November 22, 1985 — Fallout Records, Seattle
Terry Currier had heard pretty much every flavor of noisy demo Seattle could spit out. Being the owner of Fallout Records meant he spent half his life listening to tapes that sounded like they were recorded inside a tin can, by people who thought distortion alone was personality.
So when he cracked open a cardboard box marked "NIRVANA — Fecal Matter EP," he didn't think anything of it. Another band, another weird name. He remembered the kid—manager, whoever he was—dropping off the box with $500 cash like he was paying for a pizza. Terry had shrugged and tossed it all into the back room.
Now he popped the cassette in. Side A. "Downer."
The tape hissed for a second… then the riff hit.
Thirty seconds in, Terry blinked, leaned back, and let out a quiet:
"...Wow."
Not a loud wow, not a performative one—more like something he didn't mean to say out loud.
The drums hit first. They were too precise, too heavy for the usual teenage band tape. Whoever was on that kit wasn't some guy beating it like a trashcan. This kid could play. It had that weird Bonham-meets-punk thing—swing but still violent. And the guitar? Sharp, jagged, but not sloppy. The vocals had that cracked, half-melody thing that reminded him of punk kids trying to be Ozzy without knowing it.
Terry listened with that record-store-owner sixth sense—the one that had long ago taught him how to tell the difference between bad weird and good weird. This was definitely the second kind. It didn't sound like Seattle, at least not yet. It sounded like something that could stand out in a crate, something college kids could brag about finding first.
He kept listening, tapping his thumb on the counter. No one walked in. Good. He wanted to finish the track.
By the time the song ended, he nodded to himself.
"Okay," he muttered, "this actually rips."
He rewound the tape a few seconds, hit play again, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Nope. Still good.
He grabbed a handful of tapes—twenty, roughly—and walked out to the front racks.
He stuck them dead-center. Eye level. "New Local — $6."
"Let's see if anyone bites," he said, more amused than hopeful.
//
November 23, 1985 — Fallout Records
The next day, the store was busier. Saturdays always were. Terry was restocking imports when some dude in a faded Minor Threat shirt picked up the Nirvana cassette and squinted at it.
"Who the hell is this?"
Terry turned around.
"Local band," he said. "Weird name, I know. But the songs are good."
The customer raised an eyebrow. Customers always raised eyebrows when owners said anything nice. Terry waved a hand, as if shooing away skepticism.
"Seriously," he added. "If you're into heavier stuff—Melvins, early Black Flag—it's worth six bucks."
The guy flipped the cassette over, shrugged, and walked it to the register.
Terry smirked.
One day on the front rack, and it already snagged someone.
Not bad for a band no one knew yesterday.
//
November 23, 1985 — Cellophane Square, Seattle
Mike Watt—no relation to the Minutemen guy, and tired of explaining that daily—stood behind the counter, bored out of his skull. Cellophane Square had its waves: quiet mornings, busy afternoons, and the occasional chaos when a new Cure single dropped.
Today was quiet.
He had a stack of new cassettes to sift through, including that Nirvana thing the manager kid brought in with another $500. He'd barely glanced at it yesterday. Today, he decided to play it, mostly to break the silence.
He put the cassette in, hit play, and let "Downer" run. It got his attention, but he didn't react much. Mike didn't "wow" easily. He'd been burned by too many tapes promising revolution and delivering headaches.
But when "Bambi Slaughter" came on, halfway through, something shifted. The drums were too good. Like someone who'd been secretly studying arena-rock drummers while pretending to be punk. The guitars were messy but confident. The vocals had that "I could sing better but I won't" attitude that only a few punk kids could pull off without sounding fake.
Then a group of UW students wandered in—flannel, backpacks, all talking about midterms. They froze when they heard the cassette blasting through the store speakers.
One of them pointed at the counter.
"What's this?"
Mike didn't even look up. "Band called Nirvana. Local, apparently."
Another kid listened a bit longer and said the line that made Mike grin:
"This is like Black Flag on steroids."
