Editor’s note: One of my best friends is from Houston, and a family he knows lost everything in Hurricane Harvey. You can click here to donate to them, or donate to Red Cross.
Music journalist Everett True has attacked Dave Grohl in a new Drowned in Sound article. In 1991, True introduced Kurt Cobain to Courtney Love at a Butthole Surfers and L7 gig. The three became close friends, and, in 1992, True wheeled Cobain on stage at the Reading Festival. In 2006, True published Nirvana: The True Story, a book about his personal relationship with the band and the grunge scene.
He wrote:
Dave Grohl is shit.
Do not believe the hype. My life over the last two decades has been swamped with people spouting weak-assed crap like “I don’t want to say Dave Grohl is shit because it ain’t up to me to tell others how to live their lives”. Damn straight. It AIN’T up to you to tell others how to live. You so scared of being thought out-of-touch that you can’t even figure out what you like yourself, though? You so scared of being viewed as opinionated or nasty or close-minded (shudder) a critic that you can’t state your own opinions loud and clear, though? DAVE GROHL IS SHIT.
He later said:
Dave Grohl is shit. Shout it from the tops of buses and shout it from street corners. He is dreary, whiny, derivative, needless, grey. Dave Grohl is shit. He makes Chris Martin sound like Beyoncé. Flaunt the bump/don’t flaunt the bump/FLAUNT THE BUMP! He makes Ed Sheeran shine with an inner fire. He puts Theresa May into perspective.
He is shit. He is crap. He is the shit in the middle of crap. His emotion is not his. It’s empty, big washes of guitar-driven bombastic nothingness. Dave Grohl is shit. The loudest boy in a room of one. Useless shit that pervades the world with the smell of uncritical acceptance. Smiley shit. Bouncy shit. Bearded shit. Dave Grohl is shit. He is one more commodity, just one more commodity. Shit. Less than nothing. Shit. Lifestyle choice for the folk who think someone else is cutting edge. Shit. An approximation of music that does not bother to capture the spark that can make music so special, so magical, so special. Just an approximation of an approximation. The boy next door, with a drum kit and a sound purloined from the past. Half-assed subcultural appropriation.”
