73193melm

Radio-Friendly Unit Shifters

Melody Maker July 31 1993 by David Fricke

Nirvana�s �In Utero�, the long awaited successor to the multi-million selling �Nevermind�, is still six weeks away from release, but it�s already swamped in controversy. Last week, the band previewed the new album at a special show at New York�s New Music Seminar. It was their first New York show since 1991, and they were in a fiercely confrontational mood, determined to confound expectations and test their audience to their limit. DAVID FRICKE reports from NYC�s Roseland Ballroom on an extraordinary performance. EVERETT TRUE, meanwhile, brings us the backstage gossip. Pics: STEPHEN SWEET

WHAT KIND OF New Music Seminar is it when the Big Buzz Band of the week is half a decade, three albums and a few-million-sales into its lifetime?
Nirvana aren�t just knee-deep in the hoopla; Kurt Cobain, Chris Novoselic and Dave Grohl are in it up to their scalps. They stormed through the gates of Temple MTV, thrived, survived the thriving and made another record that is posed to blow your expectations to tiny little bits.
They are many things � loud, stubborn, restless, provocative, bound (by the sound of �In Utero� for further glory. But Nirvana are not new; they are, much to their discomfort, the standard by which most of the other bands at the seminar are doomed to be judged.
And yet this is the gig on everyone�s mind and lips. There are a few others that leave people speaking in tongues, like the Melvins� extraordinary invite only performance at the conference hotel, in a crowded record company suite cleared of furniture, sticky with CBGB-brand humidity and rocked to its concrete foundation by the band�s primal Black Flag-cum-Sabbath stomp. Liz Phair � a dynamic singer-songwriter from Chicago, whose Matador debut album, �Exile In Guyville�, has been getting early, PJ Harvey-style raves- would have been another one except she has the misfortune of sharing Nirvana�s time slot on another stage downtown.
Otherwise, the NMS band menu, heavy with overly familiar faces, also rans and unpredictably damp major label baby-band signings, can�t compete with this. Which makes the air of the event even weirder. For all the NMS badges dangling from Day-Glo Tommy Boy Records lariats in the crowd, the house is overrun not by industry hepcats and college radio pups, but by the Kids.
The tape playing over the PA is AC/DC�s �Back In Black�, not some hip Amphetamine Reptiles singles compilation. And the mood down in the male pissoir is strictly from Aerosmith/Uriah Heep/Foghat arena triple bills, circa 1974. The T-shirts may change, but the teenage yahoo mentality is forever.
It is this audience too � even more than the music establishment weenies � that Nirvana so dearly wants to confound. To test their patience. To drive them to action or distraction. Or junk �em altogether if they can�t hack the ride.
�In Utero� is still a month and a half away from release, but the message at the core of this cross-country raid- the band�s first live show in New York since 1991! � is clear from the get-go. You�re either on the bus- or you�re ballast.

FOR The Jesus Lizard, tonight�s opening act, the kids are just plain blah. Even the moshers can�t be bothered to get it up for the band�s voodoo blues exorcisms or singer David Yow�s serious and impressive case of the Nick Caves, amped up with his own brand of personalized bar-bum dementia.
�Puss�, from the split single with Nirvana, is a major blow to the solar plexus, but the applause on the back end of the song is near zilch, a kind of polite acceptance with a hint of I-don�t-give-a-shit. The biggest cheer of the set comes when Yow lets out a volcanic beer belch (about 18 dollars worth� he declares, proudly).
Things start to broil in the pit as Duane Denison fires up a �Rawhide�-a-la Ventures buzzriff on guitar and Yow takes the plunge himself, trying to stir up a human whirlpool of his own. But he only succeeds in severing the cord on his mic and the momentum is lost. The vocals go dead and Yow, back on the stage, opts for some mock destruction pantomime to go with the epileptic guitar stutter.
A guy behind me who spots my pen and notebook sidles up and says, �Write down �Iggy Pop wannabe�. Go ahead. Do it just for me.�
So I do. And he goes back to his friend and starts talking about Jerry Garcia records. This is a tough room for the Lizard and they finally bail out.

