Way back in 1987 (when the term "grunge" was still just ad copy for household disinfectants) Mudhoney forged a hybrid of psychedelia and fuzz rock out of equal parts Iggy and the Stooges, cheap distortion pedals and even cheaper malt liquor. Since then, they've made a ten-year career out of playing some of the best beer-buzzed rhythm-and-blues on the planet without having to shill for "the man."

Since I listened to them a lot when I was younger, I've always considered Mudhoney to be as much a part of my growing up as shoplifting my first Reggie Jackson candy bar and attending my first nitro-burning funny car rally. Indeed, Mudhoney were like the Bar Mitzvah band I never had, providing the soundtrack for my journey from gangly, awkward adolescence to gangly, alcoholic adulthood. They were there from the time I got loaded on my first 6-pack of Schlitz to the glorious projectile vomiting that followed. Like the Replacements before them, their music is about fuckin' up, getting fucked up and being flat-out fucked, but rather than wallowing in this misery, they celebrate it with the joyous abandon of a Polka band during Oktoberfest. At the Bowery Ballroom on September 9th, an assorted crowd of ne'er-do-wells, punch-drunks and underdogs in heat turned out to celebrate life's utter confusion with a collective shrug, sneer, flail and Mudhoney.

This being the last show of their U.S. tour, the band seemed weary, but nonetheless cheerful as they ambled onstage and greeted the volley of guttural cheers and howls with a knowing smirk. They kicked off their set with “When Tomorrow Hits,” a song from their self-titled debut album and whose title bears an eerily similarity to that of their new album When Tomorrow Hits Today. Mark Arm, sparkled silver Gretch guitar in hand, belted out the menacing ballad (or as close to a ballad as can be expected) and repeated the lyrics “When Tomorrow Hits” over and over as if to warn you of the hangover you were sure to feel tomorrow morning.

Mudhoney then ripped into "Who You Drivin' Now" from their immortal album Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. It rocked like a truckload full of gravel. After this song, however, things got a little blurry. I drank way too much during the opening band and as a result, was blind tipsy for much of the night. I'm assuming the next bunch of songs they played was off of the new album, cause I ain't never heard of them before. It sounded pretty cool, but gone is much of the Phil Spectorish “wall of distortion” that I've come to expect from the band. Rather, it's been replaced with lots of slide guitar and more controlled distortion leads, kinda like T-Bone Walker through a Metal Rat distortion pedal.

A break from the new material came with an awesome rendition of "Get Into Yours." A cubic zirconium gem from their first album, this song really brought back that old-style fuzz sound that's their bread and butter. I'm not talking about the fuzz on a peach or the light fuzz above an ethnic girl's lip. No, I'm talking about that deep-down sludgy, buzzy fuzz. The sizzling fuzz of mixing vodka with pop rocks. The crunchy fuzz left at the bottom of a gin-spiked 7-11 Slurpee. The fuzz at the head of an ice-cold $1 draft.

You might think I'm making a few too many alcohol references for my own good, but Mudhoney's music is made for and by people who enjoy gettin' liquored up now and again. Their lyrics have the confessional style of an old drunk at the end of a bar babbling incoherently, yet making perfect sense. Their hazy guitar style beautifully recreates the soupy fog of an alcohol buzz and their rock-steady rhythm is formulated to turn the classic drunken sway into a beat you can dance to.

Mudhoney closed with their popular standard "Touch Me I'm Sick" (a song sure to be the centerpiece of Time/Life's infomercials when they begin hawking its collection of Grunge Rock CDs). This was the song the crowd had been waiting all night to hear and Mudhoney milked it for all it was worth. The mosh pit erupted like a baking soda and vinegar volcano, $5 plastic cups of beer flew through the air like liquid, gold rainbows and that sweet, sweet fuzz filled the air once again. I don't remember the other two songs they played for their encore (like I said, I was pretty hammered), but I do seem to recall a seersucking rendition of "Suck You Dry" ringing through my ears as I left. The show left me drained and drunk, but I was duly impressed that Mudhoney can crank it out with more rawness and enthusiasm than ever. In absence of The Ramones, Mudhoney have surely inherited the credo of being “Too Tough to Die.” They continue to play their unique brand of fuzz-pop and have a ball doing it, all the while staying just under the radar detector of mass consumption.

September 1998