The following article was
originally written by Josh Wilson for High Times magazine, but since
virtually nobody reading this would have seen it, and because it gives a
unique and somewhat different insight into both Mudhoney, their apparently
controversial appearance at Terrastock II in San Francisco (which seemed to
come as a surprise to all but Mudhoney themselves and the more knowing
Terrascope faithful) and an interesting outsider’s perspective on the
Terrastock festivals, I thought it would be fun to run it here. Besides
which, it was a good excuse to feature one or two of the better photographs
from the event. Mudhoney’s Mark Arm had minor reservations, remarking “Not
to pick nits, but I would think that most Terrascope readers are a bit more
savy than your average High Times subscriber and are probably quite aware
that ‘Grunge’ was nothing more than a marketing sham and are probably not
all that interested at this point. But don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a
well written article and does hit most of the right buttons concerning T2 &
Mudhoney” – so with that rider, and with apologies in advance for any
offence caused by cringe-making neologisms such as “lovefest” which are
buried in the following text, we’ll head on out into the mainstream:
What the hell was a loud and menacing band like Mudhoney
doing in hippy-dippy San Francisco this past April, playing at the second
annual neo-psychedelic lovefest known as Terrastock? Getting back to their
roots.
“When we started out Mudhoney was influenced by the badass
psychedelic music of the ’60s, The Stooges and Blue Cheer,” admits frontman
Mark Arm. True to that spirit, Terrastock was three-day orgy of reverb,
fuzz, and drug-induced musical experimentation. By turns rockin’, arty, and
just plain far-out, it was an off-the-scales weekend. Mudhoney fit in just
fine.
“Thank you ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the bummer of
your trip,” cracked Arm as he and the boys took to the stage, laying down a
closing-night set soaked in distorted slide guitar and head-stretching
wah-wah. Cubbyholed by critics as a “grunge” band, and playing material
exclusively from their [then] forthcoming album [‘Tomorrow Hits Today’ on
Reprise, reviewed last issue], Mudhoney nevertheless revealed their
decidedly retro-roots that evening. One new tune, heavy with dark bluesy
riffing, even quoted Black Sabbath, the evil wizards of rock and heroes to
alienated stoners the world over.
“That’s in there. I dunno if we’re channelling shit or what.
The first Sabbath album is really psychedelic in a bad-trip way,” Arm said a
few days after the fest. “I don’t wish this on anyone, but I was kinda
hoping there’d be a bad-trip tent. Like, ‘Oh wow, this is a very
psychedelic-festival happening.’ Not that I’d enjoy watching people have a
bad time!” he laughs. “But you know what I mean.”
In fact, there were no freakouts at all, even with plenty of
other dark and scary bands on the bill, like doomsday rockers Brother JT &
Vibrolux, interstellar mutants Subarachnoid Space, and a maniacal Theramin
trio known as the Lothars. Stark contrast to your average happy-hippy music
fest, which usually features a medical tent for acid casualties and other
emergencies. “Maybe bands like It’s A Beautiful Day make people have bad
trips,” deadpans Arm, referring to one of the more saccharine-coated
flowerchild acts of the ‘60s.
Corporate rock still sucks
Terrastock — named for Ptolemaic Terrascope, a specialty
‘zine catering to fans of psychedelia in all its guises — was a remarkable
celebration of music that, while historic and international in scope, has
been largely marginalized by a mainstream entertainment industry hungry for
commodities and cash cows. It’s a familiar problem to Mudhoney, who have a
unique perspective as both the forefathers and orphans of the early-90s
grunge feeding-frenzy. With the passing of those giddy days, the “Seattle
sound” — once a juggernaut of vitriol and fuzz — has been emasculated, and
now meekly produces music according to target-market demographics. Most of
the biggest acts have broken up, faded away, or nimbly morphed into
compelling but ordinary stadium rockers.
Once upon a time — say, the early ’80s — Seattle was just
another American metropolis, notable for its rainy, chilly Pacific Northwest
climate. Perched on the edge of the Puget Sound, and bracketed by the
densely forested Cascade and Olympic mountains, residents wore flannel to
stay warm, and clomped around in hiking boots because it was a good way to
keep their feet dry. Most of the kids up there were pretty typical. You had
your stoners and nerds and metalheads and greasers. They formed high school
bands for the same reason any other kid would: Because it was fun, because
they were smarter than their guidance counsellors, because [latterday]
Fleetwood Mac was boring and sucked. Maybe they had some dreams of stardom
as well. Little did they know.
Mark Arm’s high school band, Mr. Epp and the Calculations,
was named in typical class-clown fashion for one of his math teachers. Mr.