As a songwriter, Cobain is a master of the sucker punch, lulling you with the come-hither melody and the plaintive vocal howl, then letting rip with the nail-bomb guitar explosions and primal scream release. He does it over and over again � you can hear it coming in new songs as well, like �Rape Me�, and to a slightly less intense (but uncompromised) degree in �All Apologies� � and you can�t help falling for it.
Cobain is, in his way, a master manipulator, a brilliant strategist who understands that noise alone is not drama and that good hooks always draw blood. Actually, �Rape Me� sounds too short for its own good here tonight. What is abrupt, disorienting and compelling � all inside three minutes � on �In Utero� cries out for repeated, ad infinitum climaxes onstage.
The band has barely whipped you off your feet when Cobain and Grohl are into the big finish, trading cries of �Rape Me! Rape Me!� in psychoecho. Critic�s hint: live, let this one breathe. It deserves it.
The NMS nature of the occasion certainly does not pass without comment. As guitar tech Big John �a bearish gentleman with short blond hair and a trimmed dark beard that makes him look like a bohemian biker Santa Claus � plugs in to play second guitar for the next four songs, Chris Novoselic reminds the audience of �the sounds taking the music industry by storm. It�s called (pregnant pause) alternative rock!�
This, of course, isn�t it. Dropped like bombs between frenetic revisits to �Aneurysm� and �Territorial Pissings� are the bleak, beautiful �Heart Shaped Box� from �In Utero� and its ballad companion, �all Apologies�, the latter laced with a guest cello moan that has to fight the surging tide of Cobain�s guitar and the Novoselic-Grohl bass-drum rumble but makes its point nonetheless. Nirvana are no longer open for business as usual; no one lives by �Teen Spirit� alone.
An absolute stunner, both on the record and at Roseland, �All Apologies� has the making- emotionally, commercially � of R.E.M�s �Losing My Religion�, a breakthrough song uncheapened by its enormous chart potential. But while there is applause at the end, it dies quickly. This is an audience hungry for physical assault.
What they get next is extraordinary. The whole band sits down, Cobain picks up an acoustic guitar and it�s �shock! Gasp! Horror!- Nirvana Unplugged.
There�s a sticker on Cobain�s guitar that�s unreadable from the floor (I find out later that it says �Nixon won�) but it might as well read, to paraphrase Woody Guthrie, �This guitar kills grunge�. And it damn near does.
A couple of die-hard moshers try to start a ruckus during �Polly�, but the main vibe is bored chatter and drink orders in the back. The sound mix for this segment isn�t great, which doesn�t help, but these kids aren�t even ready to give Cobain the benefit of the doubt. �Dumb�, from the new album, is gorgeous- and pretty much wasted on this gang. Maybe this isn�t the best way to keep fans and make new friends, but this is a gig of nerve � and not losing it.

THE last acoustic song is a cover, the kind of strange choice that Bob Dylan might make on a thoughtful, distressed night: Leadbelly�s �Where Will I Sleep Tonight?�
It�s impossible to recognize (someone told me the title later), but the feeling at its core is unmistakable, like an ancient Celtic hymn crossbred with a John Lee Hooker death bed blues.
Cobain adapts Leadbelly�s moan to his own nervous uncertainty and defiant unwillingness to give in to his fears. Singing the song is a poignant gesture, and few people get it.
The band gets up�and leave. It�s the end of the show and no one figures it out. No applause. No cheering. No nothing. The audience just waits for them to return, maybe change guitars and shirts. Finally, Nirvana return for the encore electrique, as if resigned to the assignment.
�Smells Like Teen Spirit� takes it on the chin as a result, marked by stumbled notes and a strange lethargy that belies the familiar noise. There might even be a little bitterness as well; the lighting is disco hell, complete with mirrored ball.
Welcome to the marked curse of the jukebox life.
Then it�s time for the revenge portion of the programme.
On the set list, it was just called �Noise Finale�. But it sounds suspiciously like �Radio Friendly Unit Shifter� from the new album, true to its deliciously ironic title from the starting gun.
The song is literally gutted by feedback, with Cobain pushing his guitar up against his amps as if it were having harpee-shriek conversations with itself. Then he drops down on his knees and for the next five minutes sends up a hellish electronic howl, fiddling with the knobs and fibulators and what�s-its on his pedalboard as Dave Grohl goes into Seventies drum solo psychosis.

