Bob Mould - See a Little Light: The Trail of Rage and Melody

Copyright 2011 by Bob Mould

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First eBook Edition: June 2011

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ISBN: 978-0-316-17571-5

Listen, theres music in the air

I heard your voice coming from somewhere

But look how much weve grown

Well, I guess I should have known

As the years go by, they take their toll on you

Think of all the things we wanted to do

And all the words we said yesterday

Thats a long time ago

You didnt think Id really go now

Are you waiting? I know why

Youre already saying goodbye

Are you ready? I know why

I see a little light, I know you will

I can see it in your eyes, I know you still care

But if you want me to go, you should just say so

Bob Mould, 1988

You see this button? If I push this button, youll be blacklisted from every clothing-optional resort in Palm Springs!

* * *

I m not one for vacations. The idea of setting up camp in an idyllic but remote parcel of landthink western Costa Rica or a bay-view motel in central Floridadoesnt do it for me. Im a people watcher. Most days I sit alone or with a companion, the parade of humanity tumbling and unraveling in front of me. I love pedestrian cities with mass transit, town squares for shopping and dining, and coffee shops with free Wi-Fi. I love the measured and gently oscillating pace of socially progressive, medium-scale world citiesAmsterdam, San Francisco, Berlin.

Give me a leisurely late morning walk to the Bloemenmarkt for an apple pancake washed down with a double espresso, tempered by a few hits of weed, and Im on vacation. Give me a seat in the Castro plaza watching the late afternoon fog roll eastward from the Pacific Ocean, over Twin Peaks and into Eureka Valley, and Im on vacation. Give me a crisp evening stroll down Motzstrae for a takeaway schnitzel, a scoop of ice cream, and an hour of fun at a neighborhood bar, and Im on vacation.

Since 2005, the Coachella music festival has become one of my annual vacations. Sure, its a busmans holiday, but over the course of thirty years in the music business, Ive earned not only my keep, but the perennial all-access wristband and Lot A artist parking that make everything a whole lot easier. The three-day festival takes place in mid-April at the polo grounds in Indio, a town twenty-five miles southeast of Palm Springs, California. In 2009 I was finally playing at CoachellaSaturday, 2:30 PM , Gobi stage. Its not the main stage, or even the second stage, but the time slot was goodearly enough to make a strong impression before people began suffering from sun and/or alcohol poisoning.

Friday morning, Micheal and I flew from Dulles to LAX, rented a car, and drove east on 1-10 to Highway 111, which cuts south to the desert valley. Once in Palm Springs, we stopped at Koffi, a midcentury-style coffee shop, then at a drugstore for sunscreen, snacks, and a case of bottled water, before finally arriving at our accommodationsa clothing-optional resort strictly for men. Id stayed here many times over the years, the most memorable being in 2007 when the local police were called to apprehend a whacked-out guest whod destroyed one of the suites. After an evening of hearing this guy yelling and throwing furniture, I woke on Saturday morning to the sight of two Palm Springs Police officers in the courtyard interrogating the guest, who stood naked except for a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses and a poolside chaise recliner cushion hed fashioned around his torso like a sarong. The police seemed equally perplexed by the fourteen-inch-high by twelve-inch-round black rubber dildo sitting in the middle of his decimated room like a forlorn fire hydrant.

But I digress. After checking into the resort, we grabbed some fast food and drove to the festival site. Fridays highlights included Morrissey (cutting his set short due to the smell of grilled sausage wafting from the food tent to the main stage), Leonard Cohen, and the master of the big stage, Paul McCartney. We left before the end of Maccas set, avoiding the crush of outbound traffic.

From years of loud noise at work, I have tinnitus. In order to sleep, I need a low-level masking soundtypically the television. Our suite had two televisions, each with a unique remote that required a four-digit security code in order to work. The bedroom remote wasnt functioning, so we went to the front desk for assistance. None of the codes they gave us worked, so the TV couldnt be adjusted by remote. We asked a second time, and nothing they told us helped. It was becoming a hassle.

The next morning we woke up at eighttoo early for the free continental buffet staged in the porn library room overlooking the main pool area. We headed to Koffi for a quick jolt, then to Shermans Delicatessen for breakfast. Around ten we returned to the resort, where people were beginning to stirthe usual assortment of nude sunbathers, early-bird day-pass sex cruisers from LA, and older gentlemen with their (much) younger weekend escorts. I wanted to catch a nap before heading to the festival, but I still couldnt adjust the volume of the TV from the bed. Micheal went to ask for help at the front desk one more time, at which point I quickly dozed off.

Minutes later I was woken by the sound of Micheal slamming the door to the room and then locking it with both deadbolt and chain. Visibly shaken, he said, That man out there is crazy. Hes threatening me! I opened the door to find a wild-eyed troll yelling, Im the manager, and your friend called me an asshole. Youre both out of here in ten minutes or Im calling the police to have you escorted off my property. My instinct was to grab him in a front face lock until he was unconscious, but the fact that I had to be onstage in four hours saved his scrawny ass. Rather than argue or reason, we began packing up our stuff. The walk of shame took us from our poolside room, case of water and luggage in tow, past the smirking sunbathers and bagel-nuzzling septuagenarians, and to the front desk. The young employee who handled the cancellation of the remaining two nights room charges had a puzzled and somewhat sad look on his face, as if to say: Yes, hes out of his mind. But hes my boss and I need this depressing job, so I cant help you either.

Once the charges had been removed, I looked at the manager and said, You know, youre out of your fucking mind. You see this wristband? This wristband says Im standing in front of tens of thousands of people today, and youre stuck here with your drugs and delusions and dog shit by the pool. The manager rushed to a hockey pucksize object on the desk, raised his hand, and replied, You see this button? If I push this button, youll be blacklisted from every clothing-optional resort in Palm Springs! I chortled and spat, Save it for someone who cares, then sauntered away with my partner, my dignity, and our case of bottled water.