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.

Kurt Cobain's influence stretched far beyond music—his grunge aesthetic practically defined the '90s. While he didn't technically design his own shoe line, his iconic Converse Chuck Taylors became synonymous with his style. He often scrawled anarchist slogans or doodles on them, turning mass-produced sneakers into personal art pieces. Later, Converse released the 'Chuck Taylor II Kurt Cobain' edition, featuring his handwriting and artwork as an homage. What fascinates me is how his DIY ethos bled into fashion. Even if he wasn't sketching blueprints, his 'destroyed' sweaters and thrift-store boots inspired entire trends. It's wild how someone who hated corporate culture inadvertently became a merchandising legend. I still lace up my Chucks feeling like a tiny part of that rebellion.

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.

Kurt Cobain's footwear was as iconic as his music, and his grunge aesthetic wouldn't be complete without those scuffed-up Converse Chuck Taylors. He wore them so often they practically became part of his identity—beat-up, unlaced, and covered in marker scribbles or paint. It wasn't just about comfort; those shoes mirrored his rebellious, anti-establishment vibe. I love how something as simple as sneakers could feel like a statement against polished celebrity culture. Sometimes I spot fans recreating his look today, and it's wild how a pair of Chucks can instantly channel that '90s Seattle spirit. Even beyond Nirvana, his shoe choice influenced alternative fashion in ways you still see in band merch lines and thrift-store racks.

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.

Growing up in the '90s, grunge culture was everywhere, and Kurt Cobain was its undeniable icon. His fashion choices felt like a middle finger to polished glam—ripped jeans, flannel shirts, and those scuffed Converse Chuck Taylors became his uniform. I loved how he made high-tops look effortlessly cool, pairing them with everything from pajamas to thrift-store dresses. The way he wore them, laces barely tied, toes peeking through holes, was a mood—like he didn’t care, but somehow that *was* the care. There’s a famous photo of him sprawled onstage in those black Chucks, mid-scream, and it’s pure chaos and beauty. I tried copying the look as a teen, but my mom kept yelling at me for 'destroying perfectly good shoes.' Joke’s on her—now distressed Chucks sell for double the price.