Forty artists, from Eddie Vedder to the Black Keys, share their personal memories of a classic.

1. 40 Artists Reflect on a Classic


In case you're just joining us: On September 24, 1991, the Seattle-based band Nirvana — singer-guitarist Kurt Cobain, bassist Krist Novoselic, and new drummer Dave Grohl — released their second album, Nevermind, their first for major label DGC Records. And while the ensuing maelstrom has hardly gone undocumented, the effect the record had on music fans and artists alike is as raw and personal now as it was 20 years ago.

You may know the story, but you haven't heard these stories.

2. 40 Artists Reflect on a Classic


In case you're just joining us: On September 24, 1991, the Seattle-based band Nirvana — singer-guitarist Kurt Cobain, bassist Krist Novoselic, and new drummer Dave Grohl — released their second album, Nevermind, their first for major label DGC Records. And while the ensuing maelstrom has hardly gone undocumented, the effect the record had on music fans and artists alike is as raw and personal now as it was 20 years ago.

You may know the story, but you haven't heard these stories.



It was summertime in Seattle, and our record Ten was coming out in about a week. There were a few copies of Nevermind floating around on cassette before the record was out, and I remember hearing it on a Walkman, walking by myself on a rare nice day when the clouds broke for the first time in months. Just hearing that tape with the white label, it had an impact. It felt like a change. I remember in April, there were a bunch of people outside this place called the O.K. Hotel. I went up — I knew the guy who poured coffee there — and I was able to go in and see one of the first shows they played for the record. Later that summer, Fugazi were playing in the Mojave Desert. We drove in this little Toyota with Nevermind playing. You could just listen to that thing on repeat, it never dipped.



All of that success happened so quickly. The funny thing is that Nirvana were still playing places that held 700 to 800 people by the time we had a gold record. We were still touring in a van when we had a platinum record. I was still living in my friend's back room by the time we'd sold ten million records. It wasn't some crazy VH1/MC Hammer overnight bling success — I think we were all in shock after it happened. I went to Benihana with a credit card like, "Oh my God, this thing works!"



Nevermind was the pivotal album in my life. It came out right before middle school, which is the perfect time to reject the world and be alienated from your peers. My sister was pushing for me to just get the single of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." She said, "You're not going to like any of the other songs." I went to a party and everyone was supposed to bring a cassette to listen to. Most people were bumping Metallica and Guns N' Roses, and I brought Nevermind. I was actually a little embarrassed at first — was this too weird? I thought people might make fun of me, but they didn't, and it became everyone's favorite thing.

I played a show in St. Louis recently, and these kids invited us back to their apartment. Everyone was playing a bunch of new bands, so I got on YouTube and played "Drain You." My friends were, like, "Yes! This is what we needed to hear at five in the morning." The younger people were, like, "Yeah, cool." They were feeling it, but it's different if you lived through it.

6. DANNY GOLDBERG, Former Manager


In hindsight, the most striking thing about the period when Nirvana recorded Nevermind was how normal things were compared to what was to come. They had enough money from the Geffen deal that they didn't have to worry about eating or having a roof over their heads, but not enough to buy anything expensive. They had enough validation from the reception to Bleach to have creative control and confidence but not a hint of the fame that the album would soon create for them. The problems that came up were small and easily handled.

When the album was nearing completion, Kurt had told me in a tone of quiet determination that Nirvana could be as big as the Pixies. That was ambitious because the Pixies were a bit bigger than Sonic Youth, and Sonic Youth were the godparents of the scene that Nirvana was part of. In my own mind, the furthest goalpost imaginable was to match Jane's Addiction, who had some hard-rock fans that had eluded other punk bands..

Then suddenly "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was on the radio and there were waiting lists (waiting lists!) of people at indie stores who had reserved the album. I wasn't sure how to digest this, so I asked Mark Kates, the head of alternative promotion at Geffen, if this was normal for big cult bands, and he replied with his eyes popping out, "I've never seen anything like this in my life." The next day, my partner told me that a friend of his had been at a Guns N' Roses show in New York when "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was played over the PA, and the huge macho crowd cheered. That was when we realized that it was going to be bigger than anything that anyone involved had dreamed of.



