Never Mind the Pollacks Read online

  They walked toward the bar. Pollack moved after them, but the crowd seemed to close in around him, as if it was protecting Kurt and Iggy. But from what? Pollack just wanted to be their friend. If they acted like a couple of sellout rock stars that only hung out with other rock stars, fine. Who needed them?

  “Hey, Iggy!” Pollack shouted. “Your new album sucks!”

  One afternoon in the spring of 1990, Pollack returned home to Olympia. He’d been in Los Angeles, where he’d stolen the original masters of Wire’s Pink Flag LP, an album that he frequently referred to as “the greatest record of all time,” especially after he finally got around to listening to it. He hadn’t been to L.A. in seven years, and was disappointed in how things had changed. In his journal, he wrote, “Everyone’s into glam metal. All the rock stars now are these shitty farm boys with long hair who fuck porn stars. Not like back in the day, when L.A. was free from artifice and posing. But the rap scene is pretty cool. Thug Life 4 Ever!”

  Back in the Pear Street apartment, Pollack found Kurt and another guy decapitating toy soldiers.

  “Hey,” Pollack said.

  “Hey,” said Kurt. “You want some Quaaludes?”

  “No, thanks,” said Pollack. “I had a big breakfast. Who’s the dude?”

  “This is Dave,” Kurt said. “He’s our new drummer.”

  “Hey,” said Dave.

  Kurt and Dave were listening to a record. The music was very loud. A crazy man screamed something about American Airlines.

  “Who is this?” Pollack asked.

  “Wesley Willis,” Dave said.

  “Who’s that?” Pollack said.

  The music seemed to stop. In Pollack’s mind, time froze, because he knew this was the key moment. Punk rock had finally passed him by. Kurt cannon-launched a gaze of withering sarcasm that exploded, full on, in Pollack’s face.

  “You don’t know?” he said.

  “No,” said Pollack.

  “He’s from Chicago.”

  “Figures,” Pollack says. “Chicago’s not a real rock town. Fuck Steve Albini and his elitist indie attitude! If I had a chance, I’d—”

  Kurt stood up and grabbed Pollack by the shirt.

  “Don’t disrespect Steve Albini in my presence again,” he said. “Steve Albini is a god.”

  Kurt’s eyes filled with an eternal hate, but Pollack felt his own demons slipping away. He was, once again, a scared little boy, running from his own father, down that Chicago alley so many decades before. The fight was gone from him.

  “Dude,” Dave said, “chill out. Our girlfriends are coming over.”

  Kurt let go.

  “Hooray!” Kurt said. “Hooray! Our girlfriends! Our girlfriends!”

  He started running around the apartment, picking up animal turds.

  “Got to clean this place up,” he said.

  Pollack heard a loud, discordant guitar note. The front door blew off its hinges. Two chicks were standing in its place. One of them wore a Misfits T-shirt. The other wore no shirt, and had painted the word “SLUT” across her belly. They looked ready to make music on their own terms.

  “Yay,” Kurt said. “It’s our girlfriends!”

  So Neal Pollack and Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl and their girlfriends Tobi Vail and Kathleen Hanna went out on the town. They were on the guest list for the Nation of Ulysses show, which featured eight bands playing seventeen minutes each. The kids all seemed to like it, but Pollack had his earplugs in by 9 P.M. By 10:30, he was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot. It was all too loud and rowdy for him. Now X, or the Ramones, or Television, those were bands. This was nonsense passing for a music scene, in his opinion, and it would never have an impact on the larger world.

  After the show, they went to another show, and then they went to a bar. The girls did all the talking. Tobi, the drummer, said: “—We’re gonna start our own band and our own record label, and I already publish three fanzines. Chicks can rock and they should control their own destiny. Punk isn’t about control. Punk is freedom.”

  “I understand,” Pollack said. “I knew Wanda Jackson.”

  “Shut up, old man,” Hanna said.

  Kurt looked at Tobi moonily. On his napkin, he wrote the words “Tobi, Tobi, Tobi,” over and over again.

  “Punk is freedom,” he repeated. “Freedom, freedom.”

  The girls went to the bathroom. Pollack went to the cigarette machine. He was bent over, trying to coax an extra pack out of the slot. As the girls were coming out, he heard Tobi say, “Let’s ditch these wimps and go fuck some bikers.”