Mike laughed. "Yeah, that's kinda what I thought."
He let the song finish. The UW kids nodded along, looked at the rack, saw the tapes, grabbed a couple, then argued over who got the last one on display.
Mike reached under the counter for more. He set a handful out, then grabbed a pen and a neon index card.
He wrote:
STAFF PICK — LOCAL WEIRDOS
Stuck it in front of the tapes.
"Perfect," he muttered.
Because if there was one thing that sold in Seattle, it was weird.
//
November 22, 1985 — Sub Pop U.S.A. Fanzine Office
Bruce Pavitt was used to people mailing him weird stuff. Fanzines, tapes, letters, envelopes that smelled like cigarettes, envelopes that smelled like weed, envelopes that smelled like fear. All part of the job.
But the Nirvana cassette looked… ordinary. Cheap label. Smudged printing. Nothing flashy. He tossed it onto a stack on his desk and kept working on the December column layout.
Then Jason left the office to get burritos.
The second the door closed, Bruce grabbed the boombox, popped in the tape, and hit play. "Downer" came blasting out like a basement wall collapsing.
He blinked. "Oh shit."
He turned it up. The drums were insane. Not "good for a kid" insane—actually insane. Then the guitar riff cut through with that sloppy precision Bruce loved, the kind you couldn't fake. The vocals were half-sung, half-snarled, like the guy didn't care if the mic broke.
He hit rewind and listened again.
This time, Jon Poneman walked in during the backwards drum solo on "Anorexorcist."
He froze. "What the hell is this?"
Bruce didn't even look away from the speakers. "Nirvana. Some local thing."
Jon stepped closer, listening as he'd accidentally found a winning lottery ticket.
"This is the best thing we've ever had in this office."
Bruce nodded slowly. "Yeah. Might be."
Another few seconds. Jon crossed his arms, as if evaluating something extremely important.
Bruce said the thing they were both thinking:
"We're putting this in the December column."
"Obviously," Jon replied.
"And if no one presses it," Bruce continued, "we're doing it ourselves. A thousand copies. Minimum."
Jon grinned. "Guess we're bumping that other release."
Bruce didn't even remember what the other release was. That was tomorrow's problem.
Right now, they were too busy replaying the tape for the third time.
//
November 23, 1985 — Rough Trade UK, London
It was early afternoon at Rough Trade UK when Pete Donne walked into the office with a small white mailer from the States.
"Some Seattle band," he said, tossing it onto the table. "Nirvana. Weird name."
He cracked open the package and found a 12-inch vinyl inside. "Fecal Matter EP." The name made him wince, but weird names weren't new—this was 1985, after all.
He put the vinyl on. Needle dropped. "Downer" blasted through the tiny office speakers.
Heads popped up immediately.
By "Bambi Slaughter," three more staffers had drifted in, all hovering near the turntable like moths to a lamp. By the time "Bleach Baby" started, half the staff was present.
Pete looked around. "You all right? You're acting like you've never heard American noise rock before."
One of the staffers shook her head. "Nah, this is different. It's like the Melvins but… less sludge, more chaos."
Another said, "You sure this isn't some SST thing?"
"Nope," Pete said. "Completely unknown. Came with a freight bill and nothing else."
Then Geoff Travis walked in—cool as ever, eyes half-lidded, hands in pockets. He listened for maybe thirty seconds. Maybe less.
Then he said, in that bored-sounding-but-not-actually-bored British way:
"Bloody hell. This is the American Butthole Surfers we've been waiting for."
Everyone laughed, because he wasn't wrong.
Geoff nodded. "Order another 400 copies. Before Christmas. It'll move."
Pete blinked. "Four hundred? Already?"
"Yes," Geoff said. "Before someone else claims them."
He walked out like he hadn't just made a big call.
Pete looked at the staff. "Well… guess we've got our new import darling."
Someone replayed "Bleach Baby." Everyone stayed for it.