LiveNIRVANA.com > Interview Archive > 1991 > December 27, 1991 - Los Angeles, CA, US

LIVE NIRVANA INTERVIEW ARCHIVE:
December 27, 1991 - Los Angeles, CA, US

Interviewer(s)

  • Jerry McCulley

Interviewee(s)

  • Kurt Cobain

Sources:

Medium Publisher Date of Issue Title Transcript
Print BAM 01/10/1992 Spontaneous Combustion Yes
Print Music Express 03/XX/1992 The Kids Are Restless Yes

Transcript:

Nirvana has arrived. The sales of two million records and a lofty perch on the Billboard album chart (as high as No.4) are undeniable proof of the band's success. Beyond that, the facts behind the ascendancy of these former indie label darlings begin to melt into a stewpot of apparently tongue-in-cheek record company bios, occasionally snotty interviews, and the overzealous ravings of more than a few rock scribes.

But on a rain-drenched Friday night inside the cavernous Los Angeles Sports Arena, none of that seems to matter much. Nirvana has just finished a blistering, feedback-smothered rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" midway through its opening set for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and 16,000 kids are on their feet roaring their approval for a song that has quickly gone from format-smashing breakthrough radio hit to bona fide teen anthem. "We're stupid and contagious / Here we are now, entertain us…" goes the refrain, singer/songwriter Kurt Cobain spitting the words out with a scabrous howl, the hem of his black dress (yes, dress) swirling around his long-john-covered knees, tufts on his fried, over-dyed hair clinging to his cheeks. Contagious? Certainly. Stupid? Hardly.

"I wanted to at least sell enough records to be able to eat macaroni and cheese, so I didn't have to have a job," says Cobain in a sarcastically soft-spoken near-whisper that is in dead contrast to the venomous snarl he often employs onstage. Cobain and his band-mates - bassist and longtime friend Chris Novoselic and drummer Dave Grohl - have been cornered in their dressing room for what has become an increasingly rare interview.

It's clear that they are alternately mystified and pained at having to repeatedly analyze their own unlikely good fortune. "I can't stand it when people come up to me and say, 'Congratulations on your success!'" complains Cobain. "I want to ask them, 'Do you like the songs? Do you like the album?' Selling two million records isn't successful to me unless it's good." Nevermind, the band's first release on DGC, picks up the threads of Bleach, Nirvana's 1989 debut on Seattle-based Sub Pop Records, and weaves them into a consistently riveting collection of songs that are forged from an unlikely amalgam of unrelenting thrash energy and an intuitive flair for the melodic pop hook. It's the Knack and Bay City Rollers being molested by Black Flag and Black Sabbath… or so says their official bio.

That scrap of paper also describes the chance meeting of the squat Cobain and the towering Novoselic at a Washington state art institute where they were supposedly honing their skills in such crafts as saw-blade painting and burlap-and-seashell assemblage. "Some of it is true," says Novoselic of their "official" history. "I've got Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from doing all the needlepoint," adds Cobain, explaining perhaps just how much to believe.

Cobain grew up in the tiny logging town of Aberdeen, Washington, "in a two-story house… lower-middle-class family," before spending a couple of years in a trailer park when his parents divorced. Born in Compton, California, to Yugoslavian immigrant parents, Novoselic found himself transported from Southern California to the wooded confines of Aberdeen when he was 15. "It was a big culture shock for him," says Cobain of his friend's migration, "'cause he was listening to Devo at the time.

"I didn't meet Chris until after high school," Cobain continues. "I met [him] through the Melvins, mutual punk rock friends. The only handful of people who shared the same interests as us. It wasn't too hard to find each other. We started going to punk-rock shows in Tacoma and Seattle. Watched the Melvins practice every day and hung out. He never had an interest to be in a band, I don't think. I'd been looking for years for people to jam with."

Cobain explains that he and Chris were big fans of the roller-coaster punk rock scene of the early '80s, though he "never wanted Henry Rollins's autograph. I just wanted to talk to him. I don't understand why people have to have a keepsake to show their friends."

"I was a KISS fan," admits Novoselic with uncharacteristic sheepishness. "When I was really young, like 10 years old, I had all their posters and stuff. And then, when I got older, I got into punk rock. I saw a lot of cool shows, like Husker Du."

