More a man than a legend, not to be forgotten, Grant Hart stakes his claims to history

"Here you go," Grant Hart chuckles as he tosses a magazine my way. "Wanna read about a bad man?" I glance down. It is a copy of Time. On the cover was the all-to-familiar mug of Timothy McVeigh. I shake my head.

"It’s pretty incredible how he’s been used politically," Hart continues. "He’s been subtly turned from right wing nut to simply anti-government, anti-American over the course of the election and a new President being elected." I’m a bit surprised. It seems Grant Hart, unlike so many others in music these days, actually thinks – is actually concerned in some way – about these sort of things, political things. Not that Hart is overtly political, he's far more personal than public, but it’d been a long time since a musician had brought up some sort of current event in casual conversation. "Did you get your copy of the Weekly World News yet? It’s gonna be a collector’s item. They ran photos of a dead McVeigh." Hart then quietly picks up his guitar - a beautiful looking and sounding Gibson ES125 - and proceeds to soundcheck with a series of familiar riffs that seem to promise a wholly intriguing evening.

It’s weird how five years just disappears over the course of a few seconds. I hadn’t seen a friend of mine, Craig, in five years. We’d kept in touch from time to time with e-mails and the occasional phone conversation, but we hadn’t gotten together in half a decade. I’d talked to him a few days before the Grant Hart show was scheduled to happen and suggested he come on out to the gig. After all, he’d introduced me to Husker Du - the quintessential American indie rock band of this or any other lifetime in which Grant Hart cut his teeth. I’d told him to meet me at the venue early because I’d be talking to Grant for a bit but my old friend had (and apparently still has) a penchant for not showing up everywhere he says he will. So when the door to the joint finally swung open, and that old familiar face strolled in, the five years since our last meeting evaporated. We could have been sitting, half-stoned, in his old cream colored Chevette listening to Flip Your Wig again for the first time. I noticed his jaw pretty much dislocate and fall to the floor when I shook his hand and said, "Craig, this is Grant Hart. Grant, this is Craig."

It seems silly, that reaction, but it shouldn’t be. Such a response to Hart is probably the sort of reverence that the man truly deserves. As one third of the most important indie/punk rock band in the past twenty-five years (and one half of its dynamic singing/songwriting duo), Hart’s talents are seriously undervalued. His post-Husker solo work is filled with incredible sounds and genuine strokes of brilliance that seem to go unnoticed by the wider adoring audience of post-Husker fans (who, sadly, seemed to have aligned themselves with the uneven, less dynamic, and now seemingly uninspired former Du guitarist/singer Bob Mould). And on this night a mixed crowd of freaks and weirdo’s would arrive by the dozens, but certainly not the hundreds or thousands that Hart clearly merits, to witness an energetic and engaging set of songs that ran the entire measure of Hart’s career. No stone would be left unturned; nothing would be forgotten.

Hart sipped a double cappuccino as he, my friend Craig, and I walked the streets of a gentrified, fairly upscale section of town. The May evening was seasonably chilly (so the weather folks were calling it – a kinder, gentler cold) and Hart seemed genuinely intrigued by the area. It was the middling segment of an eastern solo tour and Hart was talking about his new record, the stunning Good News for Modern Man. "It’s the hippy bible," Hart says with a smile. "The title was supposed to be a positive sort of spiritual thing, and Good News for Modern Man was the hippy version of the bible in the late sixties." The record is a striking piece of work that announces Hart’s continuing viability as a pop craftsmen as well as serving to validate his oft overlooked but essential and immeasurable contributions to Husker Du. The connection is not lost on Hart. "I was part of that band, whether people know it, or want to acknowledge it, I was a part of that band," Hart says. Hart doesn’t shy away from discussing the past, and embraces it while supporting his solo work. "Look, if it does anything to bring a few more people out, if the club owner wants to put those two words (Husker Du) on the fliers or marquee that’s fine with me. I don’t hide from it. If it gets a few more people to listen to the music, then great, no problem."

