Nirvana: The True Story

The deal with Kurt Cobain is that you will never learn all about him from a single book or movie or anywhere else. A lot of the books about him are total rubbish with lies and exaggerations. The rest are quite good but still, often with some white lies and over elaborated stuff. Even "Come As You Are" which is the 'official' biography and comes straight from the horse's mouth, still isn't completely accurate because Kurt just didn't want to tell the truth. Whether it's because he was shy, trying to be mysterious, didn't want everyone to know everything about him, or thought he was a bit boring so wanted to jazz some aspects up a bit, it's for you to decide. But my point is, you'll never fully understand from one book.What you can do though, is after you read the first one, read a few more and watch lots of interviews, and then like a jigsaw you can piece together all the bits yourself and come up with your own opinion on how Kurt really thought and what really happened with the band. You need to do that to see the big picture, (don't bother with "Heavier Than Heaven" which will only muddy the water).But definitely read "Come As You Are" by Michael Azerrad (with the extra final chapter), preferably first, then watch "About a Boy" because it contains the same audio recordings Azerrad made to write the book, but it contains some bits which didn't make the book, so between the two, you get a nice full picture. Then read Cobain's Journals and see some very personal bits which you will understand easier after reading the previous book. Then look up the thousands of video interviews on "Sound of Dentage" website, and after seeing it all, you can start to piece together the truth about Kurt Cobain, or at least, the closest you are ever going to get. And then read this book, because this book fills in a lot of the missing gaps. When you combine them all, you'll feel like you know the real him, and not just the made up one he wanted you see. It still wont be 100% but it will be close enough.

Looks like good value ,it's a Christmas present so I can't say any more .

Fantastic read, highly recommended *****

This is a fantastic book about the best grunge band in the world, its really in depth and a really fantastic read!!!