I really did love that ensemble they had with the drummer before Dave Grohl — that's no slag on Dave Grohl — there was just an element from Bleach that we loved. We played a couple shows with them, maybe one in Seattle right around Bleach, and backstage the mood at these Sub Pop shows was, you know, everyone was having a great time celebrating themselves. And there was a feeling that Kurt couldn't let loose and be a dork, like, "Fuck, I wish I was having more fun than I am."

Later on, you'd run into normal people who'd say, "I like Nirvana," and you're like, "Six months ago they were a cool, freaky Sub Pop group, and now Joe Sixpack at 7-Eleven is into Nirvana." It didn't seem as though punk rock was suddenly outselling the Eagles or something. Most of the underground music remained underground and some of the clichéd copy bands like Bush became popular. Them, STP, Candlebox — who we played with — all that seemed to be the focus of that momentum. Nevermind came out in '91, and by '96, people were saying, "Whatever that is, we're not part of it."

That was probably the first time that happened, with us thinking, wrongly, that this is our music and the lunkheads will never know what we have here. It was great and phenomenal and weird and sad —all of those things combined.



I was living in my Chevy Beretta around the time Nevermind was released. I was 29, my life had fallen apart — I was going through a divorce, losing my home and my cat. It was the background music for the drama unfolding in my world.

In '92, my album Some Gave All came out and was the No. 1 album for 17 weeks in a row. There was a lot of attention all of a sudden. One night, my circus pulls into town somewhere out West, I believe Arizona, and Nirvana's trucks were coming out of the place they'd played. Somewhere in the bowels of one of those buildings, a guy walked up to me and said, "Congratulations, you pissed the whole world off." I looked at Kurt and said, "Thank you." We just chitchatted. A few months later, backstage at the Billboard Music Awards, we crossed paths again, and this time it was a really strong handshake, like, "My friend, I didn't know we'd ever cross paths again."

I saw Miley's cover of "Teen Spirit" in South America. The crowd just went crazy. And I thought, "How beautiful, man," because I do believe Kurt's spirit is very much still on this earth, through his fans and his music. I did have a very surreal moment watching my little girl do their song, realizing, "Wow, these kids are singing along to this in English, every word. And I'm sure that Kurt loves it."



Nevermind first hovered into view, for me, in the bleak, early months of 1992. And it didn't drop-kick my head anywhere new or change my landscape — I did that myself, in my daily situation, moving to San Francisco to further pursue comedy.

But what it did do, subconsciously, hearing it as ambient music on long road trips or in dive bars after my shows, was reassure me I was making the right choice. Because Cobain and Co. didn't make being young and confused and dumped-on sound fun — in fact, they assured you your situation righteously sucked. But they also showed you that you could take your rage and frustration and make them loud, and at least annoy other people until you worked your shit out. The sonic portal they opened led me to a bleak, beautiful musical landscape populated by Tad and Alice in Chains and the Velvet Underground and the Pixies and Killing Joke and all of these other bands I'd missed while Roxette was being blasted into my skull at every strip-mall comedy club I was floundering in.

And hovering over this lurching, postadolescent landscape, like a sullen angel, was Juliana Hatfield, who sang, on her song "Nirvana": "Now I've got Nirvana in my head / I'm so glad I'm not dead..."

Me too!



Up until Nevermind, Pavement and other bands of that ilk were always very much sneaking up on people, building their reputations through zines and college radio and touring. After Nevermind, people started aggressively hunting down bands like ours or small bands that had only been in existence for a few months. I do think that album was special enough to trigger the response it got, but who knows — if it wasn't that, would it have been a different album?

A guy like Kurt Cobain becoming one of the most recognizable people in popular culture within a six- to 12-month period — it boggles the mind. Of course, now we have Lady Gaga, people with entire staffs constantly manipulating situations to create a monster-type famous person, but that wasn't the case with Nirvana. They made "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and within 30 days, they were that big. It's kind of fucked up. It can't happen again. It won't happen again.



Nirvana arguably knocked that door down, and then old geezers like me coat-tailed. All of a sudden I get to be on Lollapalooza and a major label and I've got a real budget and a real press person. I can go out and do those 160 shows a year and knock my guts out and there's some wallop behind it because someone's actually helping me.

