See a Little Light

by Bob Mould

  The first verse of “Too Far Down” illuminated my early bouts with clinical depression, a condition I wasn’t aware of until ten years later:

  I’m too far down

  And I don’t know how to tell you

  But maybe this time I can’t come back

  because I might be too far down

  The song was cathartic, and I just didn’t quite realize why at the time. To this day, when I feel depression coming on, I don’t want to be around other people because I don’t want it to spread. And that’s probably the real message of that song. To the folks around me, it looked like I was being sulky or stormy, but really I was just trying to stay away from other people—because depression is contagious.

  We did songs in packs of three and four when we performed live, and we found that alternating Grant’s songs with my songs on albums allowed both of us to catch our breath.

  But in the end, Candy Apple Grey was an incomplete album. After “Too Far Down,” the quality suddenly dropped. And two songs foreshadowed the problems to come. “Too Far Down” was my solo endeavor, “No Promise Have I Made” was Grant’s. We were both very protective of our “solo songs.” We worked alone and didn’t share the results until the tracks were finished, allowing no input from the others. In hindsight, it was as if we were jockeying for position with Karin Berg, like two kids competing for a parent’s affection. There had been a healthy competition between Grant and me, but with these solo endeavors it had taken a lousy turn.

  We used our major label money wisely. Besides getting a box truck for the road crew, we bought a new van, which we had former Suicide Commando Dave Ahl customize with soundproofing and a sleeping loft. Grant and I invested forty thousand dollars each, Steve Fjeldstad kicked in a decent amount of money, and we formed a recording studio partnership called Massive Leasing. We invested in a new recording console and multitrack tape machines for Nicollet Studio A while remaining a separate business entity from both Nicollet and Hüsker Dü. We kept track of the hours Hüsker Dü spent recording, and Massive Leasing billed it back to the band. We were dipping, so to speak, but Grant and I were investing in the studio business. Greg wasn’t interested in being part owner of a recording studio, so he was investing his money in his record store in Red Wing.

  One other goal was to buy a house for Greg and his longtime girlfriend, Jeri, as well as one for Grant, who now had a girlfriend and a baby on the way. I wanted a house too, and I also wanted to pay off my student loans and buy a piano. In order to get all that, you have to make trade-offs. So if Greg wanted to play golf and get a house, we had to sign to a major and tour harder than ever. It worked: Greg and Jeri got a house down in Red Wing, Grant bought a house just outside Minneapolis, and I purchased a small three-bedroom house with a backyard and a garage for me and Mike in South Minneapolis. I also paid off my student loans and bought a new piano. Then I went back to Malone and bought a car from my dad: a 1970 Pontiac Le Mans SS convertible, maroon with white interior, with a New York State Trooper Interceptor engine. What an awesome car.

  Around this time I also found a stupid way to spend some of my newly earned money: I got into cocaine for a few months. I guess my 1980s wouldn’t have been complete without briefly succumbing to the then trendy white powder. What a lousy, awful, terrible drug—it really causes creepy behavior. For example: when you run out of coke, you look for the person who still has some, then ingratiate yourself to that person in hopes of catching a few final whiffs off his mirror.

  The cheapest way to pay for a coke habit is to buy in quantity, then shave off grams to sell to acquaintances so you can toot for free. That surely sounds like a slippery slope downward into coke addiction. So after selling an eight ball of blow to the Jets’ session guitarist (think the dance hit “Crush on You”), I sensed it was time to get away from that drug.

  We did extensive touring in February 1986 to support Flip Your Wig, and the Wig Out East tour was the band’s finest moment in terms of quality songs, enthusiastic audiences, and consistently good performances. A typical set would start with the first three songs from Flip Your Wig, then a handful of gems from New Day Rising, and once we were settled in, we’d roll out material from the as yet unreleased Candy Apple Grey, songs like “Hardly Getting Over It” and “Sorry Somehow.” We were building on three consecutive great albums, and after playing together almost nonstop for six-plus years, we were at the top of our game. The music had all of its usual raw, aggressive power, but to us it seemed incredibly fluid, almost effortless—even the brief pauses between songs held an exhilarating rush for band and audience alike. We were playing like we really were the best band in the world.

