Jump Cuts, quick shifts-maybe 40 in a four-minute video, so we are left with almost subliminal images.

It’s a memento mori for the media age. A self-referential monument for a martyr who realized dying young was a guarantee of immortality.

The problem was, he was handsome- with a haircut and a suit he could be one of the all American boys he hated.

There he is with his cardigan-playing Fred Rogers for all of the people whose parents didn’t really care.

Singing on MTV Unplugged, and then broadcast this way- can you see the meta-context?

He is there, with cherry red hair, the last vestige of Aberdeen gutter punk emerging.

He crawls across the stage in a black slip. Remember the fuck you puke yellow ball gown he wore on Headbangers Ball- admitting to fucking men wasn’t nearly as subversive as the gender bending on an a really Rock and Roll show.

I thought Courtney was a hero, ’cause she didn’t sell out like Jimi’s family did. But Kurt sold out with the arena tour and the t-shirts.

Rock and Roll is a business, and the miracle of dead rock stars releasing new records is a corporate move.

Now, aside from the live rarities records-there a greatest hits collection. Since when do three albums make a greatest hits package necessary?

Since when does a repackaged bootleg really mean anything?