See a Little Light
Page 39
* * *
I’d had all this anger and inner conflict when I was younger. I used music to express it, but the irony was that touring the world in a rock band, cooped up with three other guys in a van, was also keeping me from both growing up and coming out. Now, with Blowoff as a featured attraction at several premier gay events and three albums that put my solo career back in the spotlight, music was helping me heal the wounds and grow as a human being.
Back when I was watching fistfights around the pool table at the Calgarian Hotel in 1981, there is no way I would have believed you if you had said that thirty years later, I would be DJing house music to a room full of dancing leathermen and bears at Chicago’s Cabaret Metro—a room I’d played dozens of times since 1984, thanks to the unrelenting support of the club’s mastermind, Joe Shanahan.
As Blowoff got bigger, more guys were coming up to me saying, “You’re the Bob Mould.” They were sharing their stories about being gay, being in their forties, and having seen Hüsker Dü at the old 9:30 Club. Turns out there were more gay people in the underground scene in the 1980s than I ever realized—that “don’t advertise, don’t worry” thing worked a little too well, I guess. It’s been great to reconnect with some of the guys who used to slam dance in the mosh pit while I was up there onstage, feeling lost and alone in my self-hatred, agitating them with my music. Now, years later at Blowoff, I’m up there playing music for the guys, music that makes us all dance and feel happy and together. And they come up to me and say, “I was there then, and I’m here now.”
Not all the guys in the crowd are leathermen or bears or ex-punkers—there’s disco heads and industrial fans and regular folks as well. But as lost as I felt for so many years, it’s interesting that so many of us followed the same path: being part of the indie music community and years later finding ourselves reconnected through a very different type of music, as well as through our shared gay identities. Maybe the other guys were always connected, and it just took me way too long to wake up and find my place.
I’m sure some of the guys faded away from punk rock and then embraced the gay community as they grew older. I’m sure some of the guys went through crystal meth problems—it was certainly around in the punk rock days. And I’m sure some of the guys became HIV-positive and maybe didn’t make it to middle age. So for those of us who are still here, going out to see live music, going to the bear bar on Sunday afternoon for happy hour, congregating and having a community experience at this stage of our lives—it’s unbelievable. People think Blowoff is funny—ha-ha, Bob is DJing with his shirt off, how silly. They have no idea how much it means to me. We give them a place to belong, and in return, they’ve given me a place too.
My old tribe is not only reunited, but we’re out and integrated. We survived the catastrophe of the first wave of AIDS, the Reagan years, the Moral Majority, Anita Bryant, and everything else we had to deal with—alone, together, or in whatever variation. It’s a great joy to be playing music for the guys, looking out and seeing everybody grinning and dancing and having a good time. And again, thirty years later, there’s not one fucking thing anyone can do to stop us. We are back together and we are having the time of our lives.
* * *
I was born into a house of chaos and loss. My parents grieved the death of their first child and acted out through alcoholism, domestic violence, passive-aggression, and psychological abuse. And yet I was overprotected as a child, sexual abuse by a babysitter notwithstanding. I found music as the way to drown out the chaos. I realized I was gay, planned my escape from my small-town life, and went to the big city for college.
I was a young self-hating alcoholic at seventeen, miserable and agitated at the world. I sobered up at twenty-five, fearful of both becoming my father and of dying young. I came out publicly and professionally at thirty-three, yet remained awkward and unable to fully erase the self-hatred. I felt insecure in my relationships.
In my musical life as well as my personal life, I had locked myself into very limited worlds. For so long I was the rock guy, never venturing far from my formula. Throughout two long-term relationships, I never explored the outside world. I was unhappy and blocked, and I didn’t know why. I endured my lowest professional point in 2002, then watched a fourteen-year relationship fall apart in 2003. I had to break free and find myself.
I shook my career, then my partner. It was only when I’d cleared everything away and was left with just myself and what I had to offer that my true transformation happened. That was when I began to find out who I was and where I was supposed to be.
I spent two years rebuilding and reinventing myself. I gradually got out of my handcuffs and learned how to celebrate my freedom. I fell into the bear community, a wonderful group of gay men who embrace their masculinity, where I feel totally at ease. I began making rock music again, while holding on to the club music that was the soundtrack of my transformation.
Now that I’ve integrated who I am and what I do, I finally feel whole. Now I’m much better at both music and relationships. Most importantly, I’m finally able to enjoy life.
After years with little money for food and no permanent address, I am blessed to be living in a home that looks out across the city of my dreams. After years filled with unpredictable experiences, I’m happy and grateful to have lasted thirty years at the job I love. And after two failed relationships, I’ve been with Micheal for five years, building a healthy and happy bond. I’m trying as best I can to carry the good lessons along with me.
