Q&A: Dave Grohl on Kurt’s Last Days and the Making of ‘In Utero’

Sacado de // From: http://portalternativo.com and http://www.rollingstone.com

Hace unos días, la Rolling Stone departió con Dave Grohl en sus estudios 606 sobre “In Utero”, el que supuso el último disco de Nirvana, aprovechando un receso en la grabación del nuevo trabajo de Foo Fighters.

Su relación con Kurt Cobain:

Cada banda en la que había estado hasta ese momento había sido una banda de amigos que o se juntó para hacer música o nos hicimos família estando de gira. Nirvana fue algo diferente. Vivir con Kurt era divertido. Se aislaba de muchas maneras, emocionalmente pero tenía una naturaleza genuinamente dulce. Nunca te hacía sentir incómodo de manera intencionada. Vivir con él en aquel apartamentito en Olympia, Washington, había una especie de vínculo pero muy diferente a su relación con Krist (Novoselic).

Yo veía a Krist y Kurt como almas gemelas. Ambos tenían una comprensión mutua sin necesidad de hablar tan bonita. Esos dos tíos, juntos, definieron totalmente la estética de Nirvana. Cada rareza, todas las cosas raras de Nirvana venían de Krist y Kurt. Creo que crecer en Aberdeen, sus experiencias juntos en esos años formativos, tuvo mucho que ver en eso.

Musicalmente, la química era simple. Todo lo que teníamos que hacer era ser nosotros mismos. Unirme a una banda sin haber conocido antes a la gente, solo quieres ser poderoso musicalmente. Hubo mucha veces en que me sentí como un completo extraño. Estaba acostumbrado a estar rodeado de gente que no conocía desde los 13 años. Luego estaba viviendo en la puta Olympia con alguien que no conocía. No había sol. Solo estaba la música.

Sobre la incapacidad de Cobain de disfrutar del éxito cosechado:

No sé de donde salía eso. Mucha gente no considera válido su trabajo por ser suyo. Lo puedo entender. Conozco a mucha gente que no estaría cómoda con cualquier cosa que viene con estar en una banda tan grande como Nirvana. Lo que no entiendo es no apreciar ese simple don de ser capaz de hacer música.

Cuando Nirvana se hizo popular fue una difícil transición. Estás en la escena punk underground con tus héroes Ian McKaye (Fugazi) y Calvin Johnson (Beat Happening). Deseas la aprobación de esa gente desesperadamanete porque te valida como músico: voy en serio.

Yo tuve suerte porque volví a Washington D.C. y todos mis héroes me dijeron que estaban orgullosos de que me hubiera convertido en una puta estrella del rock corporativo (risas) Me quité ese peso de los hombros, solo empezar. Nunca me preocupé por eso. Eso debió de tener algo que ver con la ansiedad de Kurt. Tenía miedo de que la gente de la escena no aprobara donde estaba.

Sobre aquel año 1992 en que el grupo dosificó giras y grabaciones:

Nos llamaba el Lollapalooza, “Tenéis que ser cabezas de cartel en Lollapalooza”. Fui a ver un concierto de U2 y los Pixies y empujado al camerino de Bono: “Tíos tenéis que venir de gira con nosotros”. Gun’s N’ Roses nos llamaba. Me quedé, “¿Qué cojones está pasando?” Fue bueno para nosotros no hacer tanta cosa. Pero era como coger una cerilla y ver como se quemaba hasta los dedos. Era solo cuestión de tiempo de que pasara algo.

Estábamos grabando un par de canciones, una para el single con Jesus Lizard y un cover de Wipers. Y Kurt dijo, “Oh, tengo esa nueva idea de canción”. Y tocó “Frances Farmer” (“Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle”). Fue como, “Oh, dios mío, tendremos otro disco”.

Ese día estaba en mi sótano. Me dijo, “Mira esto” y tocó el riff. También tocó “Very Ape”. Quizá la ensayamos un día. Normalmente cuando Nirvana hacía música no había mucha conversación. Queríamos que todo fuese auténtico. No queríamos hacer una composición forzada. Una canción como “Heart-Sheaped Box” – empezábamos improvisando. Kurt tocaba el riff y Krist se enchufaba con lo que (Kurt) estaba haciendo y yo tocaba junto a ellos. Nos metíamos en la dinámica, con el ruido tranquilidad, ruido tranquilidad. Mucho de ese rollo de tranquilidad-ruido venía de estas jams experimentales.

De los problemas con las drogas de Cobain:

Yo dejé las drogas cuando tenía 20 años. Nunca me metí heroína, nunca me metí pastillas. Me metí mucho ácido, fumé mucha hierba, me divertí mucho. En lo que a opiaceos, esa es otra escena. Por suerte, no estaba en esa escena. Eso no significa que no me importara.

