Snippet Review from Vanity Fair Magazine, June 1995:
 
 

"I'm a Courtney Love fan because I think she's a woman who goes beyond limits of anything to say what she wants to say and to do what she wants to do," a chubby teenager named Holly tells me just before the concert begins in a small hall on the shore of the Great Salt Lake. Along with hundreds of other sweet-faced girls and tough-talking boys, she is getting revved up for her idol's entrance. "I think she's been through hell and back," says Holly. "And she's survived! "

Suddenly the crowd lets loose with a pulsating roar. I look up and see Love, in a girlishly pink getup, stager onto the stage full of Stoli and a couple weeks' worth of road-weary attitude. Her band-the beautifully aloof bass player, Melissa Auf der Maur (who replaced Kristen Pfaff after her death from and overdose of heroin last year), guitarist Eric Erlandson (his stoicism tested tonight by the news of his father's death), and drummer Patty Schemel (calm, kick-ass, the keeper of the rhythmic flame)-grab their instruments and wait for Love's signal to let the music rip. Holding a stuffed Barney dinosaur in one hand and a Dunhill cigarette in the other, she pauses to stare down at the throng of rowdy boys crowding the stage below her, then smirks at their crude innocence and drops Barney amid the trademark array of broken dolls that adorn the stage around her. (Love's song "Doll Parts" has become the latest teen anthem for pubescent girls terrorised by their own tender, morphing bodies.) Ready to mosh-an activity that entails pushing, shoving, and lifting performers or audience members and passing them over the head of the crowd-teenagers of both sexes are screaming obscenities at her. One boy even has the audacity to shout out that he loves her. "How do you know you can love me?" Love asks him with disdain. "I'M A BITCH! " she warns them all and cranks up the music.

For more than an hour, her vulgar allure in full bloom, Love flaunts her superiority over the audience. Her performance is a slur of politics and pouty sexuality. She is scornful. Scatological. Scurrilous. Every lyric she sings-from "I fake it so real I am beyond / Someday you will ache like I ache" to "I made my bed / I'll lie in it / I made my bed / I'll die in it"- is echoed by these kids. A fervour bordering on the religious seems to be sweeping through this more or less Mormon congregation, and
as she douses them with water bottles -a ritual she performs for her audiences-the shtick takes on the added ceremonial trappings of baptism.

At one point Love beckons a boy from the crowd, who, shouting "Fuck you, Courtney!" over and over, shoots her the finger. By the time the others have passed him over their heads to the stage, the boy's pants are down around his knees and his boxer shorts are low on his hips. Love elaborately fakes fellating the teenager, then pulls his boxers all the way down. The kid flashes his penis at his buddies before Love wrestles him to the floor and kicks him off the stage. All in all, Sister
Love is giving an amazing appalling performance. She possesses the swagger of Joplin at full swig and the foul mouth of Morrison at his marauding, raunchy best.  Expertly guiding this latter-day throng into a Holey, ghostly frenzy, Love is a tough little slut all right, a flight attendant for the ancestral angels of her own deeply rooted American faith.