ONE by one, they all drift away. The End. Lights go up. Crowd pours out. The jury is out on the new songs, nobody gets the acoustic bit. Not that it was a unqualified success, but in a pop crazy world where so many prefer to remain in the past rather than learn from it, Nirvana opted to risk all.
�All we know is all we are� goes the end of �All Apologies�. It�s the things we don�t know that are the stuff of tomorrow.
Tonight, Nirvana look to the horizon.
With No apologies.

LIVE FROM THE POST-GIG LIG

Melody Maker July 31 1993 by Everett True

After the show, I remark to Courtney, �That was just like U2.�
I�m referring to the part of the show where Nirvana took a cellist on stage with them, pulled up a couple of chairs, and treated us to a mini acoustic set. I�ve never seen stagedivers exhibit such positive sarcasm, stagediving even more frenziedly to the mellow stuff.
�Or maybe Led Zepellin,� I add. She goes to hit me, then realizes I�m joking. Almost.
So, backstage with Nirvana in NYC.
Waddya wanna know? How long Kurt can hold a kiss with Courtney? What type of mahogany was used to make the chairs? Whether they offer me a drink? Shee-it�it�s like backstage pretty much anywhere- a bunch of extremely high-powered managers milling around, a few children gathering autographs, Ted Mico, the odd who-let-them-in freeloader, the odd inebriated hack, and Kurt wearing a pair of Devo shades and his trademark striped red jersey. (But I have to wear this, I have fans out there,� he pleads earlier when Courtney attempts to smarten him up pre-show.) Chris is looking spruce and dapper and exhausted in his stiff-collared black shirt and new short hair cut, while Mr Grohl is running around grinning like a Cheshire cat.
There�s the remnants of a mini banquet of cold-cuts, cheese and rolls, sprawled across a side-table, a juicer and a coffee percolator. Oh, and bucket after bucket of bottled beer- enough to sink a pubful of Englishmen.
Almost.
Next door, the totally awesome Jesus Lizard sit in a semi-circle with their entourage and booze. On the stairs to the venue, the security men look very secure. Atmosphere, we got it!
In the VIP area to the side of the main dance floor, the remnants of a very distinguished list of New York scenesters are preparing to shoot across town to witness the unveiling of Pavement�s new drummer at the Matador showcase. There�s Sonic Youth, Beastie Boys, Urge Overkill, Arto Lindsay, Babes In Toyland, Melvins�and those are just the ones who are still speaking to me. Out front, long lines of sweat drenched, bedraggled, awestruck fans push and jostle past the equally thrilled New Music Seminar biz-heads.
Kurt and I talk. I start telling him, ceaselessly, about this great band, from Dayton Ohio, called Guided By Voices.
�They�re like a cross between Sebadoh, Cheap Trick and Eddie And The Hot Rods,� I babble. He feigns interest and reveals exclusively, readers, that just earlier today he�d decided to drop �I Hate Myself And I Want To Die� from the new album because it made the record too long. I tell him it�d still be a fucking neat title for an album. He sighs wearily.
I say I thought the show f***ing rocked tonight, like you do. He says he enjoyed himself. I compliment him on the acoustic section, not mentioning U2. Instead, I drop The Palace Brothers into the conversation, with particular reference to Nirvana�s Leadbelly cover that night. (Hey, writing these Nirvana exclusives is easy!) He seems�well, not too put out. I ask him about Big John (the former Exploited leader, all-round chap and current Nirvana guitar roadie, who is rumored to be playing with the band full time on their next tour).
He explains it�s for a few songs only, to add variety.
Then I start babbling on about this and that and he makes his excuses and goes off to find something more interesting to do. Like counting the beers in the buckets on the other side of the room.