“I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends. They're in my head. I'm so ugly, that's okay, 'cause so are you. Broke our mirrors. Sunday morning is everyday, for all I care. And I'm not scared. Light my candles in a daze. 'Cause I've found God.”
If I were to give someone from a younger generation an album to introduce them to the grunge scene in Seattle circa the early '90s, I wouldn't give them Pearl Jam's Ten or Soundgarden's Superunknown. I would give them Nirvana's Nevermind. Everything about this album screams what the early nineties alternative and specifically grunge scene was about.
1. The Revelation: Smells Like Teen Spirit
In the winter of 91-92, I had just turned 16-year-old and was a sophomore in high school, a right-wing Republican in the middle of Iowa, blasting classic rock—mostly Led Zeppelin and The Eagles—along with some Garth Brooks, Guns N’ Roses, and the Beastie Boys. So, it’s not like I wasn’t into hard and heavy music, but punk? That was a whole different beast. And then Nevermind happened. More specifically, Smells Like Teen Spirit happened.
The first time I heard it and saw the video, it was like a switch flipped in my brain. Up until that moment, music had been more than just something I liked—it was part of who I was. It shaped my identity, gave me something to hold onto. But Nevermind did something I wasn’t expecting. It gave me a voice I didn’t even know I needed. I had already been into Paul’s Boutique, which was weird and offbeat, but this? This was something else entirely. Smells Like Teen Spirit wasn’t just new—it was mine. It felt like it belonged to me and my generation.
That opening riff? Hypnotic. Simple. Then—boom—those drums. Dave Grohl didn’t just play; he attacked. It was violent, chaotic, perfect. And when the chorus hit, it detonated. That wall of distortion, the raw energy—it was like permission to feel something I hadn’t even realized was inside me. And the last words of the last verse, "oh well, whatever, nevermind", captured the malaise and indifference of Gen X, of my generation. It wasn't even clear what the song was actually about. Sure, there were words, but it was really the sound, the vibe, the feelings it evoked that made it an anthem. The raw energy—that's what hit us in the chest.
And what I felt was anger. Not in a directed way, not something I could name, just this deep, simmering frustration I hadn’t fully acknowledged before. Nirvana didn’t give me that anger; they just unleashed it. The loud-quiet-loud dynamic of the song felt like it was physically shaking something loose inside me. One second restrained, the next exploding into pure chaos. It mirrored something I didn’t even know I was feeling.
But it wasn’t just the song—it was the video.
That video was everything. If you were a kid in the Midwest, it taught you everything you needed to know. It showed you how to dress, how to act, and how to move to this music. The grimy, smoke-filled gym, the anarchist cheerleaders, Cobain’s slurred delivery, the way the whole thing built to total destruction—it was raw, dangerous, alive. It felt like something I wasn’t supposed to be watching, like something real was happening right in front of me. And that ending? Full-blown chaos. Kids smashing everything, bodies colliding, total destruction. It was like the world I knew was collapsing in real-time.
2. The Clean Break
I didn’t buy Nevermind right away. I had just started working, and money was tight. It wasn’t like Nevermind was everywhere that winter—it was still bubbling up. I remember hearing bits and pieces about it, seeing it here and there, and feeling like I was missing out. When I finally bought it in the spring, it felt like stepping into something I had been waiting for. The moment I pressed play, it was undeniable—this album wasn’t just something I wanted; it was something I needed.
It wasn’t like I sat down and decided, Okay, time to change everything! It just happened. My focus shifted. The music I had been listening to no longer held the same weight. It wasn’t that it was bad or irrelevant—it just didn’t feel true in the way Nevermind did.
But I didn’t just stop listening to old favorites—I discovered something new. My good friend Brion Fairbanks and I went deep. We didn’t just play Nirvana on repeat—we dove headfirst into the whole alternative scene. Nine Inch Nails, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins. Nevermind wasn’t just an album; it was a gateway drug. It opened a door to an entirely new world of music, one that felt raw, messy, and real in a way nothing else had before.
And yeah, I started dressing differently. Band t-shirts, flannel—it wasn’t just me, it was all of us. It wasn’t even about fashion; it was about belonging. We weren’t just rejecting what came before—we were finding something that made us feel connected. We had a new language, a new identity, and it was built on these songs.
3. The Personal Hit: Lithium
Then came Lithium. (I actually wrote about this song in a separate post, digging into how much it resonated with me, but it deserves a place here too.)
When I saw the title on the CD, it already meant something to me. My mom had manic depression (bipolar disorder), and she was on lithium to stabilize her moods. At 16, that fact consumed me. I didn’t know that other people even knew what lithium was. But Kurt did.
Hearing the song for the first time, I had no idea what to expect. But the screaming, the lyrics—it all made sense. The way the song swung between restraint and explosion was exactly what manic depression looked like. One second calm, almost detached; the next, raging. The way he invoked God felt desperate, like a last-ditch plea for something to hold onto. And then those screams at the end—“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”—it was everything. Not just about mental illness, but about angst in general. About anything a teenager felt trapped by.
At the time, I couldn’t have put that into words. I just felt it. Looking back, it’s obvious—this wasn’t just music I liked. It was music that reflected my life.
4. The Reflection: Chaos in the Sound, Chaos at Home
As I've mentioned before, my home life was chaotic. Everything felt unstable.
At the time, I didn’t think of it as abnormal. It was just life. And that’s what’s so wild about Nevermind—it didn’t just sound good, it mirrored that instability. Not in a way I could consciously recognize at 16, but in a way I felt. The album swung between moods—explosive, quiet, messy, melodic, chaotic. Just like my life.
It took years to realize that was why it hit so hard. At 16, I wasn’t sitting around analyzing it—I was just living it. And Nirvana was there, giving me something that felt true.
5. The Lasting Impact
More than 30 years later, Nevermind still hits. It’s not nostalgia—it’s alive. When I hear Lithium, I’m 16 again. Smells Like Teen Spirit still makes my heart race. Territorial Pissings is still an unhinged, beautiful mess. And Drain You still gives me that brief moment of breath before everything crashes down again.
But now, I get it. Nevermind wasn’t just a musical shift—it was a turning point. It changed what I listened to, how I saw myself, and in some ways, who I became. It was rebellion and belonging, chaos and connection. It was mine.
It still is.
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