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owenshire · 4 years

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Robert Muhlbock (virtually) Inducts Nine Inch Nails into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 2020

Nine Inch Nails. One band, and often one man, with a computer (and guitar) against the world. Oh yes, Nine Inch Nails have added members for live performances and gained members (well, a member) for studio compositions, but from this “band-like-musical-entity’s” earliest days, it was just one person—one person who combined pop-hooks with industrial whirs, and harrowing rage with uncomfortable vulnerability. And his name is Trent Reznor.

No one should claim that Nine Inch Nails invented a genre. They didn’t. But they sure as hell popularized and perfected it. Electronic, Industrial, ‘Disco Death Metal’—whatever you want to call it, the labels don’t really matter. In fact, I think the genre should just be called “sounds like Nine Inch Nails” which is compliment enough on its own, right?

Nine Inch Nails are one of the most important, vital, inspirational, talented, and unique of musical artists. I love them. And now I’m going to tell you why…in a lengthy video essay, so settle in. And if you don’t have the fandom or attention span for what I’m about to say, go back to consuming shitty tweets and dumbfuck Instagram posts because you’re not wanted here anyway.

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My first introduction to NIN began like so many others: by catching the iconic video for “Head Like A Hole” on MTV—the band rocking out amidst electrical wires and magnetic tape, until it seemed like the entire writhing mess would consume them whole. It’s an image as potent today as it was some 30 years ago.

However, my real introduction to NIN was originally steeped in urban legend. I was in grade 10 and I heard Pretty Hate Machine played on my school bus on the way home. The owner of this cassette tape, a “cool girl” who shall remain nameless, told me that the album was “out of print” and “unavailable.” In short, she assured me that I would never be able to find a copy, but, guess what, I did.

In a trade with former MMA coach Shawn Tompkins—and in my grade 10 art class no less—I swapped two ninja stars for a box of his old cassette tapes, and Pretty Hate Machine was one of them. This was my own NINJA moment, if you will—does anyone get that reference—anyway, upon witnessing said trade some random guy in my art class immediately offered me $25 for the Pretty Hate Machine cassette tape—a king’s ransom in 1990—but of course I wouldn’t sell. I knew it was valuable—and in more than one way. Instead I played the hell out of the cassette in my Walkman. I was 14 years old. “Terrible Lie” was my favourite song from the album. And it still is.

And then—poof—like that, NIN dropped out of my life. Where’d they go? Well, I guess they were making a name for themselves during Lollapalooza 1991, white chalk dust and all. Not that I knew any of this. Pre-internet I had no idea what was going on. In fact, I wouldn’t hear any new NIN music until almost a full year later when one of my friends with a penchant for industrial music introduced me to the Broken EP. As he handed me his CD for borrowing, he warned me that it was “pretty extreme.” And he was right. The Broken EP is why album warning stickers were invented: it was a fist to the face, a kick to the face—it was even an ass to the face.

Anyway, the Broken EP was my real introduction to the seemingly bottomless rage of NIN. When I heard Broken I was just starting to get into so-called “heavy” music, but nothing could have prepared me for the lyrical and musical brutality of “Wish.” While Reznor’s litany of profanity was extreme—at least to my sheltered 16 year old ears—what truly staggered me was the song’s main riff (you know the one I mean) the one that is so distorted, so disturbing, that it sounds like a guitar being burned alive while flailing in a wind tunnel.

I’d never heard anything like it before—it wasn’t cock-rock; it wasn’t fake satanic rage done for laughs, theatre or to impress--no. Instead it was the audio embodiment of complete destruction and utter despair. And 30 years later, it’s lost none of its power.

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These same sentiments must be applied to The Downward Spiral, Nine Inch Nail’s career defining work that launched the band into mainstream success. Too often discussions of the record get bogged down by emphasis on “Hurt” or “Closer,” or, to some extent, “Heresy.”

Yes, “Hurt” is the perfect album closer and expression of pleading vulnerability, and, yes, “Closer” and “Heresy’s” choruses were brutally raw and shocking in 1994 (and, it should be said, still above average shocking in 2020), but I feel the album is best presented as a whole. This was the beginning of NIN’s discovery that (to paraphrase one rock critic) just as much tension can be generated with a whisper as with a scream.

Dynamics have always been a huge part of NIN’s’ sound, and The Downward Spiral stands as a defining moment. The album, as all of you know, begins with “Mr. Self Destruct” (well, that’s not entirely true—the album actually begins with the audio of what appears to be a man being beaten to death while submerged underwater)—but anyway, “Mr. Self Destruct” was as sonically astonishing to me as “Wish” was two years prior. As I listened to the verses of “Mr. Self Destruct” I kept asking myself “Is it supposed to sound like this? I can’t hear what he’s saying”—it was such a cacophony of meticulously detailed and layered noises, but of course not without substance or a melody: its quiet refrain of “And I control you” buried so deep in the mix, it mirrored the subconscious itself.