  The bitches! They sounded just like men!

  At dawn, Pollack woke on the floor. In the bed above him, Kurt was moaning loudly and muttering in his sleep.

  “Tobi,” he said. “Tobi, Tobi, Tobi, Tobi, Tobi, Tobi, Tobi, Tobi. Let’s go get tattoos, Tobi.”

  Pollack got up and shook Cobain by the shoulders.

  “Snap out of it, boy!” he said. “You can’t lose yourself like this over a woman!”

  Kurt woke up.

  “But I love her!” he shrieked. “She’s perfect! I love her so much she makes me sick!”

  Kurt started weeping. Pollack looked on, concerned. The crying grew more intense. Pollack put his arms around him.

  “There, there, son,” he said.

  “Why didn’t she sleep over tonight, Neal?” Kurt said. “Why?”

  Pollack hated seeing Kurt in so much pain. Young love sucked, it really did. He had to find him another girlfriend, one who would take his mind off Tobi, because Tobi was obviously going to break Kurt’s heart in such a way that he’d never write lyrics again. But who would be right for Kurt? He could be so picky. Then, suddenly, he just knew.

  He rocked Kurt back to sleep, went to the bus station, and bought a ticket for Oregon.

  Pollack walked into Satyricon, a small dimly lit club somewhere in Portland. A sign out front promised a three-band lineup: Hazel, Drunk at Abi’s, and the Village Idiots. Satyricon was red-bulbed lights, a few booths, a stage, and a back bar that had once served up shots to neighborhood guys on their way to work. Smoke wrapped the room in a hazy crust. The air was thick and choking. He saw her immediately, at a booth, each arm around a different guy. Her eyes prowled the room, looking for more interesting company. She was also with three women who resembled Nancy Spungen, but not as much as she did.

  “I am soooooo bored,” she said. “Let’s go to the Blah Blah Café.”

  One of the girls put her hand on the Widow’s knee. The Widow guided it upward.

  “You’re nothing but a rock ’n’ roll slut,” she said.

  Pollack went to the jukebox, put in his coins, and flipped around, purposely choosing songs he’d never heard before. From fifty feet away, he could feel her breath on his neck. He turned. They stood toe-to-toe.

  “I know who you are!” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re Neal Pollack!”

  “That’s right.”

  “I think your writing sucks!”

  “Yeah, well, I think your music sucks!”

  “Shut up, Neal,” said the Widow. “Why don’t you go suck off Joey Ramone in CBGB’s basement? I hear you work cheap.”

  Pollack grabbed her by the shoulders. He swept his right leg across her left ankle. Smack. She was down, and he was on top of her. Pollack had her pinned, but that wasn’t going to last. She was four inches taller than he was, and had bigger biceps. Her nails dug into his palms, and he yelped. She left-hooked him in the face the second he released his grip. He went hurtling into a table. Drinks spilled. Her knees were on his chest. He couldn’t move and could barely breathe.

  “Who sucks, old man?” she said.

  “Uhhhh,” said Pollack.

  “Who sucks? Who sucks? WHO FUCKING SUCKS NOW, POLLACK?”

  Pollack was blacking out.

  “I suck,” he moaned. “I suck very hard.”

  The pressure let up.

  “That’s better,” said the Widow.
“Now what are you doing here?”

  “It’s Kurt,” he said. “He needs your help.”

  “Who’s Kurt?” she said.

  “You know who he is,” he said.

  “Please. Enlighten me.”

  “Could you let go of my arms first?”

  “No.”

  “OK. He’s the guy you call Pixie Meat. He’s the guy in Washington to whom you sent a heart-shaped box filled with a tiny porcelain doll, three dried roses, a miniature teacup, and shellac-covered seashells. You rubbed your perfume all over it.”

  “Nope,” she said. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Pollack said, “He’s the guy in Nirvana.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Yeah. They’re OK, but too metal for me. I like Mudhoney.”

  “Kurt’s always evolving,” Pollack said. “He’s a true poet.”

  “He’s cute,” she said, “but kind of messed up.”

  Pollack sat up. She hovered over him. He tried another tack.

  “He’s starting to get famous,” he said. “The A and R werewolves are coming to his shows.”

