I still vividly remember the day I found out Kurt died. I was on vacation with my folks — in Kenya of all places. My father woke me up out of a dead sleep in the hotel room.
“Hey, that singer you like was found dead.” (We had CNN on in the room… it was, like, 4 or 5 in the morning.)
I sat up immediately, rubbing my eyes, trying to focus on the TV…. shots of the outside of the Cobain Seattle home. And then the picture of Kurt with his guitar and the years: 1967 – 1994.
I didn’t know what to think, or how to process it. I just sat there, waiting for more information. And I still had the whole trip in front of me. Luckily (or ironically), I had made a Nirvana mix tape for the trip (as I didn’t want to bring my discman and a shitload of CDs along)… and that’s all I listened to for the next five days.
Funny how I can’t remember details of events that happened a couple of months ago at times, but that day, almost a decade ago, still feels fresh to me. Sure, I don’t listen to the band as much as I used to, but I’ll always consider myself a fan. (Hell, I still have a poster of the guy up in my room.)
