Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth writes about Kurt Cobain in April 8's "New York Times"

[AKA]

When the Edge Moved to the Middle

By Thurston Moore

The boy looked just like Kurt Cobain. He was no more than 19. Same yellow hanging hair, fallow blue eyes, the sad square jaw, innocent and adult.

We were in a Brooklyn basement full of artists and sound-poets gathered to watch musicians throw down extreme noise improvisation. One performer played records with two customized tone arms on his turntable; the discs broke and scratched, creating shards of hyperfractured beat play. He was followed by a quartet of young women scraping metal files across amplified coils mixed through junk electronics. I was to perform a spontaneous guitar/amp feedback piece with a stand-up bass player on loan from his teaching post at Berklee College of Music and a free jazz percussionist who had traversed through New York's downtown underground in the 60's. Not your typical night of alternative rock.

And I had a feeling this kid was looking for alternative rock. It was the year 2000. Kurt had died six years earlier, and through whatever fleeting friendship I had with him, this ethereal look-alike saw me as some connection.

Before being labeled alternative rock, Sonic Youth, the band I started in 1980 (and continue in still!), was called "post-punk." By the early 90's, we existed as a sort of big brother (and big sister) group to Kurt's generation of underground America. When Nirvana became popular, we were all called alternative rock — a less threatening term than anything with punk in the title (though with Green Day and Blink 182 in the late 90's, punk ultimately became accessible and extremely profitable — at least for the new MTV punks). The original alternative rock bands — Nirvana and Sonic Youth included — never had any allegiance to alternative rock. We all had come too far and through too much for any professional advice toward stylistic adjustment.

Kurt was not enamored with new traditionalism. He was more attached to the avant-garde rock of his hometown pals, the Melvins, who continue to stretch the parameters of what rock music can be. The traditional aspects of Nirvana's music — aspects that lent it accessibility — were expressed through Kurt as if they were experimental gestures. (The Beatles, also grand pop experimentalists, were loudly whispered by Nirvana as a primary influence, something unusual for punk devotees.) These elements were an important part of Nirvana's appeal. But what is transcendent about Kurt's art — what today, 10 years after his death, gives him rock immortality — was his voice and performance ability, both of which exuded otherworldly soulful beauty.

The initial popularity of alternative rock was in conflict with punk culture, which has a history of denouncing commercial success. Nirvana's second album, "Nevermind," along with the success of the Lollapalooza tours, changed the game. Both announced the discovery of an unaccounted-for demographic, cynical and amused by the pop rebellion displayed by new wave (Duran Duran) and hair-metal (Guns N' Roses). This newly discovered audience, one that surged well beyond the punk elite to the greater population of alienated and dislocated youth, was all at once represented by Kurt.

Kurt was aware of his sudden high profile and how it could be perceived as uncool in the punk scene. He made snotty comments about the fresh-minted alternative rock acts being touted by MTV. We all did. At the request of The New York Times, Nirvana's first record label, Seattle's Sub Pop, created a mock lexicon of "grunge" culture. Remarkably, the news media ran with it — to our disbelief and delight.

In the face of success, Kurt seemed to feel the need to maintain this stump position of punk rock credibility. Save the mainstream acceptance of the relatively straight-ahead pop of R.E.M. — which Kurt loved as much as hard-core thrash — there really was no model for such success from our community. He told Flipside, the iconic Los Angeles punk rock fanzine, that he hoped the next Nirvana album would vanquish their affiliation with the "lamestream." He recounted being taken aback by an audience member who grabbed him and advised him to, "Just go for it, man." I remember smiling at this, as it was how most of us felt. We didn't perceive Nirvana's status as lame. It was cool.