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Bob Mould Solo Acoustic
Birchmere Auditorium in Alexandria, VA
Some time in late November, 2005

I’ve never been to the Birchmere auditorium / dinner club-esque system before. There was lots of available parking, and while walking through the rain to the door, at no time did I feel that I was going to be stabbed in the neck with an icepick. It may have been a misperception on my part. Suffice to say, I was not icepicked before or after the show.

In addition to being the Godfather of Alternative Rock, Bob Mould wears many other hats: blogger, rock guitar maestro, producer, Mac advocate. He may unofficially be the hardest-working man in rock, and I think he approaches his job - to share his pain by making your eardrums bleed - in a very professional, workmanlike manner. In the solo acoustic setting (actually, only half the set was acoustic, played on a twelve string that refused to stay in tune; Bob indicated said guitar was not long for this world, that we may in fact be privy to its swan song), the mission is only slightly modified - make audience eardrums bleed, softly.

Things started on slightly down note when, upon approaching the box office and asking if this is where I could pick up Will Call tickets, I was stared at by the mongoloid within the box for approximately ten seconds before being told, “yeah”. I’ll only say that it is not always the case that Will Call tickets are picked up at the standard box office. Perhaps the response was driven by my appearance - long-sleeve t-shirt, shorts, generally wet and disheveled and speaking profanely. Perhaps I’ll let it go only indicating that thoughts of ice picks again crossed my mind, but then Eric and I had our tickets, and we were in. I’ll repeat: WE WERE IN.

We grabbed a beer and some smokes while Kristin Hersh finished her set. I’m sure it was good, we just didn’t see it. For Tanya Donelly, I probably would have made the effort. It’s sad, but true: I’m a bad person.

We walked in and took seats way stage right (the main area was fairly packed) as Bob ripped into “Wishing Well”, which has been his standard opener the three times I’ve seen him play acoustic. He was looking trim and healthy, and I made a mental note to - soon - shave my head completely, as I’m going bald, and it’s reaching the point where it’s sort of embarrassing, as the receding hairline is starting to team up with the big bald spot at the crown. One in my position could always go for the Picard, I guess, but really what’s the point? Bald is beautiful. We’ll see what my fiance feels about that. Seeing Mould in this mode - fit, balanced - also makes me want to quit smoking. One thing at a time. Bald first. Then getting over my disdain for mockery at secret Will Call windows. Then… the sky’s the limit.

Having missed dinner, I was quite peckish, and ordered what I soon determined was probably the worst possible food item for a live music venue where said music isn’t pummeling the crowd in excess of 140 dB - nachos. A small panic attack overtook me when they arrived, and I realized I was facing the real possibility of pissing off not only those around me (three couples; it was fairly empty in our section), but the performer as well. Since I have more respect for Bob than any other musician on the planet, this was worrisome, but I soon developed a two-step methodology that I figured could keep us all alive and happy: a) only eat a nacho when the music was playing; and b) take the entire nacho, stick it into my mouth, and more or less b1) swallow it whole, letting my stomach do the “chewing” or b2) chew said nacho with my powerful throat muscles. I think Bob was none the wiser, or at least he tastefully refrained from asking, “I wonder how the nachos are tonight, jerk” between numbers. The guy sitting between us and the stage, however, was clearly annoyed, and turned around approximately a dozen times, ever time I finished another intense esophageal chew. Again I was awash in a sea of icepick-thoughts, but he was in the right, no denying it. Soon, however, the 3000 calorie nacho plate was done, and with a few songs left in the set, no less! But by then Bob was plugged in, so it really didn’t matter; had I more nachos to eat (and believe me, I wished I did; they were pretty good), I could have eaten them with impunity, getting right up in Anti-Nacho’s kit and slathering my face with nacho cheese and salsa that was delicious, if not spicy.

Bob was joined by Richard Morel (keyboards; Blowoff partner) and a talented elvish woman on some sort of large stringed instrument (cello? bass? I’m not a journalist; it was black with red trim, if that helps anyone; and it had a bow) for about half the set. Set list below. If you’ve never seen Mould do a live acoustic show, here’s the protocol, boiled to extreme over-simplification:

P1) Bob plays a bunch of songs with a 12 string acoustic guitar. Eardrums bleed, due to the sheer sonic brilliance.