When Cobain got his first guitar as a teenager, he wasted little time in discovering and honing his gift as a songwriter. "I started working on songwriting right away, rather than learn a bunch of Van Halen covers,' says the purple-coiffed 24-year-old. "'Cause that's not going to do me any good. I had to develop my own style. I only know a couple of cover songs to this day and they're the same ones I learned when I got my guitar: 'My Best Friend's Girl' by the Cars and 'Communication Breakdown' by Led Zeppelin. Some Lou Reed chords."

Cobain and Novoselic formed Nirvana in 1987, went through the obligatory handful of drummers while signing with Sub Pop and recording Bleach for a purported $600, then found the same sort of American critical raves and European fan response that other Seattle bands were receiving. Grohl signed on shortly before Nevermind was recorded.

But Cobain is quick to dash any myths about his loyalty to the vaunted Northwest music community. "I have no desire to be part of the 'Seattle scene,'" he insists. "We're never there. We don't live there. I can't really think of any good bands that still exist in Seattle, except Mudhoney and Tad. We've always felt friendly with those bands 'cause we started out together. But everybody goes their separate ways. For some reason, it's still vital." Adds Novoselic: "The press has to sustain themselves so they'll always create something new."

Their cynicism extends to the phenomenal success of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," the song that has made a mockery of its former "alternative" label by crossing over from college radio to become a huge hit on a dizzying array of Top 40, AOR, and dance-oriented commercial outlets. Its success has meant that the band has found itself in some rather unusual airwave company. "I was driving and ["Teen Spirit" came on the radio," says Dave Grohl, "and I thought, 'God, that really sounds like s--t!' And then right after it came that Boston song: [sings] 'Smokin'! Smokin'!"

"That's why I'm not excited about, 'Hey! We're No. 4!' with Garth Brooks and all that other s--t. I don't give a s--t about that," says Novoselic.

"I don't find it very flattering," Cobain continues. "It's tolerable. I was listening to the radio and there were all these industrial disco songs, and then all of a sudden our song comes on and it seemed completely foreign by comparison. I was surprised. When I look back on the 'Teen Spirit' song, it's semi-commercial, it's powerful. But then you're up against the majority of what they're playing on the radio."

Twenty minutes after the interview begins, Grohl and Novoselic duck out for a soundcheck, scrupulously avoiding any further questioning when they return. It's possible that this is some sort of payback for the several interview sessions that Cobain has skipped out on recently. Kurt soldiers gamely on alone, nodding off occasionally in mid-sentence. He's had but an hour's sleep, he says blearily. But the pinned pupils; sunken cheeks; and scabbed, sallow skin suggest something more serious than mere fatigue. The haggard visage and frail frame make him appear more like 40 than 24.

Cobain can be a perplexing mix of contradictions. One moment he can be expressing his disgust at the complacency around him; the next he's effusing rapturously about his impending marriage to Courtney Love, the leader of the Los Angeles band Hole. "I'm getting married and that's a total revelation - emotionally, that is," he says. "I've never felt so secure in my life, and so happy. It's like I have no inhibitions anymore. It's like I'm drained of feeling really insecure. I guess getting married has a lot to do with security and keeping your mind straight. My future wife's and my personalities are so volatile that I think if we were to get into a fight, we'd split just like that. Getting married is an extra bit of security."

One on one, Cobain slips out of the punky demeanor of his bandmates and expresses himself with gentle-humored articulation. Much lip service has been paid to the notion of Cobain as nihilistic voice of a disaffected generation. Be advised it's a role he has no interest in playing. "I think there's a lot of passion in the songs," he says of his work. "And at the same time, there's a lot of sarcasm. I don't want to be classified as some anally poetic visionary - this dark star who does nothing but sit around and brood. It seems like you're [allowed] only two personalities: Either you're gloomy and a poet - like Robert Smith or Morrissey - or you're some mindless dork.

"But I'm totally paranoid of being thought of as a political person, 'cause it's so exhausted. No matter how intelligently you go about it, you're still going to be the butt-end of most jokes."

But as Cobain relates the details of his childhood, it's easy to see where the "disaffected" perception came from. "At a pretty young age, I felt alienated," he confesses. "Right around the age of 9, I started feeling more confused. I couldn't understand at the time why I really didn't want to hang out with the kids at school. Years later I realized why: I obviously didn't relate to them, because they didn't appreciate anything artistic or cultural.

