I Saw God and/or Bob Mould

Typical exchange, post-Mould gig.

Q: "What did you think of the show, J?"

A: (Wiping flecks of spittle from his slackjawed face) "Uhhh... I'll let you know when I've regained my powers of speech."

***

Half-stumbled, half-floated to the Rosewood Theater just in time to miss opener Donovan Monday, and -- with no-cal Moose Houseblend (black -- no cream, no sugar) in one paw, hi-cal Can-O-Feckin-Beamish in the other -- found a spot up frontwise, stage leftwise, where fellow "Let's-Listen-To-Zen-Arcade-On-Acid-Tonight" veteran and Morgantown punk staple Jeff "A" Antonini harrangued me about choosing not to open the show (I would have, if I didn't have to wake up at 7AM that morning, commute an hour to work and an hour back, etc. Sure, I gave the esteemed Robin MacWehrlebird the same harrangue -- he shoulda! -- but I digress, me hearties...). Acourse others were there, as Mould does indeed inspire a rabid, Madonnalike following; but instead of a plethora of teenage gurls in teased hair, black lingerie, fingerless lace gloves and Rosary beads the place was buzzing with thirtyfivefourtyish guys with the distinctive Mould "look": tallish, bookish, sexually ambiguous gents with close-cropped hair, work shirt tucked into belted blue Levi 501s, black work shoes, well-worn copy of Our Band Could Be Your Life or New Day Rising tucked away in canvas messenger bag for a hopeful postgig autograph. Glaven. I myself was gonna bring some Husker vinyl for the same purpose but I didn't wanna go all Chris Farley on poor Bob's ass like I did in '92.

Unsurprisingly, a representative from (just about) every worthwhile Morgantown band (Pabst and present) was in the hizzy. Not a shock, considering how Our Man (like fellow SST alumnus Mike Watt, a musician's musician) rewrote the book on his chosen instrument (an inspiration to everyone from Kurt "Sensitive Pisces Jesus Man" Cobain to Kevin "Pass The Fookin Donuts Ye Radge Ye" Shields), and by cracky, these blessed volume junkies didn't bat an reddened eye when His Mouldness strapped on his 12-string acoustic and launched into a frenzied, red-throated rendition of "Wishing Well" (from his outstanding, Richard Thompson-ish solo album Workbook) simply 'cos they knew that said 12-string would be the loudest, biggest, rudest, room-filling 12-string they've ever heard.

Having been absent from Mould giggage for upwards of a decade (Sugar at the Trocadero in Philly, 1995), It didn't take me long to notice a change in Uncle Bobbo's demeanour (and I ain't just talking about his fresh-from-Gold's-Gym guns, or the short, snowy beard either); the guy actually looked happy fer Chrissake; aside form perhaps one-odd dirty look to the soundman, gone was the famous Mould glower, replaced by an at-ease, almost self-deprecating humor (don't let the hi-volume, hi-energy, hi-angst body of work fool you, the man is an absolute sweetie). Of course, he didn't say a whole heck of a lot, as he had a lot of work to do. And what work! Mould rolled through a sprawling, epic batch of songs on both his 12-string, and his Sugar-era blue Stratocaster -- a setlist comprised of meteoric nuggets of joy and rage that must have been psychically culled from my own gray matter: "Wishing Well", "Celebrated Summer", "Egoverride","Circles","Favorite Thing", "Beating Heart The Prize","If I Can't Change Your Mind","Chartered Trips" (Holyfuck!! Chartered Fuckin Trips!),"Thumbtack", "See A Little Light","High Fidelity","The Act We Act","I Apologize","Sinners and Their Repentances", "Hardly Getting Over It","Paralyzed", "No Reservations"... each volley of song more intense than the last, Mould wrapped snakelike around the microphone stand, left leg pumping like a demonic piston, hands flailing on the strings of his Strat as if there were a loud, raggedly glorious band behind him.

Perfect.

After the encore (which included Husker Du's almost-hit "Makes No Sense At All"), and the second of two standing ovations, Mould left the stage to (in true D.I.Y. fashion) sell some merch and exchange words with the reverent masses, who--their minds being blown finestyle by Bob's set--left the room and went home recharged, inspired with the age-old punk ideal that Bob, like you and I, is an ordinary person, but an ordinary person who does extraordinary things.