Gig Review: One Man Bandit — Bob Mould races through his back catalogue with grit, speed, sweat, and could barely find the time to lose his voice…

I so remember gig reviews, largely because I used to write them. And before that, I was raised on them. So I’m trying to bring them back. No one cares, no one pays, but maybe people still read them?

Bob Mould

San Fran, Wellington

Friday, November 22

Bob Mould took the stage, revved up his guitar like it was the motorbike that was going to get him all the way across the island on a single tank, and hit straight into The War, one of the big songs of his solo career, the biggest from 2014’s Beauty & Ruin. Mould’s made a large handful of terrific solo albums, particularly a late run across the last decade and a half, pumping out power-pop gems that still hint at his hardcore/punk roots. And of course before that, there was the idiosyncratic time of his first few solo albums, the power-trio, Sugar (in the 90s) and his defining work as one half of the songwriting team, and the front man of 80s legends, Hüsker Dü.

So if there was little chat, just Bob and his guitar tearing through the catalogue, it was because Mould is committed, still, to simply doing the work.

The War is the song in which Mould finally lay to rest his complicated feelings about his father, and in a way, Mould’s style of songwriting, and the performance of those songs, is one of wrestling and then wrangling. He grapples with the deep feelings from his psyche, then tears at his guitar to toss the songs down into place. There’s nothing virtuoso about his guitar playing, at first. But then again, there is. It wasn’t even that he was really playing ‘a guitar’, merely using one to be his band for the night. A wall of sound was built from Mould playing schoolyard-tag guitar solos in and around the rhythm work which more closely resembled that of a drummer’s timekeeping than any rhythm guitarist; fast and furious, the songs tumbled from the stage.

Straight into a couple of lean, Hüsker Dü gems, Flip Your Wig, the title track from the band’s 1985 record, and then I Apologise from the same year’s other group record, New Day Rising. It was almost a medley of sound, if not songs, very little pause for banter or applause, just a man with a job to do. And you could at first be forgiven for thinking Mould had somewhere else to be later that night as he launched straight into a crowd-pleasing Hoover Dam (from Sugar’s 1992 debut, Copper Blue.

Occasionally he would move either side of the microphone, to acknowledge the crowd, but for the most part it was eyes focussed, foot on the floor, driving the songs home hard.

A big run of solo material followed, from Stand Guard (1990’s Black Sheets of Rain), Siberian Butterfly (2020’s Blue Hearts), Sinners And Their Repentances (1989’s solo debut, Workbook). To hear these songs — and many more (Next Generation, Keep Believing) — was to feel the through-line of Mould’s songwriting; stripped of a rhythm section the songs were urgent, paced-up a tad if anything, and delivered as if staggeringly vital still, but also almost as if they were written and/or recorded in the same gigantic burst.

His voice was giving way, something he acknowledged, an occupational hazard when you’re on your own, and aging, and nightly shouting over your own electric guitar accompaniment, but like a true soldier of the stage he battled on and made it across the line.

The downsides of the evening were that the actual sound could have been bigger — louder if anything, especially to begin with — and, connected to that, one of those brutal know-it-all audiences that music of this era seems to attract. A pack of drinking talkers, basically there to collect or show off their badge of fandom. They were there back in their uni days, and now they’re running the victory lap. Or, they never previously had the chance but want to show they’ve always been a fan. Least favourite type of audience to be part of, I kept moving away from groups of absolute cunts — there just to chat with the music in the background.

Maybe Mould can take a tiny bit of blame here too, in that the dynamics of just a single electric guitar and a voice meant that there was a sameness to the delivery, and songs could blur. Particularly in the middle, as he hit deep into the solo records. It was almost as if people felt that gave them the license to talk when they didn’t recognise the tune.

But I love this sort of performance, for the vulnerability of it — nowhere to go, and can only sink if the songs don’t swim. To that end, Walls In Time, the album closer from 2008’s District Line has never been my favourite Mould song, but this performance was stunning; the longest song of the evening, Bob sat deep in the tune, took his time, and really churned those chords into a groove of their own.

The big reward was just around the corner too, a brace of tunes from my personal favourite Hüsker record, 1986’s Candy Apple Grey. First it was Too Far Down, and then Hardly Getting Over It — both arriving now with whimsy and nostalgia, but also still so potent, so deep. The sorts of songs that hit you hard on first listen, and stay with you forever. To hear them delivered in this way was easily the highlight of the evening for me. And plenty around me seemed to finish their conversations, or at least pause them for a few minutes, to sing along with Bob.

So it was great to see him — to hear him — and to experience that great range of songs. But gigs in pubs, particularly when sold out, can be a challenge. Fuck all those clowns that believe they paid their money so can do what they like. The Bob Dylan of Hardcore Punk was on stage still working through his journey, wrestling and wrangling with his tunes. The Ray Davies of the American 80s underground was still vitally doing his thing. It was sad that some other people thought several beers, and the chance to talk about their own glory days was a fitting duet partner.

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