May 26, 1993
I know a lot of coolies who suck and feed off the fact that they know about and (supposedly) enjoy unknown, obscure bands of present and past. These coolies thrive on their own little discoveries like those tiny fish who attach themselves to bigger fish and parasitically feed off the hosts’ droppings and burnt coffee.
The Raincoats were not very well known in the States — I don’t know about the U.K. and Europe. In fact, I don’t really know anything about The Raincoats except that they recorded some music that has affected me so much that whenever I hear it I’m reminded of a particular time in my life when I was (shall we say) extremely unhappy, lonely, and bored. If it weren’t for the luxury of putting that scratchy copy of The Raincoats’ first record, I would have had very few moments of peace. I suppose I could have researched a bit of history about the band but I feel it’s more important to delineate the way I feel and how they sound.
When I listen to The Raincoats I feel as if I’m a stowaway in an attic, violating and in the dark. Rather than listening to them, I feel like I’m listening in on them. We’re together in the same old house and I have to be completely still or they will hear me spying from above and, if I get caught — everything will be ruined because it’s their thing. They’re playing their music for themselves. It’s not as sacred as wire-tapping a Buddhist monk’s telephone or something because if The Raincoats really did catch me, they would probably just ask me if I wanted some tea. I would comply, then they would finish playing their songs and I would say thank you very much for making me feel good.
— Kurt Cobain (from the liner notes of the CD reissue of The Raincoats’ eponymous debut album)
