1986’s Candy Apple Grey marked the end of my love affair with Hüsker Dü, and not because the band “sold out” to the majors—I didn’t give a shit about that. The studio polish I didn’t much like, but what really sealed the deal of my fatal disaffection with a band I loved was the album’s generic quality. Although the affliction had yet to have a name, Candy Apple Grey was an early case of Foo Fighters Disease.
And it was wimpy, no doubt about it—too many feelings, not nearly enough feral noise. No feral noise, in fact. Hüsker Dü had always been suspiciously touchy-feely, but they subsumed the feelings in chaotic powerline hyperdrive. On Candy Apple Grey, they revealed themselves to be, and I really can’t think of another way to say it, emo bores. It even has ballads! I listened to the album a couple of times and never listened to it again. In fact, I put away all of my Hüsker Dü albums and never listened to them again. I moved on, and so did all of my friends. Opinion was unanimous that Candy Apple Grey was the end of something truly beautiful.
For years, I’ve wondered if I wasn’t too hard on Candy Apple Grey, but listening to it again, I realize I was dead right about the album. It boasts a few very good songs, but none of them reach the ecstatic heights of even the middling songs on Zen Arcade and New Day Rising. Too many acoustic guitars, too much piano, and even the electric guitar scorchers sound too clean, too streamlined, too sanitized. All those people who put down SST producer Spot for muddying up their sound and keeping them down? Fools. Clean up Hüsker Dü, and what you had were a couple of guys singing about how they felt. As if anybody cared. This was punk rock.
About 1985’s New Day Rising, The Village Voice’s Robert Christgau wrote, “Play loud—this is one band that deserves it.” About Candy Apple Grey, all I can say is “Don’t play—this is one album that deserves it.” And if you must play it, there are few reasons to play it loud. With the exception of two or three tracks, volume will get you nowhere. All of that said, there are quiet moments of real beauty on the album. “Hardly Getting Used to It” may have left me cold at the time, and I’ll never grow to love it, but it proves that growing up doesn’t necessarily mean growing boring.
Bob Mould’s “Crystal” opens, and it’s in your face, and has all the sonic threat of Hüsker Dü yore. Problem is that for all of the band’s much vaunted melodic skills, the melody on this one doesn’t quite do the trick, and Mould’s characteristically enraged vocals are a bit high in the mix. I like the lines “Airplane flies overhead/Important man sits by the window/Sucked out of the first class window,” but unfortunately, Mould drops him like a hot potato. Lyrics were never Hüsker Dü’s forte.
Hart’s “Don’t Want to Know If You Are Lonely” is melodic indeed; unfortunately, the sound is streamlined and the guitars defanged, and what I hear is nothing less than the Big Bang that brought us the Foo Fighters and slick but bland alternative rock. It’s practically a template, this song, for generic things to come, and the minute I heard it I said fare thee well to Hüsker Dü, little knowing that things would get worse on Mould’s wishy-washy and washed-out sonic thunderdud “I Don’t Know for Sure,” which doesn’t blow your hair back and boasts some of the dullest lyrics I’ve ever run across. “Can’t tell you what’s coming next, I don’t know for sure/It could be good, and it could be bad, I don’t know for sure.”
And it goes on like that for the entire song. When my sister and I were tiny kids, we wrote a little song about gold mining that went “Maybe it’s gold, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s anything/Might be gold, might be rock, might be anything.” Our lyrics kick Mould’s lyrics’ ass! And we were six! And our melody was catchier too!
“Sorry Somehow” is too slick for its own good, and muddy to boot; Hart’s vocals are submerged, and to think people complained about Spot. And the message is just as muddy; what does “sorry, somehow” even mean? It’s catchy, and that’s good, and the organ is a very nice touch, and Hart sings with passion, but the whole thing is too murky to put it anywhere near the least of the best of their earlier songs.
“Too Far Down” opens with some chimes and flute and animal noises and who knows what else before Mould starts moaning and groaning over slowly strummed acoustic guitars, and I don’t know what to call it other than a bona fide snorefest. Pretty, sure, but poor down-in-the-mouth Mould is a colossal bummer, and after thirty seconds or so, all I could think was “Cheer up, chump, and up the volume.” “Hardly Getting Over It” is more like it. It’s more quiet strum rock but the melody is killer, Mould sounds reflective and sad rather than morose and self-pitying, and it’s a lovely thing, albeit one that got lost in its mediocre surroundings.
Even Hart’s “Dead Set on Destruction,” a sonic assault that lives up to its title and boasts a great melody to boot, disappoints a bit for the simple reason that it’s a bit slick and smoothed-out—I can only wonder how vicious it would sound had it been recorded by Spot in olden times. Once again, I’m reminded of the Foo Fighters. It’s a case of production over chaos, as is the follow-up “Eiffel Tower High,” although I have to admit that Mould’s in an unusually frivolous and frolicsome mood, which is usually Hart’s bailiwick, and he wears it well. A friendly listen, this one, but a bit too complex for its own good—the band sacrifices both sonics and momentum, and the question that comes to my mind is “Would I listen to this over any of the songs on Zen Arcade or New Day Rising?” The answer’s a definitive no.
The awkwardly titled “No Promise Have I Made” (who talks like that?) is Hart’s chance to go heartfelt in a big piano ballad way, and boy does he emote, like a champ, and while I’ll take his soul-baring over Mould’s (the melody is nicer and the takeout is almost cathartic) it’s still a million miles away from the Hüsker Dü I signed up for. It’s like they were preparing for their big debut on MTV Unplugged or something.
Closer “All This I’ve Done For You” is another Mould rocker, but it’s a chained beast, and lacks the ferocity of their best work. It sounds muted, and for the umpteenth time, I can’t think of a song on their earlier LPs I wouldn’t rather hear. The lyrics are so much mouthwash:
“Well, sometimes I don’t know why you wanna try and help me
I’m so confused, start to fall over backwards
Then I ask this to myself and see within myself
And wonder what it means, and ask these questions to myself.”
What’s that now? And it’s not enough, by which I mean it’s too late, when things get anthemic at the end, with Mould shouting the song title over and over.
No wonder I turned in my Hüsker Dü Fan Club membership card and never even considered listening to the band’s follow-up, 1987’s sprawling Warehouse: Songs and Stories.
Growing up is hard to do; growing up with a band that is growing up is even harder. Hüsker Dü perfected the sonic barrage, and did it while injecting the roar with melody, which allowed them to escape the hardcore box without sacrificing an iota of hardcore’s remorseless urgency. In short, they worked miracles, but come Candy Apple Grey, they backed off, took their foot off the pedal, sanitized the roar, and got touchy-feely, and by so doing gave up too much, gave up the ghost in fact.
I’ll bet that if Candy Apple Grey was the first Hüsker Dü album you ever heard, you loved it, it blew you away, even. But if you’d been with them the whole way, through Land Speed Record and Everything Falls Apart and Metal Circus and Zen Arcade and New Day Rising and even Flip Your Wig (which was the first crack in my love for the band), Candy Apple Grey was your cue to walk away and not look back. It was years before I listened to the band again.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
C-