A deeply frustrating read: The journalist with possibly the best access to the band and their contemporaries has royally screwed up a fine oppportunity to produce the definitive account of Nirvana.Everett True - a writer with Brit music mag Melody Maker at the time Nirvana broke - is incapable of not placing himself at the centre of events and telling us what HE did, what HIS musical tastes were, how much HE was drinking, the drugs HE did or didn't take ...But I'm not interested in Everett True. I don't care about Everett True. I care about Kurt Cobain.No matter how hard True tries to catch the sprinkling of stardust - and God knows, he doesn't fail through lack of effort - it's obvious from his writing that none of it settled. His tragic lack of self-awareness deludes him into thinking we're interested in the cult of HIS personailty, rather than that of Nirvana and their music. And the book crashes to earth with a depressing jolt each time we're reminded of the author's tedious presence.Which happens a lot.Most pages.Where there is new information or an interview of interest, our fascination quickly becomes lost as True once more bludgeons himself into the story. True perhaps mistakenly thinks that his personal style is what will mark his book out as unique and special. Up to a point he could've been right, but he forgets the old adage that less is more. Instead he seems intent on telling us how unique and special HE is rather than channelling his efforts into the book. There, style spills over into content and what could've been a brilliant book is left fighting for its breath, dying to rise to the surface, but crushed under the weight of the author's ego.The lack of editing is sorely felt. As is the remotest trace of humour - something I would have snatched on as a redeeming factor. It's all very well taking the art of self-indulgence to absurd new levels, but at least try and make it funny.It's such a shame and such an incredible waste - if only a decent writer had been given the same opportunity then we could have been looking at a seminal biography. But the prose here is continually obscured by Everett True's seemingly insatiable desire to take centre stage and claim the spotlight for himself rather than focus on the real star - Cobain.The irony is cruel: Kurt Cobain rejects fame but becomes a reluctant superstar, and here, his biographer, like a demented moth to the proverbial flame, angles for the limelight but is destined, on the evidence of this book, to remain forever in obscurity.Everett True was, in reality - like all journalists - just another conduit used by the record company to shift units. But his palpable self-delusion makes him believe he's a real 'friend' of the band, a point we're reminded of with breathtaking regularity. It's excruciating. Christ, I can almost see Kurt's eyes rolling to the heavens as this crashing bore weaseled his way onto the tourbus for yet another free ride.And yet, even when he's on that tourbus, rather than giving us an inside track of life therein, we are invariably left with the indelible image of True, arms flailing wildly, as he waves at us from the window, flaunting his insecurities as he reminds us for the umpteenth time that he was there and we weren't. It's like the sound of a spoilt child repeating 'na na, na na naa.' Ad nauseam.Even here True unintentionally scores a dramatic own-goal, making me unremittingly joyous that I wasn't indeed there, just so I successfully avoided the stultifying experience of a chance meeting with him.Everett True patently wants to be thought of as a Lester Bangs or a Nick Kent, but instead comes across as a total non-entity. There's a chasm that separates great gonzo journalism with the spurious attention-seeking of a self-obsessed wannabe. Sadly, True never fails to walk the wrong side of the line. It's the misguided, dumb choice of a writer driven by an unfailing lack of modesty. As a result, this book - something that might well have given him the lasting legacy he obviously craves - ends up becoming little more than self-referential tittle-tattle.True is killed by his own sword - a pen that can't bear to drag itself away from the mirror.All of this is very odd because True - to be kind - is no oil-painting, and from what he writes, seems, quite frankly, to be nothing short of an utter goon. From whence the whopping ego? He seems drunk on his own alcohol-infested urine. Oh yeah, drink. Please, can someone tell me why a post-middle-aged man looking back at his time with Nirvana would be at such great pains to stress how inebriated he was in the line of duty? Oh really? Were you really, really, really drunk Everett? Ooh, aren't you big and clever. Duh.I kid you not, his alcohol intake is referenced more than Dave Grohl. And this is a book about Nirvana? Hardly. I seriously think True has convinced himself that drinking lots is an outward sign of his own tortured genius and incontrovertible charisma. But charisma is quite plainly something True wouldn't recognize if it rammed itself up his backside, passaged its way through his intestines and emerged from his own mouth shouting - at volume turned to 11 - 'HELLO!!! I AM CHARISMA!'As for tortured genius; please. The only thing tortured here is the reader.And yet that's not even half as ridiculous as to how he portrays his relationship with Courtney Love. True fawns over her like a swooning lump of lard, making him appear slightly less attractive than cancer. He constantly insinuates that their 'friendship' was, perhaps, something more. As in sexual.Cue frisson of excitement. Not.It's such a cheap shot and is quite transparently aimed at aligning the author with Cobain as a worthy male competitor in the pursuit of the same woman. The idea of it is ludicrous. Not only is True way, way out of his depth, but he's also guilty of the macho posturing he professes to despise.Whatever, had I been Courtney I would probably have indulged his every sexual whim - just so I felt like I had given to charity. Well, that or purely to serve the purpose of keeping the guy quiet for a couple of minutes.So, did he or didn't he? Quite frankly, I stopped caring. By page 4.Jesus, how Kurt and Courtney (or 'Kurtney' as True labels them in another failed bid to get down with the kids) tolerated this numbnut is beyond me.Honestly, this book is so utterly charmless. It continuously left me wondering if I had mistakenly purchased a book about a frustrated and failed rock star - the writer - rather than a book about Nirvana.Be warned: This is NOT the story of Nirvana; it's the embellished tale of a self-annointed arbiter of musical taste whose obsession with what's 'cool' or not makes him appear boorish and distinctly uncool.Everett True just ends up looking desperate and nauseatingly anxious for reflected glory and recognition. Sadly, it's that very desperation which has prevented him from writing an account that could have made a lasting, historical contribution to a legendary band.Instead we're left with the pitiful wails of an infantile man who - years later - still can't resist shouting 'look at me!' to an audience that only ever wanted to look at Kurt Cobain.