Whenever I'd be in the same room with Kurt, he'd look at me, look down, and get nervous and move away from me. I have that effect. But I asked Courtney, "What's up with your boyfriend? How come he won't come over and talk to me?" She said, "Oh, he's high and he's scared of you because you're Mr. Straight-Edge and he digs you, but you freak him out."

That music remains timeless. You might borrow your dad's Nirvana CD — so another generation is looking back on it, going, "Well, the old man kind of had it right. This doesn't suck." That music sticks for a reason. It wasn't bullshit.



We were obsessive Nirvana fans as teenagers, I knew the entire catalog on guitar when I was 16. We'd hang out, smoke a bowl, put on a Nirvana bootleg.

A friend asked us to play a Nirvana tribute set for a birthday party, then our manager asked us to do it for South by Southwest and we thought it would be funny. We got a lot of offers after that, but turned almost everything down. We also did a surprise [Deervana] set at Bonnaroo, but that was just so we could get better passes. It was supposed to be a joke, but it got too much attention and I felt stupid. We're not gonna take people's money so they can hear Nirvana songs. I'll miss jumping into the drum set and people stage-diving — I wish they'd do that during Deer Tick shows. I just think they wish they had the chance to see Nirvana live — I know I do — and their music can make you do crazy shit when you're surrounded by other people listening to it. But we've got our own music careers to worry about. We'll always throw Nirvana covers in our set, but no more full sets; we don't want to become a tribute act or something. Deervana's broken up.



Talib Kweli: There are certain pieces of work that are damn near perfect: Bob Marley's Talkin' Blues, John Coltrane's A Love Supreme, Miles Davis' Kind of Blue, and Nirvana's Nevermind. The hardcore music scene that Nirvana came out of, when I was in high school, the lyrical sentiment and style of dress and politics all gelled with hip-hop. I know this because the white kids in my school were dressing like me and I was dressing like them. And that whole thing converged when rap kids really embraced Nirvana. You could play that record in any hip-hop club right now.

Yelawolf: Nirvana were important for me — them, Digable Planets, and Goodie Mob, that's what we listened to every day. They were one of the few bands that crossed over into the hood. I was living in Nashville at the time, skateboarding and shit, and we'd be bused to downtwn Nashville to keep the schools integrated. They were raw and real, and they instilled that it was okay to be rock n'roll again. It wasn't for a while.



Kevin Whelan: My story is about me as a wee young lad interning at [name of record company redacted], cutting and gluing together press clippings about [name of big R&B star redacted], when from behind the door of the head of publicity (the door was closed because this person was always doing coke — ah, the old days), I'd hear an advance copy of Nevermind being blasted. From my little intern cubbyhole, as the first chords of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" rang out, I believed I was hearing the music of rock gods.

Charles Bissell: My recollections are that in 1991, I was head of publicity at [redacted] andliving as a woman.I remember blasting an advance copy of Nevermind to clear the coke crust from the speakers of my boombox-with-turntable. And my dweebish intern burst into my office, scaring the bejesus out of me, honestly, and said, "I believe that is the music of rock gods. I would like to form a band with you, beautiful work lady."

Okay, more seriously: It is funny how monumental albums like that seem so inescapable at the time (Sgt. Pepper's, Thriller, etc.), especially to other musicians. It seems like for the next eight years, every rock singer wanted to sound like two people screaming — including me, and I was terrible. It also felt like that was the first time I heard people talking about not just who produced or recorded something but who mixed it, à la Andy Wallace. And not just industry types, but fans. At the time, it seemed to me like a big battle in the loudness wars, of making records as loud as fuck, the better to "win" on radio. (Remember radio?) And funny now that the album sounds almost small compared to what came later.



Corin Tucker, Sleater-Kinney: Everyone was playing it, every cafe, every restaurant, it was everywhere. Suddenly, our music scene wasn't this subtle private thing. Our estimation was that they'd be as big as Sonic Youth. That was as big as we could imagine at the time. I have a ten-year-old boy, and Nirvana will come on and he's like,"Who is this?" It's interesting to watch that happen to a person; it's exactly how I felt when I first heard them. And I saw them play the community building at my school.

