Mudhoney - Mark Arm - Search and Destroy

Forget the aggressive, wound-up front-man you saw onstage, or at best on the live Dvd from Madrid: like his mentor Iggy Pop, in person Mark Arm is calm and courteous, as well as enthusiastic and witty. He doesn't speak in a rush, but alternates precise remarks – both in terms of vocabulary and sentence structure – with pauses for reflection, all the while displaying an incredible memory for events, dates, names. What follows is a summary of what emerged during the more than two-hour meeting that took place, in the summer of 2007, in Florence, where the singer was staying as a tourist; a long and illuminating summary, though trimmed of the “obsessive” details that would have been excessive.

Your first band, Mr. Epp And The Calculations, formed in 1980. What do you remember about it?

It wasn't a serious thing. It started as an imaginary group, a high-school kind of thing where we basically pretended to play: a couple of us our age picked up some instruments and started making noise… We didn't know how to tune a guitar or the basics of how to use it. We'd turn on the amps and, having no idea what saturation even was, we'd produce a huge racket… a ton of feedback, like Jimi Hendrix during the moments when he wasn't playing.

A punk approach, then, in the vein of “anyone can do it…”

Looking back I'd actually agree, but in truth there was no reasoning behind it, no strategy. We didn't want to do anything… We got a little better later on by following our drummer Darren, the only one of us who was actually good: the first thing I learned by going to punk shows is that what you're doing matters relatively little if you've got a good drummer backing it up. A few years later Steve Turner joined, and he stayed with us for the last six months of the band's life. We played a couple of shows with an entirely new setlist, and then we split up.

How did you meet Steve?

At a show. We were introduced by his high-school friend Alex Shumway, who would go on to become the drummer for Green River.

Were you part of the Seattle scene back then? Did you ever see bands like Enemy or the Lewd live?

No, neither of them… but I did see the Fartz. From 1980 to 1982, while I was in school in Oregon, I had the problem of distance, on top of the other obstacle that many clubs were off-limits to minors because they served alcohol. We were suburban kids, kind of naive… not as street-smart as the ones from Seattle proper, we never even thought about faking IDs or anything like that. Plus we were outsiders, we didn't follow trends and we didn't have cool clothes… we wore whatever our parents had given us for Christmas, the exact opposite of so-called cool. In fact, though, we were much more “punk” than the ones who perfectly matched the punk stereotype by just copying what they saw in magazine photos. Anyway, shows back then were for the few: a hundred people in the audience was already a great result. You played to entertain your friends, many of whom were in a band themselves, or took photos, or put out a fanzine… And then there were the ones who got drunk, took drugs, wrecked the bathrooms. Once interest grew, “success” meant drawing a crowd of two hundred.

Were there particular events that helped the local scene evolve?

Yes, when a French guy, Hugo Piottin, opened the Metropolis, which became the punk club in Seattle: a genuine free space for creativity. This was around the middle of 1983. It was actually there that Mr. Epp played their last show, in 1984, and shortly after that Green River made their debut on that same stage.

What was your favorite music, in that first half of the Eighties?

Essentially, hardcore. Black Flag, Circle Jerks, Flipper, Minor Threat, Void, Dead Kennedys. But also the Replacements, the Meat Puppets — their provocations toward the punk crowd were fantastic — and Savage Republic: with Mr. Epp we opened for them and a fight broke out because they were too arty for some people's taste. Such nonsense... I loved the Misfits, but I loved Savage Republic too. Too many people have rigid ideas about what they should or shouldn't listen to, and that's how music turns into a sectarian affair. My friends and I reacted against that state of affairs, and we started listening again to the records we'd abandoned after discovering punk rock: Sweet, Kiss, Aerosmith. And also bands from the past like Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath, not to mention the Stooges, who I'd come to know back in 1980 while researching the origins of punk.

When you started Green River, were you aiming to do something more serious?

We didn't even think about it, we just wanted to play and have fun. I remember focusing almost entirely on singing because the guitar and amp I used in Mr. Epp had broken and I had no money to replace or fix them. We approached things carefully, we hustled to book shows, but we weren't really thinking about a "career."

In musical terms, what were your goals?