“Mr. Self Destruct” gives way to “Piggy”—again a haunting track that’s almost tender and such a shock in sequence given the song that preceded it. Again. Dynamics. Surprise. Making the atypical typical in the best non-traditional way. Does that make any sense? Anyway, I felt the same way about the mini-piano solo/ lyric pairing of “now doesn’t it make you feel better” before the dramatic pause in “March Of The Pigs”—I don’t think any of us saw THAT coming. I was literally shocked when that phrasing appeared out of no where, emerging like a tiny ironic rainbow out of the whirlwind of thrashing drums, crazy guitars, and “stains like blood on your teeth” screams the preceded it.

Speaking of screams, the title-track of The Downward Spiral still stands as a monument to vulnerability, despair, and pure abject horror. It’s the only song I’ve ever heard that I am afraid to listen to. When I listen to The Downward Spiral, I wait for the song the way a child hides behind a blanket awaiting glimpses of a film monster: I know it’s coming, and I know it’s going to be horrifying…and it always is. So why do I subject myself to it?

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That’s a fair question. Let’s be frank here: Nine Inch Nails isn’t for everyone. It takes a certain personality to fully appreciate the band’s complete package of black, blue, and bleeding, “but you can dance to it!” Still, NIN is more than mere nihilism and hopelessness. Those who label the band in such ways, kind of miss the point. To me, NIN has always been—lyrically at least—about catharsis: I suppose ALL music functions as such—a tool of understanding, and a mechanism for coping. Trent Reznor once commented on the vulnerability of his lyrics, saying in an interview with NPR that his topic of choice was less about vanity than it was about delivering a performance with honesty and integrity. The only topic that mattered—his emotional struggle—was the only subject he could speak about with authority and with conviction.

However, it just so happens to be a struggle that millions of other people share. When Trent Reznor sings “Now you know/ this is what it feels like” on The Fragile’s “The Wretched,” he is inviting his audience to share in his pain. Whether he intended it this way or not, his is a gesture borne or isolation but ending in comradery: many of us certainly know what “this” “feels like.” And many, many more of us can certainly relate to the words “Dear World, I can hardly recognize you anymore.”

In short, Trent Reznor’s lyrics, as personal as they are, speak for us: his fans. He speaks for me. He still does.

Interestingly, themes consistent in NIN’s best work offer a type of almost emotional ambivalence: caring, but not caring; wanting to be helped, yet rejecting help; and most importantly, wanting to be alone, yet desperately wishing to connect with others. The songs “We’re In This Together” and “The Fragile” perfectly illustrate these sentiments. To me, it is no coincidence they are sequenced side by side on the “some-critics-didn’t-like-it-at-the-time-but-have-since-come-to-their-senses-album” The Fragile.

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Musically, however, NIN is best known for three distinct styles of music: computer chaos, groovy beats, and symphonic soundscapes. I’ve touched on the first—and will return to it—but for now, let’s discuss the second. I’m not a huge fan of the term “death-disco”; however, NIN’s long list of ass-shaking beats, should not be overlooked. What began on Pretty Hate Machine with “Sin” and “The Only Time,” pleasantly resurface on “Into The Void” only to be perfected on “The Hand That Feeds,” “Only” “Capital G,” and “Discipline” not to mention a large portion of Hesitation Marks.

But back to computer chaos—or maybe just chaos in general. I can think of no better example to illustrate my point than the final coda to the song “The Great Destroyer” on the fabulous dystopian opus Year Zero—one of my favourite albums of all time: the sound of things falling apart—wires frayed, systems destroyed, screens cracked: static humming and ‘please stand by’ messages flicking forever. The Eater of Dreams. “All we ever were—just zeros and ones.”

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The final cornerstone of NIN’s musical contribution is soundscapes and instrumentals, and what a can of worms THAT is given all that’s transpired since 2011. Anyway, when The Fragile was released in 1999, more than a few fans bemoaned its inclusion of no less than 7 instrumentals, and yet these contributions have always been a signature addition to NIN’s body of work: from “pinion,” “help me I am in hell,” “a warm place,” the deeply personal “La Mer,” to Ghosts I through VI, NIN’s experiments with sound have always been integral to their songwriting process—a willingness to experiment and a love of discovery which surprisingly, yet somewhat inevitably, lead to NIN’s work in soundtracks. Beginning somewhat inadvertently with Tony Scott’s Man On Fire (look it up), and then deliberately on the video game Quake, this creative direction eventually resulted in (as we all know) various Oscar and Emmy nominations and wins for Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, and yeah, while technically not “Nine Inch Nails” releases, I think we can all agree it’s hard to separate the two sometimes because as we all know, the line begins to blur, amiright?

The point is this: Nine Inch Nails were and are no strangers to pushing boundaries musically, visually, and artistically. Some defining unconventional moments in the band’s career to me are as follows:

· The 97 one-second tracks on the Broken EP before its final two songs; the infamous Broken film itself—a movie I found on a bootlegged VHS tape and rented for a mere 1 dollar at the time—and then proceeded to wish that I never did.

