See a Little Light

by Bob Mould

  I followed the same routine every night. I would take an early evening nap, then get up at 10 PM. I’d drive down Second Avenue to Fourteenth Street, west on Fourteenth to Broadway, and then park in front of the building. At the bodega next door, I’d pick up a cinnamon-apple PowerBar, one twelve-ounce coffee, black, and a one-liter bottle of Poland Spring water. Then I’d work from 11 PM to 5 AM before driving back home up First Avenue to catch a few hours of sleep. The next night I’d do it all over again, exactly the same way.

  Rituals and routines—I need them. To this day, after walking the same six-mile route to help myself quit smoking, I still count my steps constantly.

  Sometimes it’s difficult to sort the healthy routines from the harmful ones. By this point I was thoroughly frustrated with the guitar rock paradigm. I had been doing basically the same thing over and over for almost twenty years—playing rock guitar. “I Hate Alternative Rock,” from the “Hubcap” album, told the story:

  Tired epileptic charade

  Get on the plane and fly away

  I knew you when

  I knew you when

  You had something to say

  I wrote those words in 1995—a rough year for guitar music. Everything good about alternative rock had been exploited and ruined by the major labels, and the bands they chose to elevate. The musical subculture I helped create had descended into fashion shoots, groupies, and fabulousness. The music industry took a sound that was once pure and honest and true and heartfelt, and wrapped it in the glossy paper of fame and fortune. The whole thing smacked of commercialism. There was no struggle, no cause, no real reason for these bands to exist.

  At the same time, I knew I had an audience with certain expectations about my work, and I was feeling trapped by my own history. I was tired of being the alternative rock guy; the art form had become useless to me. I was stuck in a spot, similar to how I felt at the end of Hüsker Dü. Just as Warehouse was the swan song of Hüsker Dü, I viewed this upcoming album as the swan song of my guitar rock existence. I started telling people that this was it, that I really didn’t want to do it anymore. I wanted to be free of my professional history, free to experiment with sound and words. That’s why I called the album The Last Dog and Pony Show.

  I was tired of alternative rock, and you know what else? I was tired of not being gay. I was on the verge of something new, and it hit me that the longer I sat in a van, riding around the country with straight guys, playing rock music to mostly straight people, the longer it would be before I could claim my sexuality. I wanted to be a gay man with a gay identity. It was time for me to claim that identity, and in my mind, the quickest, easiest, and best way to do so was to abandon the professional identity I’d built over the past two decades.

  I was starting to bicycle myself down to Christopher Street, which for decades has been the symbolic “gay street” of Manhattan, to a gay-friendly coffee shop called the Factory Café. I would duck in, grab a cup of coffee, then sit slightly away from the building, watching and observing how everyone carried themselves. I wasn’t sure how to fit in. I could command an audience of sixty thousand people, but I wasn’t sure how to act at the gay coffee shop. How weird is that, at the age of thirty-seven?

  * * *

  I recorded the last rock record in early 1998, back in Austin, again with Jim Wilson as my engineer. When we started up at Cedar Creek, it was business as usual. I brought the drum machine tracks, printed them to tape, and started laying down guitars and basses. By the fourth day, I was very unhappy. I told Jim I didn’t feel like making “this record” again. I’d felt obliged to make another rock record, that’s what people expected, and now it really was a grind—the same old routine.

  In an attempt to shake things up, Jim brought in a bunch of equipment I hadn’t used before. After a few days of experimenting with the gear, we had turned the studio into a rat’s nest with wires running every which way. My favored piece of gear was an eight-bit Akai sampler, which yielded a strange yet appealing low-resolution sound. We sampled everything under the sun: guitars, vocals, and other people’s recordings. We didn’t use any unauthorized samples on the album, but we certainly had fun turning Linda McCartney’s infamously out-of-tune background vocals from the monitor-board recording of “Hey Jude” into a large group of seagulls.

  Hot 97 FM was all the rage in New York at the time, and hip-hop production was unique, far ahead of what was going on in alternative rock. It led me to recording “Megamanic,” this white boy’s lame attempt at hip-hop. We added small sampling touches to songs like “First Drag of the Day” too.

