Aberdeen Is No Nirvana
There is no reason why I should be in Aberdeen. I thought I’d make the profound pilgrimage to the Washington hometown of Kurt Cobain, since I’ve now officially outlived him, but it’s only been an hour and we’ve run out of things to do. It’ll take us another three to get back and that’s not happening tonight since we’ve spent nearly $200 on a Best Western Plus. It seems someone insisted we check in upon our arrival. (Hint: it was totally me.) So, now we’re stuck in the dreariest place until I get my fill of yogurt and bran muffins at the continental breakfast. Nineteen hours to go.
At the risk of sounding reductive, I present the following textbook factoid without a marine layer of sugar: Aberdeen is fucking terrible. It’s by no means the worst place in America; that’s — by many accounts — Detroit. But since Cobain not-so-fondly recalled Aberdeen being “full of bigoted rednecks,” I have very little reservation in honestly reviewing his hometown where I, unfortunately, have found myself.
I was negative three years old when grunge happened, so naturally my experience with Nirvana started with Weird Al and is limited thereafter to a warped Nevermind cassette I found at a flea market. I like Nirvana and I like the idea of the mystique of Kurt Cobain, but I’d be lying if I said I’m a fanatic. If we lived any farther away from the birthplace of grunge — by which I’m nominating Aberdeen — I’d have stayed home. That said, I do wear a lot of flannel.
It was spitting rain when we left our Whidbey Island apartment: a sign of things to come. The sun crept behind the overcast skies and wouldn’t emerge until the next day. Invasive greenery caked most of the road signs on the way to Aberdeen; the perpetually moist and salty air of the Pacific Northwest riddled the Golden Arches and highway markers with a mossy, post-apocalyptic patina. I got the sense that we wouldn’t see a dry sidewalk for a while.
The welcome sign reads “Come as You Are”: an overt homage to the town’s famously dead export. This was apparently a point of contention for the community, as some city council members expressed their concern over glorifying Kurt’s drug use, suicide, and music. The only potential rock ’n’ roll things about Aberdeen are the things Aberdeen doesn’t want to be. Muddy tire tracks lead to the welcome sign from all the flannel-donned tourists who’ve wanted photos in front of words, but we are not one of them. We keep driving as I already feel more of a burden than welcome.
Just as I suspected, everything is wet. The buildings have a green sheen that makes them look half-decomposed. It’s as if the earth is finally retaliating against the industry of man. Here in Aberdeen — once nicknamed “The Lumber Capital of the World” — the logging industry appears to be in the throes of rigor mortis. If you want to get a glimpse into life after people, Aberdeen is a great place to start.
I’m guessing that the decline in logging has something to do with mill automation or plastic production, though I’m too lazy to do any research. But if this place is known for a dying industry and a dead musician — not to mention the famed serial killer, Billy Gohl, who allegedly killed more than 100+ sailors and dumped them in the Wishkah River — Aberdeen is ostensibly death with street lights.
This is not a happy place. I feel horrible and I’m only visiting. Opening the curtains of our Best Western Plus “riverfront” room lets the sunshine out. I put “riverfront” in quotes because it should be illegal to refer to what I’m looking at as a river; liquid dread is more like it. The biggest thrill so far has been watching a train go by. We head out of the hotel to get some — albeit heavily diluted — vitamin D in search of the infamous bridge that Kurt Cobain sang about in “Something in the Way” and maybe possibly slept under.
It’s common knowledge that Kurt Cobain hated Aberdeen, but apparently not as much as the people who live next to the bridge dedicated to Kurt Cobain hate Kurt Cobain. Directly adjacent to the Young Street Bridge is a memorial park, and next to the park is the dilapidated home of — I suspect — some annoyed neighbors. I say this because there’s a wooden signpost in their front yard expressing how annoyed they are:
NO, THIS IS NOT A GIFT SHOP
NO, KURT DIDN’T LIVE HERE
NO, WE DIDN’T KNOW HIM
PHIL NEXT DOOR DID
YES, WE HAVE LOTS OF TRAFFIC
YES, WE GET TIRED OF IT
To express your chagrin toward memorializing the dead is one thing, but to commit that to a signpost is a whole other level of petty. I wonder how Phil feels.
The bridge itself is wholly unremarkable. It is a bridge. There is Nirvana graffiti. That’s it. My assumption is that the committee spearheading the building of this park figured they should just pick a bridge and go with it. The lyrics of “Something in the Way” are vague anyway: underneath the bridge / tarp has sprung a leak. That’s about the extent of the bridge talk.
Aside from a few needles, there isn’t much else to this park. It might not have been thrown together, but it certainly feels like it. There’s a plaque with lyrics that retroactively try to convince us that, yes, this is that bridge; there’s a commissioned metalwork that vaguely resembles a musical instrument; and there is Kurt’s air guitar.
Now, I’m in no position to criticize art, but I will anyway. This is laughable. What an odd thing to have at a memorial. It looks more like a wonky dolly than an empty guitar stand. Aside from the fact that Kurt played guitar, is there a reason his invisible six-string is featured at this park? Or is it just so I smile at its stupidity, to transcend the darkness that surrounds this town and Kurt Cobain? I guess in that sense it’s working a little magic. But I can’t help but extract the significance that the emptiness I’m looking at coincides with the emptiness I’ve felt since entering the city limits of Aberdeen. Eighteen hours to go.
We stop at an art shop for no particular reason. The curator seems surprised that we’re here. We walk around and nod our heads at canvases until I’m sleepy. On our way out, the man tells us that the Aberdeen Museum of History recently burned down, and the majority of the Nirvana memorabilia went along with it. Although I’m bummed that I can’t go to this place I didn’t know existed before right now, I am glad I don’t have to look at any more art. It’s not surprising that one of the last bastions of cool in Aberdeen is now a pile of ash. Then again, I’m not sure surprise is an emotion that’s allowed here.
“The town has a love-hate relationship with Kurt Cobain,” the curator says. “It’s really a shame.” I had a hunch. With the controversial welcome sign, the annoyed neighbor, Kurt’s unhappiness, and the general desolation… you can’t refute that Aberdeen is old hat; it’s difficult to exorcise the demons of perpetuity if you only ever learned the one shitty magic trick. The populace of Aberdeen hardly embraces the God of Grunge and probably never will, which is why they’ve only mustered a sad little park next to a bridge next to the crankiest of neighbors. Kurt’s been dead for longer than he was ever alive, but it’s hard to believe that this place once thrived at all.
“You can go to the memorial park on Young Street, but you will be disappointed,” the curator says. I appreciate his honesty. He suggests we dine at the sports bar down the street. We thank the nice man and leave without buying any of his art. We skip the culinary suggestion. The Best Western Plus awaits.
Not every Nirvana fan is a suicidal drug addict, and not everyone that comes to Aberdeen will be disappointed. I saw the Kurt Cobain sights I wanted to see, said huh… cool, and walked away. I wouldn’t call that a letdown; it’s exactly what I expected to do here. I’m not miffed we’re spending a weekend in the “Hellhole of the Pacific.” I’m miffed that we dropped $200 on this vanilla hotel room. I’m trying to reframe it as stimulating the economy.
Aberdeen is no nirvana, but Question Mark and the Mysterians playing all their hit on PBS is close enough. Sixteen hours to go.