I remember we worked really hard, pushing our limits: not everything came out well, but at least we tried not to fall into clichés. The last track on our first mini-album, "Tunnel Of Love," runs over seven minutes and was the casus belli for Steve's resignation: he loved the Milkshakes, the Mighty Caesars, the Sonics, and felt our sound should draw on those simple, direct styles rather than the metal constructions the rest of us were so fond of. There was also a certain reluctance on his part to go on tour: he wasn't all that sure he wanted that kind of commitment.

By the way, how did you end up releasing "Come On Down"?

We'd recorded a demo even before Stone Gossard joined the lineup, and Bruce Pavitt — who worked as a DJ and ran his fanzine Sub Pop — had a contact at Homestead. Recording it was a total mess. We'd brought along Chris Hanzsek, who had helped us with the demo and was the only sound engineer we knew, but the studio owners weren't very cooperative in helping us make the best use of the equipment, so we had to make do. Bruce Fairweather came in to replace Steve, and with him we did our first tour, seven or eight dates across the States: it was kind of a vacation with a few shows thrown in, we didn't make a dollar but it was wonderful. We also played twice in Ohio with Big Black and once in Detroit opening for Samhain: the crowd wanted to kill us because of Jeff's glam outfit...

Why did Green River break up in the end?

A short tour of the West Coast made it clear just how much of an outsider I was. The others, in the van, would put on the latest Aerosmith or even Whitesnake, while I wanted to listen to the Scientists or Feedtime! We had a stop in San Francisco at a small club, The Chatterbox, which as you can imagine was devoted to Johnny Thunders... there were a lot of musicians from bands we loved, excited kids, and I sang my heart out... with the result that the next day, at the show in Los Angeles with Jane's Addiction and Junkyard — which some record label people were supposed to attend — I had no voice left. I got blamed for it, but to me the show that really mattered was the one the night before! Meanwhile Jeff, Stone and Bruce had started rehearsing informally with Andrew Wood, formerly of Malfunkshun — a fantastic singer in a fantastic band — and when we got back home they said they'd had enough. For Alex, the drummer, it was a hard blow, while I felt very relieved. There just wasn't any chemistry left between us.

By that point you'd already teamed up with Steve in the Thrown Ups.

Yes, on drums: technically I wasn't much good, but I could keep time and that was enough. The band was built around improvisation, and Steve loved that, since he hated rehearsing. When Green River split up, it seemed logical to ask him if he wanted to start a new band with me.

Did you see the Thrown Ups as something not to be taken too seriously?

Not exactly, but it definitely wasn't a normal experience: it was an excuse to get as drunk as possible, make as much noise as possible, come up with funny song titles and all kinds of onstage tomfoolery. That didn't stop us from putting out three pretty good singles and an album that, on the other hand, wasn't so good: for the singles we used the best of the sessions, while the album ended up with everything we'd recorded, with no editing at all.

It's said that, after Green River split up, you held a certain resentment toward Jeff, Stone and Bruce. Is that true?

The feeling was twofold... I mean, they were friends and it's not like I hated them, but there was definitely some friction. For instance, the band they'd put together with Andrew Wood was called Lords Of The Wasteland, and to take the piss out of them I organized a joke show with a thrown-together lineup called Wasted Landlords. A few days later, Lords Of The Wasteland adopted a new name, Mother Love Bone.

And how did you choose the name Mudhoney, instead?

Both Steve and I loved a lot of Russ Meyer films. Actually, at the time, neither of us had seen "Mudhoney" yet, but it seemed like a great name: it gives an idea of something dirty, sticky, just like the music we intended to play.

So your sound had, in a way, been planned out in advance?

In its essential components, yes. We'd grown up on hardcore, we loved Stooges, MC5 and Wipers, we liked punk-rock in general but also Black Sabbath, Neil Young and Alice Cooper.

You soon debuted with the 7-inch "Touch Me I'm Sick": did you sense right away that it was an anthem?

We'd picked the two best songs out of what we'd recorded in a session with Jack Endino, but I thought the A-side should have been "Sweet Young Thing Ain't Sweet No More". Events proved me wrong.

Soon after, in short order, came the "Superfuzz Bigmuff" mini-album and the "Mudhoney" album, which, while showing very clear ties to rock's roots, still came across as "new". Was kicking off a sort of revolution part of your intentions?