  The Widow twirled her hair.

  “Really?” she said. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”

  Pollack could see that the fish was on the hook. He didn’t want to do this. The pain swelled in him and brought him nearly to crying. But his son was an emotional wreck back in Washington. For some reason, he knew that this woman was the only glue that could mend Kurt’s heart. Pollack gulped and prepared for the ultimate sacrifice.

  “You two should hook up sometime,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I have to check my schedule.”

  “Check fast. He’s in love with someone else.”

  The Widow froze. She snarled. Pollack, in his diaries, later wrote, “I swore I saw her nails grow two inches right there.”

  “No bitch is gonna steal my man,” she said. “Let’s call him.”

  Outside, in a thick drizzle, Pollack dropped eight quarters into a pay phone. He dialed Kurt’s number. On the sixth ring, Kurt answered.

  “Tobi, is that you?” he said.

  “For god’s sake, Kurt,” Pollack said. “Be a man. Someone here wants to say hi.”

  “Tobi?” Kurt said.

  “No, not Tobi,” said Pollack.

  The Widow took the phone.

  “Hey there, sugar lumps,” she said. “Why don’t you come on down here and pierce my cunt for me?”

  A silence on the other end.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “I…I…I love you,” Kurt said. “You’re amazing. I think you’re the coolest girl in the whole world.”

  “What’s he saying?” said Pollack.

  “Get outta here,” she said. “I’m talking to my boyfriend.”

  About a year later, at the Palladium in Los Angeles, Kurt and Pollack were hanging out backstage during an L7 concert. They passed around a bottle of Romilar. Pollack took a long chug.

  “I always loved this shit,” he said.

  “Tastes like cherries,” said Kurt.

  From behind them, they heard, “Watcha drinkin’, boys?”

  It was the Widow.

  “Cough syrup,” said Kurt.

  “That’s not cough syrup,” she said.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a bottle of Romilar Extra Plus PM Cold Relief, Now With Liquid Barbiturates.

  “This is cough syrup.”

  She drank the whole bottle in one smooth gulp.

  “I’m fucked up,” she said.

  Kurt stood up.

  “D-Do you have any more?” he said.

  She tackled him. They fell to the ground. His hands moved toward her breasts. This was a private scene, and Pollack didn’t want any part of it. Somehow, he knew that he was done. Kurt had found his heart’s home, his sweet love. Pollack moved toward the exit.

  Kurt and his bride tumbled. Pollack opened the door. The sunlight hurt his eyes, as always. He looked behind him. Kurt’s mouth moved.

  “Thanks, Dad,” he whispered. “Thanks for everything.”

  Pollack waved.

  “Good-bye, son,” he said.

  He’s in good hands, Pollack thought. The Widow is a safe, loving harbor. My boy will be all right.

  A bunch of antiracist skinheads were hanging out in the parking lot, looking for racists to beat up. Pollack hated the smug looks on their faces. They didn’t get it, these damn kids. A lot of people had taken boots to the face so these schmucks could disrupt Klan rallies. He said: “Fuck you, skinheads!”

  They moved in. Their blows and kicks peppered Pollack’s torso and skull. It felt good to bleed and bruise again. Pollack didn’t fight back. Let it come, he thought. I’ll endure this as I’ve endured the rest of my life. I’ll prove it all night. You bet. Nothing can finish me off. My retirement years have arrived.

  I’ll go to Brooklyn, Pollack thought, as he spit out a tooth. That should be a safe place for me to write my novel, dictate my memoirs to a college student, and compile two volumes of my best record reviews. Yes, Brooklyn. Perfect. The kitties will love it there. I can be free.

  Rock ’n’ roll will never come to Brooklyn.

  EPILOGUE

  This brings the narrative to 1992, but Pollack’s life still wasn’t over. Why and how did he die, like he was born, in obscurity? Who was this man, and what did he really leave for the world? Was he an easily forgettable answer to an obscure trivia question, a brief blip on the weak radar of a self-styled underground? Or was he even less, a cipher in the back row of a high school graduation photo? The Butthole Surfers, with whom Pollack lived for a few months at their ranch outside of Austin, referred to him in a 1985 song as “Nailed Penis,” but even to them he meant almost nothing. Pollack spent his life trying to legitimize rock’s existence. Yet rock, by its very destructive essence, negates him.

