How Did Kurt Cobain Kill Himself

As a devoted fan of Kurt Cobain and Nirvana, I've spent a fair amount of time researching about him and surprisingly, despite his grunge image and rebellious spirit, Kurt Cobain didn't have any tattoos. This is quite unexpected, especially considering the era of 90's rock culture where tattoos were a predominant symbol of nonconformity and rebellion.

There's this quiet thunder in how Kurt Cobain became a cultural icon that still makes my skin tingle. I was a teenager scribbling zines and swapping tapes when 'Nevermind' crashed into every dorm room and backyard party, and it wasn't just the hook of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'—it was the way Cobain sounded like he was singing the exact sentence you couldn't say out loud. His voice could be snarling and fragile in the same breath, and that paradox felt wildly real. Beyond the music, he embodied a resistance to polished fame. Flannel shirts, thrift-store everything, a DIY ethic—those visual cues made rejecting mainstream glitz fashionable again. He also carried contradictions: vulnerability and anger, melodic songwriting and punk dissonance, a sincerity about gender and art that complicated the male-rock archetype. When he died, the myth hardened; tragedy and the media spotlight turned a restlessly private person into a generational symbol. For me, that mix of radical honesty, imperfect beauty, and the way his songs helped people name their confusion is the core of his icon status—still something I find hard to let go of.

The first time I heard 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' blasting from a cracked boombox in a friend's garage, something in the air shifted for me. Cobain's guitar tone—raw, fuzzy, and urgent—felt like a fuse lit under a sleeping mainstream. He taught a generation that loudness could coexist with melody, that sloppiness could be intentional craft, and that you could channel anger and tenderness in the same line. Beyond the riffs, his songwriting changed the rules. He pulled punk's immediacy into pop hooks, then flipped dynamics so quiet verses exploded into cathartic choruses. That quiet-loud-quiet structure became a shorthand for emotional honesty; you can hear its DNA in countless bands that followed. His lyrics, often elliptical and wounded, encouraged listeners to value feeling over polish. On a cultural level, Cobain made authenticity marketable without wanting the marketing. He brought Seattle's underground into global focus, smashed glam excess, and made flannel and thrift-store aesthetics a statement. Even his discomfort with fame shaped how later artists resisted—or leaned into—stardom. For me, his influence is equal parts sound and spirit: how music can be messy, vulnerable, and stubbornly real, and why I still press play when I want something that feels alive.

I was hooked on the Seattle scene before most folks, so I like to picture Kurt as someone constantly on the move during Nirvana's climb. He grew up in Aberdeen, but during the band's early years he spent a lot of time in Olympia soaking up that DIY energy—places where he and Krist and early friends rehearsed, crashed, and wrote songs for 'Bleach'. That period is so vivid to me: cheap apartments, basement practice spaces, and the kind of dirt-under-the-nails creativity that fuels bands. After 'Nevermind' blew up in 1991, Kurt was mostly based around Seattle more than Aberdeen or Olympia. He still lived in modest apartments and rented houses rather than sprawling estates, and then spent a huge chunk of time on the road, in hotels, and bouncing between cities like Los Angeles and various tour stops. So while his official “home” moved from the Grunge heartlands to Seattle neighborhoods and short-term lodgings, a lot of his life during Nirvana's rise was transient—tour vans, backstage rooms, and tiny kitchens where songs were written. I still get a weird comfort imagining him scribbling lyrics on a napkin in some cheap motel lobby.

