"THE SUICIDE NOTE" ------------------------------------- To Boddah pronounced Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile camplainee. This note should be pretty easy to understand. All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years. Since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the exitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. For example when we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins it doesn't affect the way in which it did for Freddy Mercury who seemed to love and relish in the love and adoration from the crowd. Which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is I can't fool you. Any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100 % fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it, and I do. God, believe me I do but it's not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child. On our last three tours I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much. So much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, pisces Jesus man! Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know. I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be. Full of love and joy kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable self-destructive, death rocker that I've become. I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along, and have empathy. Empathy! Only because I love and feel for people too much I guess. Thank you all from the pit of my burning nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore and so remember, its better to burn out than to fade away. peace, love, empathy. Kurt Cobain Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your alter. Please keep going Courtney For Frances For her life which will be so much happier without me. I Love you. I love you! ______________________________________________________

Much has been written about the events of April 8th, 1994 - the day Kurt Cobain's body was discovered in the garage of his home - and, for the thousands of Nirvana fans left behind, that day will remain in their memory for many years to come. Cynics have claimed that Cobain tried to make himself a "rock and roll martyr" by taking his own life - an attempt to secure the reputation as the Jim Morrison of the nineties - but such speculation tends to overlook the terrible tragedy of the death of one of the most influential artists of this decade. Such statements are stupid and insensitive. To this day there is uncertainty surrounding the death of James Morrison, with this very uncertainty perpetuating the legend of his martyrdom - his attempt to "break on through to the other side." In fact there are those who maintain he never died, but instead feigned his own death and escaped the pressures of his lifestyle to live out his remaining days anonymously. There are no such uncertainties surrounding the death of Kurt Cobain. He was found in his garage, having been dead for some time from a single, self-administered shotgun blast to the head. Around him were some tapes, a computer game, a hand-written suicide note, and a cuddly toy. He was positively identified from his fingerprints. Kurt Cobain had grown up in small-town Aberdeen, Washington, "like Twin Peaks without the excitement". His happy childhood was shattered forever at the age of eight with the rancorous separation of his parents. The sudden and unexpected success of Nirvana, with their Nevermind album selling in excess of ten million copies world-wide, gave Kurt Cobain the place as one of the spokesmen for a generation. Their music opened the way for countless other "underground" bands, but brought the inevitable barrage of media attention, picking his life apart, carving him open and laying his innards out for all to see. Kurt had suffered from a rare illness for almost seven years, causing a chronic stomach pain of such an intensity that almost every day he considered killing himself. This constant severe pain led to a deep melancholic depression verging on schizophrenia, and frequent bouts of narcoplepsy. None of the doctors he visited were of any help, but the money he made from Nirvana offered him a temporary release to the pain - through heroin. Soon the heroin took over, and although he tried to kick the habit on numerous occasions, the stomach pains returned with such an intensity that even the heroin appeared to be a better alternative. His undoubted love and devotion for his wife, Courtney Love, and his daughter Frances, brought the first real happiness and hope into his life for many years, but the constant media attention, and increasingly frequent bouts of depression finally drove him to the edge. There will surely be much speculation as to what finally caused him to crack, but one thing can be said for certain - this was no "rock and roll martyrdom", but rather the tragic waste of a creative life. The pressures which brought Kurt Cobain to the point of ending his life were supremely human and not explained simply as the result of a "degenerate" lifestyle. The tears he cried were as valid as the tears of any other human being, the pain he felt was just as real and as justified as any pain ever was, and the tragic actions he took were the only solution he could find. Around the Cobain home, on the morning Kurt's body was found, dew would have fallen. The sun would have risen on a new day, the air would be filled with the sounds of the morning, yet, within the house, Cobain's body lay as silent witness to the pain and emptiness that typifies the human condition. Looking at a famous photograph of Kurt taken after a concert in 1991, I see a distraught young man wrestling with forces inside him which he cannot understand or control. There are no rock dramatics about this young man, nor is there any of the craziness which permeated his work and his lifestyle. There is merely a terrified, lonely individual, and I weep for him, R.I.P. Kurt Cobain.