"In Aberdeen, 99 percent of the people had no idea what music was, or art. It was their bread to become loggers. That's it. I think the fact that I'm physically small - I was really a small kid - had a lot to do with why I didn't want to go into the logging industry."

It's clear that, from an early age, Cobain immersed himself in an eclectic collection of music. "I own all the Stooges albums," he recites. "All the early '80s punk stuff - not necessarily the hardcore stuff, but the anti-hardcore stuff that was going on at the time, like Flipper, the Butthole Surfers, and Scratch Acid, stuff like that."

That accounts for Nirvana's thrash quotient, but what of Cobain's obvious melodic flair? "I think the Beatles are responsible for most of the melody," he responds. "For the first seven years of my life, I listened to nothing but the Beatles. I had a Monkees album, which could be classified as Beatle-esque. And the Chipmunks Sing the Beatles album. I used to listen to that album all the time. I actually preferred the Chipmunks to the Beatles. I've personally kept myself musically uneducated for years. I still couldn't name a song off Satanic Majesties Request. I don't know much about the Rolling Stones, [though] I've heard every one of their songs at least a dozen times. But I just don't think of myself as that much of a musical historian. I expect to deal with that aspect of it much later on, when I'm an old man."

It's dealing with the unexpected success and the expectations that follow that give Cobain pause for thought. "I don't know if success would be the downfall of why I'd want to quit," he says. "I want to quit when I'm not having fun anymore. Especially if I wasn't writing good songs anymore.

"But it's such a cliché thing to say: 'Once we're not having anymore fun, we're just going to quit.' Everyone says that and then, you know, the Who get sponsored by Budweiser. The music business is so incestuous that people like David Bowie are so entrenched in the lifestyle and have cultivated relationships with people within the music industry for years and they're his friends and he doesn't want to offend them so he just keeps going. Keeps milking it for all it's worth because it's his life and it's all he knows. I suppose if the music was a bit more raw, and if it was good, at least, it would be better. But no one's buying that Tin Machine shit.

"It just happens when you reach a certain age. But there's still people like Neil Young. There's still a handful of people like that who've never lost their sights. To mature, to me, to use examples of other bands, is to wimp out. To put up an image that isn't sincere anymore. I mean, Pete Townshend can't possibly do what he did in his early twenties now. Hope I die before I turn into Pete Townshend," he adds with a smirk. (Ironically, the band opens its set that night with a joyously loopy rendition of Who's Next's "Baba O'Riley.")

"That's why I hope to destroy my career before it's too late. Before I look ridiculous. There are plenty of things I would like to do when I'm older. At least just have a family, that would satisfy me."

© Jerry McCulley, 1992

Transcript:

1991 had been that kind of year; just ask Saddam Hussein or Mikhail Gorbachev. An unprecedented six week military blitz forced Iraq to cough up Kuwait, but left its brutal regime intact. Then Gorby triumphantly survived a bungled coup, only to find himself ruler of an extinct empire.

And so it made perfect sense when the usually predictable world of pop music rang in 1992 with a few startling changes. On the Billboard album chart, Michael Jackson (the self-proclaimed "King Of Pop"), Guns N' Roses (the oft hyped "Only Band That Matters") and Garth Brooks all had one thing in common: the notches immediately below chart toppers Nirvana.

Just over a year ago, the trio of guitarist' singer/songwriter Kurt Cobain, bassist/tall person Chris Novoselic and drummer/newcomer Dave Grohl were still riding the ripples of success generated by Bleach, their 1989 debut on the Seattle based ladle label Sub Pop. As critics' darlings and alternative/college radio favorites, they found themselves point men for the much heralded "Seattle Scene," just as, a decade earlier, R.E.M., had come to symbolize the "Athens (Georgia) Sound" to a music press eager to explore greener pastures.

But then came a record deal with DGC (initially rumored to be for $250,000, apparently closer to a third of that over two records) and the resulting album, Nevermind. Its first single, "Smells Like Teen Spirit," has made a mockery of whatever shreds of the "alternative" label that still remain attached to the band by crossing over from college radio to become a format busting breakthrough hit on a dizzying array of Top 40, AOR and Modern Rock outlets. It's a textbook example of how pop success is supposed to work (young band makes great record; public responds... like crazy!), but one that is all too rare in a marketplace subject to the high stakes tug of war between well oiled record promoters and commercial radio program directors shackled by restrictive playlists and enslaved by the bottom line of ratings shares.

