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Remembering Grant Hart

Hüsker Dü

Reading the obituaries of Grant Hart, one detail kept leaping out at me: he was just 56.

I thought back to when I first saw him, playing with Hüsker Dü at Edinburgh University on March 14, 1986. Grant was about to turn 25. I, meanwhile, was three months into my 21st year. Time foreshortens as we get older, but I couldn’t then begin to rationalise our age-difference as ‘merely’ four and a bit years. Because Grant Hart had already done so much with his life. He seemed made of different stuff.

At that point in 1986, Hüsker Dü were redefining rock music. Seeing them that night was truly life-changing for me, and so much of that energy came from Grant, a gyroscopic force of limbs and air, with a giddy, open voice that surfed above the tumult created by the band. While Bob Mould resembled a tensed-up man on the brink and Greg Norton his leaping, smiley good-cop foil, Grant wore a kind of seraphic countenance. Watching them was draining, transcendent, and fun.

Afterwards, I saw Grant sitting on a stone bench beneath the student union’s domed roof, the same spot where I would often drink a mug of tea and read the week’s music papers. He was chatting to people, and I noticed that Hüsker Dü’s energy core had been playing drums barefoot. For some reason, I burst out laughing. He looked at me and laughed back. No other words were necessary.

I had the good fortune to meet and talk with Grant many times in subsequent years, thanks to writing assignments for Sounds, then NME and latterly MOJO. He was always charming and provocative, with a formidable polymath’s intellect and a waspish sense of humour, particularly with regard to Bob Mould, his erstwhile creative partner in Hüsker Dü. Shortly before the release of his debut solo album Intolerance in 1989, having just arrived in London after travelling from the US on the QE2, Grant met me at the bar of the Columbia Hotel in Bayswater. Announcing that this establishment served his own personal brand of Scotch, he pointed to a bottle of Grant’s whisky, then elbowed me in the ribs.

“That’s something Bob doesn’t have,” he winked. “You don’t see too many bottles of Bob’s!”

Several years later, he invited me to share a small joint outside a Chinese restaurant in Hamburg. It was a sunny afternoon, Grant was playing a show that night and then we were to do an interview. Believing I had survived the journalist’s cardinal error of partaking in psychoactive substances with an interviewee, I attempted to order from the menu – only to discover I had lost the power of speech. I looked up to see Grant in the grip of a giggling seizure. He couldn’t speak either.

As this episode proved, Grant Hart was a dangerous man, but one who gave his gifts freely, be they song or conversation or time. That night in Hamburg, after a glorious solo performance, we talked until the wee hours. He answered all my questions, and asked plenty more of his own.

I last saw him in London in 2013, on the street outside the small venue he’d just played. He looked gaunt compared to our previous meetings, and I knew had been through some tough times, but his voice was strong and that mind was as restless as ever. Earlier, I interviewed him for MOJO’s Rock’n’Roll Confidential feature. He was justifiably proud of his new album The Argument, inspired by an unpublished treatment of Milton’s Paradise Lost by William S Burroughs – a feat of artistic derring-do only Grant would dare attempt, let alone pull off – and during our typically wide-ranging conversation he recounted escaping from the fire which had destroyed his home in South Saint Paul, talked about his connoisseur’s love of vintage cars and planes, and reminisced about his friendship with Burroughs.

“He made the observation once: ‘How come you’re the only guy that comes around me and will tell me jokes?’ I’d notice that a lot of people put on their costume when they’re around certain great people. They don’t want to make a fool of themselves. But that was something I would gladly do! At all times of my life.”

He also talked happily about his often difficult relationship with Bob Mould, that was now entering a more conciliatory phase, leading ultimately to the long-overdue opening up of the Hüsker Dü archive.

“We’re going to undo this terrible knot,” he told me.

Tragically, Grant didn’t live to hold the first fruits of that endeavour, the Savage Young Dü box set that’s due for release in early November 2017. Nor indeed the new music he was working on until the end. If anything good comes from this sadness, it will be that more people can enjoy the music of this remarkable man.

The last question I ever asked Grant Hart was as per the format of MOJO’s Rock’n’Roll Confidential: “Tell us something you’ve never told an interviewer before.” To which he shot straight back with a smile: “Well, this has been a very satisfying experience!”

