In Defence of the Nineties: Grunge
Setting the record straight on the ever-divisive subject of 90s style
Dopamine-drained and dirge-like to a fault, the Seattle sound of the late eighties and early nineties was a far cry from the saccharine polish of your Bon Jovis and Van Halens. It shared little in common with the explosive rage of, say, Black Flag, either. No, grunge was a nasty, nihilistic little bastard genre and was all the better for it.
Grunge was punk on a major comedown. It was rife with sinister, sludgy riffs; lyrics cut through with unending cynicism; and those oh-so-quintessential, Pacific Northwest vocals. You know the ones, those deep, dark, and smooth-as-gravel tones made famous by the likes of Vedder and Cornell. They’d transport you to that downtown Seattle coffee shop. The one you’ve never actually been to, but somehow already know that it’ll smell like roasted arabica; that its furniture will be two steps from utter destruction; and that its windows will be perpetually rain-slicked from the eternal downpour outside.
As a result of the genre’s hybrid foundations, grunge’s state of dress also came to offer something of a stylistic inbetween. Prep school dropout meets coffee shop punk, the grunge band look was predicated on the wholesale rejection of the pomp and excess of the arena-filling hair metal bands that preceded them. Think oversized flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and a pair of beat-to-shit Converse. Further, more advanced, stylistic flourishes also included – but were by no means limited to – the moth-eaten sweatshirt, the thrifted leather jacket, and of course the is-it-collegiate-or-is-it-care-home cardigan.
All in all, the grunge style offered a nonchalant, I-woke-up-like-this level of scruff that has actually aged pretty damn well in the years following grunge’s last hour upon the stage. Which, frankly, is more than can be said for the genre itself. It’s no secret that, with the passing of time, grunge’s sonic clout has been irreversibly and unforgivably lost to a myriad of two-bit yarlers and post-grunge pretenders who, quite frankly, don’t merit so much as a mention here.
I take that back. Screw you Nickelback.