Epp, and another Arm venture of that day, the Limp Richerds, enjoyed
tremendously bad reputations. By ’84 Arm had helped form Green River — a
waterway notorious as the haunt of a serial killer — with future Mudhoney
guitarist Steve Turner, and other area luminaries. In ’88 Mudhoney itself
took shape. It was a fertile period for local music, with area label Sub Pop
releasing truckloads of vinyl as current and future members of bands like
Sound Garden, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and sludgemonsters The Melvins all floated
about, recombining their musical DNA in various ways, and engaging in all
sorts of raucous shenannigans. In ’92, when Kurt ’n Co. blew the lid of the
commercial jackpot with Nevermind, all the local bands got an extraordinary
boost, some becoming genuine megastars.
But it was a fleeting moment, and damnably disingenuous at
that: Music critics and marketing hacks began bandying about the word
“grunge” as a catch-all for the regional sound, in the process turning it
into a pre-chewed media commodity. Clothing models in magazines sported
flannel-n-boots, pushing a new hipster uniform to legions of clueless kids
who equate rebellion with purchasing power. Perhaps the nadir of this
gluttenous trend-mongering was when, on November 15, 1992, the New York
Times — the staid, seemingly omniscient and decidedly Establishment daily —
published a glossary of “grunge speak,” straight from the streets of
Seattle. Doubtless, it was an attempt to maintain credibility as arbiters of
style. Too bad their source, Megan Jasper of Sub Pop Records, was feeding
them nine yards of bullshit. While on tour in England, says Arm, someone
showed them a reprint of the article in a teen magazine. “We hadn’t even
heard of this thing that Meghan had done ... we’re cracking up, reading this
list of how people talk in Seattle. And so all the interviews we did in
England for that tour, we threw in as many of those phrases as possible.”
The prank was eventually revealed, and the Gray Lady wiped the egg off her
face. But it didn’t matter: the mass-media phenomenon of “grunge” had become
a sickly distortion of the truth.
By the time 1995’s “My Brother The Cow” came out, Arm says,
“we knew it was already long gone and over ... ‘Grunge’ was always used in
this household to describe a nasty-sounding record, nasty guitar sounds,
screaming vocals. Most of the stuff that came out of Seattle and is called
grunge doesn’t sound all that dirty to me,” said Arm.
The beast reborn
Take heart, lover of filth. “Grunge” — as a coinage of the
music-industry marketing engine — isn’t just dead. It has putrefied and
turned back into soil. And you should be glad. Out of rot springs new
growth, and as usual the field is thick with the corpses of concocted genres
and cookie cutter clone bands. It’s fertile ground, and something
interesting has taken root there — Terrastock, a shambling swamp-thing of a
music festival, a lumbering assemblage of long-buried musical detritus
knitted together by vigorous but twisted new growth. That’s why Mudhoney
came to San Francisco: to get a bit closer to a burgeoning but defiantly
nonmainstream community of music lovers.
“I really liked the attitude behind it,” says Arm. “It was an
honor to be asked to play.”
Although the show was sold out several months early, with
well over 900 attendees flying in from as far as Europe and Asia, Terrastock
was notable for its near-total lack of Top-40 appeal, or music-industry
profiteering. Like the other 36 bands on the bill, Mudhoney donated their
time, and the promoters just about broke even after putting most of the
ticket money into the event’s impressive facilities (three sumptuous
soundstages deep in San Francisco’s warehouse district).
“I didn’t get there until Saturday afternoon at about 3,
3:30. I missed [Japanese space-rockers] Ghost, and as we were pulling up
these people were all out front going, ‘Oh my GOD,’ “ said Arm, referring to
the guitarist Kurihara’s apocalyptic, wah-wah-supremo soloing.
Terrastock featured a truly breathtaking array of unknown
legends, underground heroes, and up-and-coming fringe superstars. Performers
included psychedelic-guitar-meister The Bevis Frond; thunderous Philadelphia
fuzzmonsters Bardo Pond; New Zealand’s ambient-guitar ubermensch Roy
Montgomery; veteran punk goofballs the Young Fresh Fellows; and bonafide
’60s legends Mick Farren of the Deviants, Tom Rapp of Pearls Before Swine,
and the Silver Apples — to name but a few.
“I really enjoyed the Alchemysts, Neutral Milk Hotel, Tom
Rapp — that was really really great; Brother JT was AMAZING,” says Arm. “Our
interest in music is very broad. Between the four of us it’s pretty deep,
too,” says Arm. “All kinds of stuff gets thrown in the stew. Some people
might not see it, but they definitely taste it.”
©1998-99 by Josh Wilson. Introduction and editing by Phil
McMullen, (c) Ptolemaic Terrascope. With special thanks to Mark Arm and
Steve Turner.