“One Big Wake on the Lake…”
Excerpted from the novel Dressing Stone: in Homage to Kurt Cobain
On Sunday, April 9th, the day after the discovery of Kurt Cobain’s body, the musician’s local fans spontaneously held vigils throughout Seattle. This excerpt from the novel Dressing Stone picks up with Bo and Nina’s arrival in Seattle late Saturday night on April 8th as the shock of the event has just begun to take hold among Kurt’s followers. (Excerpts from Chapter 20 & 21; scenes edited and shorted to throw focus on Kurt and the vigils)
See related post: Kurt Cobain’s Suicide note
20.0 Acquired Patination
Last thing I recall was the sky turning sepia, and I hit bottom like a lead sinker. Next thing I knew Nina was shaking me awake. Recognizing the Whosh of passing traffic, I realized she’d pulled over in the breakdown lane on a busy stretch of the I-90. Shoving me over from the passenger side she shrilled, “Wake up Bo. We’re here.”
Before we left the Silver Spurs I’d snuck a little toot of the crystal meth in the bathroom, and out on the road I remember really enjoying the roiling whitewater of the Clark Fork River as it provided accompaniment to the sound of the blood coursing in my ears. Now, as I sat up, my ears were trilling like a siren. I rolled my eyes back and forth, tracing the path the wipers would follow had they been on, “We’re where?”
“Just outside Seattle.”
“Just outside Seattle.” She pushed me toward the driver’s side, “Slide over. I get caught driving without a license again, I’m screwed.” (…)
Crossing Lake Washington, I followed Nina’s directions from the Rainer Avenue exit through a series of turns that sent us back-tracking under the ungainly shadow of the I-90 overpass. A convoluted series of maneuvers put us in the northbound lane of Lakeside Avenue…
“Kurt’s house is up ahead.”
Fleeting moonlit views of the massive glacial lake on our right flashed between the buildings, and as we continued north each house seemed to surpass the next in size and grandeur. We hadn’t gone a mile since Lakeside turned into Lake Washington Boulevard when we landed in a snarl of traffic. Cars were pulled over haphazardly on both sides of the road, and Nina explained, “Kurt’s house is up ahead.” Answering my sour look she quickly added, “We had to come this way to get to where we’re going.”
Inching along the highway for twenty minutes we approached a police officer directing traffic where the road choked down to a single lane due to the illegally parked cars lining each side. Signaled to stop by the white glove, the southbound traffic drifted past as pedestrians straggled between the cars. Nina gestured off to the left at an area clogged with lost souls, “That’s his house right there.” Cars coming from the opposite direction filed past, switching their lights off in silent salute before continuing on.
After the past couple days I didn’t have anything left in the tank, my only emotion pure numbness. I didn’t give a shit about Cobain, or any of these people who did. Looking at these wraiths wandering about in a daze I was having difficulty convincing myself that we ourselves were not numbered among the dead, and at this very moment—in a sort of underworld upgrade from the boats once used—we were now being transported by car through the Bardo. Resting my head on the steering wheel almost dozing, Nina poked me, and I opened my eyes tracing the path the windshield wipers followed, because they were on. “Come on Bud, cop says go.”
Driving clear of the bottleneck at the Cobain house, about a quarter mile up the road Nina directed me to make a right where another cop stood turning away traffic. Rolling down the window I pulled up next to the cop who donned a sour look, “No cars allowed in Denny Blaine without proof of residency.”
Nina leaned across my lap, “How are you this evening, Officer Cooke?”
The cop bent over eyeing my passenger, a sardonic smile painting his face, “Glad to see you’re not behind the wheel.” He tapped the roof, and waved us in.
Rolling up the window I glanced at Nina who un-pursed her lips saying, “Snagged me for DUI—twice.”
Finally clear of traffic I soughed, “I’m fried. I need a drink. And I need to sleep.” Spotting a marina through the trees I grumbled, “Listen kid, if there’s not enough room on the family tugboat I don’t mind staying in a motel.”