· Moving on, there is of course the band’s seminal 1994 Woodstock performance, where the musicians arrived on stage in a foggy haze, caked head to toe in mud, and bringing the apocalypse with them;

· Next we have the Alternate Reality Game developed around the release of Year Zero,

· There was the free download of The Slip; and the free downloads of Ghosts V and VI some years later

· Who could also forget about the NINREMIX website where fans were invited to remix the band’s songs and post them for all to enjoy, and copyright be damned.

· Um, there was also that time they said “a heartfelt fuck you” to the Grammy’s.

· And finally we have Nine Inch Nail’s unexpected live appearance on the rather toned down Austin City Limits.

And the list goes on. Trent Reznor once explained such actions in the most self-aware terms possible: he likes pushing himself (as well as his fans) out of comfort zones, to flirt with mainstream conventions but to approach and execute them as only Nine Inch Nails can: with integrity and—to borrow Trent’s appraisal of the late David Bowie—“uncompromising vision.”

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Speaking of integrity and uncompromising vision, NIN’s humility is one of the band’s most inspiring and endearing characteristics. In Reznor’s case, we’re talking about an accomplished artist who admitted publically that he still feels he has so much to learn about his craft—that he’s barely scratched the surface regarding his mastery of sound and songwriting; a man that mocked his own starry eyed expression upon receiving an Oscar by pairing it with the caption “I see unicorns” and inviting fans to provide similar self-deprecating taglines. A man who speaks in measured tones about his opportunities and successes in his life—and does so, repeatedly I might add, quietly, humbly, and gratefully.

Such self-awareness is extremely rare in show-business let alone by a band that’s achieved as much as Nine Inch Nails.

And guess what? Here’s the thing. I think there’s no stopping them. With Nine Inch Nails—particularly, Trent and Atticus no matter what they call themselves and until they are inducted into the IHOR as solo artists, anything’s possible:

· Scoring a children’s movie? The upcoming Pixar film Soul? Why not? Let’s have some more. Give me a children’s album!

· Creating a vintage jazz ballad (the unparalleled “The Way It Used to Be”) in a week and making it indistinguishable from other songs of the era? Of course!

· Winning a Tony Award to become part of the EGOT club—I say sure. In fact, prediction: before the end of the world (so basically, in about 30 years) Nine Inch Nails will get an EGOT. There. Prove me wrong.

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In 1997 Spin Magazine once hailed Trent Reznor as “the most vital artist in music today,” while in that same year Trent Reznor appeared on Time Magazine’s list of the top 25 most influential Americans.

These accolades were well earned; however, I prefer a statement made by some music magazine critic whose name escapes me in their review of a Nine Inch Nails album whose name also escapes me: they said, “we can only hope something else pisses him off,” sentiments which I’m sure are echoed by many, and to which I reply…there seems to be no worry about that.

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Nine Inch Nails encompass a facet of popular art that is as necessary as it is compulsory: they remind us that the world is not pleasant; tragedy is inevitable; the game is rigged; faith is a lie; and everyone you know will abandon or disappoint you.

But guess what? If you’re lucky, the way out is through, motherfuckers.

I am honoured to induct Nine Inch Nails into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

#trent reznor #Robert Muhlbock #Owenshire #Nine Inch Nails #Rock and Roll Hall of Fame #Rock Hall 2020 #The Fragile #Year Zero #Pretty Hate Machine #Broken #Hesitation Marks #The Downward Spiral

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owenshire · 9 years

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The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald

“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” was written by famed Canadian folk singer Gordon Lightfoot in 1976—the year I was born. It’s his most recognized and renown song. While I can’t say I’m a huge Lightfoot fan (sure I like “Sundown” and “The Great Canadian Railroad Trilogy”), WEF’s tale of a doomed ship is immediately captivating. The song clocks in at almost 7 minutes, repeating its central melody and chords, um, repeatedly, and yet to Lightfoot’s credit the song never overstays its welcome. I can’t recall when I first heard WEF, but I do have a rather solid memory of watching comedian Richard Jeni doing a bit about it—which was at the time hilarious. [EDIT: Looking up have to correctly spell "Jeni" I just discovered he shot himself in 2007--I had no idea.] However, all nautical clichés aside, Lightfoot’s elegy remains a moving tribute to those whose lives were lost. Upon hearing its opening notes, those who appreciate the song are hooked.

Regarding my cover, as with all Owenshire songs, my immediate thought was “more harmonies please!” and thus—for better or worse—I’ve interpreted this song as a chorus of voices raised in unison speaking of fallen comrades, mugs raised in tribute. The backing track is from Karaoke tracks because, well, why not. Also, in a decision which I’m sure to regret, I’ve sung the song in a higher key to better suit my voice. Finally, I changed the lyrics slightly to reflect Lightfoot's own lyrical swap of "main hatchway caved in" to "grew dark it was then" since the former laid blame on the crew which was later proved to be undeserved.

