#granthart

R.I.P. Grant Hart

When some kind of celebrity death occurs -- and that “celebrity” can be Prince or Paul Hamann -- there’s often a genuinely heartfelt and/or morbid need to reach out and tell someone. Add the internet into that instinct, and this human action takes on more strange, conflicted, even narcissistic layers.

I woke up yesterday to a text about Grant Hart having passed away. I told myself my girlfriend was awake, and gently tapped her on the shoulder to tell her. She has been working a lot lately, and it was probably best to let her sleep and talk about this later. Telling her, telling anyone wasn’t going to bring Grant Hart back. Basically I just confused her, though she sweetly said “Sorry,” and went back to sleep, somehow.

The emotions were flooding through me, and it was one of numerous deaths that have occurred in my sphere of late, so the usual sinking heart feeling sunk as low as it’s been in awhile (and that’s saying something in this Trump era). One song popped in my head, “Think It Over Now,” from Hart’s excellent 1999 solo album, Good News for Modern Man. In a sea of great Grant Hart songs, it’s Ronettes-meets-rainstorm ramble makes it one of my favorites of his, and it’s positive message helped instantly assuage some sadness. I posted it on Facebook for whatever fucking reason, and went to work, unable to think about much else the rest of the day, into today, and I don’t know, maybe from now on.

It feels awkward to make a celebrity death personal with some tossed-out Facebook post. But I am at that point now in my life where the passing of such monumental artistic figures starts to occur closer to you, more frequently, and it’s inevitable that it spurs you to seek comfort from just telling others why this death is monumental. I mean, in my early 20s, if I had heard the bassist in the Johnny Burnette Trio died, oh, that’s sad. But had that bassist been close to my age, had I seen that bassist play live, got to hang out with him a bit, cranked his records through headphones throughout my teens, well...

It was early summer, 1985, I was 17, about butt-deep into a growing pile of records, increasingly punk records, and my au currant desire was to “get into hardcore.” I mean it was all over college radio, Cleveland had a decent scene of it (although in that odd Ohio-y, weather-beaten way), and I just thought, well, that’s what a guy like me should be doing right now. So I went to my local rack jobber and asked him for a great new hardcore album, and he hands me New Day Rising.

I took it home and played it, but I was a bit nonplussed. This wasn’t the bald-head dude screaming in a circle pit shit I thought I was searching for. It was loud and fast for sure, but not the polka-beat, the government and your parents suck spiel. Instead, as I noticed while I self-surprisingly kept playing the record over and over for the next week, was an instantly recognizable melancholy, damp atmosphere, and intense energy I’d already loved from midwest acts. Husker Du just felt like me and lots of strangers I was starting to get to know at Cleveland punk shows -- already a bit beaten by long winters, mall jobs, and terrible sports teams we didn’t care about, but you live in Cleveland, so you’re going to hear about the fucking Browns whether you like it or not. My image was the three Huskers sitting in their dank basement, from about the first week of October until the first week of March, with a space heater sparking in the corner, complaining about fucking jocks, drinking the cheapest local beer, excited only about the tunes they were coming up with, grasping for hopes maybe winter will end early this year (the last week of February), but knowing for sure it’s just gonna come around again anyway, so whatever, let’s go through that new one again.

I already knew enough about the California-based SST Records to know a shlubby band from Minneapolis with cutoff shorts and an almost sobbing seriousness to their loud fast rules, featuring lyrics about folklore and summer ending, was not that label’s raison d’etre. No doubt most of their bands had shitty lives, crappy parents, drug problems, and whatever. But to me, nothing I’d heard on that label (save some Black Flag), had this depth of pathos and seething spirit. I mean come on, it’s California. You don’t spend your teens hanging out on beaches and seeing pretty girls all the time all year and think, “Damn, remember those good times we had? Fuck! Where’s my copy of Being and Nothingness?!” (Well, maybe the Minutemen did.)

Indeed, from what I understood through the grape, er, hops-vine of the time, many diehard SST fans didn’t dig Husker Du. (Someone did, because I think Husker Du was the best selling act on SST, but you record scholars can correct me on that.) To me they were a sudden, jarring connection between the jangle of ‘60s folk and garage rock -- meaning they were contemporaries more with R.E.M. than Saccharine Trust or what have you -- and a huge leap into some fuzzed-out new world of extreme emotional and sonic confessional. Even moreso than the, truth be told, kind of cute Replacements, Husker Du were the gnarled heart pumping to where punk could grasp towards, to survive not just the winters but encroaching adulthood abyss. Even their name, from an old board game (fun!) that translated to “Do You Remember?” (sad), was reflective. They were 20-year olds and already nostalgic, wistful. But their own apocalyptic Reagan-era shakes were vibrating them out of that basement. They toured like fucking crazy, rust belt work ethic and all; and with hooks that finally put a relevant nail in skinny tie power pop’s coffin.    

