guest writer - marcus beaubier, archbishop of canterbury( like the eggs, but not)
Last night I met Bob Mould. He is my rock God. His music is the rock upon which I built my church. From the early days of Husker Du, to now, his music has had a significant impact on me. I have found a comfort in it. Even in the wall of noise his guitar makes, I have always felt like I was in the eye of the storm. For all his anger and intensity, in some foolhardy way, I liked to believe that I related to the things he was saying.
Now generally I’m not too much into hero worship, (Well not anymore… Especially if you excuse my near depraved love of hockey) but he would definitely be an exception. I’ve waited nearly 17 years to see him live, and last night was worth the wait. It paid off in spades.
The show was one of Mould’s now infamous solo performances, just him slinging his famous blue telecaster and kicking up a storm. I was fully and completely mesmerized. I lapped in every chord, and beamed like a retarded kid with a big bag of candy at the start of each new song. He drew back into his catalogue and hauled out what I would describe as the New American Songbook. I’m not sure I’ve ever been that giddy at a concert.
I wasn’t alone either. I was happily lost in a sea of old punks, most of whom have turned “respectable” over the years. No Mohawks and biker jackets here, just polar fleece and sensible winter boots. There were a lot of familiar faces in the crowd. Gone was the whirly gig slam dancing, and no one puking in the corner. The smell of piss and punk piety had been replaced but round tables and soft candlelight. (My how the times have changed.)
But the spirit was the same. For nearly two hours the champion of DIY Alternative rock reminded us all about the good old days. It was like a time capsule of all the good things from back then. There was none of that “old scene” political bullshit, no drama of who overdosed or who got jacked up by the cops. It was just about the music. That was just too fucking cool for words.
The capper on the evening was getting to meet Bob. He was by himself, selling his CD’s at the back of the room after the show. I walked up to him, extended my arm and said hello.
“Hi… I’m Bob.”
It struck me as funny. He was so up front and matter of fact in his demeanor. We talked for a just a couple of minutes. He was very gracious and polite. He looked me in the eye as he spoke to me. He seemed to be actually interested in what I had to say. When I told him how long I had waited to see him, his eyes popped open in surprise. He looked at me for a second, and then smiled. He knew that this was really a very cool thing for me, and he let me have my moment. How cool is that?
It was great. It was one of those times where I very happily wasn’t let down. My hero was just an average schmo like me. Modest and genuine, and willing to listen.
It likely will be one of my most favorite memories of all time.
Now generally I’m not too much into hero worship, (Well not anymore… Especially if you excuse my near depraved love of hockey) but he would definitely be an exception. I’ve waited nearly 17 years to see him live, and last night was worth the wait. It paid off in spades.
The show was one of Mould’s now infamous solo performances, just him slinging his famous blue telecaster and kicking up a storm. I was fully and completely mesmerized. I lapped in every chord, and beamed like a retarded kid with a big bag of candy at the start of each new song. He drew back into his catalogue and hauled out what I would describe as the New American Songbook. I’m not sure I’ve ever been that giddy at a concert.
I wasn’t alone either. I was happily lost in a sea of old punks, most of whom have turned “respectable” over the years. No Mohawks and biker jackets here, just polar fleece and sensible winter boots. There were a lot of familiar faces in the crowd. Gone was the whirly gig slam dancing, and no one puking in the corner. The smell of piss and punk piety had been replaced but round tables and soft candlelight. (My how the times have changed.)
But the spirit was the same. For nearly two hours the champion of DIY Alternative rock reminded us all about the good old days. It was like a time capsule of all the good things from back then. There was none of that “old scene” political bullshit, no drama of who overdosed or who got jacked up by the cops. It was just about the music. That was just too fucking cool for words.
The capper on the evening was getting to meet Bob. He was by himself, selling his CD’s at the back of the room after the show. I walked up to him, extended my arm and said hello.
“Hi… I’m Bob.”
It struck me as funny. He was so up front and matter of fact in his demeanor. We talked for a just a couple of minutes. He was very gracious and polite. He looked me in the eye as he spoke to me. He seemed to be actually interested in what I had to say. When I told him how long I had waited to see him, his eyes popped open in surprise. He looked at me for a second, and then smiled. He knew that this was really a very cool thing for me, and he let me have my moment. How cool is that?
It was great. It was one of those times where I very happily wasn’t let down. My hero was just an average schmo like me. Modest and genuine, and willing to listen.
It likely will be one of my most favorite memories of all time.
posted by Daniel Loomis | 12:21 AM
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