Hart looks more like a sideman for the Beach Boys than he does a legendary indie rock hero. His painter’s jeans are a bit dirty and frayed at the feet, his feet are adorned in sandals, he sports a barbers shirt over a t-shirt, and he has a Beatle-esque mop top of hair that probably needs trimmed. In the club he gladly greets fans that approach him and then sits on a small bench in an alcove near the back of the club when the opening act plays, eyes closed and resting. I pick up a couple of beers at the bar, hand one to my friend, and we amble over to where Hart is sitting. A local singer makes like Richard Ashcroft onstage as I blurt out, "So who has the Husker Du catalog these days?" hating myself for asking about those "two words" again. Hart opens his eyes and swings his legs around into a sitting position. I glance at my friend and see "I can’t fucking believe this – Grant fucking Hart!" written all over his face. "Well," Hart pauses, "I guess we do. SST (Husker Du’s early label) seems to have dropped the ball and we have the records now." All of which sounds good, but the business is often far messier than that. If that’s the case, will there be any re-issues of the older stuff now? "Probably," says Hart. "A few people want to do that. I think Warner was talking about it. Maybe Rhino too. We’ll see. My only thing with the idea is that I have to be assured that Greg (Husker Du bassist Norton) gets his fair cut. I won’t do it until I know that’s the case." Some other cats walk up and ask about Nova Mob stuff. Hart says that he thinks the Mob stuff will be re-issued sometime soon also. More good news for modern men.

Pissing out Jagermeister in a foul bathroom, Craig mutters something along the lines of "I gotta be ready, it’s Grant Hart man. Gotta get the right frame of mind". I glance over as he pulls out a fully packed bowl and then produces a lighter. "You think it’s cool to smoke it right here?" he asks as he lights up. "Who the fuck is gonna care?" I say as I try to flush the urinal that obvious won’t flush. A few heavy puffs, the familiar aroma of reefer, and then my old friend says, "Fuck man, I should have offered some to Grant. Don’t you think it’s only right?" Five years turn into yesterday with the flick of a lighter. Things really don’t change.

On stage Hart has his guitar, a small amp on a chair, and a truckload of exceptional songs from which to draw upon. And he digs deep. Husker Du tunes rub elbows with Nova Mob gems. "2541" opens up to "Charity, Chastity, Prudence, and Hope", "The Last Days of Pompeii" kisses "Pink turns Blue", and "Letter to Anne Marie" soars to a concert high. Hart speaks not a word; each song turns itself over into the next familiar song. The crowd is adoringly mesmerized. No one complains – they have nothing to complain about. Hart himself runs through an incredible set of tunes and seems an entirely different person onstage. Whereas he was casual and cordial, almost aloof, prior to the show, on the stage he becomes focused, he becomes the larger than life Grant Hart that history – if it has any sensibility – should always remember.

Voices around the club all seemed to be saying the same thing. God, he sounds so good. And he does. There is no debate about it. All of the songs hold up extraordinarily well. It’s the highest compliment one could don upon Hart’s songwriting, that taken completely out of the original contexts, stripped down of the sonic fury of Husker or the powerful bombast of Nova Mob, or even the Spector-ian shimmer of Good News, the tunes remain vibrant, shimmering, haunting, and utterly essential. I find myself, near the end of Hart’s set, thinking that this, a staggering moment of such rockroll clarity, is why I live this life. What else is there?

After the show Hart seems energized. His demeanor is upbeat and near excited. He sits by the door and talks to people as they go by…most just go by, looking too in awe to dare speak. It’s a weird scene. Hart answer questions about Husker Du without batting so much as an eye. He talks as though he won’t ever rule out a band reunion, but doesn’t come close to claiming that it will happen. He’s comfortable with his past, but clearly moving forward.

Craig grabs a handle on one end of Hart’s amplifier and Hart grabs the other. They haul the unit out to Hart’s road weary Buick Riviera and load it into the trunk. I see them talking outside the door. When they re-enter the club we shake hands with Hart and tell him we’ll see him around. Hart thanks us for coming out and grabs his guitar case. We walk out the door and my old friend says, "I fucking helped Grant Hart load up his amplifier. I can’t believe this shit, he’s a fucking legend, a God to me. Fuck, this is unbelievable." I don’t say anything. I agree and I have to fight the urge to hug my old friend for introducing me to Husker Du years ago.

"Hey man," he says to me, "I’m pretty fuckin’ wasted, do you mind if I just crash out at your place tonight?" Five years and nothing, not a damn thing, has changed.

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