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"I GET CYNICAL" | PAGE 1, 2
You mentioned that you want to try other art forms. I don't want to do young people music forever because I'm not going to be a young person -- I'm going to be young at heart forever, but physically and wisdom-wise, I'm just not that naive anymore. You get burned, you know? I get cynical. To remedy this, I've been teaching myself cello. I love the cello as an instrument. It's like the weird marriage of what I say and what I do. It's strings that are resonating in an attempt to somehow emulate the voice box. What I do with strings on a guitar is percussive. What cellos do is stressed like a vocal chord. The body of the cello is like lungs. It's this weird marriage of voice and instrument. It's really beautiful. Do you want to write? Do I want to write? Yes. But I'm hesitant to say that. Culture for the last 10 or 15 years has been so much about people cross-platforming themselves -- like "Baywatch" calendar girl-turned-pop singer. It scares me. What do I aspire to? I'd like to write a book. I'd also like to be on the usage panel for American Heritage dictionary. You know, I don't know -- can I parlay some known talent into some other genre? I think I'm good with words. Writing a book is a lot of work. I have great short stories. I have some really great short stories. Writing is perpetually a solitary act. Can you give up playing with a group? I don't know. I'd like to be in a group if I wasn't the instigator. Sugar was a group based around my reputation and my work, as opposed to Hüsker Dü, which was three completely unknown people that were in a group naturally. If I could do that -- be part of a jazz combo playing an instrument I don't normally play, something where I'm not a featured component -- that would be fine. I don't want to be a centerpiece of a group because then I might as well be by myself. Have you ever written songs with someone else? Many years ago Paul Westerberg and I sat down and tried to write some stuff together and it was pretty messy. Why did Sugar end? Sugar's last show was in Japan in '95. It was a real peaceful parting of the ways. About three months before that, in October of '94, Sugar was on the road. We were touring the final record. Really trying to make it a big record. In hindsight, it wasn't about trying to build something as much as holding this existing success together. Which is sort of tiring because it's not like you're going uphill, it's more being underneath the weight of the world, propping it up, trying to keep it a success. It was right after a New York show at Roseland that we had an off night in Connecticut. David, the bass player, and I were going on a long walk for about three hours. David instigated the walk. I sensed something was up. Something was up inside of me as well. David was like, "I got three kids. I have to be at home." I was like, "I'm glad to hear that. This isn't working for me. I'm stressed out. Playing is really fun. Being your friend is really fun, but everything else is dragging my shit down. I feel like I'm a used car salesman right now. It's not about music anymore, it's about holding this product up and selling it." Has anyone told the Hüsker Dü story? Some people have tried to write the book, but I'm not cooperating. I think it might be too soon, really. You ever perform Hüsker Dü songs live? I've never played them in an electric band setting with other people before, but I've done acoustic show settings where I'll play anything I've written. By the same token I didn't play the "Black Sheets" and "Workbook" [Mould solo albums] stuff with Sugar either. I tried to keep the electric sections separate as some nod of respect to the people who created that sound with me at the time. To try to replicate what Hüsker Dü did sonically with other people -- I don't know if it can be done. I can only approximate it. I play the old Hüsker acoustic stuff by myself. It's fun. I like it. Do you wish you could ever get Hüsker Dü off your neck? Yeah. But I can't, so I don't worry about it. It's a blessing and curse. It's an albatross. It's a Super Sized Meal. It's a lot of things. I don't mind. I can't change it. I can only play with it. Try to shape it, steer it, make it a positive thing. Can you ever imagine playing with those guys again? With Hüsker Dü? No. And it's nothing personal, except in my own world. It has nothing to do with them, it has to do with me. I'm not an angry 20-year-old kid anymore. I don't know if I can conjure up that anger and that kind of frustration again. As I get older I'm more at peace with a lot of those demons. I don't know where they reside now. I love your contribution to the Richard Thompson tribute album. What I admire about Thompson is his perseverance to art. I heard tapes of his first version of "Shoot Out the Lights" and it was really, really good. I don't see how he had the courage to scrap it anyway and re-record the album, which, of course, turned out to be even better, a masterpiece. Who are your heroes? Richard is one -- someone I really respect as a guitarist and a storyteller. He's the master, you know, with the guitar playing. He's the master. It's a little embarrassing. Some people will hear music and get real inspired to play. Sometimes I hear Richard play acoustic shows and I just want to quit. It's just like "OK. Forget it. It's just pointless." Pete Townshend is a really innovative player. A real different style than I've got. But as a storyteller a kindred soul. Kevin Shields, the mastermind behind My Bloody Valentine's records, he's someone who's got the right feel, the right feel on all of it. How do you achieve your recorded sound? All your songs have this subliminal electric rumble -- a shimmering. Do you do a lot of overdubs? Yes. As much as possible when it needs it. I love making layers of sound. I love Phil Spector. I love Brian Wilson. I like layers of sound. Is your guitar like a dog? I would be very, very sad if something happened to this guitar. [Pause.] But life would go on. Something else would take its place eventually, but it would be pretty tragic right away. Though
not as severe as a dog. But I don't know, I've had it longer than my dog. The
dog breathes without me breathing into it, but the guitar is just a piece of
shit without me doing something with it.
David Bowman is a regular contributor to Salon. |