Tapping on my shoulder, she pointed across my nose, “Hang a left on 40th Avenue.” Scratching her own nose as though afflicted with an implacable itch, she said, “I think we can squeeze you in.” (…)
Listening to the cordial whisper of the tires on the velveteen driveway as I rolled down the hill, the main building slowly shifted in perspective from overlarge to stately. By the time I climbed out of the car I found myself standing before a stone structure suitable for a suzerain manor. Security lights lit the grounds more than the buildings, and I was having trouble digesting the scene. As Nina opened the hatch at the back of the car I turned in a circle. There were seven or eight late model Ford Expeditions in the lot where I’d parked, the stone façade garage overlooking the lot was large enough to hold a fleet of them. Closer to the lakefront, a pool house was nestled at the foot of a basalt outcropping under a pair of ancient madrone trees. At lakeside, a stone boathouse met a dock cradling a seventy-four foot ketch on one side, and a forty-nine foot screw powered Weekender on the other. Gazing over the twenty-five meter pool on the promenade between the garage and the boathouse I said, “What is this place, some sort of resort?”
Handing me our overnight bags she jerked her chin, “This way.”
Half expecting the hounds to be on us when she went up the steps to the main building I hissed, “All right Trawler, what’s the gag?” I felt hidden eyes watching our every move, and not until she’d punched in the security code that unlocked the service door did it occur to me, “You used to work here, didn’t you…?” I followed close on her heels into a room with a row of lockers lining one wall. At the far end Nina fished around in one, and slipping a thick credit card sized slab into her pocket she handed me another one saying, “It’s official, you’re a housekeeper. Keep the transponder with you at all times, otherwise you’ll find yourself answering to a swarm of cops…
21.0 Chiaroscuro
Excerpt from chapter 21 Dressing Stone: The action picks up on Sunday afternoon, when Nina and Bo are preparing to go to a series of vigils held by various friends of Nina around Lake Washington the day after the body was found.
21.1 Vision in Goth
I certainly didn’t expect Nina to pass up an occasion such as the funeral of a pop idol not to dress up, and she didn’t disappoint. Gut wrenching grief her benchmark, the look of the day was Goth. Nothing is more funereal than Goth, and she went all out. Glossy black lips grimaced under thick jarring rings of black mascara painted around eyelids blackened with photon absorbing kohl dust, while her hair, dyed jet-black, was tinged purple at the fringes, and topped off with a black pillbox hat and birdcage veil. In accoutrement to her face, she wore a full length black dress that appeared as though it had been poured over her, the slinky skin tight bodice exploded into skirt and ruffles that looked like a splash of India ink flash-frozen before it hit the floor. Not a scrap of flesh was visible on neck or arms and her black gloves dovetailed so imperceptibly with the sleeves of the dress they must have been original to the ensemble. Her pale cheeks shone through the black veil like the faint glow of a lone lamp from a distant mountain cabin. There was a promising strand of shimmering blond leaking down one side of her head, but under the aura of Goth it seemed less to signify a ray of hope, than a lit fuse.
The chic malaise portrayed by Nina’s getup rendered it incomprehensible how the actual loss of a loved one heaped on top of all that dressy despondency could be endured, yet the effort alone betrayed real staying power. I beheld the vision of mournful loveliness and declared, “You’ve done it again.” Stepping back to drink it all in, I found myself stumbling toward her, drawn by the scent of lilies. Taking slow sips, I murmured in her ear, “Nina, you’re…(…)
“Well, I felt the same way when I punched the other guy—just wanted to deliver a message. Except I thought they were PK’s boys.”
“Really…?” A quizzical expression deformed her face, “You’d do that for me? Really?” She oozed into my lap smearing herself over me like paint, “You’re the only person I’ve ever known who cared enough to die for me.”
Watching a single tear under the veil etch its way down her cheek I said, “Let’s not get carried away.” I pushed her from my lap, “I’ll protect you, but I’m not going to die for you.” The large crease that replaced the dent in the hood glared at me like a lingering nightmare. Backing out of the parking space, I grit my teeth, “Where to…?”
Nina strummed her bottom lip making a popping sound, “I have to make the rounds so—” She coughed, “So get ready to meet my friends—prolly all of ‘em.”