  I feel like it’s negated me as well. My family is gone, and I’ve given up my home. Ruth is teaching at Oberlin College, in Ohio, and she’s taken the kids. I call her.

  “Ruth, it’s me,” I say.

  “Me who?” she says, and hangs up.

  She’s blocked me from her Instant Messages, and from her AIM. I can track her movements in Michel Houllebecq chat rooms, but her opinions on contemporary French literature don’t interest me. I want to know what my children are learning, who their friends are, if they’ve read Daddy’s books and enjoyed them. And I still love Ruth. I long to hear her whisper my name in the same sentence as Jean Baudrillard’s. Sometimes, I think of the face she used to make when she pretended to have an orgasm while we made love, and I hope that she’ll return. But she won’t. That world is closed to me now.

  And the world of journalism has locked its revolving door as well. Since Rolling Stone’s redesign, my freelance work there has vanished. There’s no place for a prose stylist like myself in Blender. I’d be an oil tanker of prose in a sea of two thousand monthly record reviews, five words each. And like anyone at Vibe would ever talk to me. Even that last repository of great media intellect, Salon, has canceled my column, “Five Elementary Things About Rock by Paul St. Pierre.” Why? I’d only missed three deadlines. These young editors treat me like a worm.

  Damn it. I’m an out-of-work rock critic with a drinking problem. The last I heard, those aren’t desirable qualities for any employer, not even for employers who post on Craigslist.

  My research on the ghost of Pollack is all I have left. Hell-hound on my trail, I’ve come to Chicago. This is where Pollack’s life in rock began. Sometimes, as Milan Kundera wrote, to discover endings, you must rediscover beginnings. And rock ’n’ roll in America had only one true starting point: Maxwell Street, the ultimate urban bazaar and the immigrant crossroads of the Midwest. In its heyday, Maxwell was the hub of the world.

  I can’t afford a cab, and everyone knows that public transportation in Chicago sucks. So I find myself walking to Maxwell, stopping at Manny’s delicatessen for my day’s only meal, a corned-beef sandwich thick e
nough to kill a moose. Two blocks and the purchase of one package of discount hosiery later, I arrive at the corner of Roosevelt and Halsted, gateway to the truth. A wrought-iron arch loops over the street. On either end, among decorative curlicues, are guitars, each emitting two musical notes. The words “UNIVERSITY VILLAGE” bump out in fake copper. At the base of the arch is a sign. It reads, “The University of Illinois at Chicago, committed to the city’s multicultural heritage, is proud to present a new concept of student living in one of Chicago’s most historic neighborhoods.”

  As I walk, I discover that there is, literally, no more Maxwell Street. The city has renamed it Thirteenth Place. Where ancient Jewish tailors once pressed pants awash in steam and peeling lime-green paint, a seven-story dormitory now stands. The zoot-suit emporium has become a coffeehouse. There aren’t any vendors, period. The streets are clean and freshly paved. But there’s no one on them; it’s as quiet as a strip mall in a second-ring suburb.

  I see another plaque, on the brick façade of a copy shop that also serves Italian subs. It reads, “No one unusual ever lived here. Our neighborhoods are safe for your children. Richard M. Daley, Mayor.”

  I wonder what Pollack would make of these changes. Then I think I know. He’d just say, “Who gives a shit? Let’s go have a beer.”

  The neighborhood is completely silent, perhaps for the first time ever. There’s no one around. But from across the street, I hear the faintest guitar twang. The music grows slightly louder. It appears to be coming from a parking lot next to a baseball field. Wait. I see a vague outline of someone, or something.

  I duck under the entry gate, moving toward what now distinctly sounds like the blues. The vague outline grows clearer, thicker, becoming the shape of a man, old as time. He’s sitting on an overturned wood crate. He sings:

  Woke up this morning.

  And my boots were full of blood.

  Yeah, I woke up this morning,

  All my boots were full of blood.

  Shouldn’t have stayed up all night.

  Getting nasty in the mud.

  I’m directly in front of the man now. He’s come into full focus. He wears a tan cowboy hat with silver studs around the brim, a red cowboy shirt, brand-new cowboy boots, and a star-spangled bandana. Suddenly, I recognize him.