  Another bright spot on this trip was our support act, Soul Asylum. I had produced their just-released Made to Be Broken album, which a lot of people feel is their best work, and this tour was a great opportunity to showcase our longtime friends’ band. In a matter of weeks, they went from a band nobody had heard of to a known quantity. I was really proud. We’d made records together, and to hear them refine the material throughout the tour was a pleasure. Soul Asylum was on fire every night; we had to follow them, and that upped our game.

  We brought along my friend Jim Melby as tour manager. Jim worked in pro wrestling, mainly as a journalist and historian. Jim also worked at Northern Lights, the record store where we had our early rehearsals. Jim didn’t drive, which is basically a prerequisite for tour managing, but he made up for it with a firm hand in dealing with promoters and club employees. He’d gotten an ear pierced for the tour, presumably as a nod to rock and roll, a small, shiny post in his ear, so we quickly dubbed him “Diamond” Jim Melby—in the wrestling world, that would be his gimmick name. Jim wore a suit when he settled the bigger shows and had also taken to smoking cigars. It was priceless—he was having the time of his life.

  During the first leg, four consecutive shows in the Midwest, Grant became a father. His then girlfriend, Kristen, bore him a son. We had hoped that the baby would be born while we were home, but so it went. We were in Wisconsin when the news came; Grant passed out “It’s a Boy!” cigars to everyone, and we returned to Minnesota for a few weeks of rest and family time before resuming the tour.

  On February 13 we had our inaugural Athens, Georgia, performance at the Tate Center on the campus of the University of Georgia. Rumor had it that most of the crowd was tripping on LSD; whatever the truth was, it was definitely a mind-bender, one of the loudest, shrillest, and most psychedelic shows we had ever played. It reminded me of the energy that used to fly around the Church in St. Paul, where most everyone but me was hallucinating. Not only could I sense the energy, I could see it: sometimes bright white lines connecting people, other times loose white matter hovering above their heads.

  A week later, on February 20, at Mississippi Nights in St. Louis, someone from the club came back to the dressing room to inform us that Chuck Berry would be in attendance. We were caught off guard by that, but didn’t dwell too much on it. Mr. Berry was indeed in the crowd, seated at a VIP table no more than fifteen feet from my microphone. He lasted five songs.

  Candy Apple Grey was released in March, at the conclusion of the US tour, to generally favorable reviews. We were always aware of what the press was saying, but tried not to let it affect the creative process. The next order of business was a UK tour that spring, which coincided with the release of the album there. It was twelve shows in thirteen days, and the tour cemented our reputation as a powerhouse live act. The press was ebullient, as this was only our second proper trip to Europe, and our first full UK tour.

  This was the zenith of my alcoholism—I was drinking almost nonstop—and the trip was a complete blur. I wasn’t alone in this, as Lou was hitting the booze rather heavily as well. In addition to the usual beer and scotch, we had made the mistake of adding several bottles of red wine to our hospitality rider. Those beverages never went to waste.

  But to the casual observer, the band appeared to be fueled by amphetamines, and that was
the case for a few years. One wouldn’t normally associate that kind of music with alcohol. But as with the lyrics from New Day Rising, my writing was definitely shaped by my heavy drinking.

  We returned to the States and played two shows at Irving Plaza on April 12. Our special support act for those two shows was country rocker Dwight Yoakam, who had just signed with Reprise Records, another Warner label. The punks down front were yelling at Dwight to play faster, and he handled the situation very well—by playing faster. Then we headed to the West Coast in May to promote the album and played three nights of showcase gigs at the Roxy in West Hollywood. Warner bought many of the tickets, so the audience was mostly executives and office employees, which is why industry showcase gigs are generally dull events. The Roxy show wasn’t far in space or time from the big multiband punk fest we’d played at the Olympic Auditorium in 1982, but it felt light-years away. Instead of playing for rabid fans who hung on every note, word, and movement, we were playing for corporate employees, including some who probably didn’t want to be there in the first place.