Nothing will compare with Lightfoot’s original arrangement and vocal delivery, and yet WEF is so catchy that any interpretation seems tolerable given the source material (check out a moody version by the Rheostatics here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpiXS62EwyI and a very cool over the top metal version by Jag Panzer here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAra9YYFpis. But of course there are many, many more. Personally, and I might be in the minority here, I’m a huge fan of the Dandy Warhol’s acoustic version (also in a different key, and not to be confused with their other somewhat meandering 9 minute version called “The Wreck”) located here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8GZ33mda5A. The legend lives on, indeed.

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owenshire · 10 years

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Owenshire Stumble: Official Video Commentary

Stumble Video [R.E.M. cover] located here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERF97dzZzuQ&list=UUemDcT-OQB6gWWQKQpdeR0g&feature=share

“Stumble” is my favourite R.E.M. song. I know what some of you might be thinking—‘Stumble? But it’s so repetitive, with, like, the same verse over and over, and the same lyrics, and it’s more than five minutes long.’ Well, I agree, but “Stumble” to me embodies everything mythic about R.E.M.—“Stumble,” I feel, is not so much a song as it is a mood. I can recall listening to this song over numerous nights as I drifted off to sleep or as I walked home from a friend’s house, with dusk slowly emerging. “Stumble” is a dark, yet warm, autumn night with a slight breeze. It’s orange leaves and gray stones. It’s crumbling foundations, moss, mold, and, of course, graveyards. It’s Edgar Allen Poe’s purple curtains rustling in an old empty room where his raven perches. It’s forbidden but not satanic, and, yes, full of ‘fallen chants.’ Musically, my favourite part occurs right after the word 'chant'—an arpeggiated riff that's basically my favourite lick in any R.E.M. song. It tugs at my heart, and I can’t even say why. Anyway, like so many other R.E.M. songs, “Stumble” says nothing concrete, but means everything. And it’s complemented by an exceptionally vivid middle 8 section, complete with howling wind, strange knocking sounds, backwards guitar, whispers of old violin, and of course, Stipe’s recitation of the ‘Hipster Town’ piece.

In fact, I loved “Stumble” so much that originally I wanted to make a ‘fan made’ video for it. Such was the extent of my appreciation for the song that I decided to take my old digital camera and record (in old school 4:3 ratio no less) me ‘stumbling’ around St. Luke’s cemetery, the graveyard in Vienna, On (pop: 500) a stone’s throw up the road from my childhood home where I lived until I moved out at age 18. Anyway, on an overcast, damp day I filmed various stones, monuments, and decorations, and assumed (at some point) I would stitch it together to make a video for the R.E.M. song. However, little did I know at the time that I would use this footage to instead make an ‘official’ video for my own cover of the song some four years later.

This brings me to my next point: “Stumble” is important to me for another reason—this was the first cover Clive and I did when we began the ‘Remember Every Moment’ R.E.M. covers project some time ago. Some of you may already be familiar with this story, but for those of you who aren’t, here goes. A few years ago I was searching Youtube for R.E.M. instrumental songs to use as—for lack of a better word—karaoke backing tracks to sing over. One of my life goals was to create an ‘album’ of R.E.M. covers with my vocals. I was prepared to use whatever I could find: instrumental demos, official instrumentals released by the band, and, of course, fan made instrumentals. Anyway, for the hell of it I searched ‘Stumble’ and was completely shocked to find that someone hadcreated an instrumental of this incredibly early R.E.M. song. I contacted this person to ask if I could have a high quality MP3 of this track, and the rest (as the cliché goes) is history: 30 completed covers (with no end in sight) and a very solid friendship later, my collaboration with Clive Butler has enriched my life in ways I hadn’t thought possible.

Lyrically, “Stumble” is incredibly obtuse, and I’m not proud to say that my lyrics here are incorrect (if one can indeed believe there are ‘correct’ lyrics.) I’ve been an R.E.M. fan since the late 80’s—pre-internet—and like so many R.E.M. fans before me, I was forced to instead make my own lyrics for some of their songs. And, years later in the late 90s when lyric sites abounded in cyberspace, I amended these lyrics to fit what I thought were the official ones. The phrase right before the chorus (to me) was always “forest floor, explorer, racer, home, the ancient star,” which I’ve also seen written as “force fields, explorer racing home, the ancient star,” paired with the verse lyrics “yellow mixed with golden leaves, scan the graveyard, dead there be” and “yellow mixed with golden hue, scan the graveyard, dead there rue.” However, just recently I discovered the official ‘handwritten’ lyrics which are so much better: “forest, forest floor an ancient foliage in store.” I have VERY strongly debated redoing this cover’s lyric with the ‘correct’ words, but the simple truth is---that’s not the “Stumble” I’ve been singing all these years. In fact, I have a close friend who still insists on singing “ball and chain” for the chorus, even though I’ve always known it as “fallen chant,” and I’m willing to bet that a great many R.E.M. fans out there as well still choose to sing their own lyrics, despite the semi-accurate interpretations that are now widely available. I guess that’s what the band always wanted anyway—Stipe said as much in that famed 1983 Livewire interview.

