Joe Burnham
Two curious moments of judgement struck me when I heard about Nirvana: Live at Reading. The first was a melancholic thought: “They’re still milking that teat? How many more godforsaken ‘early demos’ and live performances can Geffen release?” Quickly after listening though, I was struck by knowledge I hadn’t prepared for: this may be the first live album to actually capture a piece of what I love about the band.
Technically, they’ve had two live-LPs before. From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah, a completely unremarkable collection of snipped together bootlegs from throughout the band’s career, basically only existed as a prelude to their Greatest Hits compilation being released a few years later. I didn’t hate Wishkah, I just never found myself listening to it; it existed more as a novel curiosity. Their other live-album Unplugged in New York was brilliant, yet existed as an entirely different animal to the band’s typical sound; it was beautiful, passionate, but not quite Nirvana kosher.
Live at Reading owes its success to two measures: first, it captured an entire performance of the band in one of their most legendary sets. There’s a certain contextual enjoyment to this: although the show was already infamous for Kurt’s entrance (in a wheel-chair and hospital gown, no less), this set may hit a little closer to home due to the “Holy-shit-I’ve-been-to-Reading-Festival-too” factor which is bound to be shared amongst a majority of their UK fans. In this sense, it has an instant appeal – you’re able to immediately visualise the atmosphere of the crowd’s anticipation, and it’s contagious.
Secondly, the actual recording quality is reassuringly high (with occasional exceptions for the acoustic-electric guitar tones), and it features several near-definitive versions of their catalogue: Lithium is the standout though, showcasing the festival’s audience as a church-quire to back every word Cobain sings. There’s more: Smells like Teen Spirit is probably the only recording you’ll ever hear of the band when they sound like they actually enjoy playing the damn song (which is a novelty in itself, truly), and Aneurysm – which is perhaps Nirvana’s best-yet-most-underplayed song – is played with strained fury.
But really, the enjoyable parts of this album are the unexpected touches: Kurt playing around with his voice on Sliver, fucking up various solos, and generally giving the impression that the then-25-year-old wanted to be there. This innate warmth shines through all the music’s doom: in this album (unlike any other) Kurt Cobain isn’t a ghost or a suicidal-genius. Instead, he’s a rock-star at his peak, and vital listening for any fan who hasn’t detached him from his death.