Carrie Brownstein, Sleater-Kinney/Wild Flag: I was driving to school and 107.7 The End, which is still a radio station in Seattle — never before had this happened and I'm sure never since — played "Smells Like Teen Spirit" over and over. You could tell the weather had changed, the landscape had changed. I drove to school with a huge lump in my throat.



Mark Ronson: I guess because I'd already been into Mother Love Bone and Soundgarden and bands like that, I knew about Nirvana. It didn't hit me like a ton of bricks. In hindsight, it was just a collection of incredible guitar pop songs sung by a beautiful, tormented man. You look at the mythology of it all, but at the end of the day, it's the songs. If they didn't have those brilliant songs, we wouldn't be talking about them right now.

Lenny Kravitz: That's a great record, man. Great style, great songwriting — really great songwriting. It's probably the best record to come out of the Seattle scene. It's one of my favorite records from that whole period. You just knew it was so fresh the first time you heard it. It still sounds fresh. You can think what you want about Kurt or grunge, but the songs are undeniable. That's why people still care.



Peter Buck, R.E.M.: Nirvana played in Athens [Georgia] about a month after Nevermind came out, and I had them stay at my house; they didn't have anywhere else to go. It's hard to believe that in the year Nevermind was released, they weren't the biggest band in the world — that was still about three months away. At the time, they played a club and then came over and got drunk. I played 45s. It wasn't any different from when the Young Fresh Fellows stayed at my house.

Amy Lee, Evanescence: I remember Nirvana and Björk entered my brain at the same time, and I was completely overwhelmed. Before that, it was all classical music for me. That record changed my life; it opened me up to a whole new world. I've never met anyone who doesn't love that album.



Kevin Barnes, Of Montreal: That was kind of a strange record. When it first came out, I loved it. I thought it was amazing, but it was just so weird when these football players and cheerleaders liked it, too. You had to share the party with people you didn't like. On some level, it was frustrating that these terrible people co-opted the music. But now, it's really beautiful because it broke down walls. It wasn't us versus them anymore. People became less uptight. They weren't as bullying or weren't as stupid. All these dudes who were more butch and uptight started smoking pot more. Instead of "Let's beat that faggot up," it was like, "Let's hang with that guy."

Sloane Crosley, author, I Was Told There'd Be Cake: My middle school was a den of thieves — either of the traditional "Now you see it, now you don't" type or the slick "Hey, can I see that?" type. So I have a vivid memory of walking into the girls' locker room and seeing the cassette single of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" lying unattended on a bench. I picked it up to look at it and this crazy popular girl came out from a bathroom stall and snatched it back. She wore a massive gold hoop in one ear and was the first person I had ever met who rocked fishnets. In gym class. Were they crotchless? Sure, for the sake of my memory. She shoved the tape into her locker, asked, "What are you looking at?" in a way that did not leave room for an answer, and that was that.

I kind of thought they would sound like Metallica. Or whatever the musical equivalent of Married…With Children would be. Until I tracked the album down. There may or may not have been bad journal writing in my bedroom with "Come as You Are" on in the background. Or "Polly." Oh God, "Polly." I liked the creepiness of it and the slowness and the way it validated whatever fake angst I had. There were other songs of varying genres I felt I owned. But Nevermind was the first entire album of my generation that didn't feel like it was on loan from the generation just before us.



Flea, Red Hot Chili Peppers: Nevermind and Blood Sugar Sex Magik came out the same day — I remember being so excited because I felt like we had made our great record. I would put on the radio and keep listening to hear "Give It Away," but I kept hearing this Nirvana song and was like, "God, that's a great fucking song. But are they going to play 'Give It Away'?" And then they turned out to be the greatest band in the world.

Geoff Rickly, Thursday: Most drummers write beats. Dave Grohl wrote riffs. When you're making a fill that people sing, that's super, super hard to do. He was just a master of it. The rest is dirty and fun; the drums on Nevermind are straight-up pop gold.



Jeff Tweedy, Wilco: When Nevermind came out, somebody gave us a cassette and we thought it sounded so slick — like a Whitney Houston record. I think Kurt Cobain was a really great pop songwriter. But you have to understand, Uncle Tupelo [my band at the time] hated everything that wasn't a field recording from Appalachia, anything that wasn't raw and amateur-sounding. I liked a lot of the music that influenced Nevermind: the Replacements, punk rock from the '80s. Whenever I hear it now, I think it sounds great. But it really was produced compared to other records at the time. For a band that had an image of being super punk rock and dangerous, from our perspective, it was like, "That's the opposite!"

