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In his dreadful lassitude and objectless rage, Cobain seemed to have give wearied voice to the despondency of the generation that had come after history, whose every move was anticipated, tracked, bought and sold before it had even happened. Cobain knew he was just another piece of spectacle, that nothing runs better on MTV than a protest against MTV; knew that his every move was a clichΓ© scripted in advance, knew that even realising it is a clichΓ©. The impasse that paralysed Cobain in precisely the one that Fredric Jameson described: like postmodern culture in general, Cobain found himself in βa world in which stylistic innovation is no longer possible, where all that is left is to imitate dead styles in the imaginary museumβ.
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