Your book about all the crazy, mixed-up times you had with your drinking buddies isn’t as good as Everett True’s. Nor is it as historically pertinent to a decade of music. Live Through This: American Rock Music In The Nineties (Virgin) is the memoir of NME and Melody Maker scribe True (real name: Jerry Thackray), who arrived in Seattle in 1989 to profile Sub Pop Records and cover the burgeoning Northwest scene, only to become the rock-crit godfather of grunge and confidant to “Kurtney”—he introduced Kurt to Courtney at a Butthole Surfers gig in ‘91. As outlined in the book, True drank and danced his way across the U.S. during alt-rock’s heyday, dishing the dirt on Mudhoney, Sebadoh, the Breeders, Sonic Youth and the Lemonheads.

But underneath the good-times tales of hanging with the Screaming Trees, Melvins and Babes In Toyland are the suicide of a close friend (Cobain) and the druggy, pathetic stories of many others (Evan Dando, Kim and Kelley Deal). True begins the book with a very personal chapter on Nirvana, Cobain, Love and the suicide; he ends it with a brutally honest look at Hole. Live Through This is personal business, as True injects himself into every scene, relating what he saw as a journalist, fan and performer (he’d often open for acts as one-man-band The Legend!). For these and other acts of self-inclusion, True will no doubt be criticized (as he has throughout his career) for writing as if he’s the axis of the Earth itself. But for those of us who can’t dig deep enough into fandom’s core, there’s no other way a book should be written.

True answered some roundabout questions by e-mail from his home in Brighton, England.

The book’s subtitles are misleading: “American Rock Music In The Nineties”; “The First And Last Word On Grunge.” I was actually relieved to start reading and find out it’s not trying to be some grunge history etched in stone—it’s your subjective experience in the ‘90s. Do you think that, in some ways, this book says as much about you as the musicians and scenes profiled?
Absolutely. It’s a memoir, and I don’t pretend that it’s anything but. It so happened that I met a lot of rock musicians because that was my job, but I have only ever tried to make sense of my own life, not of those around me. There was no point me writing a conventional history, it would have been a wasted opportunity. I had firsthand experience.

You write that “rock is a club for all those who don’t have the credentials to join anywhere else.” I think that nicely capsulizes how a lot of us came to rock music as performers, journalists, fans, etc. Can you detail how/when the “joining” process started for you as a critic, performer or fan?
As a fan, of course. I used to go to shows to dance: If I didn’t like a band I wouldn’t watch them, if I did I would be dancing down the front. Haphazard and with no sense of rhythm. There was one (relatively unknown) band in particular I saw, where the singer grabbed me the third time I saw them (I was the only one dancing) and that started a friendship. The band was called the Laughing Apple, and the singer’s name was Alan McGee. He said he wanted to start a fanzine (inspired partly by Dan Tracy’s TV Personalities and Paul Weller’s then-record label) and asked me to write a column for it, detailing all I hated about current music (I was very passionate about my likes and dislikes). This was 1982.

So I did. The magazine was called Communication Blur, and a couple of weeks after it appeared I got a call at my work (I was a screen printer) from the boss of one of the labels I’d slagged off, swearing at me for 45 minutes—me, a nobody punk kid. I was shocked at the time, but realised after that this was precisely the effect I was seeking to engender. Cool.

For the third issue, McGee had started concentrating on his record label Creation, and wanted to make me editor (with himself, Bobby Gillespie, Andrew Innes, etc. as main contributors). Fine, but he wanted to put a Smiths flexi on the front. A very trendy band, it would have increased our circulation no end: 10,000 sales easy. I refused because I hated the fucking Smiths (I didn’t hate them, actually, but wasn’t passionate about them, which amounted to the same thing back then). So I started my own fanzine instead: The Legend! (the name under which I recorded the first single for McGee’s label).

The NME took me on, after I showed up there one day and demanded they printed something I’d written. I couldn’t even form a sentence, but got by on my enthusiasm. When I first traveled out to Seattle at the start of ‘89 for Melody Maker to write the Sub Pop story, it was both my first trip to America and my first trip for the paper (I’d joined a few short months before).

What was your first writing gig, and why’d you choose this maligned and financially unrewarding career of music journalism?
A tiny review of the X-Men (comparing them to ice cream on a hot summer’s day) for NME in 1984 or 1983 was the first paid work I had (a princely sum of around £15 I recall, around the same I get now the odd occasion people still print my words). I chose it for its immediacy. I was a performer/singer, too, during the ‘80s, but would get continually frustrated at what I saw as the “dishonesty” of bands—the fact that you’d write these (presumably) heartfelt words and then repeat them a thousand times. I didn’t like to perform a song more than once for that reason. This made it very hard to hold a band together more than a couple of months. So I switched to writing: I wanted to convey the excitement and disgust that music made me feel, the sheer exhilaration of hearing a great new record or seeing a great new band for the first time. I wanted other people to feel it too. I still do. When I started writing for the NME, it seemed no one was writing about all these fucking brilliant bands I was going to see (and dance to) and that made me angry. So I wanted to change that.