Ya no estábamos en la furgoneta, en ese pequeño club. Podías notar una distancia emocional pero de un modo melancólico. Había veces en que podíamos estar sin hablar durante días pese a que estábamos de gira haciendo conciertos. Y entonces nos encontrábamos en el pasillo y decíamos, “Deberíamos pillar unas mini-bikes cuando volvamos a casa. Conozco un circuito detrás de mi casa”. O, “El sitio de los cortacéspedes tiene un circuito de karts. Vayamos ahi”. Había esos momentos de conexión emocional. Por supuesto que luego no íbamos (risas) Lo único que necesitabas era ese momento de validación: seguimos estando unos con otros.

No sé si durante la grabación de “In Utero” se estaba metiendo algo. Aquello fue raro. Estábamos secuestrados en una casa, en medio de la nieve, en febrero, en Minnesota. Grabar con Steve (Albini) – le daba a ‘grabar’, hacíamos la toma y (aplaude), “Vale, ¿qué viene ahora?” Espera, ¿está bien?

Trabajar con Butch Vig en “Nevermind” fue otro ejercicio. Hicimos que ese álbum fuese el álbum. Estábamos alucinados. Pasábamos muchísimo tiempo en el local de ensayo. Estábamos lo suficientemente liberados y controlados como necesitábamos estar.

Pasamos como un rayo por “In Utero”. Estaba hecho tras tres días. Me sobraron diez putos días para sentarme en la nieve, sin nada que hacer. Una vez terminamos con toda la instrumentación era hora de que Kurt hiciera sus voces y repeticiones.

Recuerdo que todo el mundo estaba preocupado por el tempo de “Heart-Shaped Box” pero los metrónomos no molaban. A Kurt y a Steve se les ocurrió esta idea: debíamos usar una luz estroboscópica (risas) Tuvimos una larga conversación sobre como no iba a dictar el tempo, solo sugerirlo.

Les dije, “Vale, chicos, lo que queráis”. Estuve ahí con esa puta luz en la cara durante una o dos tomas hasta que prácticamente tuve un ataque. Les dije, “¿Podemos simplemente tocar? Un pequeño mareo. No os preocupéis”.

Del que fue su primer tema compuesto para Nirvana, “Marigold”:

La compuse en la máquina cuatro pistas de casa. Él estaba en su habitación. No quería despertarle así que grababa cosas, susurrando al micrófono. Estaba grabando la armonía vocal al estribillo de esa canción y se abrió la puerta. Me dice, “¿Qué es eso?” “Nada, una cosa que compuse”. “Déjame oírla”.

Nos sentamos y la tocamos unas pocas veces. Yo hacía la armonía aguda, él la grave. Es divertido componer canciones con otra gente. Nunca he hecho eso. Yo compongo canciones (Foo Fighters) y la banda las toca conmigo. Pero sentarme cara a cara con alguien, eso es otro rollo. No sé si había llegado a hacer eso. Era como una incómoda cita a ciegas. “Oh, ¿también cantas? Armonicemos juntos”. Por aquel entonces también era timidín.

Me halagó mucho pero recuerdo que fue Steve quien dijo, “‘Marigold’ debería estar en el álbum”. Yo estaba aterrorizado (risas) No, no, espera. Era aquel famoso chiste: “¿Qué es lo último que dice el batería antes de que le echen de la banda? Hey, he compuesto una canción”.

Obviamente, no entró (en el disco, fue una cara B de “Heart-Shaped Box”). Estoy contento porque el álbum mantuvo la integridad de la visión de Kurt. Pero estaba tremendamente halagado. “¿De verdad que te gusta?”

De la última vez que vio a Cobain:

Llamé a Kurt tras lo de Roma (en marzo de 1994, durante una gira europea, Cobain tuvo una sobredosis en un hotel de Roma. Nirvana regresaron a Seattle donde Cobain murió un mes después). Le dije, “Hey tío, eso ha asustado a todo el mundo. No quiero que te mueras”.

Entonces le vi en las oficinas de nuestro contable (en Seattle). Él se iba cuando yo llegué. Me sonrió y me dijo, “Hey, ¿qué tal?” Y le dije, “Te llamaré, ¿vale?” Y me dijo, “Vale”.

Sobre como “In Utero” es una especie de testamento:

El álbum debería ser escuchado como fue el día que salió. Ese es mi problema con el disco. Solía gustarme escucharlo. Y ya no lo hago por eso. Para mi, si lo escuchas sin pensar en la muerte de Kurt, quizá cojas la intención original del disco. Como mis hijos. Saben que estuve en Nirvana. Saben que Kurt murió. No les he dicho que se mató. Tienen cuatro y siete años. Así que cuando escuchen “In Utero” tienen esa perspectiva fresca – la intención original del álbum, la del oyente principiante.