  Even though the sound of my music was changing, the album’s lyrics stayed close to the norm, but with a few interesting twists. “First Drag of the Day,” lyrically, addresses my battle with cigarettes:

  If I can get to the words before that first smoke

  Everything seems to come out differently.

  “Moving Trucks” was a clear reference to my problems with Kevin and, subsequently, leaving Texas. “New #1” was about my friendship with Andrew and the irony that the relationship turned out so poorly. “Skintrade” was a nod to William Burroughs, an attempt to write in his style with imagery of the forlorn junkie. “Classifieds” was about the ads in the back of the Village Voice for “Men Seeking Men,” and how, more often than not, they led to a fruitless chase.

  Another key aspect of the experimentation was recording ambient guitar passages using an Eventide H3000 Harmonizer. As the minutes of improvisation accumulated, I realized I was more excited by these pieces than I was by the songs themselves. I decided to incorporate them as interludes on the album.

  After a few weeks, we moved down to Boerne and brought in Matt Hammon, who, in addition to being a singer-songwriter, was a rock-steady drummer with a lyrical yet economical style. My unorthodox drums-last approach worked like a charm, and Matt tore through the twelve tracks in five days. Alison Chesley from Verbow played cello on a number of tracks, and her contribution was top quality.

  Then disaster struck. Jim and I moved on to Carriage House to mix the album. After the first Friday night of mixing, we left the master tape that contained all the edited improvisational pieces in the machine. On Saturday morning there was a class in the control room, and someone had accidentally recorded over the entire tape. All the improv pieces, the music that sparked me and kept me interested in making the album, were gone. There was no way to rerecord them—they were borne of total spontaneity. I was devastated, angry, and supremely depressed. After that I lost interest in the album. Jim ended up mixing most of it himself while I sat upstairs in the studio apartment, numb from what had happened, hearing the dulled sounds vibrating from below. Regardless, the album needed to be finished and released on time.

  * * *

  In early 1998 I decided that I needed to be able to work at all hours of the day, which meant working at home. Kevin agreed and we began hunting for a new place to live in Manhattan. In March we bought a 2,800-square-foot loft in a former soap factory in Tribeca. It had a wall of east-facing windows that looked out onto Canal Street and Soho, and the southern wall was comprised of windows that had views all the way down the Hudson River past the Statue of Liberty to the lights of the Verrazano Bridge. We spent six months fixing it up, with Kevin overseeing the renovation while I worked on the album. He was winding down his management work with Vic Chesnutt, so the renovation project gave him something to occupy his time. The renovations were completed in October, right as I was getting ready to leave on band tour—for the last time.

  The album was titled The Last Dog and Pony Show, and I promoted this tour as my farewell to rock, hoping that, after the tour ended, things would be really different. Still, I knew there would be skepticism. There’s a long history of “farewell tours” in rock and roll, whether it was the Who, Kiss, or whoever. But I truly wanted out. I’m not sure I even wanted “in” as far as touring went, but it was an obligatory part of the album campaign.

  The touring band
was Matt Hammon on drums and Jim Wilson on bass. Against my better judgment, I added a second guitarist. Reenter Michael Cerveris, who had been with Pete Townshend at my New York solo show in 1995. Michael positioned himself in my line of sight, offered his services, and I gave him the spot. He was a charismatic person, a good singer, and a great Broadway performer. He had his own music career as well, writing, recording, and performing with his band, Lame. He’d studied my songbook, was very attentive, and seemed qualified for the job. He seemed like he’d be an asset.

  Josh Grier suggested that I hire Mike Stuto, who at the time ran Brownie’s, an influential East Village rock club, to handle the office duties for the album campaign. Mike and I were a good fit, and he represented my interests well to both Ryko and Creation.

