Mudhoney with Obits and special guests

Every now and then, a combination will go beyond "appropriate" or "good" and result in something that forever alters the universe. Just imagine a world without chocolate and peanut butter, Doc Martens and a leather jacket, Beavis and Butthead, and of course, Mudhoney and Sub Pop. April 2013 marks the 25th anniversary of both Mudhoney and Sub Pop Records, and there could be no better band to represent the label, past, present and future. Nirvana, Saint Etienne and Fleet Foxes are swell, but no other group has consistently kicked as much ass as Mudhoney, nor has anyone come close. Through two and a half decades, sarcastic grins remain implanted on their grizzled faces, even as empty bottles and the sneakers of a stage diver fly inches from their heads.

Along with this milestone celebration, Mudhoney have bestowed Vanishing Point upon us. It's not their first album. Or third. Or seventh. Vanishing Point is Mudhoney’s ninth studio album, a truly remarkable feat for any band, but almost statistically impossible in their case, as we are talking about a band whose 1988 debut "Touch Me I’m Sick" b/w "Sweet Young Thing Ain’t Sweet No More" was such a volatile and desperate single that it's miraculous the band made it through a weekend, let alone another year. In an age where only the newest of the new can survive (and even then, only for a few weeks at best), what could the decades-old Mudhoney have to offer? What could they possibly have left to say?

The answer is plenty. Whereas most groups originally (wrongly or otherwise) associated with the grunge movement have broken up, fallen apart, reunited as shells of their former selves or disappeared entirely (I’m looking at you, Sugartooth), Mudhoney kept on kicking out the garage-rocking, punk-infused, psycho-blues jams, ignoring the trends of the day in favor of scorching feedback, rumbling bass and the inimitable voice of Mark Arm. Vanishing Point is full of that fervor, but the band isn’t masquerading as teenaged, beer-soaked goofballs wandering high school hallways–these are songs written from the rare vantage point of a band who went through the rock ‘n’ roll meat grinder and not only lived to tell such a tale, they came out full of the wisdom and dark humor such a journey provides. Just take a listen to "I Don’t Remember You," a raucous stomper that flicks off the wannabes and hangers-on that still come around while Mudhoney attempt to buy some eggs at the store. Or take "I Like It Small," a rallying cry for the little things in life, literally–Mark Arm proudly holds GG Allin above Long Dong Silver and dingy basements over esteemed music halls, not because he should, but because it’s what Mudhoney has always favored: the dirty, the dejected, the fearless and free. They're sophisticated enough to rally against the UGG boots of wines, chardonnay, but they do so in the form of a punk rock riot song that breaks the bottle over your head before pouring it down the drain. Of course, it's not long before Mudhoney receive their comeuppance, devoured at the hands of the decadently rich cannibals that control our world in "The Final Course." Vanishing Point is filled with enough dread, psychoanalysis and Nuggets-on-fire riffs to torch your cul-de-sac.

Real uninhibited rock music is harder and harder to locate these days, but Mudhoney make it easy for you, not just by being the flagship band of the greatest record label in the history of recorded time, but by writing songs that stick in your head long after your body has been buried. Vanishing Point isn't just another entry in their impressive catalog, but the modern-day rock 'n' roll lashing we all deserve. As usual, Mark Arm says it best, as in "Sing This Song of Joy": “I sing this song of joy / for all the girls and boys / dancing on your grave…”
—Matt Korvette

Delivering taut, straightforward rock & roll with sharply interwoven guitar lines, muscular rhythms, and a melodic sense that splits the difference between indie rock and garage-influenced punk, Brooklyn, New York's the Obits are a band with an impressive pedigree -- guitarist and vocalist Rick Froberg was previously a member of Drive Like Jehu and Hot Snakes, while fellow guitarist and singer Sohrab Habibion is a veteran of Washington, D.C. indie rockers Edsel.
After the breakup of Hot Snakes in 2005, Froberg moved from California to Brooklyn, and in 2006 he began writing new material and rehearsing with Habibion and drummer Scott Gursky (also a member of Shortstack). While the trio was initially considering adding a third guitar player, the arrival of bassist Greg Simpson gave the band the power and solid bottom end it needed, and the group's lineup was complete.

In early 2008, the Obits made their public debut at the Cake Shop, a club on New York's Lower East Side; the show was packed with fans eager to hear Froberg and Habibion's latest project, and one of them managed to record the set, posting a lo-fi bootleg of the show on the Internet. The Obits stole back two songs from the live tape and made them available on their MySpace page, and soon the band was gaining serious buzz from indie rock fans who heard either part or all of the debut concert. Chris Jacobs, an A&R man at Sub Pop Records and a big fan of Froberg's previous work, was impressed enough with the live bootleg that the Obits were invited to play Sub Pop's 20th anniversary festival in Seattle in the summer of 2008, and it wasn't long before the Obits signed a deal with the label. To satisfy their growing fan following, the Obits released a single, "One Cross Apiece" b/w "Put It in Writing," on their own Stint Records label in late 2008, and their first full-length effort, I Blame You, was released by Sub Pop in March 2009. The band's follow-up, 2011's Moody, Standard and Poor, was just as fiery as its debut. ~ Mark Deming