In light of that reality, Nirvana's success seems like nothing so much as a modern miracle, "I can't stand it when people come up to me to say, 'Congratulations on your success!"

Meet Kurt Cobain. Sitting with his bandmates in their dressing room at the Los Angeles Sports Arena (where they're opening for the Red Hot Chili Peppers in a couple of hours), the frail, purple coifed Cobain tugs at the sleeves of his ratty, well worn sweater and vents his frustration at the parade of well wishers he's endured in recent weeks. "Success" may have become his least favorite seven letter word.

"I want to ask them, Do you like the album?' Selling two million records isn't successful to me unless it's good." It's not exactly what Cobain envisioned when he launched his career. "I wanted to at least sell enough records to be able to eat macaroni and cheese so I didn't have to have a job," he says in a sarcastic near whisper that's in dead contrast to the venomous snarl he employs onstage.

Chris Novoselic rises to his feet and begins to pace around the room, his nervous energy fueling a notoriously punky demeanor. "All the attention can be kind of tiresome," he grouses. 'We just made that record last April."

But wouldn't 10,000 other musicians sell their souls to be in Nirvana's shoes? "It's nice to have an opportunity to expose the kind of music we've been listening to to a mainstream audience," replies Cobain with all the diplomacy he can muster. "It doesn't happen much."

And what of that "alternative" label? Hasn't their, uh, success rendered it meaningless? Novoselic, for one, hasn't much use for the mainstream. "It's a shame that crappy bands like Warrant get all the attention," he says. "They are rock'n'roll, and it's just garbage."

"What's wrong with quality music being offered?" asks Cobain rhetorically. He may not be completely comfortable with the notion, but at least he'll acknowledge it: Nirvana is the mainstream now, "It's not our fault we sold two million records. We didn't try very hard. The general public really does like quality music. They're just not offered it very often. They'll take whatever's being shoved down their throats because there isn't quality being shoved."

Cobain finishes the thought with what sounds like prophecy being fulfilled. "The kids are restless. The kids will have their say."

Nevermind picks up the threads of Bleach and weaves them into a consistently riveting collection of songs forged from an unlikely amalgam of guilt, apathy, unrelenting thrash energy and an intuitive flair for the melodic pop hook, It's The Knack and Bay City Rollers being molested by Black Flag and Black Sabbath.. or so says their "official" record company bio.

That scrap of paper also describes the chance meeting of Cobain and Novoselic at a Washington State art institute, where they had gone to hone their skills at saw-blade painting and burlap and seashell collage. Some of it is true," says Novoselic of the bio. "I've got Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from doing all the needlepoint," adds Cobain, nearly maintaining a straight face.

Cobain grew up in the tiny logging town of Aberdeen, an hour and a half out of Seattle, "in a two storey house, lower middle class family," before spending a couple of years living in a trailer park when his parents divorced. Born in Compton, a suburb southwest of Los Angeles, to Yugoslavian immigrant parents, Novoselic found himself uprooted from Southern California and transported to the damp, wooded confines of Aberdeen at 15. "It was a big culture shock for him," says Cobain of his friend's migration, "cause he was listening to Devo at the time."

"I didn't meet Chris until after high school," Cobain continues. "We met through The Melvins, mutual punk rock friends. We started going to punk rock shows in Tacoma and Seattle, watched The Melvins practice every day and hung out. He never had an interest to be in a band, I don't think. But I'd been looking for years for people to jam with,"

Cobain openly expresses the affection that he and Novoselic shared for the rollercoaster punk rock scene of the early '80s, though he is quick to point out that he "never wanted Henry Rollins' autograph. I just wanted to talk to him. I don't understand why people have to have a keepsake to show their friends."

"I was a KISS fan," admits Novoselic with uncharacteristic sheepishness. "And then, when I got older, I got into punk rock."

Cobain got his first guitar in his early teens and quickly discovered a gift for composing. "I started working on songwriting right away, rather than learn a bunch of Van Halen covers," says the weary looking 24 year old. "I had to develop my own style. I only know a couple of cover songs to this day, and they're the same ones I learned when I got my guitar: 'My Best Friend's Girl' by 'The Cars and 'Communication Breakdown' by Led Zeppelin; some Lou Reed chords."