If you had asked me at twenty-one if I would make it to fifty, I would have scoffed at you, made some painfully existential comment, and headed off to my next self-destructive adventure. But as I write this, I look at myself and am pretty content with what I see. Restless, always. Happy, mostly. Satisfied, occasionally. But the cathartic thing? Those days have come and gone.
Finally, I am able to enjoy life as it happens.
My first fifty years were pretty incredible. From here on out, life might get even better.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There’s a number of people I’d like to thank—for many different reasons. First, to my partner of five years, Micheal Brodbeck. You’ll recognize Micheal by his oddly spelled name, the result of a birth certificate mishap. Micheal has always been a saint in my life, but never more vigilant than over the past three years. He gave me comfort when I was troubled, he showed me the ladder when I was low, and he saw through my foolish mind games and kept me in check. I am amazed that our relationship survived this book. I am eternally grateful to have him in my life.
Michael Azerrad has had an enormous influence on this book. He helped me sort through all the different phases of my life, the contradictions and uncertain memories, and forced me to examine and distill it all into a readable manuscript. In essence, he taught me how to write this book. We battled at times, but I’m pleased with the end result, and really proud of the work we did together.
I would have done a terrible job of chronicling the events without the resources of Paul Hilcoff. Paul has been a longtime archivist of my work, and his meticulous attention to history gave me an invaluable database, which I used to corroborate, organize, and collate my professional life. (Paul’s work can be found at www.thirdav.com.)
Michael Pietsch approached me in 2001 about writing this book. At that time, I wasn’t anywhere near ready to confront my past. Fortunately, when late 2007 rolled around and I found the maturity and resolve to give voice to my experiences, Michael was still very interested in publishing this book. I am thrilled to be a writer at such a prestigious publishing house as Little, Brown.
As my literary agent, David Dunton has done an admirable job both of helping me navigate through the logistics and mechanics of assembling this book and of keeping me centered and motivated through those moments when the weight of reconciling my story caused me great personal sway. John Parsley’s light yet focused editorial touch defied and shattered the frightening expectations I (and other authors) h
ad concocted and congealed in my mind, and Ben Allen’s fine eye for detail worked wonders in the copyedit stage.
I’d like to thank three professional colleagues who have stood by me for decades: attorney Josh Grier and booking agents Frank Riley and Paul Boswell. Their steady efforts kept me working, which in turn made many of these stories possible. Beyond the musicians mentioned throughout the book, I’ve been fortunate to be surrounded and supported by many fine crew guys who ran the roads with me, did the heavy lifting for me, and kept the show in professional form: Terry Katzman, Robin Davies, Lou Giordano, Bill Batson, Zop, Mick Brown, Josiah McIlheny, John Henderson, Casey MacPherson, Mitchell Drosin, Andrew Burns, Bill Rahmy, Barry Duryea, Dewitt Burton, Randy Hawkins, Charles Scott, Colm O’Reilly, Gary Andrews, Dave Domizi, Menko Leeuw, Erik Drost, Frank Marchand, and Tim Mech.
There were periods during the writing process when I needed to get away from my normal surroundings. Three of those times, Andy Mitchell, Dan McBride, and Andy Samwick were gracious in allowing me to set up writing camp in their respective homes.
Thanks to my family of origin: my father, Willis; my mother, Sheila; and my siblings, Susan and Brian. My parents have always been supportive of me and my work, and I love them dearly.
Thanks to my family of choice, many of whom currently reside in, and make me feel abundantly welcome in, my new hometown of San Francisco. Through them, around them, and with them, I continue to learn how to recognize, accept, and embrace my flaws without the worry of judgment.
Finally, thanks to those of you who’ve stayed with me for thirty-plus years of music—through all the twists and turns, the experimentation and repetition, the successes and failures. The nights you spend with me, the stories you share of your first exposure to my work, the meaning it holds for you in troubled times—I am always humbled and honored to be a small part of your lives.