Algún día sabrán lo que pasó. Y cambiará eso. A mi me lo cambió.

IN ENGLISH

It is a recent morning at 606, Grohl’s recording studio in Los Angeles’ San Fernando Valley. Downstairs, in the control room, producer Butch Vig and members of Grohl’s long-running band Foo Fighters are arriving for work: pre-production for the followup to that group’s next album. Upstairs, in the lounge, Grohl marks the 20th anniversary of In Utero – released in September, 1993 and reissued this month in a deluxe edition with rare demo and live tracks and a new remix – with one of his longest, deepest interviews on the final days of Nirvana and their star-crossed leader, singer-guitarist-songwriter Kurt Cobain.

Grohl and Nirvana bassist Krist Novoselic both spoke at length about In Utero and its tragic climax – Cobain’s death from a self-inflicted shotgun wound in April, 1994 – for a feature story in the new issue of Rolling Stone. The drummer was especially vivid and detailed in his memories of In Utero and the foreboding loaded in Cobain’s songs. What follows are additional excerpts from our conversation, after which Grohl gave me a tour of 606, including a hallway he has dedicated to Nirvana, lined with vintage tour posters and gold-and-platinum awards from around the world.

You joined Nirvana just in time to play on Nevermind. Did you have time to develop a bond with Kurt?
Every band I had ever been in, up until that point, had been a band of friends that either got together to make music or we all became a close family out on the road. Nirvana was a little different. Living with Kurt was funny. He isolated himself in a lot of ways, emotionally. But he had a genuine, sweet nature. He never intentionally made you feel uncomfortable. Living with him in that tiny apartment in Olympia, Washington, there was some sort of bond. But it was much different than his relationship with Krist.

How would you characterize that?
I looked at Krist and Kurt as soulmates. The two had such a beautiful, unspoken understanding of each other. Those two guys, together, totally defined the Nirvana aesthetic. Every quirk, all the strange things that came from Nirvana came from Krist and Kurt. I think [growing up in] Aberdeen, their experiences together in those formative years, had a lot to do with that.

Musically, the chemistry was simple. All we had to do was be ourselves. Joining a band without ever having really met the people before, you just want to be musically powerful. There were a lot of times when I felt like a total stranger. I was used to being surrounded by people I’d known since I was 13 years old. Then I was living in fucking Olympia, with someone I don’t know. There was no sun. It was just the music.

I keep coming back to that first line in «Serve the Servants»: «Teenage angst has paid off well.» It has for you with Foo Fighters, this studio. Kurt could have had that. His principal vulnerability was an inability to enjoy the rewards of his work.
I don’t know where that came from. A lot of people don’t consider their work valid. Because it’s their own. I can understand that. I know a lot of people who wouldn’t be comfortable with everything that comes with being in a band as big as Nirvana. The thing that I don’t understand is not appreciating that simple gift of being able to play music.

When Nirvana became popular, it was a difficult transition. You’re in the underground punk scene with your heroes like [Fugazi’s] Ian McKaye or [Beat Happening’s] Calvin Johnson. You’re desperately wishing for these people’s approval, because it validates you as a musician: I’m for real.

I was lucky, because I went back to Washington, D.C. and had all my heroes tell me they were proud that I became a fucking corporate rock star [laughs]. That weight was lifted from my shoulders, right out of the game. I never worried about that. That might have had something to do with Kurt’s anxiety. He was afraid that the people on the scene wouldn’t approve of where he was.

You mentioned that things were strange for Nirvana in 1992. There were rehearsals but not much touring or recording. You were in this great situation, able to do anything you wanted, but you didn’t know what to do next or how to do it.
Lollapalooza was calling: «You gotta headline Lollapalooza.» I go to see U2 play a show with the Pixies and get pulled into Bono’s dressing room: «You guys have got to come on tour with us.» Gun’s N’ Roses is calling. I’m like, «What the fuck is going on?» It was good for us to not do much. But it was like holding a match and watching it burn down to your fingers. It was only a matter of time before something happened.

We were recording a couple of songs, one for the single with the Jesus Lizard and a Wipers cover. And Kurt said, «Oh, I have this new song idea.» And he played «Frances Farmer» [«Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle»]. It was «Oh my God, we’re gonna have another record.»

What state was the song in when he played it the first time? How would he bring a song in from his bedroom?
That day, he was in my basement. He said, «Check it out,» and played the riff. He also played «Very Ape.» We may have jammed on it that day. Usually, when Nirvana made music, there wasn’t a lot of conversation. We wanted everything to be surreal. We didn’t want to have some contrived composition. A song like «Heart-Shaped Box» – we would start jamming. Kurt would play the riff, and Krist would tune into what he was doing, and I would play along with the two of them. We would get into this dynamic, getting loud, then quiet, then loud. A lot of that quiet-loud thing came from those experimental jams.