Thank you Grant. The pleasure was all mine.

Mudhoney Book Competition

Mudhoney: The Sound And The Fury From Seattle

The UK cover, with contact sheet images from a 1991 NME photo shoot by Steve Double.

Mudhoney have just completed a very successful four-week tour of Europe (plus a dip of the toe into Asia via Istanbul). When I hooked up with them in London, Mark, Guy, Dan and Steve kindly signed three copies of my book Mudhoney: The Sound And The Fury From Seattle. In an outbreak of unseemly generosity, I’m now going to give away these prized items, fittingly enough as prizes in a competition. In order to win win win, all you need to do is correctly answer the following three questions.

1. As the title of the book suggests, Mudhoney are from Seattle. But bassist Guy Maddison originally hails from Australia. Did he grow up in:
a) Sydney? b) Warracknabeal? c) Perth?

2. Original Mudhoney bassist Matt Lukin left the band in the late ’90s. What is his current profession:
a) carpenter? b) hairdresser? c) lawyer?

3. Mudhoney singer Mark Arm has also sung for a reformed version of which legendary ’60s band:
a) The Doors? b) The Stooges? c) The MC5?

Email your answers to

Entries close at 6pm (BST) on Friday June 19.

Here’s proof that the guys really did sign the book.

Mudhoney: The Signed And The Fury

Yes, it’s the US edition. So some of the spelling is a bit wacky.

Of Manic Street Preachers, Skids and Simple Minds

It’s a week until the release of Futurology, the brilliant, revelatory new Manic Street Preachers album. I’ve been excited about this record ever since August 2013, when I went to Newport to interview Nicky Wire about Rewind The Film, still a month away from release. After we’d finished our official business, Nicky asked if I fancied hearing a couple of the songs from the next new Manics record. So I was treated to high volume playbacks of Europa Geht Durch Mich and The Next Jet To Leave Moscow.

These two songs immediately placed the as-yet-untitled Futurology in very different territory to the contemplative, primarily acoustic Rewind The Film, where its authors felt assailed by the doubts and depredations of middle-age. A militaristic diskostompf, Europa Geht Durch Mich (“Europe passes through me”) felt like a reinvigoration, a rallying cry – a new beginning.

I was tickled by its opening lyric – “Europe had a language problem” – because it’s an only slightly adapted quote from Simple Minds’ mighty I Travel. Much of the pre-release chatter around Futurology concerns its Simple Minds influence. If the Manics’ love of Simple Minds seems curious that’s partly because it was never cool to like Simple Minds, not even amid the post-punk ferment when their prog-curious Kraut-grooves were more radical than many cared to admit, and certainly not after effecting their enormodome reinvention for the American market, a process that began with 1985’s Don’t You (Forget About Me).

But ‘cool’ has never been part of the Manics’ lexicon: one function of band’s iconoclastic reflex (exhibit A: “I laughed when Lennon got shot”) is the elevation of their own heroes over whatever the prevailing critical consensus deems acceptable. When I first interviewed them, in 1994, shortly before the release of The Holy Bible, it was clear that the blustery hard rock of their first two albums had been something of a Trojan Horse by which to storm the mainstream. The Holy Bible was terse and claustrophobic – a stunning shift in emphasis. I walked into a photographer’s studio to meet the band and was assailed by the Manics’ new sonic manifesto issuing forth from a ghetto blaster: featuring, among others, Magazine, Public Image Ltd, Joy Division, Berlin-era David Bowie, Wire and, most strikingly, Simple Minds and the Skids (another group of working-class Scots liberated by punk and balancing pretension with pop genius). There was a visual clue on The Holy Bible‘s sleeve: the typography aped the Minds’ Empires And Dance in its use of the Cyrillic reversed ‘R’.

Empires And Dance

The Holy Bible

(Though not the ‘N’s, which E&D also flipped. I’ve always wondered why the Manics didn’t flip the ‘N’s too.)

