becoming so detached. I mean, even the title came from a friend jokingly saying I “smelled like Teen Spirit,” which was a deodorant. I didn’t even know that at first.
So yeah, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” wasn’t supposed to mean anything grand, but it ended up resonating with people because I think a lot of them felt that same sense of disillusionment and frustration. It was like a rallying cry for something they couldn’t quite put into words, and I guess that’s why it blew up. But the irony is that it wasn’t supposed to be some deep, meaningful song—it was just raw emotion.
Ron Stauffer: It sounds like you struggled with this all the time, being silly or joking around and people taking you too seriously. What are some songs that people took way too seriously that maybe you didn’t mean so literally?
Yeah, that happened a lot. People always tried to read into my lyrics way deeper than I intended. One song that comes to mind is “Lithium.” People thought it was this deep philosophical statement on religion and mental health, but really, it’s just about mood swings, about that feeling of bouncing between feeling numb and euphoric. It wasn’t meant to be some grand commentary.
“In Bloom” is another one. It’s funny because it’s actually about people who don’t understand the music and just sing along without thinking about the meaning. The irony is, that’s exactly what ended up happening with it! People took it as just another Nirvana anthem, but it was really poking fun at that whole idea.
“Rape Me” is probably the biggest one, though. People freaked out about the title and thought it was promoting violence or something when, really, it was about reclaiming power and refusing to be victimized—by the media, the industry, anyone. It wasn’t about literal rape at all, but people took it that way because of how provocative the title was.
A lot of my songs were meant to be playful or sarcastic, but people always seemed to want to turn them into these heavy, serious statements. It was weird because I never saw myself as this profound songwriter. I just wrote what I felt in the moment, and sometimes that meant being silly, sarcastic, or just throwing random stuff together.
Ron Stauffer: That makes sense, but on the flip side, are there some songs that you wrote and some things that you said that you meant very seriously and literally, but people didn’t take you seriously because they assumed you were joking around?
Yeah, for sure. “All Apologies” is one that I meant in a very serious and personal way, but I think people didn’t always take it that way. It’s about feeling inadequate, like you’re constantly letting people down, and being confused about your place in the world. That song was me being really vulnerable, but because it wasn’t as raw or aggressive as other songs, I think some people didn’t see the depth in it.
Another one is “Pennyroyal Tea.” It’s about wanting to escape and feeling worn out by everything. There’s a line about wanting to “dissolve the pain” with pennyroyal tea, which was an herb historically used for abortion, but really, it was about the desire to get rid of the emotional weight I was carrying. People didn’t always get how much of that was real.
And I’d say a lot of the stuff I said in interviews or at shows was a mix of sarcasm and truth, but people would only hear the sarcastic part. Like when I’d talk about how much I hated the fame or how I felt alienated. A lot of people assumed I was exaggerating or playing the “tortured artist” thing, but those were real feelings. I was being honest about struggling with depression, addiction, and all the pressures of being in the spotlight, but it was easy for people to brush that off because I’d throw in some joke or dark humor along the way. So, sometimes the real stuff got lost in translation.
Ron Stauffer: Well, as we know, you ended up taking your life in the end. What do you think about your actions and the songs you sang and the words you said? At any point in time, were any of those a cry for help? Were you seeking actual help from people who weren’t listening to you?
Looking back, yeah, I think a lot of what I said and wrote could’ve been seen as a cry for help, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time. The songs and the interviews—they were my way of expressing the pain I was feeling. I was dealing with so much—depression, addiction, physical pain—and I didn’t always know how to ask for help in a straightforward way. The music became the outlet for all of that, but people didn’t always take it seriously, or maybe they just didn’t know how to respond.
I think there were moments when I did want help, but at the same time, I felt like no one could really understand what I was going through. It’s complicated because, even though the pain was real, I was also constantly pushing people away. It was hard to let anyone in. I felt trapped by everything—by fame, by my own mind—and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
So, yeah, maybe some of those songs were a cry for help in their own way. But the sad part is, I wasn’t in a place where I knew how to accept help, even when it was there. That’s the struggle with depression—it warps your perspective and makes you feel like there’s no way out, even when there is.
Ron Stauffer: Were you ever actually diagnosed with depression or anxiety or any sort of mental illness or other disorder like that? Or is it just something you kind of quietly lived with and self-diagnosed in a way?
I was never formally diagnosed with anything like depression or anxiety, at least not in any real clinical sense. It wasn’t something I sought out help for, not in the way people think of today. Back then, especially in the circles I was in, mental health wasn’t something you talked about openly. It was kind of just accepted that you dealt with your demons on your own, you know?
