Voices
I cried the day that Kurt Cobain died. That night, nine Aprils ago, friends and I lit candles and listened to “Pennyroyal Tea” as a meaningful, if juvenile tribute. I cried the next year too, playing my guitar as my mother consoled me, even though she had until that spring disdained Nirvana and their lyrical content-unsettling material for an impressionable nine-year-old, I understand.
By
the Voice Staff
April 24, 2003