Thanks for listening to this deeply personal cover and watching its accompanying video. I’m very happy and proud to have played a part in their creation and to have shared this additional bit of R.E.M. fandom with you.

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owenshire · 10 years

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Robert Muhlbock of Owenshire Inducts Nirvana into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

Hello

I’m Robert Muhlbock of Owenshire and I’m here of course to induct Nirvana into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Rob Muhlbock? Owenshire? Who the fuck are you?

Exactly. Who the fuck am I? I’m a nobody. So I was just as shocked as anyone when Rolling Stone Magazine founder Jann Wenner contacted me to ask if I would do him and Nirvana the honour of saying a few words on this momentous occasion…via Youtube no less (I can only assume as some sort of grass roots nod to social media and the band’s working class populace appeal). As Jann explained it to me, The Hall of Fame typically approaches for speeches fans of the bands slated to be inducted. Sure Rolling Stone could have asked a notable peer such as Chris Cornell, Billy Corgan, Anthony Kiedis, or even Eddie Vedder—a guy who seems to induct pretty much everyone. And they could have asked a similar rock and roll legend like Bono, John Lydon, or Michael Stipe. And of course they might have asked someone from the band’s past—someone from the fringes of the Punk movement such as Buzz Osborn, Mark Arm, Thurston Moore, or Frank Black.

And yet, none of these people, I was told, could accurately explain what it was like to be swept up in Nirvanamania in 1992 from the outside of fame—as a fan. The perspective of your average John (and/or Jane) Q public who lived in buttfuck nowhere and was probably aged 14 to 24 at the time when Nirvana dominated the entire world. So here’s where I come in: a guy who went to high school in a rural town in Southern Ontario with a population of about 8000 people.

But let’s go back to that previous thought—being aged 14 to 24 in 1992—because context has as much to do with understanding Nirvana’s impact as does appreciating their talent. You see, people have a tendency to forget, and thus history repeats—often times for the worse, and all you need to do is take a quick glance at the top 10 selling songs on itunes today to know what I mean. So I’m here to remind them, and you, of one of the greatest goddamn moments in Rock and Roll History.

Fans of indie or punk rock were always pariahs. It has never been an easy lifestyle to live. In the high school halls (to quote my beloved Rush) beside the popular boys and girls, and the jocks, and the nerds, the closest you got to anything “alternative” pre-1990 were the mods: they wore Cure, U2, and Depeche Mode T-shirts and they usually wore Doc Martens. As for punks? Well, every now and again some kid with green hair could be seen wearing a Red Hot Chili Peppers or a Dead Kennedys T-Shirt, but that was fucking it. Me? I have been an R.E.M. fan since the age of 12—hardcore—and let me tell you that wasn’t an easy life to live either in the middle of North America, what with every other kid wearing a goddamn Guns and Roses T-shirt in 1987.

Sadly, the radio and musical charts were no better. You see, in your globally connected online world of today, every musical genre and fringe taste exists in some form of expression (along with its fanbase). If you like ‘dubstep-punk-acid-Jazz-with-a-twist-of old-school-blues’…you can probably find it. However, those of us stuck in the pre-internet world had to rely on top 40 radio and MTV for our musical selections (and if that thought makes you want to throw up in your mouth a little, well, you’re not alone.) And what was the #1 album on the Billboard Top 200 in the week of September 24th 1991 you ask—the week Nirvana’s album Nevermind was released? Garth Brooks’s Ropin the Wind. Okay, okay, to be fair Rush’s Roll The Bones, R.E.M.’s Out Of Time, and Metallica’s Metallica were also in the top 10, as were Colour Me Bad, C + C Music Factory, and Michael Bolton, so yeah, like any snapshot of the charts on any given week there was an equal mixture of art and bubblegum, of substance and frivolity, of shit and cake. But that doesn’t paint the full picture, because the early 90s carried over with it the dragging, steaming entrails of a most notorious musical genre from the late 70s and 1980s: Hair Metal. Now, please don’t misunderstand me here. I’m not talking about Hard Rock. I’ll give a free pass to your Metallicas and your Slayers and your Megadeths.

I’m talking about HAIR—fucking—METAL: that overtly macho, overtly sexual, overtly arrogant and self-important brand of music that painted its nails, teased out its bangs, grabbed your ass without your permission, sexually-assaulted-you-while-you-slept-and- didn’t-call-you-the-next-morning type of music that just enraged (and, sadly, exhilarated) people the world over…or maybe just in North America…and Germany. I’m talking about your Poisons and your Ratts and your Warrants. I’m talking about your Bon Jovis and your Cinderellas and your Motely Crues. And who could forget Def Leppard and Extreme? I guess to some this was music that “kicked ass.”

