it could mean a few things, me really loving this new bob mould album.
1) it could mean that i don’t have “taste,” anymore. it could be that in lieu of critical encounters, i affix strongly-rationalized loyalty to the names that remind me of primordial, nostalgic encounters.
2) but i don’t think so. i think it could also mean that i did such a job of keeping myself hermetically sealed off and safe from the 16/4 orgy that was techno’s era of blips that i am un-jaded when i hear mr. mould doing a 2008-ish, power-punk-joni-mitchell/cher thing. (
seriously, this record plums deep autobiographical hieroglyphic territory under a disco ball moon.) i’ve avoided the vocoder and drum sequencer so well that i can talk optimistically about the possibility of combining ’em with distorted guitars. hell, fripp did it.
3) it could also be that i see mould, or i hear mould, more as a writer than a player, even. or maybe i think of him more as somebody who bears witness, actually. but the point is that mould’s lived experiences are so pungent and so crisply rendered on this album that even the awesome musicianship of mould and fugazi’s brendan canty assumes a backing-band place.
anyway, it’s awesome, i think.