Grunge manners

Grunge. It happened more than a decade ago. Grunge. It kind of passed by my side, without completely passing by my side. Grunge. At the time, I listened to like every other white middle-classed 10 year old to trashy, nasty, filthy euro-techno-pop and a bit later on I started to listen to A Tribe Called Quest, Wu-Tang and such punch-in-your-face beats, rhyme checking and lyrical puzzle (de) constructions, instead of  Babes in Toyland and Nirvana.
Until I stumbled upon Beck Hansen,who had  dangerous liaisons with Thurston Moore, who in turn was Indie rock god at the time (all the time?forever?), who was friends with Dinossaur Jr. and every other cool grunge/indie/fuzz/subpop signed band.

Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

And then Grunge was over. Kurt killed himself and the kids lighted candles in his honour in a rainy April morning.
And for the very  first time there was silence in the high school halls. The hype was gone and so I decided to embark on a little research and bought the right records. And I liked. I liked the energy. I liked the fact that it resembled to punk's disappointed teenager bastard son.

Oh well, whatever, nevermind.


   

Photos taken from Michael Lavine's Grunge book, containing 160 black and white photographs taken between 1983-1993 with text by Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth.

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