Contrary to a longstanding rock 'n' roll wisecrack, death is not a good career move. It is a cruel swan song.
No retake, no encore, no comeback.
The ghost of Kurt Cobain, who killed himself with a shotgun blast last week, will linger long in the memories of slacker fans who connected with the singer's anguished rants on the confusion, pain, anger and hopelessness stirred by a world of shrinking opportunities.
Let's hope they do not connect with his escape.
Cobain's dark and hostile expressions were valid, an accurate reflection of a lost generation's bitter outlook. But his surrender to that pessimism, however tragic and pitiable, is not praiseworthy. Better that we honor his music than his violent farewell.
Nirvana, founded in 1987, exploded into the mainstream with 1991's Smells Like Teen Spirit, a raw, raucous anthem that sarcastically embodied twentysomething ennui and cynicism. It bears the Cobain trademark: a languid groan that swells into demon rage.
Sadly, that voice is now silenced, and like the drug-induced deaths of heroes before him - punk icon Sid Vicious and guitar god Jimi Hendrix - Cobain's end was senseless and preventable.
A desperate release from excruciating pain, suicide is not shameful, but neither is it admirable. For many, it is ungraspable. How could a global superstar with unfathomable riches and the adoration of millions sink to such despair?
We will never know the horrors that haunted this deeply unhappy man. We do know he chose the wrong option. The irreversible one. And for that he should not be deified.
Cobain's life's work - creating the abrasive but melodic soundtrack for a disenfranchised Generation X - should serve as inspiration to rock fans and practitioners who feared the genre had lost its authenticity and power. Cobain's death should inspire only grief.
