Letters to Kurt

Letters to Kurt

Eric Erlandson

Language: English

Pages: 120

ISBN: 1617750832

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


"Nearly two decades after the death of Kurt Cobain, a friend and fellow musician not only continues to mourn his suicide, but also rages against the culture that he holds responsible. These 52 'letters' . . . combine the subject matter of the Byrds' 'So You Wanna Be a Rock and Roll Star' with the fury of Allen Ginsberg's Howl . . . A catharsis for the writer and perhaps for the reader as well."
--Kirkus Reviews

"A touching and enlightening collection of prose poems addressed to [Erlandson's] departed friend."
--The San Francisco Bay Guardian

"Erlandson finally comes to terms with his loss in 52 prose-poem letters ostensibly addressed to Cobain in which he straightforwardly confronts his inner demons while offering personal reflections on food, drug abuse, death, and self-sabotage."--Booklist

"The reverberations of Kurt's suicide last to this day, and have touched the lives of many. Dozens of people could have written their own version of this bracingly candid book; Eric Erlandson has written one, filled with rage and love, landmined with detail, that can stand for them all."
--Michael Azerrad, author of Come As You Are: The Story of Nirvana

"Eric was the spirit-boy in the Nirvana/Hole dynamic. Quiet, bemused, intelligent, and curiously intuitive to the power of hugging the devil, to say we will all be okay . . . Eric expresses how enchanting Kurt was, how the whole scene was, with his thoughtful, radical adult/prose love. Bring on the future, darling."--Thurston Moore, musician

"Eric. He was always there: supportive, observing, in the thick of it. Hidden in plain sight . . . Without him, I can't imagine Seattle or L.A. or a dozen other places. This book is beautiful, brutal, brief. Happy-sad eloquence. Boy Scouts playing with the complimentary cologne in the heart of the ghost town. Listen to the man. He knows."
--Everett True, author of Nirvana: The Biography

Letters to Kurt is an anguished, angry, and tender meditation on the octane and ether of rock and roll and its many moons: sex, drugs, suicide, fame, and rage. It's part Dream Songs, part Bukowski, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, and the Clash. Rants, reflections, and gunshot fill these fifty-two prose poems. They are raw, funny, sad, and searching. This will make a beautiful book for anyone who loved Nirvana and Hole and the time and place when their music changed everything. Ultimately, it's an elegy for Kurt and the "suicide idols" who tragically fail to find salvation in their amazing music.

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face up into my hair never to be seen again. The ever-recurring theme of anachroid attack. At the techno-geek dome event I put on a projector helmet that looked like a space-age blow-dryer and the 3-D images became spiders hanging from my eyelids. In the shower this morning I caught daddy long legs peeping and tomming me. I was shy at first, but then relieved he wasn’t with his black widow. Seems like there’s always a spider tramp with a daddy complex lurking in the fly-fishing aisle. At this

in their buckets of photos. Hang it on wall posts, friends’ activities, known enemies. To pull you out of your darkness into the shallow graves of the days of our dead. They ask me why you died. Death gives no reason, so why the hell should I? Besides, it’s all there in our hive-mind. After you hitchcocked and flew, I was hopelessly on the rag with circumstances beyond my control. I walked past the Swansonia and overheard the erotic chatter of the American wigeon. Epic soundtracks. The

born nor destroyed. You played your records backward masking the beautiful boy inside. Desperate boredom duct taped to an empty Domino’s pizza box. Suffering was nirvana and Nirvana was suffering. The golden rule of suicide: Thou Shall Not Ask Why. If you do, then you missed the skin pops between the worn-out grooves. The all in Ally/Allah in hallah/Hale in halle/Hula in hullah/And hoo/In the Who/In the hell/Was here/In the rear/Riding red shotgun/In the secret compartment/In the

like oysters. Like friends first. Like the Brady Bunch marooned on Gilligan’s Island. Like I finally got my way with Marcia, and Mary Ann, under that banyan tree. (Crabs never felt so good!) Like tourists on the lips of the crater. Waiting for the sun. Waiting for lightning to strike. Never in the same place. Not twice. A crack in the palm. Coconuts falling on the heads of young lovers. Falling Janes. Married and buried on a Hawaiian beach. The survivors get to edit history to their liking. And

There’s only so much help one can give until he’s gone, the sheets changed, air freshened, new blue gowns on the bed, the room ready for the next visitor. You were not well all those years I didn’t know you. Our friendship lacking that necessary ingredient of us against them, we against she, a sober camaraderie. Maybe I’m too cerebrally surreal. I never stay in any one world for very long, while you … how’s that song go? … got stuck in a moment and couldn’t get out. Stuck in a hospital, a flaming

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