Senator Krist: An Interview With Krist Novoselic
MOST ROCK FANS think of Krist Novoselic as the former bassist for Nirvana, the impossibly tall and somewhat goofy guy who threw his bass up in the air at MTV’s Video Music Awards in 1992 only to have it come crashing back down on his skull, knocking him senseless. But since then, Novoselic has awakened in more ways than one.
Drawing on the clout and cash that come from having been in one of the most successful groups of the ’90s, Novoselic entered the political fray in his home state of Washington, fighting music censorship. He linked up with the Washington Music Industry Coalition, a grassroots group dedicated to fighting the so-called erotic-music law, which would restrict minors from purchasing records with “adult” or “objectionable” content. He went on to co-found and fund the Joint Artists and Music Promotions Political Action Committee, which hopes to persuade politicians to view musicians and fans as tax-generating voters whose concerns deserve to be heard.
Novoselic remains reluctant to address the suicide of his friend Kurt Cobain, but activism seems to have helped him through one of the most difficult periods of his 30 years. Now sworn off drugs and alcohol, he talks about politics with the same infectious enthusiasm he displays when talking about rock & roll. He has returned to making music: Sweet 75, his new trio, is recording its debut album, slated for a spring release. Novoselic talked about JAMPAC during a long interview at a New York hotel. “Senator Krist, my friends call me,” he says, laughing. “Haven’t I emerged? I just hope I don’t sound like a civics lecture.”
Let’s start with how you became politicized.
I was politicized in high school. I had an open mind and didn’t really care for Reagan. I cut my teeth on radical punk rock — the Dead Kennedys, Maximumrockandroll and MDC. Those were the few anti-Reagan voices at the time, especially if you were in Aberdeen [Wash.] and were 18 years old. I didn’t feel like reading dry political analyses. I needed something that spoke to me, that I could understand.
Still, MDC’s sentiments weren’t very sophisticated. How did “Fuck Reagan” lead to something more?
The state of mind I was in was just anti-establishment and feeling awkward. I realized that “It’s not me, it’s those people [who have a problem].” They totally bought into mainstream culture, and I disassociated myself from it. Republicans — even Democrats — it was like “What do I care?” But I did vote when I was 18. I voted for Walter Mondale, and I’ve voted in every presidential election since.
Mondale went down in flames. What did that say to you?
It didn’t really break my heart. It wasn’t like it was gonna change anything. Walter Mondale wasn’t exactly a radical. But I voted, and I had my say.
What was the next step?
Well, Nirvana was always political. We talked about things and how we felt. There was Operation Desert Storm in early ’91, and it broke my heart that people bought into that. I was living in Tacoma, Wash., a real meat-and-potatoes town, and it was scary and surreal, the hypocrisy of the government and people buying it. Six months later, the mainstream culture that was duped by Desert Storm was all over us. We were repulsed. We were like “Who are these people?” It took us a long time to deal with that.
How did you get involved with the Washington Music Industry Coalition?
Back in 1992, there was this broad piece of legislation in Washington state that was really scary. Say that you have a song and you make a reference to an ass, ass meaning buttocks. In the sponsors’ definition, that was part of the human anatomy, and that could be considered adult material unsuitable for minors. Somebody could go to a county prosecutor and say, “I think this material is obscene.” The prosecutor would decide whether to deem this material erotic or not. You could then challenge that in front of a jury. I was like “Jesus Christ, this is totally un-American. This is unconstitutional.” But the legislature passed it, the governor signed it, and it was law.
The WMIC, the American Civil Liberties Union and the Recording Industry Association of America challenged it in state Supreme Court, and it was declared unconstitutional, but [the bill’s proponents] came back again the next year. Now, if someone had a complaint against Nirvana, we could have afforded the $100 an hour for attorneys. But if you’re a struggling artist or a mom-and-pop record retailer, you couldn’t afford to go to court, so you’re more likely to just not carry it.
When did you jump in?
The first time I got involved in [the controversy], I went on this TV show, a sort of town-meeting forum, and I went up against this mother from Edmunds, Wash., who instigated all of this because her kids came home with a 2 Live Crew CD, and she thought it was terrible
I was really nervous. I wasn’t well versed on the legislation or anything. I just dealt my cards from my perspective. She thought that I was a nice young man, and she wouldn’t go against Nirvana: “Nirvana’s fine, but it’s this crazy stuff, this 2 Live Crew.” They always go after the extremes, and I’m so sick of that.
Where did the legislation wind up?
It keeps coming back because you have these people who are zealots who are worried about children losing their innocence. What happened was, we had a wonderful governor elected in 1992, Mike Lowry, and he vetoed the legislation in ’93 and again in 1994. But last year was kind of funny because in ’94, the legislature changed. This thing sailed through the House, so we decided we had to lobby the Senate. I stood back, and I looked at the system and said, “Well, if you can’t beat them, join them.”
So you formed a political action committee so they would take you seriously.
Exactly. I could have walked around with a petition or could have had rallies on the Capitol steps. But I said, “We’ve got to get in there, shake hands, develop relationships, make a few campaign contributions and become a part of the political culture.” That’s how it works if you want to be taken seriously. Over the last couple of years, Seattle bands have sold over 160 million records, and nobody’s moved away. I thought, “Goddamn, look at us. We’re the establishment now. We’re making all this money.” Microsoft has lobbyists. Weyerhauser, Boeing — they’re all active on the political scene. You think state government is gonna move against those companies? No way.
OK, so I don’t live in Washington state. You’ve defeated this legislation several times now. What are you all excited about?
Censorship is popping up all over the country. You have Bob Dole out there; he’s never seen Pulp Fiction, never listened to Nine Inch Nails. George Will’s wife writes him a speech, and he comes out a total crusader. These guys all want to wave the pro-family flag. They go to bed dreaming of Leave It to Beaver and this ’50s ideal. But if you look at the economy of the ’50s, there was a lot of opportunity. I think they’re pissing up a tree. They want to mandate morality, but if you give people opportunity, that’s all anybody wants: to live and prosper. What I say about these social problems is, it’s the economy, stupid.
What did you think of the attack on Time Warner?
The whole thing with Interscope Records…what percentage of music is overtly sexual or overtly misogynistic or overtly violent? It’s a very small percentage, 3 percent or 4 percent. But they want to regulate the 96 percent that’s fine. It just doesn’t make any sense. It goes back to economics. If C. Delores Tucker was real, she wouldn’t be banging down the door at Time Warner shareholders meetings and demanding responsibility. She’d be banging down the doors of these corporations that invest overseas instead of investing in the inner cities in our country.
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