BY JUD COST

Every so often there comes a time when you've had it up to here with clever melodies and breathtaking harmonies. A time when only the mind-numbing guitars, caveman rhythms and searing vocals of Mudhoney will do. When you get the chance to witness this pivotal Seattle band (they ignited the grunge forest fire 20 years ago that made international heroes of  Nirvana and Pearl Jam and were the outfit that put Sub Pop Records on the map) in the intimate setting of San Francisco's Independent club, these guys can suck you in with an overwhelming force, like somebody's just pulled the 40-foot plug out of the bottom of Lake Superior.

Last seen in these parts for the Terrastock II festival in 1998, Mudhoney was set up perfectly by fab San Francisco up-and-comers Wooden Shjips. The droning interplay of guitarist Ripley Johnson and the keyboards of Nash Whalen are a brain-melting blend of the Velvet Underground and scary New York art-rock duo Suicide, brought to a rolling boil with the closer to the Shjips'  37-minute set, a floor-rattling reading of Neil Young's "Vampire Blues."

I've seen Iggy Pop many times-first in 1973 and most recently for the Stooges' reunion tour last year-and nobody does a better Iggy than Mudhoney front man Mark Arm (not even Iggy, himself, these days). When Arm, in a shoulder-dislocating move, bends his left arm clear behind his back, far enough to hug his right arm, while gazing at the ceiling and teetering backwards to the point of no return, whatever he sings is bound to be irresistible. With most of the original personnel on board-Arm on vocals and guitar, Steve Turner on guitar, bassist Guy Maddison and Dan Peters on drums-the band could freewheel through its extensive back catalog. A few of the endings to songs were a little ragged, but nobody cared, especially when you got to see Arm with what the FAA would classify as a catastrophic near-miss: almost getting clocked by Madison's bass as he pirouetted into Mudhoney's infectious 1988 debut single, "Touch Me I'm Sick."

It was a great night, drenched with the untamed spirit once available on a weekly basis in the late '80s when this same place, called the Kennel Club back then, hosted incendiary shows by the garage-rocking Flaming Lips, the alcohol-swilling Tex & the Horseheads and Oz-rock shamen the Screaming Tribesmen. If you tilted your head just so, I swear you could almost catch the pungent aroma of clove cigarettes.

[Photo Credit: Steven Dewall]