I get a little giddy talking about this, because Kurt’s sketches feel like a secret doorway into his head — and yes, there really are authenticated sketches attributed to him, but with important caveats. The clearest, most accessible source of his verified drawings is the collection published in 'Journals'. That book compiles handwritten notes, doodles, lyric scraps, and sketches that were directly lifted from items in his possession and the estate’s holdings. If you want something that’s indisputably tied to Kurt in a public, documented form, start there. The 2015 documentary 'Montage of Heck' also used his art and home recordings, and the film’s materials were sourced from archives connected to his family and collaborators, which gives those visuals a strong provenance too. On the market side, pieces that come through major auction houses like Julien’s Auctions, Christie's, or Sotheby’s tend to have the most trustworthy documentation. Those houses usually provide provenance — a chain of ownership — and will note when items come from the estate or direct custodians. That doesn’t make everything perfect, though. There are fakes and dubious attributions floating around eBay, Etsy, and private sales, so it’s crucial to look for certificates, photos or receipts linking the piece to Kurt, and confirmations from reputable experts. Forensic checks (paper, ink, handwriting comparisons) are sometimes used for high-value items, and comparing style and handwriting to the pieces in 'Journals' can help spot red flags. If you’re hunting or just curious, I’d recommend a two-step approach: educate and verify. First, spend time with 'Journals' and the 'Montage of Heck' material so you know what his handwriting and drawing tendencies look like. Then, when you see a sketch for sale, ask for provenance, auction house records, and any handover photos. If the seller can’t provide clear documentation, walk away. I still get a tiny thrill scrolling through auction archives and seeing a raw doodle that could’ve been sketched between soundchecks — there’s a kind of intimacy to it that resonates more than any autograph ever could.

It’s funny how a single riff can make you start cataloguing gear—I spent a whole weekend tracing Kurt’s guitars after a late-night binge of bootlegs. Broadly, Kurt favored Fender offset models for most of Nirvana’s recorded electric tone: Mustangs and Jaguars show up again and again in photos and session notes, and those short-scale Mustangs are often credited for the choppy, aggressive attack on songs from 'Nevermind' and live recordings. He also used Strat-style guitars and a handful of cheap Japanese and student models early on; those raw, buzzing sounds on 'Bleach' owe a lot to beat-up, inexpensive instruments as much as to amps and pedals. On the acoustic side, the 'MTV Unplugged' set and other unplugged sessions leaned on higher-end acoustics—fans commonly point to a Martin and a Gibson-style acoustic that produce the warm, woody tone on songs like 'About a Girl' and 'All Apologies.' One neat aside: Kurt had involvement in a hybrid design that became the Jag-Stang, which he played late in his life but mostly stuck with his trusty Fender offsets for studio work. Also remember he swapped pickups and used stompboxes, weird tunings, and amp choices to get that signature dirty-but-hooky Nirvana sound.

Watching 'Montage of Heck' felt like peeking at a private scrapbook with the lights on — intimate, messy, and intensely curated. The film leans heavily on Kurt's notebooks, plucking lines, doodles, and fragments of melody to stitch together a portrait that feels both faithful and directed. I loved how the filmmakers animated certain passages: the visuals take scribbles and turn them into dream sequences that match the tone of the writing. That made the journals feel alive rather than merely read aloud. Music undercuts or elevates passages, so a joke in handwriting can become melancholic on screen, and a frantic sketch can pulse with sound, which changes how you interpret the original words. That said, I also noticed the editorial choices. Not every page of a real notebook makes it to the screen, and the film selects moments that support a narrative arc — the troubled genius, the anxious child, the fierce artist. As someone who’s flipped through reprinted pages in 'Journals', I felt grateful for the exposure but aware that context gets trimmed. The film gives you Kurt’s voice through direct quotations, demos, and the reactions of people close to him, but it inevitably molds those raw entries into a cinematic story. To me, the biggest takeaway is that the documentary treats the notebooks as art-objects; it respects their chaos, but it also translates that chaos into something digestible and moving for viewers who might never see the physical pages in person.

I've always been the kind of person who curls up with a documentary and then spends the next day replaying bits in my head, and 'Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck' did exactly that for me. Critics generally greeted it with warm interest — many praised how intimate and creatively assembled it felt. The director's use of home movies, sketches, and hand-drawn animation made the film feel less like a conventional rock doc and more like a peek into someone's private scrapbook. Reviewers celebrated that rawness: the audio clips, early demos, and family footage gave Cobain a human texture that interview-heavy films often miss. That said, the applause wasn't unanimous. A number of critics pointed out that the film sometimes straddled the line between portrait and eulogy, leaning toward sympathy in ways that felt almost protective rather than investigative. Some felt it didn't fully situate Cobain within the broader currents of music history or dig deeply into the band dynamics, and others raised ethical questions about mining such private material. Still, most agreed its emotional core is powerful — even if you debate its perspective, it's hard not to be moved by how intimate it gets. For me, it ended up feeling like a bittersweet, messy peek at genius and pain, and I keep thinking about certain home-video shots long after watching.