I’m going to throw some more of your words back at you. “For once I thought it would be nice if history was written by one of the losers.” This line seems half genuine impetus for the book, half disingenuous sentiment (“loser” in the hip, Beck-ish sense of the word). Nirvana won (as much as it wanted to), you won (correspondent to the stars for nearly a decade), and here’s a book published by Virgin to prove it. What do you think?
Nirvana didn’t win. It’s a very important difference between wanting something and then being given it. Sure, they wanted success. But my use of “loser” in the above sentence wasn’t supposed to be ironic, it was deliberate. I was comparing myself to the true winners (Courtney, Billy, Trent, the ones with the money and continued fame). I have a book out? It’s not nearly as big a deal as people might think. I still know few people, can’t travel the world as I wish, never changed anybody’s fucking mind about anything. All Nirvana did was pave the way for Limp fucking Bizkit and Smashing fucking Pumpkins, and make a load of soulless corporate bullies even richer. Was I correspondent to the stars? Not deliberate. I was just writing about what was around me. I can’t even get my words published in a two-bit crappy broadsheet like The Guardian or The Times.

What’s your comeback line for people who’ll read this and say: “That Everett True, he’s such a namedropper, a hanger-on”?
It’s true. But I also have way more soul than they’ll ever know.

British and American journalism play by different rules. Whereas most U.S. editors would frown on a writer getting drunk with the band or reviewing a perceived rival (Billy Corgan, for example), you had a bit more free reign. Thoughts on this?
U.S. journalism seems to be much more worried about what its advertisers think, far more concerned with its audience. (Maybe rightly so.) Traditionally, U.K. press never did (although I think that might have changed by now). It’s down to humour: The victors have no need for it, hence the American image as a complacent, bloated male completely unable to laugh at themselves. Maybe that’s why U.S. editors would frown on the above: They can’t trust their own writers to have integrity. I have any amount of integrity; it’s my own, not anyone else’s.

You took charge of your own identity as the guy who could help the careers of many a band. How aware were you at the time of the thin line between being a friend and drinking buddy on one hand, and a person to be used for publicity on the other?
Sure, I was being used for publicity. But I was mostly concerned with having fun.

Do you still talk to Courtney? Has she had any reaction to this book yet?
No, I don’t. We finally fell out when she refused to take responsibility when I challenged her about helping Charles Cross in his “Oh, I think I need to find the new Bruce Springsteen now” Kurt Cobain book. So I have no idea if she’s even aware my book exists and could care less, frankly. Part of the reason I wrote it was to finally exorcise myself of her shadow: It’s taken a fuck of a long time. Sure she was fun to hang out with, but Jesus ... If she has any sense at all—and she has plenty—she won’t go near my book. She knows what’s good for her.

You mourn Kurt in this book in several different ways. Is this the first time you’ve written so directly about him, his suicide and, well, the damage done? And pardon the inference, but was it somewhat therapeutic for you to do so?
This was the first time I’d written so directly. I was concerned, particularly in the immediate years following his death, not to be another (Michael) Azerrad, another (Charles) Cross, another Craig Marks rushing to collect my blood money. But I hadn’t been able to move on since those times, and by writing about it I hoped that I would finally be able to. It’s helped, certainly. I can now listen to Nirvana (and god, that Unplugged album is a piece of crap). The first draft of the book I completely scrapped on my partner’s advice, it was so self-loathing. If I’d wanted, I could have made it far more commercial, I know how to (I do write for a fucking living). I didn’t want to.

This is a book with plenty of personal stories that end, well, not so well: Kurt, Evan Dando, even Kim Deal (jury’s still out on Title TK and the new Breeders lineup). We (the media) called these people “antiheroes” in the ‘90s, but was their brush with fame and subsequent downward spiral really any different from, say, David Lee Roth’s? What was so remarkable about their brand of distress? What soul-crushing pressures are not depicted in the book?
I can’t answer the question about Dave Lee Roth, because I’ve never known him. I suspect there are certain parallels. You drink to excess, you wake up the next morning with a hangover. You do that for several years ... well, duh. Some of us hated ourselves for becoming famous when we didn’t feel we merited it.

Of course, you were along for the ride on all this. What’s been the personal toll, in terms of general health, sanity, your career, your feelings toward music and its business?
I have no career. I’ve just started a new music magazine, Careless Talk Costs Lives (www.carelesstalkcostslives.com, but the site is deliberately non-explicit) with photographer Steve Gullick with the avowed aim of replacing the rotting carcass of the U.K. music press with something far more healthy, a magazine that actually cares about and loves the music is covers, and can show that in a stylistic, witty and passionate way. We’re on our third issue now. We could do with a U.S. distributor, please.

For a few years following Kurt’s death, I was almost completely disillusioned with music, a drunk. Whatever. I fucking love playing songs on the piano, singing Dolly Parton covers or Tom Waits or Elvis Costello or the Beatles. I fucking love playing new albums (because of my new magazine, I now receive upwards of 20 CDs every day through my front door). Sure, I can’t handle a drink. If I have one I want to drink the complete bottle of Maker’s Mark and I have very strong whiskey cravings most days (which I don’t give in to). I play badminton. I am visited at home by loads of friends (no, I’m not a fucking invalid). I love going to see bands locally in Brighton (but definitely not in London, not after I used to suffer panic attacks at shows there in ‘95, ‘96).

Oh, and I’m writing a book on the Ramones. Because I love them.

The music business? Let the babies have their bottles. I couldn’t care one way or another. I’m not particularly prepared to do anything that’s not fun, but who knows? Maybe I’m just waiting for the right offer.