The other night a friend reminded me that my first instinct upon hearing about Kurt Cobain’s death (on the radio) was to go downstairs to my dorm’s computer lab and attempt to ferret out further details online. This was 1994, shortly after I’d seen Kurt and Nirvana play what was later chronicled in Rolling Stone as one of the band’s worst shows ever; it was at the Aragon Ballroom, and the one image that remains seared in my mind is one of two shirtless guys, their middle fingers extended, hooting at the band during “Rape Me.” That night, the rationales for riot grrrl were brought into sharp relief. How much has changed since then? Not much save the volume—I don’t have to dial in to get updates on dead celebrities (even when they’re not dead), and dudes who find light misogyny something worth celebrating are just a click away. Hide out in this issue’s tales of virtual pop stars going upmarket and indiepop celebration.