Review – Bob Mould, 21st January 2008, The Roundhouse, London
As far as indie icons go, they do not come much more imposing than Bob Mould. He has an irascible reputation, as you would expect for a man who had a say in the development of the musical noise of both the eighties and nineties. The first time I heard Husker Du I thought rock music had suddenly become intelligent, the shouty-crackers had something to say other than spit at your teacher and shag your pupils. Sugar, although often grouped with the Pixies and Nirvana on college radio playlists, were more important than that, they were having fun while everybody else was ‘trying to figure some shit out’. Mould had already figured it out with his last band. Or at least we could infer that. He actually hadn’t. But no one ever does. And don’t trust anyone who says otherwise.
His solo work has been patchy but always worth listening to – which was the exact attitude with which I approached this gig. It was impossible to guess what he was going to play, who he was going to play it with or who he was going to play it to. The crowd was anaemically small and the venue felt more like the men in brown coats had had to clear out stacks of chairs and old flip top desks to get us in. It felt somewhat embarrassing to see such a great man being treated with such disrespect.
He took to the stage on his own, and he remained on his own, a bright, buff, cagey figure who played guitar with a relaxed and accomplished edge, and sang with a rasp that could send shivers down your thighs. He darts between an eclectic set of solo work, Husker Du classics and album tracks as well as some Sugar rarities and he brings them all to a level playing field – each song sounds fresh and keen and belonging to him there and then, not any part of his past. For a man who has often worn his heart on his record sleeve this is no mean feat. It is an engrossing performance without being totally involving – Mould seems totally unimpressed or moved that the audience is so attentive and so bloody close to his face. He sings over them, even though he is barely raised, he talks to the vaguery of fandom rather anybody specific in the audience. It is almost like an internet gig only you could poke him in the eye without leaning forward too much. But if there is one thing Mould still does, it is rock. His guitar has the energy of an entire band and soon you realise that his apparent aloofness is intensity, at least for some of the time. He may be still working things out, but he seems to care less about the answers.