How did you cope with Kurt’s drug use?
I quit doing drugs when I was 20. I never got into heroin, never did pills. I did a lot of acid, smoked a lot of weed, had a lot of fun. When it comes to opiates, that’s a whole other scene. I wasn’t in that scene, happily so. Doesn’t mean I didn’t care.

We weren’t in the van anymore, in that little club. You could feel an emotional distance, but in a melancholy way. There were times when you wouldn’t speak for days, although you were on tour playing shows. And then you bump into each other in the hallway and go, «We should get some mini-bikes when we get home. I know this trail we can ride behind my house.» Or, «The lawnmower place has go-karts. Let’s get some of those.» There would be these moments of connecting emotionally.

Would it happen? Would you ride the go-karts?
Of course not [Laughs]. All you needed was that moment of validation: We’re still with each other.

What do you remember about the In Utero sessions? Was Kurt using heroin then? Krist said he didn’t think so.
I don’t know, man. That was a weird thing. We’re sequestered in this house, in the middle of the snow, in February in Minnesota. Recording with Steve [Albini] – he would hit ‘record,’ we’d do a take, and he’d go [claps hands], «Okay, what’s next?» Wait, is it okay?

Working with [producer] Butch Vig on Nevermind was a whole other exercise. We made that album to be that album. We were fucking psyched. We were in the practice space so long. We were just as loose, and just as tight, as we needed to be.

We blazed through In Utero. I was done after three days. I had another ten fucking days to sit in the snow, on my ass with nothing to do. Once we were finished with all of the instrumentation, it was time for Kurt to do his vocals and overdubs.

I remember everyone was concerned about the tempo of «Heart-Shaped Box.» But click tracks were not cool. Kurt and Steve came up with this idea — we should use a strobe light [laughs]. We had this long conversation about how it won’t dictate the tempo, just imply the tempo.

Or hypnotize you.
I’m like, «Okay, guys, whatever you want me to do.» I sat there for a take or two with this fucking strobe light in my face until I practically had a seizure. I said, «Can we just play? A little ebb and flow. Don’t worry about it.»

Were you surprised that Kurt wanted to record your song «Marigold» during the In Utero sessions? It is the only original song on a Nirvana record that he didn’t have any hand in writing.
I wrote that on the four-track machine at the house. He was in his room. I didn’t want to wake him. So I would record things, whispering quietly into a microphone. I was recording the vocal harmony to the chorus of that song, and the door opened. He goes, «What’s that?» «It’s just this thing I wrote.» «Let me hear it.»

We sat there and played it a few times. I would do the high harmony, he would do the low harmony. It’s funny writing songs with other people. I’ve never done that. I write songs [for Foo Fighters] and then the band plays them with me. But sitting face to face with someone, that’s another trip. I don’t know if he had ever done that either. It was like an uncomfortable blind date. «Oh, you sing too? Let’s harmonize together.» I was kind of shy back then too.

I was very flattered. But I remember, I think it might have been Steve who said, «‘Marigold’ should maybe be on the album.» I was terrified [laughs]. No, no, wait. It was that famous joke: What’s the last thing the drummer said before he got kicked out of the band? «Hey, I wrote a song.»

Obviously, it didn’t make it. [«Marigold» came out as the B-side to «Heart-Shaped Box.»]  I’m glad. Because the album retained the integrity of Kurt’s vision. But I was incredibly flattered. «Really, you like that?»

Do you remember the last time you saw Kurt and what you said?
I called Kurt after Rome. [In March, 1994, during a European tour, Cobain overdosed on pills and alcohol in a hotel in Rome. Nirvana returned to Seattle, where Cobain died a month later.] I said, «Hey, man, that really scared everybody. And I don’t want you to die.»

Then I saw him at our accountant’s office [in Seattle]. He was walking out as I was walking in. He smiled and said, «Hey, what’s up?» And I said, «I’ll give you a call.» And he said, «Okay.»

Is there something in In Utero that people need to hear and know, to understand Kurt better as a man and artist and less as a tragic figure? It is hard to hear that album the way he intended it, because of the subsequent baggage.
The album should be listened to as it was the day it came out. That’s my problem with the record. I used to like to listen to it. And I don’t anymore, because of that. To me, if you listen to it without thinking of Kurt dying, you might get the original intention of the record. Like my kids. They know I was in Nirvana. They know Kurt was killed. I haven’t told them that he killed himself. They’re four and seven years old. So when they listen to In Utero, they’ll have that fresh perspective – the original intention of the album, as a first-time listener.

Someday they will learn what happened. And it’ll change that. It did for me.