Ben Lee
I saw Nirvana play at the Big Day Out in Sydney in 1992, shortly after Nevermind was released. I was a late bloomer, not yet having hit my growth spurt at 13, and easily one of the shortest people among the 5,000 or so. I remember a pretty girl in her 20s offering me a sip of her beer. Nevermind reminds me that it's okay to be different, and that when you least expect it, you can suddenly find that there are others out there that feel the same way. I left feeling inspired in a way I hadn't felt before, and the next day I did the thing that punk rock was always meant to make you do: I started a band.



Patrick Carney, the Black Keys: Nevermind was the first modern-rock record that I became obsessed with. I was in sixth grade and my brother had the cassette. I was just getting into Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix at the time. I remember seeing Nirvana on Saturday Night Live and it blowing my mind. By the time In Utero came out, everyone had gotten into Nirvana, and all the kids who had never been exposed to that kind of music were ready for that sound. Basically, it's our generation's equivalent of AC/DC's Back in Black.

Owen Pallett: I used to go to the weight room in ninth grade and put on Nevermind and pump iron. Then Kurt died and the music lost its anabolic effects — I lost a lot of weight in '94.Good songs, though. And I never would've gotten into the Melvins, the Meat Puppets, or Shellac were it not for Nirvana.



Tom Gabel, Against Me!: It didn't feel like anything I had ever heard. And that it's aged so well is a testament to the songwriting. Nothing about the lyrics really seems particular to that era. There aren't any contemporary references that make you feel like, "Oh, that's the '90s." Nevermind is the best Nirvana album, hands down. Anyone who says it's In Utero is lying. They're just trying to look cool.

Marnie Stern: Somehow I never listened to Nirvana until last year! Which is even stranger because I grew up when they were popular. But I really, really like that "Smells Like Teen Spirit" song. The chorus makes you want to win, win, WIN!



John Waters, filmmaker: I remember MTV did this huge show about me, and Kurt died the day it was supposed to air, so it was never shown. And my mother kept going, "Who is he? I've never heard of this person!" The grunge thing infuriated people, the purposely-looking-shabby — it was hippie, but with a better style. A little bit of punk, a little bit of trouble. That trend in Hollywood where actors try to look ugly just to prove that they can't really look ugly? That was Kurt.

Tim McIlrath, Rise Against: Nevermind made being weird sort of cool, and it was commercial. There was a kid from my neighborhood who won American Idol last year and everyone in town was freaking out, and people were asking me what I thought, looking for me to sign off on this. But my type of singer would have never made the audition. That's what I was trying to impress on these people, and on my kids: Embrace what makes you different. This idea that if you don't fit these parameters, that if you don't sing this Michael Jackson song perfectly, hang it up — how would that apply to Bob Dylan and Kurt Cobain and John Fogerty? Kurt sold more records than any of the American Idols combined by sounding fucked up and broken.



Damian Abraham, Fucked Up: I was a big Guns N' Roses fan and made the jump to Pink Floyd to Sonic Youth and skipped Nirvana. I went back and discovered Nevermind around the time In Utero came out and was blown away. A lot of people decried it as being a sellout — the production is too polished, and so on — but there is an aggression that still comes through. If you look at the music in the punk world, a lot of it was sunny, happy, shiny pop-type punk, whereas this was a dyspeptic band that sang about serial killers.

Brent Hinds, Mastodon: I was 16 years old and in a band called Kill Darling. My bandmate Johnny had Nevermind on cassette, and he was like, "I want you to listen to this! It's fucking good!" and we all sat around and listened to the whole thing before practice. Fast-forward 20 years later and I'm standing in Sound City, the place where they recorded the album, talking about music with Dave Grohl. Full circle. It didn't impact me immediately because my playing was so different from Kurt Cobain's. I loved what they were doing; I loved that they were doing it. But I didn't want to be a part of it at all. I never was in any way.