(Personal collection)
One of these things is not like the other. (Personal collection)
Birthday cake, October 1964. (Personal collection)
Me and my grandmother, who took care of me for years, 1965. (Personal collection)
My brother Brian, me, and my sister Susan, Christmas 1964. (Personal collection)
I look like I’m about to cover “Wichita Lineman,” 1967. (Personal collection)
The first official Hüsker Dü press photo, 1980. (The late Minneapolis photographer Steven Hengstler)
Minneapolis all-ages show, December 1982. (Shelley Hawes)
Chicago, 1984. (Gail Butensky)
Boston, 1984. (Photo © Laura Levine)
Chicago, 1984. (Gail Butensky)
Peter Buck is trying to teach me a song on the Flying V. Boston, 1984. (Photo © Laura Levine)
My first meeting with William S. Burroughs and John Giorno. The Bunker, New York City, 1985. (Photograph by Sylvia Plachy © 2011)
Clearly I was inspired by this meeting. Minneapolis, 1985. (Daniel Corrigan)
I always played better guitar riffs when not singing. Minneapolis, 1987. (Daniel Corrigan)
Me and Mike Covington at the farm. Pine City, Minnesota, Christmas 1987. (Personal collection)
A rainy festival in Europe, summer 1987. The last of eight years of service for the Flying V. (Personal collection)
A light went off in my head — play a Strat instead. I haven’t put Blue down since buying it. Minneapolis, 1989. (Daniel Corrigan)
John Lydon, Jello Biafra, and me, October 1989. This was after a Pixies / Bob Mould show at the Warfield in San Francisco. A real punk rock summit. (© Jay Blakesberg)
One of six sold-out Sugar shows at First Avenue. Minneapolis, November 1994. (Daniel Corrigan)
A candid shot of Sugar, circa 1994. We accomplished so much in three years. It started, it exploded, then it was over. (© Jay Blakesberg)
Me and Jim Wilson in front; Jason Narducy, David Suycott, and Alison Chesley of Verbow in back. Austin, Texas, April 1996. (Personal collection)
Me and Kevin Nash slumming around downtown Las Vegas after a WCW pay-per-view, October 1999. Big Kev always made me feel like I was “in the band.” (Ross Forman)
My two guys — Kevin O’Neill and Domino. Washington, DC, October 1997. (Scott Stuckey)
Kevin and me, New York City, circa 2000. When things were good, we were a formidable duo. (Personal collection)
(© Catherine McGann)
(Lisa Pearl)
(Todd Franson)
What a difference ten years can make on a person. I’ve always battled with body issues and weight fluctuations. In 1996 I was rail thin and worn down from the first breakup with Kevin. By 2002 I had three years of gym discipline under my belt and actually dared to make a shirtless photo. And in 2006 I was a heap of muscle. Rich Morel was no slouch either, but damn I was getting big.
Backstage at WedRock. Washington, DC, April 2004. Henry Rollins was such a champ to emcee a same-sex marriage benefit, and I was thrilled that my gym crush Will Hiley showed up as well. (Personal collection)
Me and my parents visited my sister in Roanoke, Virginia, in summer 2004, just weeks before my mom had her heart trouble. (Personal collection)
Great American Music Hall, San Francisco, 2008, after Jon Wurster’s third show on drums. He was kicking major ass from the minute he joined the tour. Jason Narducy and Rich Morel look as pleased about Jon’s presence as I do. (Peter G. Whitfield)
One minute you’re doing the walk of shame, the next minute you’re onstage in front of thousands of people. Coachella, 2009. (Michael Buckner / Getty Images)
Shepard Fairey created this wonderful illustration, based on a photo taken by Peter Ross, 2008.
This one’s for you, Pete. The Who tribute show, Carnegie Hall, 2010. (Star-Ledger Photographs © The Star-Ledger, Newark, New Jersey)
The torch gets passed at the ATP Festival. Playing with No Age was such fun. I didn’t do too badly for an old guy. Just ask Dean Spunt and Randy Randall. Monticello, New York, September 2009. (Abbey Braden for ATP New York)
Hold this image up against almost any photo of me from the ages of eighteen to forty-five and tell me I’m not having the time of my life. I love this gig. Blowoff, Highline Ballroom, New York City, 2009. (Michael Alexander)
Micheal and me in the parking lot of the Boatslip, after one of many afternoon tea dances. Bear Week, Provincetown, Massachusetts, 2010. (Michael Alexander)
Contents
FRONT COVER IMAGE
WELCOME
EPIGRAPH
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PHOTO INSERT
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Bob Mould is an American musician, singer-songwriter, producer, and DJ. An original member of the influential 1980s punk band Hüsker Dü, he released several albums after the band separated, including Workbook, Body of Song, and Life and Times, as well as Sugar’s legendary album Copper Blue. He lives in San Francisco.
Michael Azerrad is the author of the books Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground, 1981–1991, and Come As You Are: The Story of Nirvana. His writings on music and musicians have appeared in numerous magazines, including Rolling Stone, The New Yorker, Spin, and the New York Times. He lives i
n New York City.
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Bob Mould
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: June 2011
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