But not until September 24th 1991, or more importantly, January 11th, 1992—the week when Nirvana’s Nevermind replaced Michael Jackson’s Dangerous as the #1 album in the country—did the world truly know what it was like to have its ass collectively kicked by powerful and—what many would regard as—important music. Who else was in the top 10 in January 1992, you ask? Garth Brooks (#2), MC Hammer (#3), and Michael-you can’t-kill-me-because-I’m already-fucking-dead-Bolton (#10). And to be fair, so were Metallica and U2, #9 and #4, respectively. But still, in the precious years leading up to Nirvana’s rise to global dominance, Rock and Roll (not unlike today…sadly) had become what some would categorize as a fringe genre. Not only was it just a sad memory of its former hell raising glory, but the people who made this so called rock and roll had an aura of unattainability and cartoon-like excess. These weren’t people playing music in your neighbour’s garage down the street; these were people sniffing cocaine off of groupies’ asses and also hiring obscene amounts of make-up and fire effects for their music videos. That type of nonsense is okay in moderation—and I say this wishing no overt disrespect to KISS and their fans who are in the audience tonight—but a steady diet of it on the FM airwaves and on video year after year can leave one feeling kind of hollow. Fans of rock and roll—real fans of real rock and roll—it seemed, had been ignored for a very long time.

It’s really hard to explain to a person not around during the early 90s just how revolutionary Nirvana’s sound and impact were. I was 15 years old in 1992—your average teen stuck in the drudgery of a small town high school. Awkward, alone, and insecure. All I saw were hockey jerseys and polo shirts. And then in the space of a year it was plaid, flannel, green hair, and army boots as far as the eye could see. But far from mere fashion, Nirvana’s rise to prominence helped usher in the mass acceptance of so many other great bands: Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Jane’s Addiction, Alice in Chains, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Tool, The Smashing Pumpkins, and Nine Inch Nails, to name a few—world class acts, many still making important and vital music today. Mass culture for one beautiful moment really was the metaphor of ‘lunatics taking over the asylum’ come to life. It was a glorious time. Every freak, reject, and weirdo was finally the coolest person on the planet. The more obscure the band you liked, the cooler you were. Suddenly radio and MTV were playing music that was actually good—music that had substance and that spoke to so many.

And, yet, as the years go by, people forget. And history repeats.

I’ve heard the term “overrated” used to describe Nirvana. I see this word tossed around on various webboards quite often. In fact, as recently as May of last year a Rolling Stone Readers poll listed the top 10 worst bands of the 1990s. And Nirvana was—inexplicably—#5! Anyway, for every person who claimed how amazing they were, there was someone claiming the opposite. For example, username “Guest” wrote “Nirvana…are hugely overrated. It's all just whiny, i-hate-the-world grunge sludge-rock,” while Username “Bassrage” wrote “Nirvana has three perfect albums? Really? Like their first effort, named...does anybody even know? Bleach. A perfect record? Nice try. And as far as the band as a whole, I respectfully submit that they are vastly overrated. Period.”

Yes, “period” indeed. I mean, who could have foreseen Nirvana’s popularity coming or their legacy being so engraved into the annals of rock and roll history? No one—especially not the band members themselves. I mean, sure the members of Nirvana were amazing musicians, but it’s not like they were virtuosos (well, maybe Dave Grohl). And sure they wrote amazing songs, but it’s not like they had a catalogue as rich or as varied as that of U2 or R.E.M. And sure they were amazing people with great senses of humour and a total lack of arrogance despite the gobs of praised heaped upon them, but it’s not like they were out there every week working for Oxfam or riding around on a Greenpeace raft trying to save sea lions. And yet, the words, music, image, and attitude of Nirvana captured something in the world’s consciousness.

So, let’s give the band members their individual due. Countless rock journalists have used numerous colourful adjectives to describe the band’s sound, so rather than rely on those dusty old comparisons, let me try and put a fresh spin on them.

Nirvana’s musical wonderment begins with Dave Grohl’s drumming—a sound so deafening and so brutal it makes the army of hell’s cannons sound like mere microwave popcorn. These are drums that rain down like bowling ball shaped hail stones tearing through the ground as if it were made of paper mache, only to lodge firmly into the earth’s mantel--FOREVER.

Rounding out this rhythm section is Krist Noveselic’s melodic bass. Krist’s bass parts were as tuneful as Cobian’s lead guitar—sometimes even more so. Krist’s bass often carried Nirvana’s songs the way a world war one soldier might carry his buddy’s unconscious body from no man’s land into his home trench: with precision, delicacy, urgency, and assurance. Where Krist’s bass lines lead, you fucking followed. One need only hear the beginning of “Lounge Act” to appreciate Krist’s attention to detail.

As for Kurt Cobain’s songwriting, I think here’s where the naysayers who banter around the term “overrated” like to flex their jaws. People point out that Kurt’s songwriting was not complex—something Cobain himself wryly acknowledged when he titled one of his song’s “Verse, Chorus, Verse.” I also have a memory of reading an early interview with Cobain where he comments, I believe it was after writing the song “Spank Thru,” how difficult it was creating a song with three parts and that henceforth he would write songs with “only two parts” as that was much less stressful. Additionally, I can recall Krist in an interview, when trying to explain Nirvana’s popularity, comparing the band’s songs to learning the melody for your ABC’s—simple, well-written, and catchy melodies that simply stuck with you. Detractors call Kurt Cobain’s songwriting overrated and simple. To them I say writing a perfect rock song, let along several dozen, is no small feat. Kurt Cobain was a master songwriter and who knows what other gifts he might have given the world had he lived.