Meghan O'Rourke, author, The Long Goodbye: The first time I saw the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video, its sepia tones made it seem already a memory of my own youth — the way I would one day remember what it was like to be 15 in 1991, suffused in a rage and knowingness about sex, hypocrisy, entertainment, cruelty. Even on that first listen, the song carried with it a strange nostalgia.

And the strange thing about the 20th anniversary of Nevermind is realizing that the album did capture what it was like to be floating through adolescence in the fading sun of the early '90s. When I think about those years, I often think about the way Cobain embodied damage and longing in "Polly" or "Rape Me," songs I'd never heard the likes of before. The sound was disenchanted yet not exactly ironic; weary yet oddly celebratory. The album aspired almost to the operatic, but in a modern way. During that year, I first listened to Nevermind feeling it was ours, feeling it had captured a moment. I self-consciously wondered if part of me just wanted to have that feeling about a band — the way my parents had had about the Stones or Dylan. We were the belated generation; rock'n'roll wasn't just music, it was the music that was supposed to signify a riotous charge (yet rarely did). Today, I realize that my questioning was shaped by the music itself: What made Nevermind iconic had a lot to do with Cobain's own self-consciousness.

By the time I was in college, listening to indie rock, having put away my flannel shirts, it seemed the world had gotten a little more fey and a lot more ironic. But when Cobain killed himself in the spring of 1994, we all left our dorm rooms and went out to the lawn and someone played Nevermind from the window loud enough that it reverberated among the gothic stones as we sang along.

Ray Davies: When it came out, I thought it was the most significant American rock'n'roll album since the Doors. Twenty years on and it is still fresh.



Cole Alexander, Black Lips: When Slash came out in the '80s, it was like, I can't be a rock star. But when Nirvana came out, it was like, wait, I can do this.

Ray Toro, My Chemical Romance: I was a sophomore in high school, maybe a junior, when that came out, and you hadn't seen anything like that. That dude, he shredded his voice when he was singing.



Jennie Boddy, former Sub Pop publicist: Dammit, that was fun. If I'd known I was having so much fun, I would have appreciated more, but I was too busy having fun to notice. Like the Sub Pop LOSER logo, this loser happily bobbed through the Seattle-scene days humming, "I feel bad and I've felt worse / I'm a creep, yeah, I'm a jerk" while I worked. I moved to Seattle in 1989 and thought I'd already missed it all: Nirvana hadn't even released Bleach, much less their first single, but son-of-a-bitch Mudhoney's "Touch Me I'm Sick" was already out the year before! Sub Pop was just getting off the ground, or at least getting the singles out from under co-owner Bruce Pavitt's bed and into an office building.

And we had fun. It was all music and ideas and shows and, okay, some drinking may have been going on — but Europe had discovered Seattle, and we rode the crest of U.K. magazines loving bands like Tad and feeling the fake slogans. Already in 1990 it seemed all the hype was overblown. Sub Pop had already gone from making T-shirts that said WORLD DOMINATION to ones saying WHICH PART OF WE HAVE NO MONEY DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Even as a label, we were totally disconnected from bands having managers and label people. Shit, when a radio guy was hired, we tortured him because he said such catchwords and was so "corporate"; we stole his pencils out of his pencil cups and told people who called him he couldn't come to the phone because he had hemorrhoids and he couldn't sit down.

Nirvana mythologized Sonic Youth's profile. That was the pinnacle of success to them. Kurt loved Sonic Youth and the Butthole Surfers. He loved really uncool shit, too, like Abba or the Knack. And what's cool is he couldn't give one shit if it was cool. I mean, really, it's hard to be cool while wearing a dress of mine or Susie Tenant's (Nirvana's Geffen rep, my roommate, and a friend who Kurt liked to visit).

I remember in the early days, before even the U.K. press people came on board and I was doing press for Nirvana's tour after Bleach, many writers/editors couldn't be bothered to even listen to a new band like Nirvana. Within a year, the same people suddenly came back for their dumb "Seattle Scene" stories — and I'm still holding grudges (I'm talking to you, Marvin Jarrett).