I always knew something was off. I had these deep, dark periods where I felt completely overwhelmed, disconnected, and hopeless. But I self-medicated with drugs and didn’t really seek professional help for it. Maybe I should have, but at the time, I didn’t think anyone could really help me or that I even deserved help. So, yeah, it was more of a self-diagnosed thing, and I tried to numb it all with heroin or just through the music. It wasn’t until much later that people started to put a name to what I was feeling, but by then, it was too late to really do much about it.
Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that makes sense. Well, I wonder how much — and someone could read way too much into this — but talk about Seattle. So you were from the Pacific Northwest. Is there a higher incidence of depression or anxiety or people with dark feelings? Was that a big thing going on at the time and maybe people were just discovering that for the first time?
Yeah, the Pacific Northwest definitely has that reputation for being a bit gloomy. The weather, the constant rain, the long gray winters—it can mess with your mood. I don’t know if there’s something specific about Seattle or the Northwest that makes people more prone to depression, but it does create a certain atmosphere. I think a lot of us who grew up there felt that sense of isolation, and it kind of shaped our outlook.
The music scene at the time was full of people who were dealing with their own struggles, whether it was depression, addiction, or just feeling alienated from mainstream society. A lot of the bands in Seattle—like Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and Pearl Jam—they all had this darker, heavier vibe in their music, too. It wasn’t like everyone was sitting around talking about their mental health, but you could feel that undercurrent of heaviness.
So yeah, maybe Seattle, with its weather and its underground culture, amplified those feelings. But it wasn’t just a Seattle thing—it was everywhere. I think our generation was just starting to really deal with those darker emotions and express them in music in a way that hadn’t been done so openly before. People connected with it because a lot of them were feeling the same things, whether they were in Seattle or not.
Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that makes sense. Well, let’s talk about people entering your life. You got married and had a child. How did marriage and fatherhood change you? I would imagine that both of those acts, separately, changed you in significant ways.
Yeah, both marriage and fatherhood definitely changed me in ways I didn’t expect. Getting married to Courtney was intense—we had this chaotic, passionate relationship. She understood a lot of the darkness I was dealing with, but it also brought a whole new level of complexity into my life. We were both struggling with our own demons, and sometimes that fed into each other in not-so-great ways. But at the same time, we really loved each other, and it wasn’t all bad. Being with her made me feel less alone, at least for a while.
Becoming a father, though—that was huge. When Frances was born, I felt this deep responsibility and love that I’d never felt before. She gave me something real to hold onto, something pure. I wanted to be a good dad for her, but it was also scary. I was already struggling with my own issues, and I worried that I wasn’t good enough or stable enough to give her the life she deserved. I didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of my parents.
It changed my perspective in a lot of ways—I wanted to get better for her, to be more present, but the weight of everything I was dealing with made it hard. I loved Frances more than anything, but that love also came with this pressure to get my shit together, and sometimes I felt like I was failing at that. Fatherhood gave me a reason to keep going, but it also made me realize how much I was struggling to be the person I wanted to be for her. It was this mix of joy and fear, and it was tough to navigate.
Ron Stauffer: Well, you mentioned earlier that your relationship with your own parents was obviously quite strained. What did that do to you as a parent? And what were the mistakes that you didn’t want to repeat with Frances?
My relationship with my parents definitely left a mark on me as a parent. After their divorce, I felt abandoned, especially by my dad. That distance made me feel like I wasn’t really important to him, like I was just an afterthought. With my mom, things were complicated, too—she had her own struggles, and there was a lot of tension growing up.
When Frances was born, I didn’t want her to feel any of that. I didn’t want her to feel like she wasn’t loved or like she had to live up to some expectation. I wanted to be present for her, to make sure she knew how much I cared about her, no matter what. But at the same time, I was scared I’d mess it up. I didn’t want to repeat my dad’s mistakes—being distant, emotionally unavailable, or caught up in my own life.
But the reality is, with all the struggles I had—addiction, depression—I worried I wasn’t being the father she needed. That fear was always there, and it weighed on me. I didn’t want her to grow up with the same kind of emotional baggage I had, but sometimes it felt like I couldn’t escape my own. It’s tough, man—when you’re a parent, your own issues don’t just disappear, but you’re trying your best to not let them affect your kid.
Ron Stauffer: Did you encourage Frances to become a musician or join the music industry in any way? Or if she was not old enough at the time, do you think you would have?