But Kurt’s songwriting was only one third of his musical contribution to Nirvana: the other two components were his guitar and his voice. Again, Kurt Cobain never saw himself as some sort of Guitar God: yes his playing was raw and feedback drenched but he himself admitted to only playing “feedback and blushing” during a guitar audition for his heroes The Melvins, and I can only assume that he would also have had a good chuckle at being included as a playable avatar in Guitar Hero.

But that voice. Oh that voice. “Barbed-wire soaked in gasoline” I think one writer put it. Countless others have had their say too, but how do you describe it? And even more challenging, how do you describe its appeal to a commercial global audience? Kurt himself lamented even his decision to scream his vocals as the band’s trademark sound since the delivery was becoming even more taxing on his body. In another instance, while preparing for the band’s landmark appearance on MTV Unplugged, he wondered how he could deliver his vocals softly enough to complement the acoustic instruments, instead deciding—grudgingly—to scream his words anyway. But like all great singers, Kurt had several voices, and he used them all well: he could scream in pitch and on key, and he could mumble, growl, croon and sweetly harmonize with the best of them. The appeal of Kurt Cobain’s voice is its sheer power, honesty, and conviction.

Thus far I have tried to explain Nirvana’s importance and appeal based on context and the talents of its individual members, but there is one other important aspect to Nirvana’s appeal: their politics. To the average baby boomer adult at the time, Nirvana probably stood for one thing and one thing only: noise. Tuneless fucking noise. And they did!

Anyone who doubts that Nirvana’s abrasive sound and the destruction of their instruments weren’t political gestures on some level is kidding themselves. These shenanigans were all a big “fuck you” to polite, civilized society: a society obsessed with perfectly trimmed hair and coordinated clothes. A society today that is more concerned with tweets and contrived selfies—in short: its never-ending obsession with impression and image, as opposed to just being raw and real. One of my favourite Nirvana moments by far is when the band played “Territorial Pissings” instead of the much, much less confrontational “Lithium” on the Jonathan Ross television show--a performance that even today in 2014 would seem incredibly powerful and confrontational on daytime talk TV…and one which—I’m not kidding—brings tears to my eyes every time I watch it.

To the fan of punk rock culture, many versions of Nirvana exist, and this was widely responsible for the band’s appeal. No matter what marginalized group you were, there seemed to be a Nirvana for you.

There was Nirvana the “Feminist Band”: Cobain hated macho culture and critiqued it often in interviews and in his art, “Mr. Moustache” being a notable song. He also challenged it by falling in love with, and marrying, a strong, outspoken female—something he championed in his brilliant liner notes to the Incesticide album. And who could forget him wearing an actual ball gown on his appearance on MTV’s Headbanger’s ball, let alone the other times he cross-dressed on stage.

There was Nirvana the “Pro-Gay” band: this political gesture went hand in male hand with Kurt’s hatred for macho, homophobic culture. In a year where homosexuality is a “crime” in India and Russia, Nirvana were speaking out for LGBT rights some 25 years before it became safe and fashionable to do so. Kurt Cobain told the homophobes to stay away from his concerts, not to buy his records, and to “leave us the fuck alone.” He openly kissed Krist on the mouth after the band’s performance on SNL, and told the audience at a No On 9 support concert in Portland, OR—a political proposal designed to strip gays and lesbians of their rights—that “I like to buttfuck. It’s fun—feels good.” For a band in Nirvana’s position to do these things was unbelievably courageous and progressive.

There was Nirvana the “Working Class” band: Nirvana’s members were not the sons and daughters of celebrities telling us their hard won wisdom about wrecking balls and blurred lines and the like. There was no easy path to success, recognition, or visibility for this band. There was no economic privilege. Nirvana came from a small town, and this geographical isolation would (for better or worse) shape the band’s sound and ideology. Nirvana always operated outside of the mainstream. The band championed their local heroes while they themselves marginally unknown, and continued to champion their heroes once they were world famous. To quote one rock journalist, they dragged their friends kicking and screaming into the spotlight with them. They never ceased using their newfound fame as a platform to elevate artists that they admired and respected—artists that were almost certainly universally anonymous to mainstream music listeners.

Additionally, the band’s ideas about musical ownership (for lack of a better word) were equally unpretentious and inclusive. Kurt Cobain once stated “Punk rock should mean freedom, liking and accepting anything that you like. Playing whatever you want. As sloppy as you want. As long as it's good and it has passion”—and with those simple words Kurt Cobain broke down the doors of musical exclusivity—inviting anyone and everyone to make the same music that he was regardless of your expertise. He invited you to grab a guitar or to sing. He said “fuck them all—you can do this too!” This idea was rooted in the band’s very name: “In Webster’s terms,” Cobain once told an interviewer, “‘nirvana’ means freedom from pain, suffering and the external world, and that’s pretty close to my definition of Punk Rock.” Nirvana were very much the people’s band: relatable and approachable at every turn. For all aspiring musicians, myself included, they were our ultimate inspiration.

