By 1993 Nirvana had been shovelled across the globe like show monkeys, riding the huge wave of fame (and the excess that comes with it) still surging from Nevermind. Kurt Cobain, pretty much a loose cannon to begin with, was showing blatant signs that this whole lifestyles of the rich and famous vibe wasnt doing his psyche any favours. And so, from a bitter place somewhere between fan expectations, label pressure and deep-seated loathing for all of it, the Cobain/Novoselic/Grohl triad threw whatever energy they had left into the studio the thrash out In Utero. Obviously this wasnt a band known for a gentle sound, but where the genre-defining Nevermind served up solid gold grunge hit after hit, In Utero seemed to have no interest in pumping out the crowd pleasers. Grinding, sometimes incoherent, tinged with a fuzzy kind of hostility, the mental image was of a band seething with resentment towards their own instruments. Grohl punished those drums with a severe hatred, his intensity matched by Cobains wall-of-sound churning bar-chords and wild, unhinged vocals. When you hear Kurt roaring his way through the closing bars of Scentless Apprentice, his distorted Get Away! screams ripping into your brain, you know this is the voice of a man on the edge.
Game-obsessed since the moment I could twiddle both thumbs independently. Equally enthralled by all the genres of music that your parents warned you about.