Our only aim was to play something that, in our view, deserved to be heard. At the time, in Seattle, there were a lot of people in love with English music that had nothing to do with rock'n'roll: too pop, not to mention that plenty of stylistically rock bands like Motley Crue or Poison were terrible. Mudhoney meant reconnecting with what, to us, was real rock'n'roll, but without faithfully rehashing the past the way other, still excellent, bands of the time did, like the Miracle Workers, for instance. We didn't think we were important, nor did we believe we were doing anything that would change the face of music... And in fact, we didn't change it.

Either way, you realized that things were "working".

Well, sure. It all came down to a lucky combination of events, being in the right place at the right time: if we'd been exactly the same but based in Idaho, without Sub Pop, nobody would ever have discovered us.

In 1990 you made your only solo record, a single featuring a cover of Bob Dylan's "Masters Of War". What was the point behind it?

The Gulf War had broken out and I wanted to say something about it. I could have written my own song, but whatever I might have come up with would never have stood a chance next to that perfect Bob Dylan song: it's the best anti-war song ever written, followed by "Sacrifice" by Flipper. So I recorded my own version, playing all the instruments myself: I had Chris Eckman of the Walkabouts work out the chords for me.

The second album, "Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge", sold more than its predecessor, but didn't get the kind of exposure that the almost simultaneous "Nevermind" did. Do you think Nirvana's breakthrough might have taken something away from you, in terms of visibility?

Nah, if anything it was the opposite, given all the attention that ended up being poured onto Seattle. I simply think "Every Good Boy..." is a better record than "Mudhoney", which was weaker than "Superfuzz Bigmuff": I see it as a great album, very garage, that reflects who we were at the time better than its predecessor did.

Do you think Nirvana really were the "strongest" band on the scene? What did they have that the others didn't?

It has to be said that it was a particular moment, when an entire generation that had grown up with punk found itself essentially in agreement with the previous generation, tired of listening to the usual mainstream stuff. As far as Seattle was concerned, the pivotal record was the debut by Alice In Chains: it made people realize there was something new in the air, that an alternative was taking shape. Nirvana found themselves right in the middle of it all and played their cards well, helped by an iconic personality like Kurt Cobain's.

You knew him, and must have talked to him who knows how many times. Does reality live up to the legend?

I think anyone who kills themselves young and at the peak of success is bound for myth, regardless of their actual merits. That said, Nirvana built their fame by making all the right moves: they signed with a major, worked with a great producer, and released a "commercial" record like "Nevermind", which indeed sold millions of copies. Probably their most special feature was Kurt's voice, unlike anyone else's.

Were you shocked when you learned of his suicide?

Yes, but only up to a point: I know very well that when you take too many drugs you lose lucidity, and everyday life starts to look completely different. Some tiny issue can blow up until it becomes unbearable. I don't believe it was an accident - when he pulled the trigger he knew what he was doing: the problem was his distorted perception of what was around him.

Shortly after that, though, you also signed with a major, Reprise: were you aiming to become stars?

You might not believe me, but we were always aware that our music isn't the kind that racks up huge sales. At the time, Sub Pop wasn't doing great financially, and besides, we'd come to the conclusion that it might be better to have our business interests handled by someone used to doing that. First we approached Caroline, Sub Pop's distributor and a label that billed itself as independent, but we were taken aback by the terms we'd have had to accept, which ranged from giving up any side projects to committing to tour something like nine months a year. So we turned to the majors, because no contract could have been worse than the one Caroline offered us: in fact, Reprise didn't come at us with anything outrageous, and with a lawyer's help we negotiated a good deal, thanks to which we never had problems, not even when the time came to go our separate ways.

Is it true that you never used the full budget they gave you to record your albums?

Yes, but that's because we didn't need to spend it all. Since the contract provided for an allocation of $150,000 that we could manage however we saw fit, we'd put something like thirty grand into the record and split the rest between the four of us. That's how we were able to afford the houses we live in now! I know I've screwed up a lot of things in my life, but if there's one smart thing I did, it was buying a house.

I know exactly what you mean when you talk about "screwing up".

Well, it's no secret that I took a ton of drugs.

How did you get into it? Or rather, why?

First of all because I found it fun, it made me feel good: taking LSD, as a kid, was in many ways an extraordinary experience, one that genuinely opened my mind. Everything's great until, at a certain point, you find yourself hooked on the stuff, and you realize it's no longer your choice but an addiction. I got out of it on my own, without needing rehab: I owe that to the fact that, being the only one in Mudhoney who was into heroin, I was forced to stop whenever we had to go on tour. I was used to quitting, so it was easier to make it permanent.

