Mudhoney, Astoria, May 30 2004
Mudhoney might not have patented the grunge blueprint, but they sure as hell outlived it and their Seattle peers. By sticking to their tried and tested recipe of one part Black Sabbath-inspired grinding riffs, one part ‘Nuggets’-influenced garage punk and a whole dollop of snotty attitude liberally topped off with more than a sprinkling of humour, Mudhoney are still gleefully trading their primitively raucous and altogether unholy brand of rock’n’roll.
And rock’n’roll is firmly on tonight’s agenda. Setting the tone is former Thee Headcoatees chanteuse, the delightful Holly Golightly. Going even further back than the headliners for inspiration, Golightly draws heavily on the early R’n’B of legendary pioneers Ray Charles and Ike Turner and, as displayed by the deadpan vocal delivery on the bluesy ‘Walk In My Shoes’, insinuates a world-weariness not a million miles away from her Breakfast At Tiffanys namesake.
Mudhoney, on the other hand, are far from weary, worldly or otherwise. And if you thought they were going soft in their old age by introducing horns on their last album, 2002’s largely excellent comeback, ‘Since We’ve Became Translucent’, think again. Despite guitarist Steve Turner resembling the kind of hirsute academic that once graced University Challenge, Mudhoney are as lean and musically obnoxious as ever. ‘Suck You Dry’ gallops along at a fair old pace, with singer-guitarist Mark Arm as exuberant and buoyant as ever. Even if the mix errs on the sludgy – a point that could be taken as praise rather than criticism in some circles – Arm’s enthusiasm manages to crawl under the skin like scabies (but without the irritation and need for medical assistance).
Rarely pausing for breath, Mudhoney hurtle through their set with the wild abandon of a drunk driver on steroids. ‘Where The Flavour Is’ twists and turns with a feral extremity and goes a long way to highlighting their appeal. Short, sharp and to the point, it’s this kind of strength that also exposes their weaknesses; Mudhoney are at their peak when their best ideas are crammed into the confines of three minutes but once they stray from these parameters, as with an elongated ‘Sonic Infusion’, the interest level, in tandem with the quality of the song, tends to dip. Still, who cares when you’re being treated to the evergreen unpleasantness of the gloriously stupid ‘Touch Me I’m Sick’?
In a week where the reunion trail starts in earnest, Mudhoney are the kind of band that make you fall to your knees and thank your God that they never really went away.
That said, when’s the next album, guys?
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