Kurt Cobain’s house was very had to find. I
had to ask directions from four different people. The first person gave me the
right instructions. The second person didn’t really know. The third person gave
me the wrong instructions. The fourth person took me right there.
I take the number 14 bus from where I am staying in downtown to the very end of South Jackson and where Frink Park begins. I have with me only a badly drawn map, copied from Google and the name of the address: 171 Lake Washington Blvd.
At South Washington, the road drops down and stairs lead to a lonely road that snakes down to where Lake Washington Blvd begins. I take the path most reminiscent of the squiggle I have drawn and get to the point where I feel the house should be. This is based on nothing expect intuition and innate sense of direction, only the former usually fails me and the latter doesn’t exist. I take a few photos of the road sign as proof that I am actually here and go under a low bridge that reminds me of the lyrics to Something in the Way.
I find 175 Lake Washington Blvd and the houses next door are unmarked. Perhaps one of them in the house I am looking for? There is a little old lady standing outside a house as if waiting for a bus, though there is no bus stop. She tells me that the house is actually about a mile down the road, on the left, near where the buses turn round. I don’t know it yet, but these instructions are the best I will receive. My intuition tells me to distrust her.
I walk down the road looking out at the beautiful view across Lake Washington to Bellevue. The sun is shining and the water looks plunge-able. The numbers on the houses are increasing from 175. It feels like I am going the wrong way.
I speak with a man in a hi-vis jacket and a beard, who is doing work on the road. I don’t ask him exactly what he is doing, but it involves possessing a map that shows the number of every house in the vicinity, including the unmarked properties. 171 is not on the map.
I had asked this man for help because he looked like a hipster, but he had no idea that Kurt Cobain had lived in the area. In fact the old lady before seemed to have known a lot more. I have made a classic error in ageism. The hipster does have a smart phone however and he put me back on the right track and down the road I was going.
The numbers keep on going up and I begin to loose faith again. It is getting really hot and the houses are getting bigger. I ask some guys who are working on the side of the side of the road if they can help me out. One of them does an impeccable Dick Van Dyke voice when he hears my accent, so good I feel like breaking into a verse of Step in Time. His co-worker thinks it the house is in the opposite direction, so I turn back on myself.
I begin to lose faith again. I begin to feel that I may not find the house and will have to go back disappointed. I really want to see the house. I don’t think it will mean anything and I’m not expecting a rite of passage. Nirvana were an important band for me growing up, as they were for many. Paying my respects at the place Kurt lived and ended his life feels like a fitting, it not unremarkable tribute.
I interrupt a guy with headphones for directions and he tells me is heading that way anyway, so he can take me right there. He is on his way to the beach to hang out with some friends and I tell him about my reasons for being in Seattle and the conference I have to be at that interview. The guy’s name is Chris and he is a filmmaker. Originally from Grand Rapids, MI, he went to film school in Chicago but dropped out because he found it frustrating. He shot his first movie, In Bloom, in Chicago. Chris tells me it was based on an old relationship and about his ex-boyfriend. I ask him whether his ex has seen it and how he feels about it and Chris says that he was flattered to have their story immortalised in film. He tells me he is working on a new movie and that it will be a werewolf movie.
“Have you seen American Werewolf in London?” he says. “I want it to be like that, but just scary and not funny.”
He had hoped to find a grungy film scene in Seattle, but although he has found it, there is no money. He has a one-way ticket to LA booked for the end of the summer. I wish him the best of luck, thank him for the walk and we part ways at the bench outside Kurt Cobain’s house.
The bench is covered in graffiti and dried
flowers. Some of the messages reference lesser-quoted lyrics from Nevermind and In Utero, but many just say we miss you. There is the inevitable
transcription of the Neil Young line from the suicide note, which I find
distasteful somehow. I like the flowers.
The house is hard to see. Pretty pink
flowers circle it and a large gate blocks the view of the entrance. It is less
lonely than I had imagined, though my only reference had been the movie Last Days, which wasn’t specifically
about Kurt. The current owners want privacy, which is understandable. I wonder
how they feel living in the house. Maybe they are huge fans. Maybe they don’t
think about it. The shed where Kurt Cobain ended his life has since been taken
down. Life continues.
