‘Kurt Cobain was trans,’ declares Emma Frankland at the top of her show. She’s dressed as the rock icon as she says this. More accurately, she’s dressed as Cobain as he looked during Nirvana’s career-defining MTV Unplugged show. Her set is a meticulous recreation of how the television studio looked on that night, but this is more radical declaration than tribute act. ‘Kurt Cobain was trans,’ repeats Frankland, over and over in as many permutations as she can think of, changing Cobain’s pronouns to she/her and recounting her own obsession with grunge’s accidental populist. 

Frankland vividly anticipates pushback to her argument, imagining the disdain of transphobes at the idea or the reluctance of hyper-masculine music nerds unwilling to let go of ‘one of the good guys’ of the rock world. Soon, she’s unmoored herself from the MTV Unplugged gig altogether for an elliptically told story of her own life as a trans woman and the solace that Nirvana’s music brought her. That famous show in 1993 becomes a refrain in a larger, more abstract story, in which Frankland and Cobain’s lives dovetail into one and the grunge star’s spirit seems to coalesce with her own.

Contrary to Frankland’s insistence, the notion of whether Cobain was or wasn’t trans is not the main point here. Instead, this is a powerful meditation on how celebrities can be a north star for disaffected youth, how music is a shortcut to understanding and how the trans community deserves more heroes of its own.

No Apologies, Summerhall, until 24 August, times vary; main picture: Kaleidosshoots.