I still remember the exact moment I learned Kurt Cobain had killed himself. A friend stood in the doorway of my college dorm room, face slack, and said two words: "Kurt died." And over the ensuing days and months the machinery of pop culture churned, desperately trying to put his death into some sort of relatable context.
With Cobain in particular, the pieces were already in place for instant deification. A child of divorce, known for being empathetic to a fault, reluctantly drawn into a world of fame he never wanted and driven to drug abuse by a stomach ailment that only heroin could cure. It was a tragic narrative, but comforting in its familiarity, and passing murder conspiracy theories aside we’ve pretty much stuck with it for the...
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