All of which is evident on the bold panoramas and electro pulses of Futurology. In particular, I hear echoes of the Skids’ dense, melody-saturated 1979 album Days In Europa, most obviously on The Next Jet To Leave Moscow, which has a beautiful liquid guitar solo worthy of Stuart Adamson, or his hero Bill Nelson, the Be-Bop Deluxe guitarist who produced Days In Europa. Also, the song opens with the same chattering drum machine of the Skids’ Charade. I’d forgotten about this hilarious video, like Roxy Music meets Devo. What a great band the Skids were.

But it’s the visionary scope of Simple Minds that recurs most prominently. The template for instrumental Dreaming A City (Hughesovka) is Theme For Great Cities, the cinematic opener from 1981’s Sister Feelings Call. At their peak, Simple Minds were all about the liberating possibilities of movement and the promise of the journey – as Wire [the band] once put it, “Displaying an interest in forward propulsion” – and I think the Manics evoke that optimistic spirit in Futurology.

A couple of years ago I wrote a feature for MOJO about Simple Minds and needed a contemporary endorsement. Cue James Dean Bradfield, declaring them “just about them most amazing, experimental, powerful band that Britain’s ever produced”. The MOJO piece coincided with a tour by the current version of Simple Minds, which features just Charlie Burchill and Jim Kerr from the original line-up, plus Mel Gaynor, the drummer who joined in 1982. I met the pair in Glasgow; both were hugely entertaining and convivial company, full of indiscreet revelations. Over dinner, tongue somewhat in cheek, Jim said their motivations as 16-year-olds were “making music and wanting to travel”. He later elaborated that a year after leaving school he and Charlie hitchhiked from Glasgow to London intending to see the Sex Pistols, but wound up staying on the road when the lorry driver who’d given them a lift said he was going to Paris. “Back then you could get a passport in the Post Office,” said Kerr. “So we went, well let’s go to Paris, and then let’s go to Munich and then let’s go to Milan… Every border we crossed just gave us a sense of some sort of emancipation.”

Separately, I also spoke to the other three original members of Simple Minds: Derek Forbes, Mick MacNeil and Brian McGee. Despite the contentious issues that may divide them (an attempted 2008 reunion collapsed amid business squabbles), it was obvious that all still felt deeply connected to the band and were proud of its ongoing legacy.

The 2012 Simple Minds tour was built around a concept whereby the band would play five songs from each of the first five albums: the classic canon as acknowledged by hardcore fans, before what critical favour they had evaporated. Interestingly, however, James deviated from that received wisdom and nominated 1984’s Sparkle In The Rain alongside its predecessors. I saw the Minds for the first time on the Sparkle In The Rain tour and thought they were wonderful, but I was kicking myself for not having been able to catch them a few years earlier, when founder member Brian McGee was the drummer. Indeed, I guess what I really wished was to have seen them when they still looked like this…

Yet James pointed me to footage of a 1984 show from Dortmund, when powerhouse Mel Gaynor was behind the kit and the collective energy was bulking up to assault the world’s stadia, while still retaining the experimental urges that gave the band an ambiguous quality. “That’s when I think they reached their utter apex,” said James. “Where they’ve still got the pretension, there’s still a miscommunication with the audience through their own ambition. The audience don’t know what it’s about so there’s an air of mystery about it.”

The Dortmund performance is thunderous – the arena seems to quake in submission. But recently I found this footage from the same period, which is just as thrilling in spite of the Minds playing to a small audience for a television programme (BBC’s Oxford Roadshow). Every member of Simple Minds was a master of his craft – JDB rightly singled out bassist Derek Forbes and keyboardist Mick MacNeil for special mention – but here it’s guitar hero Charlie Burchill who surpasses himself. “Dynamite!” as the man himself would say.

A couple of months ago I saw the Manic Street Preachers play Cardiff. It was an arena gig, with all the conventions and stratagems rock bands require to make sense of such spaces. But the Manics found ways to mess with the formula, mostly through giving vent to the quirks and obsessions which have driven them from the very beginning – like Nicky Wire quoting Richard Jobson’s preamble to the Skids’ TV Stars (“We do also speak politics to you today-ah!”). The peak moments for me were the Futurology songs – Europa Geht Durch Mich and the title track – signifying a new journey about to begin. The audience weren’t entirely sure what to make of them; which is partly why it felt exciting. Like some sort of emancipation, you could say.

