🎸 “What Else Could I Write? I Don’t Have the Right.” — Kurt Cobain and the Echo of a Generation
Kurt Cobain didn’t just write songs — he wrote the ache of a generation that refused to be polished. In his tattered sweaters, chipped nails, and truth-soaked lyrics, he showed Gen-X what honesty really looked like. Decades later, his ghost still hums in every garage, every heartbreak, every artist daring to stay real.
“The sound of truth never dies. It just finds new chords.”
Written by Ian Primmer
In the quiet between the noise, Kurt Cobain’s words still linger like cigarette smoke in the back of every Gen-X memory. “What else could I write? I don’t have the right.” It wasn’t just a lyric — it was a confession. A poet caught between fame and fracture, saying the quiet part out loud before anyone else dared to.
Born from the grunge-soaked heart of Aberdeen, Washington, Cobain didn’t just write songs — he wrote truths that still punch decades later. Nirvana’s sound wasn’t built to be clean; it was built to be honest. That rawness, that resistance to polish, was the pulse of a generation that refused to be marketed, molded, or muted.
At CommonX, we talk a lot about what it means to grow up Gen-X — a mix of latchkey rebellion, mixtapes, and that sense of being unseen in the crowd. Cobain was that spirit, distilled into one human being. He didn’t just play music; he made us feel like we weren’t alone in our contradictions.
Even now, when you strip away the nostalgia and the myth, there’s something timeless about how Kurt saw the world — broken yet beautiful, cynical but sincere. In a time when social media celebrates the surface, his vulnerability feels even more radical.
Maybe that’s why Gen-X still finds itself humming his lyrics while scrolling headlines that feel more corporate than cultural. Cobain once said, “I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.” That line could be tattooed across the entire CommonX ethos — and maybe across our hearts, too.
Because at the end of the day, being Gen-X isn’t about what we owned or streamed or posted. It’s about what we felt. And few ever made us feel quite like Kurt did.
From the CommonX Host’s Desk – Ian Primmer
Every time I listen to Kurt, I’m reminded why we started CommonX in the first place — to give a voice to the generation that never really asked for one, but damn well earned it. I think about those lines: “What else could I write? I don’t have the right.”
That hits harder as a creator, a dad, and a Gen-X’er trying to build something real. Whether it’s in the gym before sunrise or behind the mic with Jared, I try to bring that same raw honesty to what we do. We’re not chasing perfection; we’re chasing truth — just like Kurt did.
So here’s to every listener, artist, and misfit who still believes that being real means something. You’re our people.
🦷 Best Bands to Listen to in the Dentist’s Chair (Shoutout to Kristen @ Smile Source North 🤘)
For years I dreaded the dentist — until today. Thanks to Kristen at Smile Source North and a killer Gen X playlist, I actually found myself relaxing in the chair. From Nirvana to Men Without Hats, here’s the ultimate CommonX soundtrack to survive your next cleaning.
by Ian Primmer — CommonX Podcast
Let’s be honest — most of us would rather be anywhere else than reclined under a bright light while someone scrapes away at our molars. But sometimes, the right music and the right person behind the mask can change everything.
This morning I found myself back in the dental chair, mouth numb, AirPods in, bracing for the worst. But my hygienist Kristen changed the game. She was calm, patient, and so gentle I barely realized the cleaning had started. For once, I wasn’t white-knuckling the armrests. I was vibing.
🎧 The CommonX Chair Playlist
If you’re lucky enough to have a hygienist who lets you plug in, here’s the ultimate Gen X-approved soundtrack for your next appointment — equal parts chill, nostalgic, and dentist-chair zen:
Nirvana – “All Apologies”
A soft-grunge lullaby for your nerves. Kurt’s voice somehow makes even the sound of scraping feel poetic.The Smashing Pumpkins – “1979”
A hypnotic hum that turns the whir of the polisher into background ambience.The Cranberries – “Dreams”
The gentle rhythm and Dolores O’Riordan’s vocals make the chair feel like a daydream.Foo Fighters – “Learn to Fly”
Because even in a dentist’s chair, there’s a strange freedom in just letting go and floating through the moment.Men Without Hats – “I Love the ’80s”
The perfect closer — CommonX had the world debut of this track, and it’s impossible not to smile while it plays.
😁 Shout-Out
Huge thanks to Kristen and the crew at Smile Source North for restoring my faith in dentistry. I walked out feeling cleaner, lighter, and weirdly… happy? Never thought I’d say that. Additionally, April is also amazing she was just out today.. just sayin 😎🤘
Turns out, sometimes it’s not about avoiding the dentist — it’s about finding the right playlist and the right person behind the mask.
Derek Morris Is Proof You’re Not Alone: Songs, Scars, and Showing Up
Humble, driven, and unafraid to speak about what matters most — Derek Morris is a musician who turns pain into purpose. Through his music, he’s helping others find hope, healing, and the courage to keep going. In this exclusive CommonX feature, Derek opens up about his journey through PTSD, his passion for giving back, and the power of using your voice for good.
By Ian Primmer
Today’s guest Derek Morris is the kind of artist who walks in like a neighbor and leaves like a friend — humble, direct, and focused on lifting people up. A San Diego singer-songwriter and visual artist (the mind behind the playful “VEMPS” universe), Derek turns hard chapters into hopeful anthems, sharing messages like “Don’t give up” and “You are not alone” across his work. On the show he opened up about living with PTSD and how music became both a lifeline and a lighthouse for others finding their way. If you land on Derek’s site, you’re greeted with a chorus of encouragement — “You are so loved… You are not a mistake… Don’t give up!” It’s not branding; it’s a mission statement. Derek’s catalog threads pop-punk snap with reflective alt-rock and cinematic textures, from the electric punch of “777” to the atmospheric “You Don’t Need to Know Right Now.”
