Dissonant and abrasive. the album is an unfriendly piece of work, as damning toward the band’s star stature as toward its audience; you’re tainted just for wanting to listen in. There is an “I” in every song, but each is more guilty than the last: “I am my own parasite”; “I think I’m dumb” “I take pride as the king of illiterature”; “I’m a liar and a thief”; “I’ll take all the blame.” Chastened by success, Cobain doesn’t exorcise his demons, he gives them the best lines. The album is without empathy or catharsis; there’s just this rotten skin we can’t shake off. It’s a small world, this album, impassioned but insular. And it is noble, all but impaled on its own fiery principle. But sometimes rock’s ignoble vulgarity–the naive empathy, the flashy catharsis–is what gives it room to breathe. “In Utero” is easy to admire, but harder perhaps to like.
