Several years after Kurt Cobain died, I went to Sam Goody with a $20 bill and came home with In Utero.
I was 11, maybe 12. “Rape Me” was my favorite. I blasted the track and asked my parents what “rape” meant. They thumbed through the lyric booklet, frowned at the fetuses dotting the cover art, and quickly confiscated the disc to a bedroom closet, where, some weeks later, I happened upon it and reclaimed it in secret. Forbidden art is alluring art, and In Utero has been my favorite Nirvana release ever since. I already owned Nevermind, but In Utero was different—scarier, sharper around the edges. At least in part, that was because of “Rape Me”.