Back at those park benches, I think about the man who never will be: Kurt Cobain, hunched over that Lead Belly guitar he talked about buying on Unplugged, whispering out melodic folk tunes and barren blues. At 47, he’s graying and thicker, but the voice is still there and the spark is still in his eyes.
Cross says he has heard tapes of rough ideas that may get a release someday, but I’m not sure I want to hear them (especially if they’re as middling as the unearthed stuff from With the Lights Out). I’ll stick to the vision I have of Cobain the reclusive troubadour, producing Daniel Johnston LPs and dropping seven-inch blues covers via Jack White’s Third Man Records. Those possibilities are what keep Cobain’s spirit in the hearts of all us aging outsiders who still go hard with the lights out.