Everybody Loves Our Town_ An Oral History of Grunge - Mark Yarm [266]
“Yeah, I know what’s goin’ on.”
“Like national press.”
“What?!”
He said, “Let’s talk about signing you”—he wanted us to reform the U-Men or something similar—“and hop on this fuckin’ thing. Call Tom. Fuck it!” He was very excited.
And? I don’t know … I don’t feel like it’s a lost opportunity. I don’t regret not hopping on the train. I do wonder what would have happened to my life differently had we continued on under those circumstances. Morbid curiosity more than anything. We were a little off-center as far as the music goes. I don’t know if there’s that much to ponder, really.
CHARLIE RYAN We were thrilled for everybody’s success. My father called me one day and he’s reading a review of Nirvana in the paper, and he’s like, “You know these guys, right?” I’m like, “Yeah, you know, we were playing the same places.”
“I don’t understand this. How come all these guys are making all this money and you’re not gettin’ nothin’ out of it?”
I said, “Well, you know, Dad, we have our artistic integrity.”
He slammed the phone down. He hung up on me.
He always busted my balls about the money: “So, you know these Soundgarden guys, and you know the Pearl Jams?” “Yeah, Dad.” “And these guys all make millions of bucks?” “Yes, Dad.” “But let me guess, you got your artistic integrity?” “That’s right, Dad.”
When I was playing with Cat Butt, we were on some Sub Pop record, so we got these crummy little checks sent to us for years. One year, I framed this and gave it to my dad for Christmas. The letter says, “I’m pleased to enclose mechanical royalties for blah blah blah.” And look at how much the check was for: one dollar and 48 cents. My dad actually hung it up behind his couch. He thought it was hysterical.
JOHN BIGLEY Nirvana did two nights with the Butthole Surfers at the Seattle Center Arena. Peter Davis, this tour manager guy, called me and said, “Man, I got a band playin’ with the Buttholes and Nirvana, and I’m gonna be in town, and if you don’t show up you’re fuckin’ dead. I’m gonna come and burn your house down.” He was adamant about me goin’ to it. I had gone fully screaming in the opposite direction. Just wasn’t going to shows in general, after going to shows five, six nights a week for seven years. The scene had started getting a little intense, I thought. Just the gravity of it all. I haven’t seen Peter in some years and went, and it was a very heavy night, catchin’ up with the Butthole Surfers and doin’ the whole backstage thing.
Backstage, bodyguards and A&R guys in the mix. Fully like, fuck me, laminates and like, “Could I get you something?” “Sure.” That whole trip. I met Courtney through Peter. It was a cordial, somewhat brief encounter. I watched Nirvana’s set; I went out on the side of the stage, and there were thousands of people. They were just on it, man. In Utero had been out not that long, and I was just knocked out by how tight they were. I haven’t seen them in five, six years. The last concert I’d seen at that place was Van Halen open for Black Sabbath. Kurt is standing where Ozzy Osborne stood, Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler. This is fucking wild.
I go backstage at the end of the set. Talkin’ to Greg, one of my friends that was in the Crows. And this memory is very vivid: these two metal doors, tile floor, cinderblock painted-white walls—the backstage bunker trip. And the door—crashhh, and this army of people come in. Krist’s head is stickin’ up in the middle of it all. There are a couple bruiser-type guys, and guys in suits—the full-on Geffen fuckin’ army, 25 to 30 people around, ear pieces and all this shit. Like, Whoa. They come through the door, and Kurt’s in the middle of the whole crowd, wearing one of those striped shirts. He walks by and noticed