Digging Nirvana Out of Their Grave

Is there anyone out there (crazy web stalkers excluded) who doesn't find the "new" Nirvana song "You Know You're Right" not only bad, but also plain sad? If the song isn't puzzling enough--what exactly is going on with the tempo and production?--there's the video, which is as instantly depressing as it is ridiculous. And let the bitching/cheering begin now that the new issue of Newsweek has released an excerpt from Kurt Cobain's infamous journals, which are scheduled for an early-November street date. I am nothing if not a shameless reader of biographies and autobiographies (might I suggest Ready, Steady, Go!: The Smashing Rise and Giddy Fall of Swinging London, and Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth: The Dark History of Prepubescent Pop, from the Banana Splits to Britney Spears), but I give these journals about as much credence as I would anything written by Kitty Kelley: a bit of truth edited into a perfectly sharpened slant. I won't be purchasing the book, and I'm sure I've read most of the good parts in his widow's Internet rants. Oh well--now parents hoping to connect with their disaffected kids can get them the package deal for the holidays: songs about escape, and a book written by a guy who still can't escape himself, even in death. This is the way of any icon, but it feels icky and itchy all at once at this time of year. Will the box set come out in April?

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Enough with that bother. Can I get a hand for Melt Banana and that teeny tiny bassist who absolutely nailed the solos in "My Generation" as the band surprised the audience with the Who tune last Friday night at Graceland? Those small hands worked a full-sized bass and didn't flub a note. And thank you to the two nice gentlemen who gave me their booth so I could sit and watch the show far from harm's way when I was rockin' it against doctor's orders. There was just no way I could miss the show, and you two (I repeat) GENTLEMEN made it possible. And thanks to the other sweet guys who were looking out for me even though I wasn't.

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Now it's no secret that I modeled It's My Party after the New York Post's Page Six gossip column, but I felt oh so Cindy Adams this weekend when some phoned-in scuttlebutt was damn near enough to fill this space. Thanks to all who took note and dialed up to blab on the blower. Here are a few bits to chew on: Those tired wallet chains are finally a necessary attachment, because lately, hipsters have become the target of pickpockets (not to be confused with put-pockets.... See, I hear about old band in-jokes, even). These pickpockets may or may not be the stuff of legend, but keep hold of your damn pocketbooks, ladies--and you purse-toting men, too. And don't leave any fancy pill containers lying about, as I'm the only one who will inform you honestly that the "round white ones that say Roche on the back" produce instant blackout when mixed with alcohol. Folks who have experienced this woke up to perform the walk of shame, and at least one person rode his bike through several neighborhoods to his house, cooked a bedtime snack, and fell asleep with no recollection other than the evidence left behind. Don't ask and I won't tell; just heed my advice--because frankly, it's not that funny to those of us who have to watch.