In 1991 a Pacific-Northwest three-piece changed the direction of the record industry, securing a spot in music history as the spearhead of Grunge. In 2002 a self-titled album attempted to sum up their essence; rather than electing to represent the trio’s actual range, Nirvana is dominated by chart entries, a handful of non-surprises, and a (then) previously unreleased track. On August 28 it’s available on LP through Universal as either a 45rpm 200gm double or a 33rpm 150gm single, each with accompanying download.
To obtain a full grasp of how well Nirvana succeeds in offering a tidy retrospective of an important, oft volatile, and enduringly polarizing act required getting reacquainted with their discography from ’88 to ’94. With time spent the verdict is in: first hitting racks roughly 8½ years after Kurt Cobain’s suicide and a little over a decade removed from the band’s unexpected runaway success, Nirvana ultimately falls short of top-tier.
This assessment comes not by any fault of the group but through unimaginative assemblage and a problematic title. Leaving the occasional sarcastic usage aside, the words Greatest Hits summarize an objective truth, and the use of Best Of, while potentially arguable, is a nomenclature making its intentions plain. The eponymous treatment employed here is merely ambiguous.
If the purpose behind Nirvana was to encapsulate its subject’s breadth and heights on one record the results don’t meet the goal. Far too safe to accurately embody the Best, it essentially flirts with Greatest Hits; perhaps the term was just considered tacky when applied to retail achievements stemming partially from a perceived lack of calculation and even borderline disinterest.
Due to a legal dispute between Cobain’s widow Courtney Love and Nirvana’s surviving members Dave Grohl and Krist Novoselic, Nirvana’s release sustained a significant delay; the beef concerned “You Know You’re Right,” a song dating from the outfit’s final studio outing in late January of 1994. It serves as Nirvana’s opener, a tactic reminiscent of movies that commence upon a glimpse from the end of a story before promptly jumping back to the beginning.
More cynical observers might claim “You Know You’re Right” is dangled like bait, though Grohl and Novoselic’s desire pre-legal wrangling was to issue it on 2004’s rarities, live and unreleased box set With the Lights Out. Regardless, it’s a sturdy take of a tune that stern aficionados likely already knew from a bootleg of an October ’93 gig in Chicago.
But if Nirvana starts near the end, the subsequent progression unwinds chronologically. Bluntly, the straightforward narrative approach borders on the humdrum; it’d be a shock if more than an hour was devoted to nailing down the running order. The sequence provides an easily graspable portrait of rapid-fire maturity from the marketable side of their sonic spectrum.
‘89’s debut LP Bleach stands as the weakest of the three full-length studio efforts, but similar to countless others, Nirvana’s early material still contains a bounty of worth, shedding particular light on a budding ability at delivering catchy, hard-driving singles (the albums would gradually increase in value). “About a Girl” is the only pick from Bleach; given its eventual reprise as opener of ‘94’s MTV Unplugged in New York, it’s something of an obvious choice.
It’s followed by “Been a Son” from ‘89’s “Blew” EP. As on Bleach, Chad Channing is the drummer. A heavy but non-sluggish highlight of their formative period, it leads into the magnificent “Sliver,” arguably Nirvana’s pre-Grohl standout (the kit duties are handled by one Dan Peters of Evergreen State cohorts Mudhoney). Backed on 7-inch with grunge template “Dive” in the autumn of 1990, “Sliver” is an emotionally and aurally raw pop spasm; it underscores a band on the move.
These numbers constitute more than a passing nod to the Sub Pop era, yet they register as a tad skimpy. Yes, ’88-‘90 gets a much deeper inspection on Incesticide, but the titling here seems to present the record as an attempt at the definitive. That two of these three appeared on Incesticide compounds the scantiness with redundancy, though to be fair the ’92 collection’s “Been a Son” derives from a Mark Goodier radio session taped after Grohl made the scene.
Still, the live cover of The Vaselines’ “Molly’s Lips” (which emerged on Sub Pop’s 1990 spilt 45 with The Fluid) would’ve been a useful addition outlining their strength at interpretation, a quality taking us back to the first 45 (“Love Buzz” by Shocking Blue, the inaugural 7-inch in the Sub Pop Singles Club, don’tcha know). “Sliver” gives way to “Smells like Teen Spirit”; its appearance is inevitable, but frankly skipping it might’ve been more productive. Call it a contrarian gesture if you must; at least there’d be some lively debate.
Instead, Nirvana is defined by its overall predictability. While undeniably the song that ushered in a movement, the set’s other Nevermind cuts, namely “Come as You Are,” “Lithium,” and especially “In Bloom,” are all superior in terms of writing (if not necessarily execution) to “Smells like Teen Spirit.” The freed-up space could’ve been filled with a selection or two detailing a penchant for raucous grooving (“Breed”), breakneck spillage (“Territorial Pissings”), or just a key b-side (“Aneurysm”).
Next is In Utero; even if the byproduct of contentiousness resulting from the demands and strains of unanticipated stardom, it’s the best of the studio long-players, largely due to its rough edges and defiance. The gleanings here can’t help but fare better as they contextually toe the mercantile line pretty closely; “Heart-Shaped Box” was the LP’s first single, and “Rape Me” comprised half of a double a-side with “All Apologies.”
In between “Heart Shaped Box” and “Rape Me” is found “Pennyroyal Tea.” Slated as In Utero’s third single but cancelled in the wake of Cobain’s death, the belated 2014 Record Store Day release of “Pennyroyal Tea” saw it land at #1 on Billboard’s Hot 100. In Utero’s “Dumb” is Nirvana’s sole Geffen-era album track; certainly a legitimate choice, it resonates in consort with a thematic expression of general congeniality.
“All Apologies” is included via the MTV Unplugged in New York rendition, a maneuver that’s as near as Nirvana comes to an outright misstep; heard on the ’94 disc it’s a perfectly okay acoustic reading, but the studio version is one of the band’s strongest moments as a fully-clicking unit; furthermore, yanked from Unplugged it kinda smacks of The Kurt Cobain Show.
Not to imply that as the intent, for if so then borrowing Unplugged’s truly solo “Pennyroyal Tea” would’ve made more sense, but the live “All Apologies” does foreground Cobain on a highly personal song. This leaves the well-done rendering of “The Man Who Sold the World” for the finale, the Bowie cover emphasizing substantial growth in a relatively brief span.
Indeed, we’re a long way from Aberdeen in 1987. However, this abridgment misplaces a sizable part of what gave their unusual journey such kick; culminating with applause, it’s a sound fitting Nirvana’s streamlined excursion very well.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B