Kurt Cobain’s brand of beer
21.2 See Addle
Heading north under a steady funereal rain we made our way around Lake Washington, from Madron to Broadmoor to Medina, all the way over to Mercer, everywhere we went we found gatherings of people milling about in the shock of shared grief. It seemed everyone in Seattle was holding a vigil for the late Kurt Cobain—one big wake on the lake—these were not your garden variety vigils held in the alcoholic haze of a quasi-Irish tradition. On this sad day, everyone was sharing their grief along with their private stash, whether it was their mothers’ Percoset, their fathers’ Valium, their sisters’ store of acid, or their own hard earned hoard of ecstasy. Under the ubiquitous cloud of cannabis, I’ve never seen such a wide array of stupefacients on display.
At the outset I wasn’t so much bored as intrigued, and taking it all in through the eyes of a New Yorker, I felt a bit like an ethnologist undertaking fieldwork in an exotic land. By New York standards the average Seattleite dressed as though clothing was their worst enemy. Given my experience with Nina I’d been expecting some sort of haute punk to be on display, but the local style was no style at all. The local couture smacked of absolute penury. It didn’t matter what sort of neighborhood we were in, fat to lean the general look was denim, flannel, layered, thrift shop tatty—right out of Deliverance, hunting caps and all. There was no denying Grunge was born and bred in this Northwest coast netherworld where redneck raped Punk.
Nevertheless, this stylized lack of style had its charm, and the general sorrow permeating the air was heartfelt and sincere. Amid the bereavement, a general bewilderment masked a nascent sense of betrayal, and in their desire to pay respect to their fallen idol, people brought out photos and albums and wrote out poster sized epigrams and other offerings that were spontaneously assembled around trees and spread out on lawns creating ad hoc sanctified sites of solemn homage. One of my favorite shrines was the votive lamps some of the mourners in Lakeridge made with Converse sneakers filled with citronella oil. After these were fired up on the lakeshore many of the kids proceeded to flambé their mackinaws and hunting caps on sticks held over the burning sneakers. The idea spread like fire itself, and I began to see these immolations at house after house as if already part of an established canon.
Converse sneakers were haute-grunge 1994
Despite the drizzle it was warm for April in Seattle. I knew this because everyone said it was, including the local media. Everywhere televisions and stereos were left blaring from kitchens, living rooms, decks and dens, saturating the air with the music and images of Kurt Cobain. People watched without watching, people listened without listening, people talked over it to become part of it. I was surprised by the number of people I met who claimed an intimacy with Kurt, the band, Courtney, or all of the above, but then again, no one mourns in the third person.
Like failed parents wondering where they’d gone wrong, everyone was running on survivor’s guilt, and a terrible need to hash out the reasons why Kurt had done it. I heard it floated more than once that selling out drove him to do it. Conspiracy theories abounded. There were those who thought his death was a corporate conspiracy. Others thought it was by government fiat. There were those who thought his dealers did him in. There were even those who suggested his band mates killed him. An awful lot of people seemed to hint at the possibility that Courtney and her crowd used hired assassins. Some thought just being married to Courtney drove him to it.
Cobain’s Yoko
I even met my share of people who rambled on as though they themselves had done him in. The only thing on which there was a consensus was that Cobain’s death was caused by a shotgun blast. At the periphery of these devotions, and of special interest to me, was macabre talk of the physical condition of Kurt’s head. Some said he blew the back of his head off, others said he blew his face off, still others said he put the gun to his neck and blew his entire head off. A splinter group insisted he blew his head to smithereens, but they seemed to be clinging to the hope that the body had been misidentified, and Kurt was still alive.
The main thing eating at most of these kids was that their complaints were exactly the same as Kurt’s. He’d managed to turn this lumpen confusion into poetry, and yet for all the anguished effort, it had not saved him. Seeing the passion with which his fans mourned him was heart rending, and I felt a surge of envy wishing my art held such power over my audience. Sculpture is but a dull looming presence, at best lurking with a quiet authority, while music, like no other art form, slays its devotees…
[Bo and Nina continue on late into the night visiting a number of vigils held in and around greater Seattle, until they are overwhelmed by…]
Seattle Times Headlines April 9, 1994
Kurt Cobain’s Troubled Last Days — Drugs, Guns And Threats; And Then He Disappeared
By Peyton Whitely
In his last weeks, Kurt Cobain bought a shotgun, fled from a drug-treatment facility, fought with his wife and threatened to kill himself, according to Seattle police reports.