Frances was really young when I was around, so it wasn’t something we ever really got to talk about. But honestly, I don’t think I would’ve encouraged her to get into the music industry, at least not the way I experienced it. The industry can be brutal—it chews you up and spits you out. I’d want her to follow whatever made her happy, but I’d also want to protect her from the darker sides of fame and all the pressure that comes with it.
If she were passionate about music, I’d support her in finding her own voice, but I wouldn’t want her to feel like she had to follow in my footsteps. I’d want her to do her own thing, on her own terms, without getting caught up in all the bullshit that comes with the industry.
Ron Stauffer: Do you have any specific regrets? Are there things that… maybe you’ve gone on record as saying: “I wish I hadn’t done that?”
Yeah, I’ve got my regrets, for sure. One of the biggest is how I handled my addiction. I wish I’d gotten real help sooner, before it took over my life. It affected my relationships, my music, and my ability to be the person I wanted to be, especially for Frances and Courtney. I regret not being more present for them.
Another regret is how I let fame and the pressure of everything get to me. I wanted to stay true to myself, but at times I felt like I was losing control, like I was being pulled in different directions by the industry, the media, and even fans. I wish I’d found a way to balance it all without feeling so overwhelmed. And, of course, I regret the way things ended.
Looking back, I wish I’d reached out for help, or let people in more, instead of pushing everyone away when I was at my worst. There’s a lot of pain I could’ve handled differently, but in the moment, it felt like I was drowning, and I didn’t know how to climb out of it.
Ron Stauffer: Well, whether you pushed people away or not, you certainly went inward and were quite introspective. After you died, a lot of your drawings were released to the public, and you were a prolific artist, drawing sketches and writing personal notes and journal entries. Talk about that for a little bit. How did that help you, and what was the main focus of what you were writing in those sketchbooks?
Yeah, I was always drawing and writing—it was another outlet for me, besides music. I’d been sketching since I was a kid, and it helped me process what I was feeling. There were so many things going on in my head that I couldn’t always put into words or didn’t feel comfortable talking about. Drawing and writing let me get that out without having to explain it to anyone.
A lot of what I put in those sketchbooks was just whatever was on my mind—frustrations, ideas for songs, random thoughts, or just weird, dark humor. It was my way of keeping track of all the chaos in my head. I’d draw surreal, twisted images or write out lyrics and thoughts that didn’t necessarily have a place anywhere else. It was personal, and it wasn’t meant for anyone to see, but I guess it shows a different side of me.
The main focus was always shifting—it wasn’t like I sat down with a plan. Sometimes it was about the pressure of fame, sometimes it was about addiction, and sometimes it was just me being playful or sarcastic. The sketchbooks were a way to stay grounded, a way to reflect without having to make sense of everything for someone else. It was just for me to try and make sense of things in my own head.
Ron Stauffer: A lot of your drawings were incredibly scatological, and there’s lots of penises and uteruses and breasts and sexual imagery. Were you kind of obsessed with sexual imagery, or was that silliness again?
Yeah, a lot of that was just silliness, to be honest. I wasn’t obsessed with sexual imagery in any deep or serious way—it was more about pushing boundaries and messing with people’s expectations. Drawing penises or weird sexual stuff was just a way to be irreverent, kind of like saying, I’m not gonna take this too seriously, so why should you?
I was always interested in challenging norms and breaking down taboos, and sometimes the best way to do that was with absurd, over-the-top imagery. It’s like punk rock in a way—shock people, make them uncomfortable, and force them to think about why they’re reacting the way they are. But at the end of the day, a lot of it was just me having fun, letting out this juvenile, sarcastic side of me that liked to draw ridiculous, crude stuff for no reason other than to laugh at it. So yeah, not some deep obsession—just part of that rebellious streak that liked to mess with people’s expectations.
Ron Stauffer: Did you tour the world with Nirvana? Did you go to other countries? And if so, was it strange hearing people from other nations and perhaps people who speak different languages singing your songs back to you?
Yeah, we toured all over the world with Nirvana—Europe, Asia, South America, you name it. It was surreal to see how far the music reached, especially in places where English wasn’t the first language. Hearing crowds sing back the lyrics, even if they didn’t speak English fluently, was a trip.
It was strange, but in a good way. It reminded me of how powerful music can be, how it crosses borders and connects people. Even if they didn’t understand every word, they felt the emotion behind it. That was always more important to me than the literal meaning of the lyrics. It was weird to think that something we made in Seattle could resonate with people on the other side of the world.
At the same time, it was a little overwhelming. Seeing that level of connection and knowing people had such high expectations of us—it added to the pressure. But it was also a reminder of why we did it in the first place. The music spoke to something deeper, something universal, and that was pretty incredible to experience firsthand.
