Grant Hart
Intolerance

Do I Remember? *

Of course I remember. I remember Greg Norton's horrible, beautiful handlebar mustache. I remember those three in short pants: legends in canvas shorts, unlikely and immediately lovable icons. I remember the Minneapolis trio taking the stage and immediately launching into the first song and then rolling out, one after another, in the same order they appeared on the double LP, all the songs of “Warehouse: Songs And Stories” — a flow of energy, speed, melody, tension. But what I remember most is him.
That slap-worthy face, that strange combination of the tight rhythmic figures drawn by his drums and the recognizable, fresh and direct melodic lines, always a bit off-kilter, that his voice managed to deliver on the sound stream flowing from the stage to our ears. I remember wondering how he managed to control that apparent dichotomy. And I remember that I liked that voice, even more than on record. It would all be over shortly after: Hüsker Dü would not celebrate their 10th anniversary, due to the irreconcilable tensions among the three, apparently also stemming from Grant's excessive dedication to substances.

It was 1987, and among the many concerts I know I attended (I can't vouch for all of them, in the '80s I was a bit confused), that was one of the driest, simplest, most direct. Laughing and joking, almost twenty years have passed, and what I've gained in “clarity” I've lost in “enthusiasm.” And naturally, it happens increasingly rarely to pull out old records, often worn out, tied to that period. But some, and not always the best, find their way back to my mind, surprisingly bringing along the same taste I savored at the time. So last night I listened to Grant Hart's first solo album again. Well, folks, I think I understand why I liked it so much. It's not a masterpiece: don't listen to those who turn anything sufficiently “old” and little known into a must-hear masterpiece. It seems to be a widespread sport, but it does a disservice even to the records themselves, in my opinion.

In “Intolerance” there's a desire to change course, to move into a completely autonomous dimension, avoiding hiding the ghosts that still populate the present. It's like the small treasure chest of a former boy, already handed over to “history” by a very recent past, who lets go, who chooses to “let himself” be played. And he does it in perfect solitude: signs every track, plays all the instruments (with an unusual predominance of the organ) sings, produces the record. Churning out a heterogeneous collection of songs where his lush melodic vein (he always had an exquisite melodic soul, the super-addict of the Hüskers) also crosses the areas of melancholic disillusionment, strips down to essentiality, invents a wordless loop that spins surprisingly minimal, acidic, and hypnotic, at the center of the record, generated by an organ. I was crazy about it at the time “Roller-Rink” and I never understood what, why... He unfurls his open voice to a scream - energy and sincerity, imperfection and sweetness - or bends it to an unusual, dazed and bizarre register, or intimate, almost whispered.
Sugar-coated sweetness and tattered vitality, “cursed” vitality, and subdued, controlled, emotional intensity. How true and vibrant it still sounds today, “She Can See the Angels Coming.” In short, a strange creature that still manages to dispense small surprises. And perhaps, if you are predisposed, unexpected enthusiasms. An album to rediscover without expecting too much, to enjoy the many imperfect faces of an adorable slap-worthy face. I don't feel like talking about the subsequent stages of his career: they don't evoke the same curious tenderness in me that I felt listening to “Intolerance” again.

I still keep the vinyl and have no information about its availability on CD. But I got an “incorporeal” version to be able to attach the usual numerous samples. See you, dear youngsters.

* Hüsker Dü, in Danish, means “do you remember?”