And finally there was Nirvana the “Humble Band”: One of the more amazing aspects of Nirvana was the band’s own humility. For a band so lauded—so acclaimed—they pretty much had a license to act like self-absorbed pricks. But they never did, and the two surviving members still don’t. They shunned body guards and publicists. There was no entourage. No posse. I recall one colourful interview where the band openly made fun of such rock star pretention relating it to a horrible musical act whose name I will not utter here. Nirvana’s message was simple: you don’t need to behave this way, and if you do, you’re a dick.

Kurt Cobain, a man who was called the voice of his generation—a man who had every right to become an arrogant self-important asshole—publically denounced his entire musical legacy early on by claiming “I'll be the first to admit that we're the 90's version of Cheap Trick or The Knack” and that his band simply “wanted to pay tribute to something that helped [them] to feel as though [they] had crawled out of the dung heap of conformity.” Getting an autographed record by his heroes The Wipers made Kurt Cobain “happier than playing in front of thousands of people each night, rock-god idolization from fans, music industry plankton kissing my ass, and the million dollars I made last year.” He adds “It was one of the few really important things that I've been blessed with since becoming an untouchable boy genius.” The sarcasm in the words “boy genius” is palpable.

I didn’t want Kurt Cobain’s life and death to overshadow too much of Nirvana’s legacy, and yet without the former we almost certainly wouldn’t have the latter. All evidence points to Kurt Cobain being a terribly moody, hilarious, intelligent, sensitive, and guilt-ridden individual. Some of these emotions existed before he was famous; others occurred afterwards, with fame only exacerbating them. But Kurt Cobain was not untouchable. He could also be—for lack of a more flattering description—a completely stubborn and pig-headed asshole. He was a complicated human being, like all of us, and within him were immense gifts and immense flaws. I am certain I’m not the only person who wonders what immense contributions Kurt Cobain would have made to popular culture today had he lived. His absence from today’s musical landscape of complete and utter pompous, immature, and shallow bullshit is deeply, deeply missed.

I’d like to end this speech by reading you two quotations. The first dismisses a particular rock band as “merely the latest objects of adolescent adulation…they symbolize the 20th century non-hero as they make non-music, [and] wear non-haircuts” while the second quotation about the same band, mind you, reads “Visually they are a nightmare; musically they are a disaster, guitars and drums slamming out a merciless beat that does away with secondary rhythms, harmony, and melody.” No—this isn’t early press on Nirvana; it’s actually early press on The Beatles, the former said by CBS Morning News “journalist” Alexander Kendrick, and the latter printed in the New York Herald Tribune after The Beatles’ appearance on the Ed Sullivan show some 50 years ago. I mention these two selections of antiquated rock criticism to underscore a very important point: fans and critics have always had a contentious relationship with each other and, at various times, each has backed the wrong horse (so to speak) in music history; however, when both culture and criticism align in appreciation, it truly is bliss.

Countless people in the early 90s, both critics and commoners alike, dismissed Nirvana as a mere fad—just noise (and countless more still do today); however as music journalist Michael Azerred so eloquently wrote in his definitive Nirvana band biography Come As You Are, “When Cobain screams 'a denial, a denial' over and over again at the end of 'Teen Spirit', it's something that's understood on a deep level. And either you get it or you don't. It clearly draws the lines, even as it deals in universals. And it's one of the most transcendent moments in rock music.”

From the words “a denial,” I immediately draw a parallel line to the bitter ending refrain of “no future” in the Sex Pistol’s “God Save The Queen.”—complementary sentiments equally applicable to today’s world of financial corruption, climate change ignorance, religious extremism, and the deepening division between the acceptance of differing genders, races, and sexualities.

I ask myself wonder would Kurt Cobain (if alive) have refused even to appear at this very ceremony the way his beloved Sex Pistols did when they were inducted in 2006? Perhaps. For a guy who once famously wore a shirt on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine proudly (and wryly) declaring “Corporate Magazines Still Suck,” I can certainly see his willful absence in this very room as a type of martyrdom in regards to the numerous bands he admired that probably will never get into this little community of ‘boy and girl geniuses’. And yet, no less than three year after the Sex Pistols declined their invitation to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, John Lydon would appear in commercials in the UK shilling Country Life Butter, so where the fuck does that leave us? You tell me? So much for punk rock ideals and integrity.

Walt Whitman once wrote “I am large; I contain multitudes,” while Kurt Cobain, that other great American poet, wrote “I found it hard; it’s hard to find. Oh well, whatever, nevermind.” And with that, it is my extreme honour to induct into the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame one of the most important—and certainly one of the most overrated—Rock Bands in the history of recorded music. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you Nirvana. Thank you so much. The above is a transcription of the speech I delivered on Monday February 24, 2014 and available here in all its HD A/V glory: http://youtu.be/SKAV57XuGHQ

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