Ron Stauffer: Well, speaking of other cultures and other countries and nations and languages, you to some extent had an experiential phase with Eastern mysticism, right? At one point, you even claimed to have converted to Jainism. Does the name of the band Nirvana have to do with that, or was that, once again, just you being silly and sarcastic? Or did you actually take Eastern mysticism seriously?
Yeah, I went through a phase where I was really interested in Eastern philosophy and mysticism, but I wouldn’t say I fully converted to anything like Jainism. That was more of me exploring different ideas and ways of thinking. I was always searching for something deeper, some way to make sense of everything going on inside my head, and Eastern philosophies, like Buddhism and Jainism, offered a different perspective on suffering, life, and death.
As for the name Nirvana, it wasn’t really tied to a deep spiritual belief. I liked the concept of nirvana as this idea of liberation, of breaking free from suffering and the cycle of existence. That resonated with me because I felt trapped by a lot of things—fame, expectations, my own mental struggles. But I wasn’t trying to make some profound spiritual statement with the band name. It was more like, the word felt right, and I liked how it sounded.
There was definitely some curiosity about Eastern ideas, but I wouldn’t say I took it super seriously in a religious sense. It was more about searching for peace in a chaotic world. I was always drawn to anything that offered a sense of escape or understanding, whether it was through mysticism, art, or music. So, naming the band Nirvana felt like it fit that idea of wanting to find some kind of release or freedom, even if I was being a little ironic about it.
Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that’s funny, especially because your band, some of your original bands before you settled on the name Nirvana, you had some very silly band names, didn’t you?
Yeah, we had some pretty ridiculous band names before we landed on Nirvana. We went through a ton of names, and most of them were just jokes, honestly. Some of the ones we considered were things like Skid Row, Pen Cap Chew, Ted Ed Fred, and Fecal Matter. We were just messing around and didn’t really take it too seriously at first. I think at one point we almost went with Bliss before deciding on Nirvana.
We had fun coming up with the most absurd or offensive names we could think of, but in the end, we wanted something that had a bit more meaning, even if we weren’t being totally serious about it. Nirvana just felt like the right balance—something that sounded peaceful and kind of transcendent but also had an edge to it, given the kind of music we were making.
A lot of those other names were just part of the punk ethos, where everything was meant to be irreverent and not taken too seriously. But yeah, looking back at some of the names we almost went with, I’m glad we settled on Nirvana. It fit the vibe of what we were doing a lot better than, say, Fecal Matter ever would have.
Ron Stauffer: I completely agree. Changing gears a little bit, there were some acts that were there locally in Seattle that you were very close to, that you approved of and liked, and I guess did concerts with or toured with. And then there were some other folks that you really, really didn’t like or at least pretended not to like, Guns N’ Roses in particular, for some reason I don’t understand. Can you elaborate on who were your musical friends and who were your musical enemies?
Yeah, in Seattle, there were definitely bands I was close to, and we all kind of came up together. Bands like Mudhoney, Soundgarden, Melvins, and Alice in Chains—those guys were all part of the same scene, and we supported each other. There wasn’t a lot of competition; it was more like a community of misfits who just wanted to make noise and do something real. We’d play shows together, hang out, and just be part of this underground scene that felt authentic. I had a lot of respect for those bands because they were about the music, not the image.
As for Guns N’ Roses, yeah, I really didn’t like them—or more specifically, what they represented. To me, they were everything I hated about the rock scene at the time: the glam, the macho posturing, the over-the-top rock star lifestyle. Axl Rose, in particular, rubbed me the wrong way. He was arrogant, sexist, and just seemed to embody that whole superficial, commercial rock star image I was trying to get away from. We had a bit of a feud, especially after he said some stuff about Courtney and me that crossed the line.
It wasn’t that I hated their music necessarily—it was more about the culture they represented. I wanted Nirvana to be the opposite of that, something raw and honest, not caught up in the whole rock star circus. So yeah, they were kind of the enemy in that sense. It was more about rejecting what they stood for than anything personal about their music itself.
Ron Stauffer: Did you have a favorite tour, concert, or maybe even album for that matter? What are some things that you were very proud of?
I wouldn’t say I had one favorite tour or concert, but there were definitely moments that stood out. Our performance at Reading Festival in nineteen ninety-two—that one was pretty special. I was in rough shape physically, but the energy from the crowd was incredible, and it felt like everything just clicked that night. I think a lot of people thought we were done for at that point, so to come out and deliver a great show, that meant a lot to me.
