Oct 5 – Nov 19, 1985
The manager hit the ground the morning after the contracts were signed, sleeves rolled up, clipboard half-falling apart, and a stack of deadlines that didn't care how much sleep he got. From October 5th onward, his life turned into one long loop of duplication shops, print shops, post offices, and anyone who would take cash without asking too many questions.
Two thousand cassettes. Five hundred 12-inch vinyls. All before Thanksgiving. That was the job. He didn't flinch—just started moving.
Preproduction took the first few days. A couple of phone calls to duplication plants, a few more to the printing guys, and then the negotiation dance. Half the time he was talking to people who barely remembered what they promised him the week before. He stayed on them anyway. Every hour he wasn't pushing, things slowed down. Every hour he did push, they still slowed down, but slightly less. That was enough.
By the end of the first week, the tapes were rolling off the machines. Blank shells, simple labels, nothing fancy. Just the sound that mattered. He stood by the QC table flipping through handfuls, checking the spines, clicking cases shut until his knuckles felt like they were made of cardboard. A few came out crooked. He tossed those back in the reject pile and didn't even blink.
The vinyls took longer. Always did. Bigger machines, slower presses, more things that could jam or warp or piss someone off. But by October 25, the first stacks were sliding into their sleeves. All matte black, all clean, all the band needed.
From there, the manager entered what he called the "logistics purgatory." It started with building the master distribution list—every record store, every mail-order, every radio station he could hit on a poor man's budget. Once the list was done, he just started executing.
No drama. No complaining. Just doing.
//
Fallout Records.
He packed the Subaru with boxes and drove to Seattle with a half-drained thermos of coffee and exactly the amount of money he needed to make the store deal work.
At Fallout, he didn't do the thing most new managers did—the song and dance. No speeches about "you won't believe how big these guys are gonna be." None of that crap. He walked in, set the box of 100 tapes on the counter, and placed $500 in cash on top.
"Need these out on the racks," he said.
The clerk peeked inside, flipped a tape in his hand, shrugged, and nodded. Deal done in twenty seconds. Exactly how the manager liked it.
//
Cellophane Square Record Store.
He walked two blocks, repeated the same move. 80 tapes, $500, the simple pitch:
"Move them fast."
The staff didn't even argue. They just slid the box behind the counter and told him they'd start logging them in that afternoon.
//
Sub Pop Mail-Order.
A few days later, he swung by Bruce Pavitt's small office space with an envelope fat enough to straighten Bruce's posture.
"Need a December column feature," the manager said.
Bruce didn't make him repeat it. He just opened the envelope, saw the $1,000, and nodded.
The manager left 300 copies of the cassette. That was going to pump right into the Sub Pop mail-order kids—exactly the audience Nirvana needed.
//
Rough Trade UK.
The Rough Trade push took the most patience. He spent nearly an hour fighting a telex machine that belonged in a museum, wrestling with the keyboard to punch out a bare-bones intro:
"NEW OLYMPIA BAND: NIRVANA. RAW. AGGRESSIVE. FECAL MATTER MATERIAL INCLUDED."
Then came the payment—£400 in air freight—and the shipment of 100 vinyls packed in foam sleeves and prayer. He dropped them off at SeaTac and told the cargo guy to handle them like they were glass. The cargo guy blinked at him and shrugged. Whatever. It was out of his hands now.
//
College Radio Blitz (PNW)
Back home, he started prepping the promo packages for Pacific Northwest college radio. Fifteen minutes per mailer: cassette, band photo, one-sheet, and the handwritten note he scrawled on every single one:
"Play Downer or die."
No explanation. No pleasantries. Just that.
He sent 80 copies to seven stations:
KCMU – Seattle
KAOS – Olympia
KPSU – Portland
KWJJ – Portland affiliate
KUGS – Bellingham
KWSU – Pullman
KTRW – Tacoma
Postage cost him $160, which he logged in his notebook with a tired slash mark. He didn't expect all of them to play it. He only needed a few.
//
National College Stations.
Then came the big one: the national college radio dump. He knew those stations were tastemakers. If even two or three bit, the rest would follow out of spite.
He assembled 120 more mailers with the same "Play Downer or die" note. No variation. No charm. The consistency was the charm.
The list stretched across the country:
WFMU, WERS, WTBS, WHRB, WMMR's college block, WOXY, WRAS, WREK, WUVA, WCNI, WHUS, KZSU.
A whole alphabet soup of indie taste-testers.
Cost: another $240.
He dropped them all at the Olympia post office in three laundry baskets and didn't bother explaining the contents. The clerk didn't ask. They never did.
//
Nirvana Mail-Order.
The manager handled the mail-order by putting down $300 for an ad in The Rocket that read:
"SEND $6 TO PO BOX 666 – NIRVANA CASSETTE – DEAD RAM PUBLISHING"
He rented the P.O. box himself, scribbled "NIRVANA MAIL" on the inside flap in marker, and figured if even 200 kids mailed six bucks, they'd be able to afford another pressing sometime next year.
If 400 kids wrote in, he'd consider it a miracle.
//
By the time November rolled around, the manager wasn't sure what day it was anymore. He lived inside stacks of cardboard, lists, and receipts. He slept in short bursts, sometimes in the car, sometimes on the floor of the office.
He logged every store shipment, every mailer, every dollar spent. He kept a running tally so Rory wouldn't have to chase anyone.
By November 10, nearly everything had been shipped out. By November 15, he'd gotten confirmation from Pavitt, from Fallout, from Cellophane Square, even from the freight company sending tapes overseas.
By November 19, the only thing left was promotion.
//
Promotion Plans
Release Party at The Vogue
He booked The Vogue for November 24, all-ages, $5 cover, 800-cap capacity. He did the flyers himself—photocopy style, nothing fancy—just the band name, the date, and a blurry photo of Kurt mid-scream.
He handed stacks to friends to paste on poles and pin to boards.
The Rocket Cover Story
The manager coordinated the photoshoot: Kurt yelling into a mic, and the drummer behind the Vistalite kit looking like he was about to break the crash cymbal in half. Sent them all to The Rocket. They confirmed the cover story within a week.
KCMU Exclusive First Play
He secured the November 25th, midnight slot at KCMU. The DJ he talked to said, "Yeah, we'll spin it. Looks cool." The manager didn't need more than that. A spin was a spin.
December Mini-Tour
He booked a three-stop run: Seattle → Olympia → Portland, calling venues, confirming backlines, and making sure none of the bookers backed out last second. Three shows weren't much, but it was enough to light a match.
//
November 19, 1985.
By the nineteenth, the manager stood in the small office surrounded by empty boxes, torn tape, and stacks of carbon-copy receipts. Everything that could be done had been done.
Stores were stocked. Radio promos were out. Sub Pop was on board. Rough Trade had the shipment. The Rocket ad was locked. The Vogue was booked. The press release was queued. The tour was set. KCMU had the exclusive play ready.
No drama. No fanfare. Just a man finishing the job.
He stretched his back, cracked his fingers, and marked a line across the top of his clipboard:
"ALL UNITS DEPLOYED."
Now all he could do was wait for the noise to spread.