No one could see my eye-rolling through the phone, so I had to tell people that doing a story on the Seattle scene was so unoriginal and not a story: "That scene has sailed; please write about the bands the way Flipside zine does." Okay, so Nirvana sold 4 million records, but they were all just part of us — it wasn't different. Now they kept the lights on at Sub Pop instead of Mudhoney, as the Geffen deal took care of Sub Pop with a special arrangement, including $750,000 billion, stretch limos, and a prize-winning goat named Buck Buck. So that's it, what they call a done deal on grunge. Oops.

Oops again. Then blammo right after that, like months, came Pearl Jam' Ten, and all grunge bets were off. But that's also when it really got fun, because Pearl Jam/Alice in Chains weren't really part of the Sub Pop/Nirvana/Tad/Afghan Whigs scene. Seeing the band high-fiving on their album cover was not the kind of stupid that was the genius genesis at Sub Pop à la Nirvana's "Negative Creep," but the kind of stupid that was stupid. But often heard around the offices was, "I hear Eddie's a nice guy."

So, yeah, grunge made the runways, and heroin chic was born. I didn't eye-roll as much because it got so ridiculous, it was hilarious. Everyone was so cleverly deadpan about it. No one pushed an angle for the New York Times to do a "lexicon of grunge," but boy, when they asked for it, we ran with it, and out of receptionist-at-the-time/vice-president-now Megan Jasper's mouth came, "Catch you on the flippity-flop" and "Okie-Dokie artichokie." It's baffling how Megan could be so funny — she was my fuck-with-people hero.

Tabitha Soren came to town for MTV. She just wanted to meet the cute, young Seaweed fans, so I took her out to hear Earth. Her ears about exploded and she got mad. She looked past me at one of her three assistants and told them to give me an MTV shirt, then left. In turn, we told everyone that she was kazooed up the woo-woo with a number two Ticonderoga pencil.

The New Yorker came to do an article, The New Motherfucking Yorker. Too bad writer Elizabeth Wurtzel was bonkers, and for some reason only wanted to interview Mark Lanegan over and over. I don't think her story ever even ran.

In just a few years, Seattle went from a handful of underground warriors living in a small bubble to the idea that the world was at our disposal. In retrospect, I know I had the time of my life and I know that grunge look was just not flattering. Oh, and all I'll say about the Hole song "Jennifer's Body" is that I knew it was coming before it got released. It's a pretty good song.

Joel McHale, actor-comedian: I went to the University of Washington, and I remember people listening to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and going, "What the fuck is this?" It's like someone gave you speed for your ears. One of the reasons I loved Kurt Cobain so much is that he had a great sense of humor. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" — just the name of the song is hilarious. I mean, "A mulatto / An albino / A mosquito / My libido / Yeah, hey, yeah" — that's a lyric from one of the biggest songs of all time. And look at the cover of the album: It's a baby swimming after a dollar. That could be the cover of a comedy album.



I worked at a Tower Records in Sonoma, California at the time and I remember myself and a couple of the other employees being excited for Nevermind before it even shipped. I was a fan of Bleach, which had become a hard to find record when Nirvana moved from Sub Pop to Geffen. They had great songs, a crazy original sound and a vibe that was so different from the pop metal that was huge at the the time. I honestly thought they and some of the other Seattle bands like Soundgarden and Mudhoney were a record away from blowing up.

I was always looking for new "killer shit" at the time. I was stoked on this thing from Florida called death metal, but that was pretty underground. I wanted something fresh, my favorite band Metallica had gone way commercial with the Black Album and one of my other favorite bands, Guns N' Roses had released Use Your Illusion 1 and 2, their bloated, spotty follow-up to Appetite. The label reps that came to our store talked about new music from Nirvana and a band consisting of a couple of guys from Mother Love Bone (Pearl Jam, not sure what happened with them), they were excited about both bands. I got excited too.

Then I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit." We got the single first and a buddy of mine and I drove around one night playing that song over and over. It practically exploded out of my buddy's car stereo. The band I had already dug from Bleach had discovered huge hooks. There was something about that song that was more exciting and of the moment than the other punk, metal and pop we liked at the time. Nevermind arrived at our store a week or so later and even in my small town you could feel it change everything immediately. We sold shit loads of it and to everybody, not just the punk and metal kids. We sold records to people we'd never seen before. We played it constantly and built a huge display but it didn't need us pushing it, that record was a monster on its own.