Cobain and Novoselic formed the core of Nirvana in 1987 and went through the obligatory procession of temporary drummers before signing with Sub Pop and recording Bleach in three days for a reported $600. Virginia native Dave Grohl signed on in time for a 1990 European tour with Sonic Youth and the serious "Seattle Buzz" that made the rounds in publications on both sides of the Atlantic.

But Cobain plays iconoclast regarding any loyalty to the vaunted Northwest music community. "I have no desire to be part of the 'Seattle Scene,'" he insists. "We don't live there. I can't really think of any bands that still exist in Seattle, except Mudhoney and Tad. We've always felt friendly with those bands, 'cause we started out together. But everybody goes their separate ways. For some reason, it's still vital."

Adds the ever cynical Novoselic: "The press has to sustain themselves so they'll always create something new."

The band's cynicism has quite naturally spread to the phenomenal success of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Midway through their 40 minute set a blistering, feedback-drenched rendition of "Spirit" is greeted by the impressive sound of 16,000 kids on their feet, roaring their approval for a song that's become a bona fide teen anthem. "I feel stupid and contagious/Here we are now, entertain us" goes the refrain, Cobain spitting out the words in a scabrous howl.

But in conversation the band expresses mixed opinions about the strange company they now find themselves in on the airwaves. "I was driving and ['Teen Spirit'] came on the radio," recalls a bemused Dave Grohl, "and I thought, 'God, that really sounds like shit!' And then, right after it, came that Boston song: [sings] 'Smokin'! Smokin'! ......'"

"That's why I'm not excited about 'Hey, we're Number One!' with Garth Brooks and all that other shit," adds Novoselic with a scowl. "I don't give a shit about that."

"I don't find it very flattering," says Cobain of the response to his monster hit. "It's tolerable. I was listening to the radio and there were all these industrial disco songs, and then all of a sudden our song came on and it seemed completely foreign by comparison. When I look back at 'Teen Spirit' it's semi commercial, it's powerful. But then you're up against the majority of what they play on the radio."

And then there's the public over analysis that accompanies success on such a scale. Cobain recalls a television program "where they went out into the streets and asked people what they thought our lyrics were!

"I was reading some musician's magazine and 'Teen Spirit' is transcribed note for note," he says. "No way!" blurts a wide eyed Grohl. "Yeah," Kurt continues. "It was the most ridiculous technical description of the guitar solo. It's beyond explaining. Guitar Jerk Off magazine or something."

Grohl and Novoselic are soon called away to their soundcheck and cautiously avoid further interrogation when they return. It's possible that this is some sort of payback for several interview sessions that Cobain has skipped out on recently. The guitarist quickly wraps up his own sound chores and stops by the caterers, returning to his dressing room to pick at a small slab of roast beef and a dollop of mashed potatoes.

He chuckles when he's reminded that a New York writer accused the band of betraying its "alternative" principles because Cobain dared to chow on cow, "Chris is a vegetarian," he says between fork fulls. "If I eat strictly vegetables, I'll die within a month. I don't like very many vegetables."

But as Cobain fields questions alone, it's clear that something other than diet is affecting him. He occasionally nods off in mid sentence, apologizing blearily that he's had but an hour's sleep. But the pinned pupils, sunken cheeks and scabbed, sallow skin suggest something more serious than mere fatigue. Cobain's haggard visage and frail frame make him appear more like 40 than 24.

One on one, Kurt slips out of the almost self-consciously punky demeanor of his bandmates and expresses himself with gentle-humored articulation. The introspective self-deprecation of his songs comes quickly to the fore in what can be a perplexing mix of seeming contradictions. One moment he'll be expressing his disgust at the complacency around him; the next he's effusing rapturously about his marriage to Courtney Love, leader of the L.A. band Hole.

"That's a total revelation," he says. "I've never felt so secure in my life, and so happy. It's like I have no inhibitions any more. I'm drained of feeling insecure. I guess getting married has a lot to do with security and keeping your mind straight."

Can this be the singer who's been dubbed by many as this year's nihilistic spokesman for a disaffected generation? Be advised that it's a role he has no interest in playing.