As for albums, In Utero is probably the one I’m most proud of. That album was closer to what I always wanted Nirvana to sound like—raw, abrasive, and unpolished. After the massive success of Nevermind, I felt like we were losing some control over how we were perceived, and In Utero was my way of pushing back against that. Working with Steve Albini helped keep it gritty, and I’m proud that we didn’t give in to pressure to make another radio-friendly record.
MTV Unplugged is another one that I’m really proud of, though in a different way. It was so stripped down and vulnerable, and I think it showed a side of Nirvana that people weren’t expecting. It wasn’t all loud and chaotic—it was more introspective, more emotional. That show felt really intimate, and the response to it was huge.
So yeah, those are probably the moments I look back on and feel the most proud of. They captured different sides of Nirvana, and both felt like we were staying true to what we wanted to do, despite all the external noise.
Ron Stauffer: What was your opinion of guitar solos?
Guitar solos—man, I wasn’t a fan of them, at least not in the traditional rock sense. To me, they always felt like showing off for the sake of it, especially in those hair metal bands that were all about long, flashy solos. I hated that whole guitar hero mentality, where it was all about technical skill and how fast or intricate you could play. That wasn’t what music was about for me. I was more interested in simplicity, in emotion. A solo should serve the song, not just be there to show off.
When I did solos in Nirvana songs, they were more like extensions of the vocal melody—nothing too fancy, just something that added to the feel of the song. Like in “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” the solo is just me playing the vocal melody again, but distorted and raw. It wasn’t about impressing anyone with technique, just staying true to the vibe of the song.
So yeah, I wasn’t anti-solo, but I definitely didn’t see the point in making them these big, overblown things. If it added something to the song, cool, but I was never into the whole virtuoso thing. Keep it simple, keep it raw—that’s how I saw it.
Ron Stauffer: By the way, what was the cover of Nevermind all about? A naked baby in a swimming pool with a dollar bill on a fishing hook? Once again, was that just you being completely wacky, or were you trying to give people a very specific type of message with that imagery?
Yeah, the cover of Nevermind was definitely meant to send a message, but it was also kind of playful and absurd at the same time. The image of the baby underwater, reaching for the dollar bill, was a pretty straightforward commentary on capitalism and how we’re all sort of born into this system where money and success are dangled in front of us like bait. It was like saying, “From birth, we’re being trained to chase after money, whether we realize it or not.”
But it wasn’t meant to be overly serious or preachy. There’s also that element of “What the f*ck?” to it, which I always liked. I thought it was a weird, striking image that would grab people’s attention and make them think, even if they weren’t totally sure what it meant. And honestly, it fit with the vibe of the album—chaotic, irreverent, but still with something real underneath all the noise.
So yeah, it was definitely a statement, but with a bit of that absurd, wacky edge. It wasn’t like we sat around trying to come up with some big, philosophical cover—it just came together in a way that made sense for what we were trying to say with the music and where we were at as a band.
Ron Stauffer: What about censorship in general? Clearly, again, with songs like Rape Me, that probably played very little, if ever, on the radio. But just in general, what are your thoughts on censorship, and how often did you bump up against radio stations or retailers saying, you know what, either we’re going to censor particular lyrics or songs from this album, or we’re not going to carry your album at all, or maybe even venues or festivals that said, we don’t want you to perform here?
Yeah, censorship was definitely something we ran into a lot, and it always pissed me off. I’ve never been a fan of anyone trying to control what people can say or hear, especially when it comes to art and music. Songs like Rape Me were meant to provoke, to challenge people’s comfort zones, and it wasn’t about being offensive for the sake of it. It was about making a point, and when people or institutions try to censor that, it just proves the point even more—that they’re afraid of facing uncomfortable truths.
We had a lot of issues with retailers, especially with In Utero. Some big chains didn’t want to carry the album because of the song titles or lyrics, or they wanted us to change the cover art.
I remember Walmart and Kmart made us alter the back cover, specifically the fetus imagery, to sell the album in their stores. And we did it because, at that point, it wasn’t worth the fight—people were still going to hear the music. But that kind of censorship always felt hypocritical to me. Like, these stores sell violent video games and movies, but suddenly they have a problem with an album cover?
With radio, it was hit or miss. A song like Rape Me wasn’t going to get much airplay because of the title alone, even though the meaning of the song had nothing to do with promoting violence. It was about reclaiming power, but people didn’t want to take the time to understand it—they just wanted to avoid controversy.
