All this unending praise of Whitney Houston. You'd think she did something relevant for the past couple decades besides give a public show to her slow self-destruction. It's sad, but the story should be cautionary, not laudatory. She had some singing talent, fine. But what about songwriting? What about distinguishing herself from the R&B pack of her day, Paula Abdul, Janet Jackson, blah blah. You could throw Pebbles in there for all their lasting worth. People were surprised to see Kurt Cobain's photo on the cover of the New York Times when he died. He was a "generational spokesmodel," a whiny "grunge poet" who had more in common with Beavis and Butthead than Bowie, a Lennon wannabe who abandoned his kid (hmm).
Yet he was at the top of his game when he went out. He changed what people thought pop music could be and led a cadre of underappreciated alt-rockers, past and future, through the open door behind him, blowing fresh artistic wind through. He was still a star and still resonant to millions of misbegotten kids no matter how ironic he felt as a punk icon while so many deserving kindred spirits toiled in obscurity. He rebelled against a status quo that many thought could not be toppled, an unstoppable force that actually moved the immovable object. He played a song called "Rape Me" on Saturday Night Live. He knocked Michael Jackson off the No. 1 spot for record sales, back when records were purchased. Sure, he copped out, but he did it in his own overheated, historic, raging fashion. Kurt burned out; Whitney faded away.
It takes real courage to reveal your hurt, your heart. It might seem simple to rage on stage, to strum grungy power chords and murmur and scream. But it takes real work to hone a talent for songcraft, perfect pitch and artisanal indie rock taste, and put that out there amid a sea of also-rans and depressing discouragement that you'll pierce through the punk-by-numbers fray and be heard. It takes balls to walk into a record company office and sign a contract, knowing your "friends" will turn their back and call you a sellout, even when you really compromised nothing.
Bettie Serveert sang "What Friends?" They also sang "Bow down a band's been discoverd ... Everybody loves a band that sells." Notably they also sang "Smack in the middle of ridiculous places" ...
Whitney surely had her own demons to contend with, but her music revealed none of her genuine self, her challenges she'd overcome or that were still weighing on her. She sparkled like jewelry for a short while, then trickled quickly away as the next American idol took the stage. Kurt streaked across the sky like a meteor shower, then went dark. Did either make the most of life? Of course not. Kurt never saw this side of 27, for heaven's sake. But whose art touches the soul with more genuine feeling and genius style? Who shared their true emotion?
I sympathize with Kurt's psychic suffering and his anger at the world, absolutely. A lot of people bury that angst inside and effect catharsis where they won't make a spectacle of themselves. Some use it as the drive behind their artistry and share their agony with the world; that may help people feel less alone in their alienation and be a step toward getting real help, being able to cope with perpetually grey skies even when the sun shines bright around them. "The bitterness of one who's left alone" ...
Kurt's story also is a tragic one, and especially cautionary in a scene where self-medicating is a time-honored ritual and easy initial escape that descends to addiction. Too many died too early in Seattle music. And the words and sounds echo with self-destructive angst.
Soundgarden sang "Like Suicide."
Screaming Trees titled an album "Uncle Anesthesia."
Alice In Chains wrote the defiant "Junkhead."
Pearl Jam still sings of being "In Hiding," "In My Tree," feeling "Black" and not living in the "Present Tense."
Life seems depressing up there! And surely Kurt needed more than catharsis. Maybe Eddie Vedder talks to a shrink about his youthful ennui and outsider status. Kurt certainly kept part of himself hidden, a survival tactic before and after his fame. His lyrics are oblique, hinting at pain and numbing strategies but barely revealing the bullying and parental estrangement that ate at him, whereas Vedder's by contrast are direct regarding social alienation and introspective coping. Kurt's spiritual torment, however, shot through in his music.
Kurt probably did need lithium. Those moments of "I think I'm dumb, maybe just happy" were too few ups to match the dragging, crushing downs. And Whitney needed "no men" around her rather than yes men. She needed a feeling of place, of family, of comfort beyond the needle or the powder.
Kurt probably did need lithium. Those moments of "I think I'm dumb, maybe just happy" were too few ups to match the dragging, crushing downs. And Whitney needed "no men" around her rather than yes men. She needed a feeling of place, of family, of comfort beyond the needle or the powder.
"I miss the comfort in being sad," Kurt sang. That melancholy (or Mellon Collie) ache gives an ironic, peculiar comfort, but that feeling inside is unsustainable. The alternative, to be numb (as in the Sex Pistols' "No Feelings," a tune that is full of feeling really) is a sad state too. Billy Corgan sang "I'm all by myself" even surrounded by friends and family and a dysfunctional but productive band. We all need peace love and understanding, and whether we find it, some of us will always relate to that raw, searing agony of a less happy life.
Distortion makes us feel up, in a world of distorted priorities, and sarcasm ("cut you like you want me to") makes us feel real in a life of personae and pretend (L7's "Pretend that We're Dead" comes to mind).
Hey hey, my my, rock and roll will never die. Is this the story of the Johnny Rottens? At least "here we are now" still applies to all of us right now. That we can all agree is a beautiful, beautiful thing.
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