Twenty four years ago, I found myself in Munich, Germany...drinking heavily at the famed Munich Putsch beer hall as any reasonable 18 year old would. Upon returning to the hotel that night, I got off the elevator on my floor and was greeted by a friend who told me that Kurt Cobain had been found dead. My reaction at that time was not one of shock or utter grief. Though I was saddened, it didn't strike me as unexpected. After all, the prior months had been a cycle of attempted suicide, rehab, and illustrated a general downward spiral that seemed destined for the same end result.
Over the next year, Kurt's music would make a profound impact on my life. It already had prior to his death, but it grew afterwards. Nirvana had been a favorite band of mine, but it was the following year in college when I suffered my first real intense period of depression, and during that time, Kurt's music was a comfort. It was from him that I truly learned to turn many of my darkest thoughts into artistic expression as a form of coping.
To this day, his music still sounds fresh to me, despite having listened to everything he ever recorded so many times that I know every note, it remains impactful. That is the thing about art, it survives even after the artist doesn't. It's how we achieve immortality. Though for those close, it does little to ease the pain of loss, something I've learned in these 24 years since.
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