To me, censorship is just another form of control, trying to sanitize art and make it more palatable for the masses. And that’s the opposite of what I’ve always believed in. Art should challenge people, make them uncomfortable, force them to think. The more people tried to censor us, the more it reinforced that we were doing something right by not fitting into their neat little boxes.
Ron Stauffer: On a completely separate note, where’s your family from? You have a very unusual last name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone with a last name Cobain.
Yeah, Cobain is kind of an unusual name. My family is actually of Irish descent, originally. The name was originally spelled Cobane, but it got changed somewhere along the way. My ancestors came from County Tyrone in Northern Ireland, and my dad’s side of the family settled in Washington state.
I didn’t really grow up with a strong connection to that Irish heritage, but it’s there in the background. The name Cobain kind of stands out, and I always thought that was cool in a way, like it didn’t tie me down to any particular expectation or identity. It was just another part of being a bit of an outsider, which fit with how I always felt.
Ron Stauffer: What about you as a vocalist? Or actually even as a guitar player, for that matter. Did you choose to be the singer of your own band because you liked the sound of your voice or because there was just nobody else to sing? You know, there are some bands that had four members, where the fourth member is just the vocalist, but you always were the vocalist and the guitar player, which once again, you were no virtuoso. So what was your thought process behind that?
Honestly, I didn’t think of myself as a great singer or guitarist. I kind of fell into both roles because there wasn’t anyone else to do it. When we first started, it wasn’t like I was looking to be the frontman. I just wrote the songs, and since they were personal to me, it made sense for me to sing them. Plus, I didn’t really know anyone else who could capture the feeling I wanted, so I just went for it, even though I wasn’t confident in my voice at first.
As for guitar, like I said, I was never into flashy, technical playing. I kept things simple because, for me, it was more about creating the right sound and emotion than showing off. It wasn’t about being the best player, it was about making something raw and real.
I didn’t choose to be the singer or the guitarist because I thought I was the best at either. It just kind of happened because that’s what the music needed, and no one else was going to step in and do it the way I wanted. Over time, I got more comfortable with my voice and playing, but I never saw myself as a traditional frontman or guitarist. It was always more about the energy and the feeling behind it, not the skill.
Ron Stauffer: Speaking about your voice, ironically, if you didn’t think much of your voice from a musical perspective, other people certainly thought about your voice quite a bit. Some people even said you had the voice of a generation. What do you say to that?
Yeah, that whole “voice of a generation” thing was kind of ridiculous to me. I never set out to be any kind of spokesperson or represent an entire generation. I was just writing and singing about what I was feeling—my own frustrations, my own pain. If people connected with that, great, but I never thought of myself as someone who should be speaking for anyone else.
It’s flattering in a way, but also a lot of pressure. I wasn’t trying to be anyone’s hero or leader. I think people just related to the honesty and rawness in the music, but I didn’t have all the answers. I was just as lost as anyone else. So when people put that label on me, it felt weird, like they were projecting something onto me that I never asked for.
At the end of the day, I was just a guy who screamed his guts out because that’s what I needed to do to get through the day. If that connected with people, then I’m grateful, but I never felt comfortable being put on that pedestal.
Ron Stauffer: Was that comforting in a way though? If what you’re saying is that you never set out to be the voice of a generation or speak for anybody else, and you were only speaking for yourself, but somehow, thousands, hundreds of thousands, or maybe even millions of people your age were going along with you and saying, “Yeah, me too!” Was that comforting or was that terrifying?
It was a little bit of both, to be honest. In some ways, yeah, it was comforting. Knowing that so many people connected with what I was going through, it made me feel less alone. When you’re dealing with all that internal chaos, depression, frustration, whatever, it can feel isolating. So hearing that other people were saying, yeah, me too, was kind of validating. It made me realize that maybe I wasn’t as much of a freak or an outsider as I thought. There were a lot of people out there feeling the same way.
But at the same time, it was also terrifying. When that many people latch onto your words and your music, it puts this huge spotlight on you. Suddenly, you’re not just dealing with your own issues—you’re carrying the weight of everyone else’s expectations, too. People start looking to you for answers or guidance, and I wasn’t equipped to handle that. I was just trying to survive my own shit, you know? So, the pressure of that was overwhelming.
It’s like, on one hand, it was great to know that the music resonated with so many people, but on the other hand, it made me feel trapped in this role that I never asked for. I didn’t have all the answers, and I didn’t want to be responsible for other people’s struggles on top of my own. So, it was comforting in some ways, but it definitely came with its share of fear and anxiety.