Turning Pain Into Promise
Derek has spoken publicly about surviving abuse, addiction, and the long tail of trauma, naming PTSD directly — and then writing through it. Recent posts tease “Never Stop Fighting,” a song explicitly about living with PTSD and refusing to let it have the last word. For fans who need to hear it, Derek writes like a friend on the other side of the storm: keep going. Beyond songs, Derek’s “VEMPS” characters and art books widen his canvas — a bright, hand-drawn counterweight to heavy themes. It’s kinetic, kid-curious, and unmistakably his — evidence that recovery isn’t just survival; it’s creative overflow.
777” — official video; neon-noir energy with a resilient core. YouTube
“You Don’t Need to Know Right Now” — reflective, West-coast melancholy. YouTube
“Never Stop Fighting” (teaser) — a direct letter to anyone living with PTSD.
On-mic and off, Derek carried himself with the same humble steadiness you hear in his songs. He told us he shares freely and keeps showing up because someone out there needs the message today, not tomorrow. Beyond the stage lights and studio sessions, Derek Morris has found another outlet for connection — the podcast world. Whether he’s sharing stories about overcoming challenges, talking shop about songwriting, or offering words of encouragement to those battling PTSD, Derek’s voice carries the same honesty found in his lyrics. His mission is simple: to uplift, to connect, and to give freely through both conversation and music. Each time he picks up a mic, it’s not just about the notes or the words — it’s about healing, hope, and helping others find their own rhythm in the noise.
There’s a rare kind of artist who reminds you that authenticity still exists — that music can still heal, inspire, and bridge the space between pain and purpose. Derek Morris is one of those artists. From the first moment he walked into the studio, there was no ego, no walls — just a genuine soul who uses his voice and his guitar as tools for light. His story is one of resilience, of living with purpose through the storms of PTSD and finding redemption in the notes he shares so freely with the world. Derek doesn’t just make music — he gives it away, both literally and emotionally, pouring pieces of himself into every chord and every conversation. As podcasters, we meet a lot of people chasing fame or recognition; Derek isn’t one of them. He’s chasing connection. And in a world that can feel divided and loud, that kind of humility and strength is something worth amplifying. CommonX is honored to share his story — not because he asked us to, but because people like him remind us why we do this in the first place.
Crusty Demons of Dirt: When Gen-X Took Flight and Never Looked Back
Before GoPros and algorithms, there were the Crusty Demons — a dirt-fueled cult of chaos that taught Gen-X how to fly, fall, and live louder than ever.
By Ian Primmer
Before GoPros, before energy-drink deals, before social-media stunts and clickbait “fails,” there were the Crusty Demons of Dirt — a band of maniacs who didn’t just ride; they launched. If you grew up Gen-X, you remember it. Those grainy VHS tapes passed around like underground contraband, covered in dust, duct tape, and fire. Each one was a mixtape of speed, punk rock, blood, and glory. The Crusty Demons weren’t just motocross riders. They were a movement — a cultural combustion engine that redefined what “extreme” meant. They didn’t have sponsors, hashtags, or choreographers. They had balls, dirt, and soundtrack albums loud enough to rattle the gods of safety.
Born from Chaos
The Crusty saga started in the mid-’90s, when Jon Freeman and Dana Nicholson of Freeride Entertainment decided to film what motocross really looked like — not the sanitized, family-friendly ESPN clips, but the wild-eyed desert rides and bone-snapping wipeouts that no one else would touch. They strapped cameras to bikes, hung out of helicopters, and cranked Pennywise and Metallica until the footage felt alive. It wasn’t just a video. It was a sermon for the reckless. Every crash, every burn, every impossible jump became a statement: We’re not here to survive. We’re here to live. The first Crusty Demons of Dirt dropped in 1995 and detonated across skate shops, video stores, and garages everywhere. Within months, it was a cult. Within a year, it was a religion.
The Soundtrack of Adrenaline
You can’t talk about Crusty without talking about the sound. The music was the gasoline. The Offspring. Sublime. Metallica. NOFX. It wasn’t background noise — it was the manifesto. Crusty didn’t just showcase motocross — it fused two worlds that were never supposed to meet: punk-rock attitude and high-octane adrenaline. That combination shaped everything from Freestyle Motocross (FMX) to the look of early action-sports video games. The fast cuts, the soundtracks, the chaos — all of it traces back to Crusty.
The Church of Adrenaline
To the fans, Crusty was proof that we didn’t need permission. We didn’t need perfect hair, million-dollar gear, or safe contracts.
We needed a bike, a buddy, a ramp, and some guts. The Crusty riders — names like Seth Enslow, Carey Hart, and Mike Metzger — were the new rock stars. Covered in dirt, blood, and duct tape, they were the anti-MTV heroes. They weren’t chasing medals. They were chasing moments. Moments where gravity bowed out and instinct took over.
Legacy in the Dust
Nearly thirty years later, Crusty Demons still tour the world with live stunt shows, keeping that renegade DNA alive. You can find them on streaming services now, but nothing compares to holding one of those old tapes in your hands — stickers peeling, label smudged, rewound a hundred times. For a generation raised on DIY rebellion, Crusty Demons was more than dirt and danger — it was philosophy. It said: “We don’t fear the fall, because falling means we flew.” And maybe that’s why it still matters.
Because the world polished the edges off everything else, but Crusty stayed raw.
💥 The CommonX Take
Crusty Demons of Dirt wasn’t a film series — it was a time capsule. A reminder that Gen-X didn’t need filters or validation. We had throttle, distortion, and attitude. They built something from nothing — just like the garage bands, backyard skateboarders, and late-night dreamers that defined our era. And in that sense, Crusty Demons wasn’t just about motocross…
It was about life without training wheels.