Last September, Vanity Fair ran a much-publicized piece on Love. But erasing the lunacy of the months gone by may require more than a bracing blast of punk rock. With the follow-up to Nevermind, In Utero, due on September 14, the Seattle-based trio hopes to trade in its celebrity status for the more comfortable role of rock band. The terrain has been dotted with obstacles: some mere potholes, some treacherous landmines. They’ve struggled coming to terms with their gargantuan stardom, straining to get their footing on the unfamiliar and sometimes brutal landscape of fame. I just started screaming.”Īs it would with anyone, the past 18 months have taken a fierce toll on Nirvana and the Cobains. “As soon as she made her appearance someone kicked her down the stairs. She waddled like this…” Cobain sways back and forth like Charlie Chaplin. “I had to make an entrance from the top of the stairs, and because of the way people think of Courtney, she happened to be this two-foot-tall black midget with huge feet. Lots of stars went there.” Cobain glances up at the small plastic doll in a nun’s outfit propped up on the mantel, one of the hundreds of dolls that he and his wife, Courtney Love, leader of the band Hole, have collected. It didn’t have chains on the walls, just beautiful flowers. In one part of the dream I was being honored for something and the ceremony was at an S/M club, but it was a really nice one. “So I went down to where the oppressed people were starving on the streets, killing each other for a quarter.
I was completely disgusted by the idea of living next to these people.” Cobain speaks in a lilting Pacific-Northwestern drawl, like a grungy Quentin Crisp. Courtney and I were in the Hollywood Hills, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was my neighbor. “The last dream I had like this was two nights ago. “In my dreams, there’s always this apocalyptic war going on between the right and the left wing,” he says, sitting on the plush burgundy couch in his Seattle living room. But for Kurt Cobain, our collective obsession seems like a car’s stark headlights, freezing its unassuming victim in the glare. It lifts and floats the celebrity into our most private venue: dreams.
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