Damn You, Dave Grohl, You Made Me Cry
A letter of appreciation to my personal hero after reading The Storyteller.
To say I wasn’t always as impressed with the man’s work as I am today would be an understatement.
It was around 1996 and my big sister was going through her angsty Nirvana phase. Wearing flannel, a pair of Levi’s 501s and a bomber jacket, her hair with that poor girl’s Billie Eilish look, black with blue roots, that comes from the dangerous combination of teenagers and box dye. Nirvana’s Nevermind playing every day, at ear-shattering volume. Her room, always with the windows covered with black curtains and a huge poster of her idol, Kurt Cobain, on the wall.
“Not this AGAIN???” I’d think, heading back out the door. I hated that noise.
By then, I’d had an introduction to rock through MTV, the channel I also credit for teaching me English at age seven (no subtitles back then, so either you picked it up or you didn’t get it). But I was about 11 and firmly in the Spice Girls-Backstreet Boys stage of youth, even though I lived in southern Finland’s hotspot for mid-’90s grunge. I’m only slightly exaggerating.
I’ve always been more in the pop camp, an addict to a good, light melody. No Doubt, Oasis and Blur spoke to me at the moment, and grunge, well, it was a…