Cobain, 27-year-old leader of the rock band Nirvana that made Seattle famous for music, was found dead of an apparently self-inflicted shotgun wound at his home yesterday.
Gary Smith, the electrician who found the body, said in a television interview that he found a suicide note that ended with “I love you, I love you.”
Just a month ago, Cobain was hospitalized in Rome, where he spent four days recovering after lapsing into a coma from a combination of sedatives and alcohol. That was one indication that the 27-year-old rock star was in trouble, but police reports reveal there were several other indications – at the time known only to family members, associates, neighbors or police.
On the evening of March 18, police responded to a call from the home of Cobain and his wife, Courtney Love.
When police arrived, Love told them Cobain had locked himself in a room and was going to kill himself. She said he had a gun in the room.
Cobain told police he had locked himself in the room to stay away from Love. He said he was not suicidal, and he didn’t want to hurt himself.
Officers said that as they questioned Love further, she told them she had not actually seen Cobain with a weapon and he had not said he was going to kill himself.
But police found four guns and 25 boxes of ammunition, as well as quantities of an unknown medication.
The weapons included a .38-caliber Taurus revolver, a Beretta .380 semiautomatic handgun, a second Taurus .380 handgun and a Colt AR-15 semiautomatic rifle.
Because the dispute was limited to verbal exchanges, police made no arrests. Cobain then left the residence, the police report said.
“Due to the volatile situation with the threat of suicide and the recovery of unknown medication, the weapons and the bottle of pills were placed into custody,” police reported.
It is unclear whether police later returned the guns and pills. Police did not identify the pills.
Seventeen days later, Kurt Cobain’s name appeared in another police report.
On Monday, he was reported missing. He was described as armed with a shotgun, but not dangerous.
Police did not disclose the name of the person making the report, but Cobain’s mother in Aberdeen said yesterday she had reported him missing several days ago after being unable to contact him.
According to the police report, Cobain had run away from a “facility” in California and had flown back to Seattle.
“He also bought a shotgun and may be suicidal,” the report continued.
The missing-persons report indicated Cobain may have gone to a brick apartment building along Denny Way to buy narcotics.
That report noted the last police contact with Cobain was on April 2, last Saturday. But any police report on that incident was not among the files.
Neighbors recalled that police cars had appeared at the couple’s Madrona home on several occasions, including twice in one day, since they had purchased the handsome $1.1 million shake-covered 1902 house on Lake Washington Boulevard East in January.
Their next-door neighbors in the old-money Seattle neighborhood along the west shore of Lake Washington lived with some apprehension about what it would be like to live near one of the most famous rock stars in the world.
But those fears were not realized.
“They’d been exemplary,” said Bill Baillargeon, who lives in his own shake-covered home on the north side of the Cobain house. “They were neat and quiet.”
Cobain’s childhood was anything but neat and quiet. His emotional turmoil began early. His parents divorced when he was 10. Although he was sent to live with his father, family members say it wasn’t long before he was “bounced around from relative to relative” and ultimately left to live on his own.
“He was a pretty angry young man,” said his uncle, James Cobain, 46, of Aberdeen.
His parents’ separation caused a rift between them and their son, but he had become close to his mother in recent years.
His wife told the Los Angeles Times earlier this week, “There is this sweet Jimmy Stewart, `Mayberry, RFD’ side of him. His favorite TV shows are `Dragnet’ and `Mayberry, RFD’ and `Leave it to Beaver.’ To him they represent his lost boyhood,” she said.
And she spoke of the future: “I’m just glad I had a girl, but I want to have a son with him, too. Just so I can help him make up for the relationship he never had (with his father).”
Last night at the Pourhouse Tavern in Aberdeen, where both Cobain and Nirvana bass player Krist Novoselic used to play in bands, Jeanne Emerson said Cobain just fell in with the wrong crowd.
“He belongs to Aberdeen, but when he made it big, he was from Seattle. And that’s unfair.”
A man walks by, listens to Emerson as she says: “Promise me one thing – make him out to be the nice guy that he was, because he was a nice guy.”
“He was a drug addict,” the man said.
“That’s your opinion,” she answers.
“No, it’s the truth.”
There were two Kurt Cobains it seemed – the artistic loner who grew up in this timber-driven town, and the famous rock star.
The bench where kurt was often seen playing his guitar
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