  On May 10 we played our first show at the august Fillmore in San Francisco, where classic rockers like the Who, the Grateful Dead, and Led Zeppelin once played. We had two strong support acts that night, and there was a bigger-than-usual buzz around the show. Anna Statman, the A&R person at Slash Records who’d checked us out the previous year, had been proclaiming earlier in the day that she was going to sign one of the two support acts to a record deal. The band she signed: Faith No More. The other band: Camper Van Beethoven.

  We were making better money than ever through touring. Concert promoters were (and still are) my lifeblood, and guys that we maintained longtime relationships with—regional promoters like Chris Monlux and Mike Quinn at Monqui, Seth Hurwitz at IMP, and Mark Pratz at Liberty Lunch—were growing right along with us. Since the venues were bigger, ticket prices were slightly higher, but our amenities remained essentially the same: no fancy fruit bowls, no bowls of M&M’s sans browns, no masseuses. The “rock star” trappings, groupies and such, didn’t figure into my touring life. I had a boyfriend, I wasn’t looking, and on top of that, I was an unattractive homosexual. The ladies could probably sense I wasn’t interested. The Warner connection did give us greater access to other “rock stars” though. We threw a party for Depeche Mode after their concert in St. Paul in 1986. I remember a birthday being involved, as well as a sexy and thuggish German roadie who held my fascination for a few hours.

  * * *

  Then there were nine months when everything changed. We’d kept moving forward for seven years, from March 1979 to May 1986, without a break, without stopping to think about anything. Then everyone went their separate ways. That’s the first time the band basically stopped working. And that’s when everything started going to hell.

  When you’re in a rock band, a lot of your life revolves around drinking and smoking and partying. In the early days, I’d hang out in Peter Jesperson’s apartment, watching people do drugs, listening to the Only Ones, drinking scotch on the rocks, learning that whole thing. Or I’d hang out with the Oar Folk crew—Terry Katzman, Jim Peterson, and Mark Trehus—and after the store closed, we’d head across the street to the C C Club, a neighborhood drinking joint with a cranky-ass jukebox, ratty bathrooms, and vinyl benches. On any given night, you’d run into Paul Westerberg, or Lori Barbero from Babes in Toyland, or Chris Johnson from Rifle Sport. The music scene in Minneapolis revolved around getting together at the end of the day and drinking.

  For a good chunk of the year, Minnesota is pretty cold. I’ve always said the Minneapolis scene was so fertile because you were indoors so much and you had to find an occupation or hobby or something you could do inside. Lots of us built our lives around playing music, hanging out, and drinking. I enjoyed beer as a kid, boxed wine in and after college, and was definitely a scotch man by 1986.

  And then, that summer, I stopped drinking.

  Greg’s wedding was the last time I drank to get drunk. I’d been drinking beer, then some champagne at the reception at their house. The morning after, I woke up, looked in the mirror, and said, “Oh, my God…” I saw the reflection of my father. And I thought to myself, if I continue drinking like this, I might end up exactly like him.

  Like my father, I was yelling—but onstage. Like my father, I had my paranoid moments, although they weren’t consuming my thoughts. And like my father, I was being abusive, if only to myself.

  I love my dad, but not that dad.

  It was a vivid and sudden realization: I had to catch myself and stop this addiction before it escalated any further. I was twenty-five years old and I said to myself, I’ve had a drink every day for twelve years. If I keep this up, I will not make it to thirty. I was a high-functioning alcoholic. I had the scotch in my desk drawer, started drinking straight from the bottle at 2 PM, and could still complete a full day’s work. It’s great to be a high-functioning alcoholic—I could drink a fifth of scotch and drive just fine. It didn’t interfere with my work, so why wouldn’t I do it? No one ever pointed out a problem to me.