Ron Stauffer: You know, I just got done listening to an audiobook of Ben Folds. Ben Folds was a musician from North Carolina, and he splits music into two different categories: “before Nirvana” and “after Nirvana.” From your perspective, how would you say pop music was before Nirvana and after Nirvana? And, by the way, did you know you were making history at the time?
That’s interesting to hear Ben Folds say that, and yeah, I’ve heard people split music into “before Nirvana” and “after Nirvana,” which is kind of wild to think about. I didn’t really set out to change the course of music or anything like that—it just sort of happened.
Pop music before Nirvana was dominated by a lot of overproduced, polished stuff, you know? Big hair, big guitars, flashy solos, and all that. It was the era of glam metal and stadium rock, where everything was about excess. It felt really plastic to me—like it was all about image and not much about substance.
We weren’t trying to directly react to that scene, but I think what we were doing, and what a lot of other bands in Seattle were doing, was the opposite of that. It was raw, dirty, imperfect—just more real. And when Nevermind blew up, it sort of shifted the whole landscape. Suddenly, there was this hunger for music that felt more authentic, more connected to what people were actually feeling. It wasn’t about looking good or selling a fantasy—it was about being vulnerable, angry, messed up. I think after Nirvana, there was more room for those kinds of voices in mainstream music. It wasn’t all about polish anymore.
As for knowing we were making history, honestly, no. Not at the time. We knew we were doing something different, something that felt important to us, but we had no idea it would resonate on such a massive scale. When Nevermind started blowing up, it was more like: “What the hell just happened?” We didn’t expect it, and I certainly didn’t think we were rewriting the rules of pop music. It wasn’t until later that I realized how much of an impact we’d made. At the time, we were just trying to survive the madness and stay true to the music.
Ron Stauffer: Is there a true artist that you admired, somebody who maybe you didn’t know, maybe who came before you, an artist of any medium, a painter, a sculptor, anybody like that who resonated with you in terms of being a “true artist” in a world full of plastic, vapid entertainment for the masses?
Yeah, there were definitely artists I admired who felt like they were the real deal, who stood out in a world full of superficial stuff. One of the biggest influences on me was Iggy Pop. He was raw, primal, and didn’t give a f*ck about what people thought. His performances with The Stooges were chaotic and real—he just let loose in a way that resonated with me. Iggy was one of those guys who didn’t seem to care about fitting into any mold, and that kind of freedom in his art really struck me.
I was also really into William S. Burroughs, the writer. His work was dark, weird, and rebellious, and it challenged everything. The way he approached writing—cutting up texts, creating these fragmented, surreal stories—was so out there, but it was also deeply honest in a way. He wasn’t trying to appeal to anyone, just expressing the darkness inside him. I even got to meet him and collaborate with him on some stuff, which was a huge moment for me.
In visual art, I was drawn to people like Francis Bacon, whose paintings were just disturbing and intense. There was something so visceral and raw about his work, like it was exposing the darker sides of humanity, and I connected with that. Bacon’s art wasn’t pretty or easy to digest, but it was brutally honest.
All these people had that thing in common—whether they were musicians, writers, or painters, they weren’t interested in making something palatable for the masses. They were making art that was raw, challenging, and a little dangerous. That’s what I admired. I wanted to do the same with my music—just create something real, no matter how uncomfortable it made people.
Ron Stauffer: If you hadn’t been a musician, what else would you have done? I’m sure you didn’t necessarily think from the earliest age: “I’m going to be a professional musician someday,” right?
Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t always think I’d be a professional musician. Music was always something I loved, but I didn’t have some grand plan to make a career out of it. I wasn’t on any clear career trajectory before Nirvana took off, to be honest. I bounced around from job to job, doing things like janitorial work, working at a nursery, and a bunch of other dead-end jobs. Nothing ever felt right, and I hated being stuck in those routines.
If I hadn’t been a musician, I probably would’ve done something in the arts, maybe as a painter or a visual artist. I was always into drawing and sketching, and that was a big part of how I expressed myself. I could see myself going down that road, creating visual art in some way.
I also had a fascination with being a writer, though. I loved storytelling, whether it was through lyrics or just weird little narratives I’d come up with. I could see myself writing stories or maybe even something more experimental, like the cut-up style of William S. Burroughs.
But honestly, I didn’t really see a clear future for myself outside of music. I felt lost a lot of the time, and music was the only thing that ever made sense to me. It was the one outlet where I felt like I could be myself and make something meaningful. Without it, I don’t know where I would’ve ended up. Probably just drifting, looking for something else that felt real.
