Barfly June 2004

My dirty, grungy, stupid record collection (or, the shame of a secret Alice in Chains fan).

Prior to 1992, my record collection was pretty non-existent. I had a few New Kids on the Block tapes, some terrible British pop singles, and records I’d inherited from my lovely but terribly unhip parents (John Denver, anyone?). When I finally reached the age when I could walk down to the Sam Goody at Clackamas Town Center and buy my own records, I jumped right in to the musical trend of the day: grunge. I should clarify that at this point that I wasn’t really buying records; I was buying those fancy and newfangled CDs. They came in long packages with tree wasting, elaborate cardboard sleeves surrounding the actual CD.

I bought into grunge not only as a musical movement, but also as a lifestyle. My long hair went unwashed. I threw out my tidy GAP clothes that my mother had purchased and hit up the Goodwill for flannel and jeans that looked like someone had run over them with a lawnmower. And I bought CDs by truckload: not just Nirvana, but Alice in Chains, Mudhoney, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Screaming Trees, and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin.

It only makes sense that I got into grunge about the time my hormones started raging. I was tortured, I tell you, tortured. Sure, I had a roof over my head, food on my table, and parents who loved me, but no one understood the real me. Well, no one except Kurt Cobain and Layne Stayley.

From a purely critical standpoint, grunge was not terribly original. Many of the riffs were blatant seventies rock rip-offs, and mach of the lyrical content could have been cribbed from the punk rock of the eighties. However, after a decade of pop and poodle hair metal, lyrics about issues beyond blow and strippers were a breath of fresh air. Oh sure, the nuances of the political issues were about a subtle as an Al Franken rant, but I’d take Kurt Cobain’s take on rape over Axl Rose’s any day.

Eventually, I moved on. Eddie Vedder mentioned riot grrl in an interview, and I found Bikini Kill and Bratmobile. Courtney Love, back when she was still lucid, mentioned Susan Faludi, and I found “Backlash.” I got in to the Portland scene, and started writing for a little paper called “The Rocket.”

When I occasionally break out my old copy of the Singles soundtrack, I’m a little embarrassed by the simplicity of the lyrics and the big riffs. But the sincerity is undeniably sweet, and now, ten years after Kurt’s suicide and Bush releasing their first disc, “Big Dumb Sex” reminds me of a more innocent time. I might listen to Hella and XBXRX these days, but I think you can guess which records I’ll still be dancing around my living room to in ten years.