After the show, I talked to James and he pondered the new record’s defiant posture: “There’s a sense in Futurology of not giving in to the relentless sense of pace that overtakes you as an older man: of trying to poke through that confrontational ether of progress and not feel as if you’re going to get left behind, and not feel defeated.”

And the moral of the tale? The greatest bands are the ones whose next move you can’t imagine.

Of Bunnymen and Wild Swans

I’ve written a feature in the June issue of MOJO about Pete De Freitas, the brilliant, inspirational drummer who helped make Echo And The Bunnymen one of the all-time great bands, and who died in a road accident on June 14, 1989, aged just 27.

The MOJO piece was a joy to write. Each person I spoke to – his friends and bandmates, and members of his family – was extremely generous with their time and memories. So many wonderful stories: some inevitably sad, but all of them touching and often very funny. Pete De Freitas seems to have been loved by everyone who ever met him. I wish I’d had time to talk to more people, and I ended up with far more material than I had space to use. Maybe one day I’ll put together a longer version.

During the course of writing the piece, I had the pleasure of talking to Paul Simpson, whose band The Wild Swans played with the Bunnymen many times; their wonderful single Revolutionary Spirit was produced by Pete, who also paid for its recording and played drums on it. “Thank God he did,” said Paul, “because it’s the dynamics of the drumming that give the song its exoskeleton.”

Hearing Revolutionary Spirit now takes me back to 1982 and my 16-year-old self listening to John Peel, when every record felt like a signpost to a new world. Like the Bunnymen, I imagined The Wild Swans were embarked on some noble truth-quest, and as Peel played the record (“Hmm… fades in…”) you sensed this was auspicious music. Both bands were from Liverpool, a city that because of The Beatles and its football teams had a mythic resonance, and this music only enhanced such romantic notions. Even then, I suspected the reality was a lot more mundane, but at that age it’s easy to feel you have nothing but dreams.

Paul reactivated The Wild Swans around 2008 and in 2011 they released an album, The Coldest Winter For A Hundred Years. I’m ashamed to say it passed me by originally, but in researching the Pete De Freitas article I bought the beautiful vinyl edition and I thoroughly recommend it. This new version of the band featured a drummer named Steve Beswick, who had played in The Heart Throbs, a late-’80s group that featured Pete’s sisters, Rose and Rachel. Paul told me he wanted him because Beswick had based his playing style on Pete. Paul then recruited Les Pattinson, Echo And The Bunnymen’s bass player, with whom Pete De Freitas had formed such a distinctive and indomitable rhythm section.

The album takes its title from a song Paul released as the B-side of English Electric Lightning, a terrific Wild Swans single from 2009. It evokes the period during 1981-82 when Paul and Pete shared Julian Cope’s old flat together in Liverpool’s Princes Park: all freezing cold bohemian squalor, homemade bongs, listening to The Pop Group and Dr John, and the neighbours complaining about Pete driving his motorbike up three flights of stairs. As Paul says in the song: “I’m tired of living like a degenerate and I’m going to get my act together starting right now… Well, starting tomorrow, because I’ve just found the note Pete has left pinned to his door: ‘Paul, Jake riding up from Bristol tonight, I’ll knock for Mike and Paul on my way home. Ring Ged, Jerry and Hot Knives. Get milk and skins – gear’s in the tin. Love Pete’.”

Thanks to Paul, The Coldest Winter… put me right into their world.

The June issue of MOJO is still available.

Book in the USA – at last!

Six months ago, my book Mudhoney: The Sound And The Fury From Seattle was published in the UK by Omnibus Press. Now the US edition, published by Voyageur Press, is available online and in bookstores. I’m chuffed to bits.

Mudhoney: The Sound And The Fury From Seattle

The UK cover, with contact sheet images from a 1991 NME photo shoot by Steve Double.

There’s no real difference between the US and UK versions, beyond of course the Americanised text (that’s ‘Americanized’, if you’re reading in America). But I know that people in the States have been looking forward to getting hold of the book without shelling out big bucks on import, so I’m glad it’s finally available.

If you want a taste before committing to purchase, SPIN recently ran an extract. It looked awesome, and they also had some very kind things to say.

I’ll have more news on the US publication soon.