I’ve mostly avoided Nirvana, out of that associative thing. It was never “my” music; it always belonged to people I didn’t like. Or if I did like them, they clung to it too tightly. So I didn’t really have a part in that relationship.

What makes it a little stranger is I think Nirvana was the first contemporary pop act I was made aware of. That was 1993-1994, my sophomore year of high school. I listened to a couple of songs off of In Utero, and thought, well, this is different. Although the origin of this awareness was a gaggle of individuals whom I would hesitate to trust alone with a cat and a can of lighter fluid, I was willing to accept their own interest as coincidence. Then, of course, the moment I began to pay attention, Kurt went and killed himself. All the noise and deification caused me to shrug and walk away.

Years later, when I was trying in earnest to figure out this music thing, I picked up Muddy Banks of the Wishkah — there was a little hype around its release, and I figured I’d give the band another shot. And… er. It sounded like it was recorded from within a cardboard box placed outside the security doors of the theater in which the band was playing. And it wasn’t exactly the most rounded selection of material. And it was overlong. Again, I could tell there was something there, but. Well, whatever.

Later, an ex-girlfriend had one of those creepy fetishistic things for Kurt Cobain. As people do. Which again bade me hold the band at arm’s distance.

Now, here we are. The last ten months I’ve been trying hard to become myself; to break all these ties and expectations. Make my own context.

So. Six albums, I guess, are the “canon”: the three real albums, Incesticide, and the live ones. I’m starting with Mtv Unplugged, because I’m not in the mood for heavy guitars right now.

And yeah. This is legitimate.

I kind of feel like I’m claiming something that was cheated from me. Like I’m filling in a blank in my life.