"I think there's a lot of passion in the songs," he acknowledges. "But at the same time, there's a lot of sarcasm. I don't want to be classified as some anally poetic visionary this dark star who does nothing but sit around and brood. It seems like [rock allows you] only two personalities you're gloomy and a poet, like Robert Smith or Morrissey, or you're some mindless dork.

"But I am totally paranoid of being thought of as a political person, 'cause it's so exhausted. No matter how intelligently you go about it, you're still going to be the butt end of most jokes. To me, mundane, everyday things are more personal because people can relate to them. If I were to talk about apartheid in a song it just doesn't seem real to most people. Personal experiences are political to me; it's a personal therapy."

But as Cobain relates the details of his small-town upbringing, it's easy to see where the "disaffected" perception came from. "At a pretty young age, I felt alienated," he confesses. "Right around the age of nine I started feeling more confused. I couldn't understand why I didn't want to hang out with the kids at school. Years later I realized why: I didn't relate to them because they didn't appreciate anything artistic or cultural.

"In Aberdeen, 99 per cent of the people had no idea what music was. Or art. It was their bread to become loggers. That's it. I think the fact that I'm physically small - I was a really small kid - had a lot to do with why I didn't want to go into the logging industry."

It's hardly surprising to learn that one of Cobain's early career choices was one cherished by many loners. "I was a Master of the Custodial Arts," he recounts with mock pride. "I was in charge of driving the truck around to all these doctors' and dentists' offices and cleaning them. I was my own boss. I'd never clean the toilets, though. I just poured bleach in the toilets every night."

All the while, Cobain immersed himself in an eclectic collection of pop music. "I owned all the Stooges albums," he recites, "all the early '80s punk stuff - not necessarily the hardcore stuff, but the anti-hardcore stuff that was going on at the time, like Flipper, The Butthole Surfers and Scratch Acid."

That accounts for Nirvana's sizable thrash quotient, but what of Cobain's seemingly intuitive flair for melody? "I think The Beatles are responsible for most of the melody," he responds without hesitation. "For the first seven years of my life, I listened to nothing but The Beatles. I had a Monkees album, which could be classified at Beatlesque. And The Chipmunks Sing The Beatles album. I actually preferred The Chipmunks to The Beatles.

"I've kept myself musically uneducated for years. I don't know much about The Rolling Stones, though I've heard every one of their songs a dozen times. I still couldn't name a song off of Satanic Majesties Request. I just don't think of myself as that much of a musical historian. I expect to deal with that aspect of it later on, when I'm an old man."

It's dealing with Nirvana's sudden, massive, unexpected popularity that gives Cobain pause for thought. "I don't know if success would be the downfall, why I'd want to quit," he says, bravely for a man on the brink of going triple platinum. "I want to quit when I'm not having fun any more. Especially if I wasn't writing good songs any more.

"But it's such a cliche thing to say: 'Once we're not having fun anymore we're just going to quit.' Everyone says that and then, you know, The Who get sponsored by Budweiser. The music business is so incestuous that people like David Bowie are entrenched in the lifestyle and have cultivated relationships within the industry for years - and they're his friends and he doesn't want to offend them, so he just keeps going. Keeps milking it for all it's worth, because it's his life and that's all he knows. I suppose if the music was a bit more raw - if it was good at least - it would be better. But nobody's buying that Tin Machine shit.

"It just happens when you reach a certain age. But there's still people like Neil Young: a handful of people who haven't lost their sights. To mature, to me, to use examples of other bands, is to wimp out. To put up an image that isn't sincere any more. I mean, Pete Townshend can't possibly do what he did in his early 20s now.

"Hope I die before I turn into Pete Townshend," he adds with a smirk. Later that night the band opens its set with a joyously loopy rendition of Who's Next's "Baba O'Riley." So much for teenage wastelands.

"I can't see myself living off this career for the rest of my life," he says. "No way. It would look ridiculous to try to do exactly what we're doing now when I'm 40. I'm not going to be jumping around, diving into drumsets and screaming at the top of my lungs.

"That's why I want to destroy my career before it's too late. Before I look ridiculous. There are plenty of things I would like to do when I'm older. At least have a family. That would satisfy me."

The questioning over, the reluctant voice of a generation curls up on the dressing room couch, and within minutes he's asleep.

© Jerry McCulley, 1992