Here's how I see the song.
Vacate is the word. <Do you leave the known, the indie arena, to move to the major record label?>
Vengeance has no place so near to her.
Cannot find comfort in this world. <The artist is unsure what to do. They're at a crossroads in their career. They don't know how they should proceed.>
Artificial tear. Vessel stabbed, next up, volunteers? <This is people who are new to the industry. The industry sheds artificial tears for those who are new to it, but are always looking for new talent, the volunteers, those who sell their souls/art for profit>
Vulnerable wisdom can't adhere. <Those new to the industry are still naive, thinking they can control something they cannot.>
A truant finds home, and a wish to hold on, but there's a trap door in the sun.
Immortality. <Someone who is in the industry, the artist is the truant. They found a wish to hold on (to), but there is a trap door in the sun, which means that they can fall out of popularity as quickly as they got into it - popularity being the sun.>
As privileged as a whore. <The artist is entitled to as much as their selling themselves to the industry is worth.>
Victims in demand for public show. <The public, and the industry, is always interested in more, ie. the artist bearing themselves, and their dirty laundry, out for all to see.>
Swept out through the cracks beneath the door. <Again, like falling through the trap door, you can also be pushed aside by the next big thing, and easily forgotten.?
Holier than thou. How? Surrendered, executed, anyhow. <Those already established in the industry are somehow better than newcomers or those on the outside; perhaps also a comment on the industry itself thinking it knows better than those creating the art. However they can proceed, be it through others surrendering, being executed <ie. their contract cut>, however.>
Scrawl dissolved. Cigar box on the floor. <Lyrics to songs changed, make it more radio-friendly, easier to sell, the cigar box is on the floor as all that remains from handing out the cigars to celebrate a job well done.>
A truant finds home, and I wish to hold on to, but saw the trap door in the sun.
Immortality. <Ah, the artist knows now what they are getting in to, and they see the trap door, but avoid it, or choose to go through it.>
I cannot stop the thought of running in the dark. <The artist is unsure what to do. They are forging their own path, or so they think.>
Coming up a which way sign. <The artist realizes others have been here before. Do you go one way or the other? Do you become a part of the industry, or not?>
All good truants must decide. <The artist must make the decision on which way to go.?
Stripped and sold mom. <The artist's work has been changed, whether they realize it or not.>
Auctioned forearm and whiskers in the sink. <Parts which cannot be sold, for example, their art being a separate entity from themselves, is somehow now a commodity. They change their appearance, hence the whiskers in the sink.>
Truants move on, cannot stay long. <The artist must make their choice, and live with it. The window is so short, it can be over before it began.>
Some die just to live. <Some choose to embrace immortality by killing themselves once in the spotlight; some choose to embrace immortality by their choices, or their music.>
I agree with Mr. Vedder's comments that this is not about Kurt Cobain's death. I do see it as a song about artists at a crossroads where perhaps they've been offered a contract by a major record label and aren't sure what to do. Do you take the deal and sell your soul, but in turn make your art available to the masses, or decline it and continue on the indie path, but be at peace with that decision?
Here's how I see the song. Vacate is the word. <Do you leave the known, the indie arena, to move to the major record label?> Vengeance has no place so near to her. Cannot find comfort in this world. <The artist is unsure what to do. They're at a crossroads in their career. They don't know how they should proceed.> Artificial tear. Vessel stabbed, next up, volunteers? <This is people who are new to the industry. The industry sheds artificial tears for those who are new to it, but are always looking for new talent, the volunteers, those who sell their souls/art for profit> Vulnerable wisdom can't adhere. <Those new to the industry are still naive, thinking they can control something they cannot.>
A truant finds home, and a wish to hold on, but there's a trap door in the sun. Immortality. <Someone who is in the industry, the artist is the truant. They found a wish to hold on (to), but there is a trap door in the sun, which means that they can fall out of popularity as quickly as they got into it - popularity being the sun.>
As privileged as a whore. <The artist is entitled to as much as their selling themselves to the industry is worth.> Victims in demand for public show. <The public, and the industry, is always interested in more, ie. the artist bearing themselves, and their dirty laundry, out for all to see.> Swept out through the cracks beneath the door. <Again, like falling through the trap door, you can also be pushed aside by the next big thing, and easily forgotten.? Holier than thou. How? Surrendered, executed, anyhow. <Those already established in the industry are somehow better than newcomers or those on the outside; perhaps also a comment on the industry itself thinking it knows better than those creating the art. However they can proceed, be it through others surrendering, being executed <ie. their contract cut>, however.> Scrawl dissolved. Cigar box on the floor. <Lyrics to songs changed, make it more radio-friendly, easier to sell, the cigar box is on the floor as all that remains from handing out the cigars to celebrate a job well done.>
A truant finds home, and I wish to hold on to, but saw the trap door in the sun. Immortality. <Ah, the artist knows now what they are getting in to, and they see the trap door, but avoid it, or choose to go through it.>
I cannot stop the thought of running in the dark. <The artist is unsure what to do. They are forging their own path, or so they think.> Coming up a which way sign. <The artist realizes others have been here before. Do you go one way or the other? Do you become a part of the industry, or not?> All good truants must decide. <The artist must make the decision on which way to go.? Stripped and sold mom. <The artist's work has been changed, whether they realize it or not.> Auctioned forearm and whiskers in the sink. <Parts which cannot be sold, for example, their art being a separate entity from themselves, is somehow now a commodity. They change their appearance, hence the whiskers in the sink.> Truants move on, cannot stay long. <The artist must make their choice, and live with it. The window is so short, it can be over before it began.> Some die just to live. <Some choose to embrace immortality by killing themselves once in the spotlight; some choose to embrace immortality by their choices, or their music.>
I agree with Mr. Vedder's comments that this is not about Kurt Cobain's death. I do see it as a song about artists at a crossroads where perhaps they've been offered a contract by a major record label and aren't sure what to do. Do you take the deal and sell your soul, but in turn make your art available to the masses, or decline it and continue on the indie path, but be at peace with that decision?