Ron Stauffer: What is Kurt Cobain’s grand unified theory of music and art? What does Kurt Cobain want people to think of, or how would you wish people would think differently or better about music or art?
If I had to sum up a kind of grand unified theory of music and art, it’d be that art should be raw, honest, and free from expectations. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it doesn’t have to be polished, and it definitely doesn’t have to fit into some neat little box. The most important thing is that it comes from a real place—whether that’s joy, pain, frustration, or whatever emotion is driving it. Authenticity is the only thing that matters.
I wish people would stop worrying so much about fitting into genres, following trends, or making something that pleases everyone. Art isn’t supposed to be comfortable or safe. It should make you feel something, even if that feeling is confusion or discomfort. It’s okay to be messy, it’s okay to be vulnerable.
The imperfections are where the real beauty comes from. And I’d want people to think about how music and art don’t belong to any one person or group. Once it’s out there, it’s for everyone to interpret, to feel, to connect with. But the artist should never be afraid to challenge the audience, to make them think or feel in ways they’re not used to. At the end of the day, art should be about self-expression, not about trying to meet someone else’s expectations or commercial success. If it’s real, it’ll resonate, even if it’s ugly or difficult.
So yeah, if people can walk away from my music or any art with that in mind—that it’s about honesty and emotional freedom—then I feel like I’ve done my part.
Ron Stauffer: If that’s the case, is there such a thing as bad art or low art? Is there a way to understate something so much that it’s just poor quality?
Yeah, that’s a good question. I mean, I’ve always believed that art is subjective, and what resonates with one person might not hit the same way for someone else. But I do think there’s a difference between art that’s genuinely raw and honest, even if it’s simple, and something that feels lazy or like it’s not saying anything at all.
It’s not about technical skill for me—like, you don’t need to be a master guitarist or a trained painter to create something powerful. Some of the best art is made by people who break the rules or don’t even know the rules in the first place. But I think there’s such a thing as insincere art, where it feels like the person is just going through the motions or making something purely for commercial reasons without any real emotion or thought behind it.
Low-skill art can still be great if it’s coming from the right place. But if you understate something to the point where it’s empty or doesn’t feel like it’s connected to anything real, then yeah, I guess you could say it’s poor quality. Not because it’s simple or imperfect, but because it lacks that authenticity.
Art should always have some kind of heart, something that comes from within. If it doesn’t, if it’s just a hollow attempt to cash in or copy something else, then it might not hold much value, at least to me. It’s less about skill and more about whether the artist is putting something genuine into what they’re creating.
Ron Stauffer: Do you really think so, though? If you had started Nirvana and never went anywhere serious, and never made any money, and never made it big, and never became the “voice of a generation,” and never supposedly spoke for millions of other kids your age, do you think it still would have been just as meaningful to you?
Yeah, I really do think so. I mean, when I started making music, it wasn’t about fame or money. It was about survival, about having an outlet for all the emotions and frustrations I couldn’t express any other way. Even if Nirvana had never blown up, I would’ve kept making music, kept playing in small clubs or garages, because that was the one thing that felt real to me.
If nobody had ever heard our songs or if we had just stayed a local band, it still would’ve been meaningful to me because it was never about chasing success. It was about expressing myself in a way that felt honest and true. The success was almost an accident, something I never expected or even wanted at first. The music itself—that was what mattered, whether ten people heard it or ten million.
So yeah, even if we never made it big, the act of creating, of making noise and screaming out what I was feeling, would’ve still been just as important to me. That’s where the meaning was, not in the recognition or the fame. That stuff just kind of happened, but it wasn’t the driving force behind what I was doing.
Ron Stauffer: This has been a good conversation. Thanks for being here, thanks for answering my questions, and thanks for pushing the bounds of music and art and culture in general.
Thanks, man. I appreciate you taking the time and asking real questions. It’s cool to talk about all this, and it means a lot that people are still thinking about the music and the message behind it. Keep pushing boundaries yourself. Take care.
All right, folks, I hope this was as enlightening to you as it was to me. Talking to the man from Seattle who “screamed his guts out” and didn’t care what anybody else thought. What a fascinating interview and what a fascinating person. Thanks for listening.
And by the way, go fire up your old record player or cassette player or... eight-track player or whatever format you still have and if you have any Nirvana records or albums listen to them especially my favorite Nirvana song Lithium because it’s awesome, and I really like it even though apparently I don’t understand it, and nobody understood it, and it’s complicated, and oh well whatever nevermind.
Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with.
This is Zombie History.
“BRINGING HISTORY BACK TO LIFE”
For more information about the show, visit zombiehistory.com.
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