Four years ago today Grant Hart, one of my all-time superslices of superslices, died at age 56. I can still remember the moment I was listening to Husker Du's live album, The Living End, and realized that Husker Du wasn't just "Bob Mould's band" and I liked Grant's songs better. He was the McCartney to Mould's Lennon; incapable of not being astoundingly melodic.
From when I met him:
THINGS I LOVED
- 3 super-super-hilights of the night: Last Days of Pompeii, 2541, and A Letter from Anne Marie
- Me getting a laugh from him (the only one of the night) outside
- Playing my all-time #1 Husker slice Terms of Psychic Warfare
- His anger flashing outside when some dipshit girl says "the politics of modern country music don't matter."
- The fact that you can walk into a bar somewhere anywhere and watch a dude with one of the best songbooks ever and one of the best voices ever play amazing song after amazing song.
- Drew bravely being the one to speak for all of us the next day when he said "I almost teared up a coupla times." Of course I acted like such a thing was foreign idea to such a tough guy as myself.
- Started playing approx. 60 seconds after the opening act had left the stage. No wait-for-an-hour-for-the-star nonsense.
- A general consensus at Jack's house afterwards of while Bob Mould wrote plenty of great songs, Grant Hart is true love and should be fought for at every opportunity.
THINGS I DIDN'T LIKE
- Him seeming to be more focused on the one person in the back yapping loudly, oblivious to who he was or what he was doing, than the 50 people staring at him waiting to throw themselves in front of a bus for him.
- Not playing my super-slice Old Empire!!
- Fucking chick outside who fucking wouldn't stop yapping to me while I was trying to talk to him. Seriously, the first girl in 20 years who wants to talk to me, and it's while I'm trying to make googley-eyes at one of my all-time heroes. Took about 3 minutes of "uh-huh...really..." while sloooooooooooowly moving my head away from her to shed her. Fucking christ.
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