I quit my job to be a full-time starving musician. Our band was now called Nirvana and we were starting to make a name for ourselves locally and nationally. Our first album, Bleach, was released in June of 1989. We toured constantly, driving all over North America, playing from British Columbia, Canada to Baja California, Mexico, Montreal to Florida, Texas to Nebraska, gigging at dozens of little hole-in-the-wall clubs. I really enjoyed seeing our vast land, playing shows one town and one night at a time. Small clubs were where people on the outside of the mainstream converged. In 1989, it was inconceivable for a band like ours to be on mainstream radio--and forget about television! But there was an alternative universe, and we found it alive and well in most corners of the U.S. That fall, we toured Europe with our label-mates TAD. Europe has its differences from the U.S., but my experience proved that music is an international language--people like to rock out wherever you go. We found ourselves in Berlin the day after the wall fell. We counted a column of little Trabant cars, twenty-seven kilometers long, on the Eastern side, waiting to enter the West. The emotion of history-in-the-making was in the air. The West had much to offer and this wasn't lost on me when I noticed all of the Trabants parked on the Reeperbahn, Hamburg's notorious avenue of booze and sex.

In late 1990, Dave Grohl joined as our drummer. His contribution transformed us into a force of nature. Nirvana was now a beast that walked the earth. We toured the United Kingdom as a headliner, drawing good-sized crowds. The press started to write about us more and more. We returned to Washington for another creative and prolific period. We'd rehearse almost every night getting the material together for our second album. We were now at a point where we were selling out every venue in Seattle. And major labels were beginning to sign bands from the underground; every week brought news of another group going with the big labels. Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. had been signed up, along with most of the leaders in the underground scene, as the majors scooped up the cream of the crop. Word of quarter-million-dollar contracts was common. It was a time of optimism in the music business. New technologies were embraced. The transition from vinyl to compact discs was well under way. Labels were flush with the sales of back-catalog artists in the new digital format.

It was the promise of getting paid a decent amount of money and the belief that life would be easier that motivated us to sign a major label deal. The alternative was to slog it out in the same old club scene, and the freshness and romance of that reality was starting to wear thin. We could have ramped up an independent business with all of the elements needed for a DIY operation, but we were better musicians than businessmen. We had to move forward.

In January of 1992, our second album, Nevermind, hit number one on the charts. This was totally unexpected. The label initially printed 50,000 copies of the record--that was supposed to last us for the next year or so. As a result of the sudden success, you couldn't find the album in any stores, but that just added to the mystique. Nirvana was truly a phenomenon. We virtually came out of nowhere and found ourselves plopped in the middle of popular culture. The album broke through with the single "Smells Like Teen Spirit." It turned into an anti-anthem that rallied the disaffected. I've always felt that the song was an observation of a culture mired in boredom amidst relative luxury. In other words, many have the means to make their own way but choose not to do so. The lyrics don't convey a literal message guiding people toward a sense of liberation. It's simply a comment on a condition.

Rock music of the late '80s had been very predictable. In 1990 no rock record had even made the top ten. Nevermind was the right record at the right time. Great original rock bands like R.E.M. and Jane's Addiction had previously blazed a trail to the top of the pop charts but Nevermind really announced the arrival of new régime. The era of the big-hair bands was over. The old bands touted merely a token rebellion; their symbols of rock 'n' roll like bandanas, whiskey bottles, and motorcycles were clichés that only created an image of nonconformity. The new guard held the skeptical sensibilities of the subculture along with the inherent rebellion of it all. It was real. The new guard offered meaningful rebellion, and the seismic shift that occurred in rock revealed a public that was hungry for it. It took awhile, but no longer was punk to be despised--it had landed in the mainstream, albeit neutralized by a clever use of semantics. Seattle music was referred to as "grunge," but on a national level the new movement was pigeonholed as "alternative music." I know we came out of the alternative world, but I believe the moniker of "alt-rock" was a trap set early on to control the impact of a new breed of rock 'n' roll. This way, the new music couldn't displace the status quo--it was simply labeled an alternative to it. The term alternative as a name for a genre of music was an instant anachronism; the name cancelled itself out. By the time alternative landed in the mainstream, the old guard had run its course, and there was no real alternative except stasis.

But the new order wasn't just about fresh music; it was also supported by the ideals and values cultivated from the punk rock world. In many ways, the grunge/alternative revolution of the early '90s was a call to consciousness. A lot of musicians really cared about equality and human rights. The old guard of big-hair bands touted a macho swagger packaged in a soft feminine look. Grunge was its symmetrical opposite. It broke through with sensitive introspection wrapped in aggression and facial hair. The revolution was inclusive, with women musicians a vital component of the scene. Feminist ideals fit naturally with the new sensibility. Political information booths became common at concerts. Bands played benefits and didn't shy from talking about issues.

In 1991, the first war with Iraq broke out. I recall being so disgusted with the whole affair. War is the most horrific of human endeavors and I've never comprehended its glorification; watching society cheer it on like a football game affirmed my status as an outsider. Odds are, the average person had never even heard of Iraq, but how quickly they lined up to join the parade of death and destruction toward an obscure, faraway nation. From the luxury of distance, war was waged to the schlager tune of "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree," a song for the troops so far from home. The phrase "We Support Our Troops" appeared on thousands of car bumpers. It was not lost on me that these vehicles needed to burn Kuwaiti oil to get down the road. I resented the notion that if you didn't support the war you didn't support the troops. I have always supported working people, and I didn't need big bellicose oil men trying to paint me into a rhetorical corner. I marched against the war with zeal, and Nirvana played a benefit concert opposing it, but the public fervor was too strong to gain any sense of balance. The enduringly nasty nuances of American foreign policy didn't matter. It was war season, and time to get on board. I was in a music store in Olympia buying some bass strings when a man in a military uniform started to make nasty jokes about Iraqi women. He was quite jovial because Hussein had been driven out of Kuwait that day. I remember glaring at him and feeling quite livid. It would probably be the same revulsion I'd have if I were forced to witness necrophilia. Thank God I had my own home and way of life for shelter from the madness.