  I rehearsed the band and we played two small shows in New York City. The first, during the week of the album release in late August, was a showcase organized by Ryko, and it was held at Angel Orensanz Center, a former synagogue on the Lower East Side. The premise of the show was to invite downtown celebrities to stop by, capture them on film, and incorporate the footage into a video for the first single from the album, “Who Was Around?” Very few VIPs turned out for the ridiculously loud show, so that idea was scrapped. The second show was unannounced and took place eight days later at Brownie’s, where we ripped through a short set. Nine days after that, the Last Dog and Pony Show tour began in Fargo, North Dakota.

  While the rest of the band would wear the same clothes onstage that they wore at lunch that day, Michael was stylized. Maybe it was the Broadway mind-set, but he was prone to gesticulation, which affected his guitar tuning and vocal pitch. His amps were loud, and despite the important lesson I’d learned from the 1989 tour, I had yet again allowed another guitarist to clutter up my frequency range. And just like in 1996, I said nothing about it. I slowly stewed. Beyond our initial rehearsals, where Michael showed great aptitude, I offered little criticism or direction. I had gotten myself into a rough spot—two months of touring like this. As a result, I have few memories of this final tour—almost as if it never happened.

  But I know how I felt by the time we got to Europe—I really couldn’t believe I was going out like this. This wasn’t what I had pictured earlier in the year. I was holding in a lot of anger and I wasn’t addressing it directly with Michael.

  One afternoon while in the UK, after sound check, Jim, Matt, and I went for a walk. We were looking for a pair of shoes for Randy Hawkins, our tour manager and sound person. He’d worn down the soles of his shoes so far that they leaked when it rained.

  One of the guys piped up, “Bob, do you mind us asking, what is up with Michael?”

  It was as if someone had pulled the plug out of a stagnant bathtub filled with scum and turgid water. I said, “You guys, I’m dying up there. It doesn’t sound right, and this is not what I envisioned.”

  Jim and Matt reminded me, “This is your band, you’re the boss, and if you’re not happy with something, change it.”

  I was like, “OK, there’s no time to waste.”

  We went back to the venue and I gathered up the crew and the band. I looked around the dressing room and said, “I want to thank everybody for putting their best effort forward to make this tour as enjoyable as it could possibly be. You all know how much this has meant to me for twenty years, and I’m getting ready to walk away. Unfortunately, Michael, you’re not working out. London will be your last show. I will make all the arrangements to get you and your stuff home. You tell me what I need to tell people. I want to make this as easy as possible for you, but I am not ending a twenty-year career this way. I started in a three-piece, and I’m going out in a three-piece. I’m sorry.”

  Michael took it like a man. I doubt anything like that had ever happened to him before—he was so successful in his stage career. I felt bad about dismissing him in front of the whole crew, but that’s how it played out. After the Sugar breakup in 1994, where nothing was said, I went the opposite route and took it to the entire entourage. Clearly I had yet to find the best way to do this.

  That night Michael had his best show with the band. He played as if a fire had been lit under him. If I’d said something sooner, maybe things would have been different. The last few shows were also better, including the London show, which was recorded for a live album. That show was emotional for me—I was saying good-bye to a town where I’d had lots of success over the years. Many of my press friends were in attendance, the Creation folks were very supportive, and the folks from My Bloody Valentine came by as well. Even Robert Plant was at the gig, though I didn’t get to say hello to him.

  The first show as a trio was at the Rex Club in Paris, a 250-capacity basement club, a bit of a dive. We arrived, walked into the back area, and came face to face with our catering, which consisted of a mound of white rice, maybe twelve by eighteen inches, with cockroaches running all over it. That was not the fine Parisian dining experience I’d had in mind. But we walked out on that stage and burned the place down. It eclipsed anything we had done on the tour. All the anxieties and discontent instantly disappeared. It was as if I’d started over with a new band.

  Jim stepped up and, for the first time since we started playing together, showed his real stage personality. In the trio setting, Jim’s playing completely opened up. He played with a confidence and authority I had never seen in him. Jim and Matt locked tightly to each other, and the entire set was one long, fluid motion. When we walked off the stage that night in Paris, the three of us were drenched in sweat, grinning from ear to ear.