Earlier you mentioned side projects. What can you tell me about Monkeywrench, and their odd habit of putting out an album every eight years?

We were in love with Poison 13, the Texan band led by Tim Kerr: their first LP, back in the '80s, had a huge impact on me, as did "Born Innocent" by Red Cross and the self-titled album by Tales Of Terror. Having found out about my passion for his old band, Tim Kerr got in touch with me and asked if I wanted to sing some songs that had been left in a drawer after singer Mike Carroll passed away, as a kind of tribute to him, and that's how Monkeywrench came about, bringing together some friends of mine from other bands, including Steve. Since we hit it off, we decided to keep going, and despite everyone's other commitments we've managed to put together three albums: the future is always uncertain, but we think of it as a vacation.

E “My Brother The Cow”?

Better than "Piece Of Cake", but the ones that came after it are without a doubt superior.

But it contains one of your most famous songs, "Into Yer Shtik", in which you go after Courtney Love...

But it's not like we're only going after her... that would be giving her too much credit, wouldn't it? It's about a certain type of person who believes they have all the answers and surrounds themselves with an entourage that flatters them. It's not just about music, it applies to film, politics too... but if we're talking about rock'n'roll, the description could apply - at different levels - to plenty of others: Layne Staley, Steve Albini, Axl Rose, Michael Gira, Michael Jackson, Lenny Kravitz...

Would you write a lyric like that today?

I don't think so, I don't feel that kind of angry impulse anymore.

"Tomorrow Hit Today" was your last release for Reprise. Did you know that even before making it?

Oh, yes. Our deal called for two albums with an option for a third, but after the shakeups at the top of the label we knew we wouldn't be offered a renewal. David Katnelson, the A&R man who had worked with us from the start and who now runs Birdman, no longer had much room to maneuver, so we decided to make the most of the chance and record like we probably never would again: this time the deal stated that if we didn't spend the whole budget, we'd have to give back what was left. So we put together a "major label" production, though instead of calling in some pretty boy from Los Angeles to produce us, we brought in a roots veteran like Jim Dickinson; it was a wonderful experience, as was working with David Bianco, who handled the mixing. It sold next to nothing, and, would you believe it, more on vinyl than on CD. At least in the US.

After the relationship with Reprise ended you went back to devoting yourself to the Monkeywrench but also to another project: the New Strychnines, a Sonics cover band.

It started out as an idea just for fun, only live. In the States the album was pressed in a small run, as a souvenir, and was later reissued in Europe by Munster. What can I say? It's nice, well made, but I'd tell any kid to buy the Sonics records first.

After “Tomorrow Hit Today” there was talk that you'd broken up.

That wasn't exactly the case, although after Matt Lukin's resignation – who, apparently, was tired of rehearsals and touring and preferred a quieter job – Dan Peters said he didn't feel up to playing without Matt around anymore. But his crisis didn't last long, as proven by the fact that we're still here… even if it's Guy in Matt's place.

And you went back to Sub Pop, putting together the “March To Fuzz” anthology.

Right, all things considered it was the logical conclusion. Originally “March To Fuzz” was meant to be a “best of” spanning from “Touch Me I’m Sick” to “Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge”, but given the good relationship that, due to distribution, existed between Sub Pop and Warner (which controls the Reprise label, Ed.), the latter raised no objection to the possible use of our material that they owned. So the idea shifted from a partial collection to a comprehensive one, bringing together the best-known Mudhoney tracks along with the more obscure ones. My only regret is that I would have liked to include “Broken Hands”, from “Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge”, but its six-minute length would have forced us into too many painful cuts, so I had to let it go.

And how do you feel today?

Wonderful. Sub Pop has changed a lot since the early days, but it's a great indie label with a beautiful catalogue that includes both aggressive rock'n'roll and quality pop-rock. Our “new” records are, I think, solid, and perfectly in tune with our spirit as always: Mudhoney remain the same, aside from Guy in place of Matt, and while still recognizable, we're not afraid to stray from the beaten path. Our next album (i.e. “The Lucky Ones”, from 2008, Ed.) will be faster and edgier… and, if I may say so, it really won't sound like the record of “kids” who've been around for almost thirty years now.

(Taken from Mucchio Extra issue 30, autumn 2008)

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