In the spring of 1992, I was invited to a rally in Olympia. The occasion was the passage of a censorship law, and I knew the rally's organizers, leaders of an organization called the Washington Music Industry Coalition (WMIC). I showed up a little after the rally started. With the intention of just letting the organizers do their thing, I didn't plan on speaking. But being in a band with a hit record makes blending into a crowd hard. Immediately upon my arrival, reporters approached me and started asking about the law. I was startled. I must have said that I was for freedom of speech (or something like that), but otherwise I was totally unprepared. So much for just being there! I was merely the bass player in a rock band--wouldn't the press be better off talking to the people who organized the event? The organizers were way more informed on the issue than I was. Why was my opinion so important? The answer is: People were already listening to my music so naturally they wanted to know more about me. There was a real connection. People look for meaning in their music and their politics.

The November 1992 election resulted in the largest youth vote since 1971, the year the 26th Amendment was ratified. Youth culture, especially music media outlets like MTV and the organization Rock the Vote, served as a conduit promoting civic participation. The 26th Amendment, which lowered the voting age to eighteen, was a direct product of the role played by youth in the enduring social changes of the 1960s. We caught an echo of that populism, and in 1992 youth were credited with electing the first Democrat in twelve years. Nirvana was keenly interested in the election, beginning with the primaries. I remember admonishing Kurt for sending $200 to the Jerry Brown presidential campaign. As a rule, Brown accepted only contributions no greater than $100, so I felt anything over that would violate his ethic. Kurt just shrugged, and indeed the Brown campaign never sent the money back. In Oregon that year, Ballot Measure 9 proposed institutionalizing discrimination against gays and lesbians; Nirvana headlined a fundraiser opposing it in September 1992. We also organized a benefit in April 1993 to bring attention to the plight of women in the Balkan conflicts of the time. We used our stature for what we thought was right. In concert or on TV, we wore T-shirts of our favorite bands, hoping that the power of music would steer people toward independence. Robert Fripp of King Crimson once told me that in the late '60s, many thought music was going to save the world.

Personally and socially, things had changed in a big way for me, some for better, some for worse. It was like the whole world came knocking. I was used to stepping out into the world, but now the world wanted to come in. This didn't help the situation with Nirvana. There were many internal and external pressures. It was difficult to reconcile with the mainstream world. The change was so big and so fast. When I look back at those two and a half years of meteoric fame, it feels like it was a span of ten years. Things were so intense, so compressed. Everyone in the band dealt with the changes in his own way. In hindsight, there was a lack of skills needed to cope with the situation. Applying some kind of metaphor regarding carrying "the weight of the world" is easily overstated. I want to keep a distance from that sentiment, but as far as the music world went, there was a New Messiah. Kurt couldn't bear that, at least not alone, and in April of 1994 he killed himself.

Kurt's death was a giant media affair. Someone remarked that it was like the Kennedy assassination, but with MTV News anchor Kurt Loder in the Walter Cronkite role. The international media descended upon Seattle to report on the death of this "Spokesperson of a Generation." If he was a spokesperson, Kurt gained his mandate through an economic democracy--it's as if every album sold was a vote for Nirvana. Tragically, he picked the wrong way to resign from the position he was thrust into. A person passing away is a supernatural event. Mix this with the cultural impact of someone whose words touched so many, and you have the recipe for deity. Kurt joined the pantheon of musicians who died at their prime. All movements have their icons. Alberto Corda photographed Che Guevara in 1960 in what would become one of the most reproduced images of the 20th century. As Guevara entered the mythos of revolution, Kurt Cobain did the same for thoughtful rock 'n' roll.

The end of the band left a vacuum in the music world. Nirvana had been like an art book with bands cutting out clippings, and it didn't take long for the fickle music industry to start whining again for a new messiah. In 1997 and '98 the music business was poised for some kind of electronica/pop hybrid to usher in a new era. It never happened. Saviors are a phenomenon. They don't just materialize for the sake of moving merchandise. There is always that anticipation for the next big thing. Never mind attempting to make it happen for yourself, or making your own way. Salvation is a good thing if you can get it, and more importantly if you can hold onto it. I have learned to separate Kurt Cobain the person from Kurt Cobain the deity. There is a heavy place in my heart for the person I knew. The deity part is not my concern; that's for people who need the mystique. But watching the "deity phenomenon" at close hand has given me a greater insight into it, and this makes me ponder the human side of history's legendary people.

Whenever I'm out in public I get recognized as the "bass player of Nirvana." I am very proud of this and try to be gracious to people who approach me. So many tell me how Nirvana has changed their lives. It's heavy. I understand because I have been there. As a musician and a fan, I've experienced the power of music. Music was always there when I needed it. Nirvana, by definition, means freedom. There is no manifesto, ideology, or method to offer. I believe salvation is a personal affair. It's up to each of us to get what we want or need from it. That is why freedom of religion is so important in our nation. We have freedom from religion in the U.S. too. And for good reason; it prevents the overbearing from bludgeoning the sublime.

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