  When I was younger, I felt immortal. But the stupid things I did when I was trashed… One day when I was at Macalester, I got drunk and raced my early-’70s Chrysler New Yorker, a tank of a car, right down the main drag through campus, saw a parking spot out of the corner of my eye, hit the brakes, and executed a perfect U-turn at 60 mph. I got away with it. Another time, I was driving around with my college roommate, Phil, and some other friends. I crank up Phil’s favorite song, “Born to Run,” and speed up to 100 mph, with everyone but me yelling hysterically, hiding under the seats. I’m laughing my head off. It’s a miracle I’m still alive—and didn’t kill anybody.

  There was no program, no AA, no handbook. I didn’t get the shakes or the DTs or anything like that, I did no twelve-step program and had no counseling. It was an act of sheer will-power, a testament to my ability to scare myself straight.

  How? I had a drink a week after Greg’s wedding—and made myself throw up so that I would never drink again. That was it. I haven’t had a drink since.

  As soon as I went sober, friends were hesitant to invite me out to the bars. I stopped doing the things friends do when they base almost everything around drinking. Instead of going to the C C Club or Liquor Lyle’s every night, I stayed home, wrote music, and spent more time with Mike. He still drank but tried to be supportive. It was tricky for Mike because he enjoyed the social aspect of drinking.

  So, through the back end of 1986, as I’m writing songs for Warehouse, the next Hüsker Dü album, I’m beginning to fade away from the scene—and from the band.

  Our personal lives were spreading out. Greg was an hour away in Red Wing with Jeri and his new record store. Grant was hanging out with the notorious Minneapolis band Run Westy Run, had started a romantic relationship with their friend Ivan Daniel, and this new crowd drew him away from the band. Meanwhile, I was sober, spending more time with Mike, and working along with David Savoy to keep the office on track. What little interaction there was between the three of us wasn’t going very well, especially the now counterproductive competition between me and Grant.

  We got the recording sessions for the new album up and running in August, but there was tension in the air. For the first time, it felt like a chore, the one you knew had to be done, like cleaning the refrigerator—not a terrible chore, just something you didn’t look forward to. In other words, it began to resemble a normal nine-to-five job. Never before did anything involving the band feel like work. All the years on the road, the long hours in the office, the near-to-actual poverty, none of that ever seemed like a hardship or a burden. Now, with the vibe getting heavier all the time, and whatever level of camaraderie we had waning, the words that would eventually be cast on the wall began to form in my mind.

  We just didn’t really care to be around each other. Greg barely showed up to the sessions, and Grant and I were hardly in the studio at the same time. He wanted time to experiment;
in contrast, I would come in, bang it out, and it was done.

  One thing Grant and I did come together on was replacing some of Greg’s bass parts. We were listening down “Charity, Chastity, Prudence, and Hope” and next thing I know, Grant goes in, picks up the bass, and plays the part better than Greg did. As we listened through more tracks, if I heard a questionable bass track, I’d recut it myself. We replaced Greg’s bass on at least four songs.

  I was working late one night when Mike came by. After wrapping up the recording session, we drove home in our respective cars—Mike in his old, broken-down MG Midget and me in my beloved Le Mans. Mike was two car lengths in front of me when I got blindsided by a stolen Ford LTD. The driver had held up a gas station and was fleeing the scene. The LTD practically tore off the front of my car, then careened into the front room of someone’s house. One or two seconds sooner and the LTD would have killed Mike, in front of me in that little MG Midget. I went to the hospital for X-rays and showed up the next morning at the studio in a neck brace, all junked out on pain pills.

  Grant’s song “You Can Live at Home” was to be the closer for this album, so it was one of the final tracks to be polished. Grant called for a freak-out at the end, like a “Hey Jude” finish, so we recorded the basic track with that in mind. In tracking, I laid back on the finish, playing simple rhythm parts to leave a nice, wide space for the guitar solo. The guitar solo that I overdubbed later turned out to be the last notes of music I ever recorded in a studio with Hüsker Dü.