New Day Rising has mostly remained my favorite Husker Du album since, the opening title tune being my favorite opener on any album (save maybe “I’m Stranded” by the Saints). But their whole catalog is worth churning through. And it wasn’t just Grant Hart’s massively manic drum pounds that hit you hard, but his and Bob Mould’s strained, splitting-at-the-edges voices. Like their Minneapolis contemporaries (Replacements, Soul Asylum, Magnolias), they sounded like they were incredibly pissed off and ready to fight, to the point of tears. Not to belabor the midwest/California dichotomy, but the Offspring never struck me as tearful guys.

Of course soon enough I gathered, via unexplainable gut impressions and gossipy fanzine articles, that there were gay men in Husker Du. And there’s no doubt that the usual animosity towards jocks for this punk band left larger scars.

The scar I personally got from their records was a band. When I first met New Bomb Turks’s guitarist Jim Weber at our college dorm, one of the earliest conversations centered on how Jim couldn’t get to the Warehouse tour stop in Cleveland, and hence never got to see Husker Du. I’d seen them twice, regaled Jim with some details, and made tapes of the Husker Du albums he didn’t have. You can ask him, but I think Bob Mould was his biggest early guitar inspiration. And further discussions involved the gender identity of the band, though being early-20s guys in the late ‘80s, we probably didn’t talk about “gender identity” as much as how/when we were called the ol’ “f”word in high school, and how the Huskers must have dealt with tons of awful shit from the more unseemly sides of the hardcore scene. 

Husker Du was a favorite band, but also our introduction to really thinking about these issues that were still pretty swept under the turkey at the family Thanksgiving meal back then. We were both raised Catholic, so...

So, Grant Hart. After the Warehouse show at the Phantasy Theater in Cleveland in summer 1987 (they would break up soon after the end of that tour), I made my way to the adjacent upstairs bar, whose backroom was being used as a backstage. I saw Grant and said, “Great show!” He looked at me a little cockeyed, then turned around, asking, “Does anyone have any heroin around here?” So, that was that.

I loved his 2541 EP from 1988, the first post-Husker Du release. By then I was best friends with the first friend to ever come out to me; and that happening right around the release of that EP, well, one should always appreciate life’s teachable serendipity.

Then, the first time I ever went to New York City and first time I went to CBGB in 1989 with said out pal, the first band I saw there was Hart’s Nova Mob. (Well, technically Run Westy Run opened up.) They were pretty good, and I was glad to see Hart still going at it, but it seemed soon enough that he wasn’t. Didn’t hear much except sporadic solo stuff after Nova Mob split up, and given the usual rumors, figured he was done. But then my band was pretty busy those years, and I was soaking up tons of new bands, so who knows.

Then, in mid-summer 1999, I get a request from an editor at the Cleveland Free Times to write a preview for Grant Hart’s solo show in Cleveland, and found out he’d be playing Columbus a couple days before. So we hooked up a meeting, which is a whole other story for another post, or if I had the power, a movie. It was a strange couple of days, involving breaking into the trunk of the early ‘80s Cadillac he was touring in (”Got it from Rent-a-Wreck, seriously”), the club, Bernie’s, not paying him what they promised, Hart rightly taking a monitor as payment (probably not worth the $250 he was guaranteed), and me getting a call from him at 3 a.m. asking to be a character witness in court on Monday. Nice dinner with him in there too.

After relative (college) radio silence for a few years, I didn’t know what to expect of the show, and without going into details, let’s just say this seemed like a “rent tour.” Hart was fairly disheveled, but super nice. He’d recently become close with Patti Smith, and I guess she told him her parents last names were Grant and Hart, and that once she heard of him, she took that as a sign from the stars to work with him. Anyway, standing in Berne’s with like 10 other people watching him, I was utterly floored once again. His voice was just teeming with the weight of all those slushy winters. I just kept thinking, this is unbelievable how intense he is, and how good these songs are, and how no one even in my circle of music heps even knew this show was happening, in the middle of summer no less, when campus is pretty dead anyway. Unfortunately, a horrible flu had also floored me, a 102 temperature, and I could only stay about four songs of his set before heading home to sweat in bed. “Ah, I’ll see him again.” That was the last time I saw him play.

RIP GRANT HART

HUSKER DU

“DON’T WANT TO KNOW IF YOU ARE LONELY”

D. Boon and Grant Hart, gone far too soon 💔