  The last week of the tour was great, particularly with Jim, with whom I’d been through so much. Jim was loyal, so helpful to me, and always giving, both personally and professionally. He showed me different ways to make records, which complemented the lessons I’d learned from Spot, Steve Fjelstad, and Lou Giordano. Jim brought another dimension of deeper learning. And he was so good, as was Kevin, at dealing with my rants, and he was able to defuse my darker idiosyncrasies.

  The crew and the band were relieved, and all was good for the final week of electric touring. The final show, in Brussels on November 6, was a strong one, and I remember more about the party afterward than I do about the very long set and multiple encores. We all stayed late at the venue to celebrate the end of the tour. There was a local drunk who wouldn’t get off our case and was getting everyone very agitated. Right before it came to blows, nature called the drunkard. The restroom was a single toilet in a closet-type room, with a heavy metal door. Once he was in the restroom, we jammed the door shut by stuffing coins into the door frame. We finished our drinks and left. The music in the club was loud, so it was unlikely his banging would be heard until the bar was closed.

  More than the last show though, I remember the flight home. I had this blue composition book, and on that plane ride home, I made a list of things I was going to do:

  I’m going to fix my body.

  I’ll start going to the gym.

  Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.

  I might change my appearance completely.

  This was the list of things that I wanted to do now that I was free of the burden of being Bob Mould, the Rock Guitar Guy. I sat on that plane and I dreamed. Finally, I hoped, this weight can be lifted off my back. Bob Mould, the Angry Man. Bob Mould, the Miserablist. Bob Mould, the Pessimist. The Smoker. The Bad Ender of Things. The Self-Hating Homosexual. It was time for all of them to leave the stage, hopefully to make room for Bob Mould, the Gay Man.

  A few days after returning home, I saw an episode of the Charlie Rose show on PBS. His guest was British-born journalist Andrew Sullivan, who had just published a book titled Love Undetectable, a memoir/study of homosexuality and culture. I was as fascinated by his eloquence as I was by the substance of what he had to say. Andrew spoke about being HIV-positive and about how his diagnosis made him consider the paradoxical bond between friendship and death, the concept of survivor guilt, and how to confront gay shame. Andrew said he had to “confro
nt the shame, really face it, and come through it. And I feel stronger as a result.” I really related to all of it.

  I called my mother the next day and implored her to watch the show, which would air several more times that week, and I suggested that my father watch it with her. I thought it might help them understand some of my more intimate thoughts and concerns. Of course, it was my mother who had unknowingly showed me how to ignore things, turn away from big issues, not talk about big problems, and avoid conflict. I’m not even sure she watched the show. If she did, I don’t know if she fully understood it.

  But I wasn’t waiting. I began to put the wheels of change into gear. As far as I was concerned, my “rock guitarist” career was over. My new gay life—I was going to have to build that from scratch.

  CHAPTER 21

  Early in 1999 I started going to the gym for the first time since high school. Kevin and I joined together, and we would go at least five days a week. Our particular gym was in the West Village and quite gay. The clientele was varied: from famous folks like actor Chris Meloni and comedian Sandra Bernhard, to musicians like Luscious Jackson’s Kate Schellenbach. I’d also spot a plethora of male escorts—I recognized them (and their tattoos) from the classified ads of gay publications like HX and Next, which I was now reading every week to find out all the fabulous things that were happening around town. Seeing all these people with their well-sculpted bodies made me think, Maybe if I get myself into shape, I’ll get noticed. I’ll fit in and make some new friends.

  After three months of running three miles a day, then working out for an hour, I looked in the mirror and was shocked to see a different person. I had lean muscle, the baby fat was gone, and I was looking more masculine. I said to myself, Wow, I’m sort of a hot guy underneath all this fat. I was also looking more severe, like someone you might not want to mess with. I began to carry myself differently. I wasn’t walking in a defensive stance, staring at the sidewalk, or avoiding eye contact on the street. I stood up straight, lifted my chest outward, and walked with a brisk and authoritative pace. I felt more confident—it was a total mind/body/soul awakening.