When Bob Mould came out to readers of glossy music magazines, he couldn’t have known that it made no impact on his sales. File Under: Easy Listening, which had peaked in the top fifty before plummeting, was a dead letter. The alt-rock boom that helped sell more than a quarter million copies of Sugar’s Copper Blue had crested; 1995 was about Live, Better Than Ezra, and the Goo Goo Dolls. Given a choice between Mould pummeling instead of lulling me, I’ll take Copper Blue and the Beaster EP, both of which, I’m glad to say, my colleagues rank as highly as any Hüsker Dü record (“JC Auto” and “Feeling Better” remain best-ever compositions and performances). These days FU:El sounds, as Eric Harvey noted in the link, tired and grumpy; in 1994 I skipped “Panama City Motel,” “Granny Cool,” David Barbe’s catatonic “Company Man” whereas every song on Copper Blue left azure-orange trails to match its sleeve. But as my Stylus reappraisal of FU:EL I hope makes clear, no other devotee of punk guitar deserved it more than Mould.
File Under: Easy Listening
What shamed Bob Mould made him a hero. Like the rest of us he’s probably happy with the man he sees in the mirror: a ropily attractive fortysomething with a shaved head, openly homosexual, who records intermittently (and likely as not it’ll be an electronic record). Let’s go back a few years—when Mould was overweight, had hair like wilted lettuce, muted his sexuality, and released albums at a frenzied pace (and likely as not they were melodic hardcore records). His anonymity endeared him to us; it mitigated an ambition which pummeled colleagues and competition, with a guitar sound to match.
Sugar—the band he formed almost five years after Hüsker Dü could no longer contain two songwriters of equal talent and varying ambition—was in many ways the ideal situation for a man of Mould’s ego. No rival songwriters competing for album space (and, presumably, boys). An aural sheen as resplendent and impenetrable as chain mail. Bandmates who would do as told. For those of us watching the convulsions in 1992’s rock world Copper Blue represented a bold and—in retrospect—conservative manifesto. In ten dense songs of refulgent efficiency, Mould demonstrated how the professionalism implicitly disdained by Pavement could signify as an aesthetic triumph. No grand gestures or arch jokes here—Copper Blue’s metaphors and hooks are as proletariat as Mould’s serviceable voice. This is bootstrap rock, impatient with miserabilism, but with a candy apple gray core; it smells like post-teen spirit, a Nevermind with Pat Buchanan at the mic.
If you thought Mould was as funny as a smokestack, the title of Sugar’s second full-length release confirmed it. Give him credit for honesty. In the context of his loud-rock career, File Under: Easy Listening is both a repudiation and a statement of noisome predictability: I’ll make you fuckers hum; you’ll hum till you vomit (one listen to “Can’t Hurt You Anymore” will make you loath the sound of a beautiful hook). Eschewing the occasional keyboard flourishes of its predecessors, FU:EL’s arrangements (by sole producer Mould) echo the blam-blam-blam concision of Flip Your Wig, which is to say, sprawl is an urban legend. Really, this is Flip Your Wig with three variations on “Games” and “Makes No Sense At All” and no Grant Hart gumming up the works with angst and Beatles homages. Aerodynamic marvels like “Gift” (the closest thing to Copper Blue’s wind tunnel assault) and “Gee Angel,” are designed, no doubt, according to arcane algorithms vacuum-sealed in their creator’s central processor. “Arcane” because, for all Mould’s lucidity, I still haven’t figured out if “Granny Cool,” the malevolent dismissal of a certain Johnny-come-lately, pokes fun at erstwhile partner Hart or Mould himself, the renascent artist who could never resist reminding interviewers that Nirvana had approached him about producing Nevermind.
What an unexpected development—that Mould, who in Hüsker Dü tolerated the aptly named Spot’s production for so many years, would fetishize clarity, even when it’s at the service, as it plainly is on FU:EL, of a renewed interest in strafing his audience. While “What You Want It to Be” drills its rote chorus into one stubborn wall, the irony of bassist David Barbe’s “Company Man,” the album’s dreary concession to democracy, is lost on its author. But Mould’s love songs (frustratingly gender-neutral, of course) are as luminous as you expect the truth to be, and as muddled if you stare too closely. “Explode & Make Up” snaps like one of those Richard Thompson ballads in which the performer’s murderous intentions keep backfiring; it’s arguments, not reconciliation, that remind lovers that they matter. On “Your Favorite Thing” Mould, taking his quest for anonymity to its inevitable conclusion, wants a place on his lover’s bookshelf. Fat chance; blame the insistence of the guitar line and Malcolm Travis’ drumming. Maybe Mould understands dialectics after all.
A frequent companion to R.E.M.’s Monster in used CD bins, FU:EL found Mould in step with the vagaries of public taste for once; and since he’s as distracted as the proles who never bought Zen Arcade the first time around, he dissolved Sugar the following year. There he was, coming out at last in a lengthy SPIN interview remarkable for its dull candor. We understood perfectly even if the editors didn’