P2) Between numbers, Bob is a little chatty as he retunes the guitar in its entirety. We learned, as I already mentioned, that he was about to give his 12 string ax the… ax, after fifteen years of service, and it is sometimes hard to let go (a theme referenced in many of Bob’s songs, and a sort of universal truth). Then Bob chuckles and rips into another song.

P3) I eat nachos so loudly that an elf could shoot me in the dark.

P4) I become somewhat annoyed at Anti-Nachos, who is upset by my nacho-eating, but can’t do anything about it, because he’s in the right. I do hate him, though.

P5) Bob hits a few key emotional high points (for me, they’re “Poison Years” and “Brazillia Crossed With Trenton” and “Celebrated Summer”), and puts on a comprehensive, value-oriented show. It’s his job, and he knows it, and it’s refreshing.

P6) Bob switches to his Blue Strat and plays solo, plugged in. The earbleeding begins in earnest. Then, the feedback solos. A whole new world, this one made out of tones instead of atoms and quarks, is created.

Bob did let the veil slip when he noted that most nights onstage, performers are off thinking about whatever performers, who are in fact human, think about - paying the cable bill or the need to remember to pick up kitty litter on the way home from the gig - and that last night was not one of those nights, indicating that his reason for slipping part way through “Wishing Well” was a twinge of pain caused by the realization that his twelve string was soon bound for the toothpick factory in the sky. Then, in homage, a twelve minute feedback solo followed, to the amazement of all, as Bob rammed his blue Strat into the twelve string again, and again, and again, skewering it as if it were a gladiator, and he was Titus Pullo. At one point (around the thirteenth minute of the feedback solo, actually), Bob started shouting “Thirteen! Thirteen!” with each thrust of the Strat. Then he tore directly into “See A Little Light”, which was punctuated by several more feedback solos, at the end of each verse. After that, the strings on both the acoustic and electric guitars an unholy howling as they were grated across each other in some form of strange guitar tribadism, Mould, profusely sweating from the Herculean exertion, launched directly into a medley (now, keep in mind, this is with no backing band… just Bob and distorted Strat) of “Ice Cold Ice”, “Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill”, and “Data Control” after being joined on stage (wait, so there was a backing band!), amazingly by Grant Hart and Greg Norton, his former Husker Du bandmates. After another feedback solo (this one twenty-five minutes long), the show was torn down (and people were actually standing for this, which was a first) by a speed-metal rendition of “In A Free Land”. Hart smashed his drum kit, while Bob helped - any previous rifts between them sealed forever through the healing forces of a true metal circus. This was so amazing that the guy sitting in front us actually stopped checking to see if I was eating nachos for three or four seconds.

It’s possible that little or nothing in the last paragraph happened (same is true for this entire review), but they were thoughts that crossed my mind during “Circles” from Bob’s latest, Body of Song. The fact that I had the thought is in no way a slight of Bob’s performance, which was immaculate (I mean, did anyone notice the “mess up” on “Wishing Well”?), but just a fantasy of something I would like to see before I die, but know I probably won’t.

Bob’s an iconoclast, and is one of the few real embodiments of true, lasting, meaningful punk rock.

My only disappointment for the evening, set list-wise, was not hearing “Semper Fi”, because I really love that fife and the line “it’s a total f***ing travesty”. Overall, I wish happiness for Bob in the New Year, and every New Year, and hope I get to see him many more times. He is a bit of an inspiration to me, and for any and all who wish to be without whole eardrums.

Afterwards, after a professional reviewed the shredded remains of our eardrums and declared the situation hopeless, Eric and I returned to the bar for more beers - a mini power hour, as it were. Bob came out and signed some autographs, and I saw that guy from the WIll Call box walking around, and glared at him, shooting mental ice picks from my shredded eardrums, which were now a mental icepick launcher. Eric asked me if I was going to go ask Bob about his “dolphin sightings” referenced on his blog, and I indicated no, that although I believed rock gods are somewhat human, I would be unable to say anything to Bob that wasn’t humiliating to both of us and that he didn’t already know (ex. “You’re awesome”, “You made my eardrums bleed!”, “I’m going bald, and I’m going to shave my head, what do you think?”). Although he seems like the kind of guy who would be content to hang out and talk about his Mac, a topic of much interest.