Arizona's Meat Puppets played a largely restrained, melodic, country-based set, seemingly far removed from the joyful noise of their recent past. But this wasn't a lovingly recreated pastiche such as The Long Ryders (and Dave Edmunds before them) turn out. Like labelmates Husker Du, whose supposed "neo-psychedelia" is far removed from the Sixties revivalism of the "Paisley Underground," Meat Puppets have gone through hardcore, and learned its lessons of economy and power. They've arrived at their current sound as something new. There is a fractured, off-key intensity which -- coupled with the visual evidence of guitarist's Chris and Curt Kirkwood's frantic gestures and leaps -- reveals a thoroughly contemporary feel (though paradoxically one which captures what it must have been like to see a real C&W hero like Hank Williams). Meat Puppets play from the gut, not from a dictionary of musical history, and so it's no surprise that at least one cover -- The Allman Brothers' "Midnight Rider" -- was played as thrash, very expertly at that.

The Minutemen are an awesome sight: bassist Mike Watt, with three-day stubble for hair, seems to have stepped out of a '77 punk band; guitarist and principal songwriter D. Boon is a roly-poly figure in enormous baggy shorts, bouncing up and down continuously. "Punk rock changed our life," goes a line in one of their songs, but by now their music has evolved into tight, mutant funk-punk thrash over which Boon projects his terse, incisive lyrics.

He may just be the best wordsmith around right now. In short, pared-down-to-basics songs like "Working Men Are Pissed" he lists the realities of America today with heartfelt intensity. The band, which might be thought of as San Pedro's collective Bob Dylan for the 80's, brought onstage a sign reading US Out of Central America and turned their best song, "Corona," into an anthem of defiance -- "The people will survive." The crowd responded with a roar. And that was nothing compared to the reception given headliners Husker Du.

Suddenly, over the last year, the Huskers have conquered all. The new album sold close to 30,000 in the first few weeks. Even The New York Times gave the last one a rave review. Yet they remain totally credible, in touch with real people and real concerns, completely down to earth in their attitude (and their public seems to recognize this). As individuals they haven't changed, but musically they've leapt light years ahead of the pack. They never were just a hardcore band -- there was always a strong pop sensibility lurking under the scalding thrash (remember their cover of Donovan's "Sunshine Superman"?). But they've worked out how to broaden the musical panorama of hardcore, infusing it with powerful melodies the thoughtful lyrics without sacrificing anything in strength and integrity.

As usual, they launched directly into the first song ("Something I Learned Today") and carried straight on through for an hour. No extraneous antics, not a word of chat, just solid action. Only when the crowd's persistent dive-bombing off the stage reached ridiculous levels did Bob Mould halt long enough to say "this is gonna stop right now."

It was prime Husker Du, reminiscent in pace and intensity of early Ramones shows. They seemed perhaps a little below their best at first -- maybe because of the slightly muddy sound, maybe on accountant of the unnacustomedly bright lighting (SST were videoing the show for possible later release). But they were soon in full, fast, and furious flow, giving us a wide range of material from their by now extensive catalogue.

"Everything Falls Apart," one of their early thrash classics, has been reworked to fit seamlessly into their recent, more overtly harmonic style. "It's Not Funny Anymore" and "Diane" from 1983's Metal Circus have also evolved with a band. Even the new songs they did from the recent New Day Rising, like "I Apologize" and "Girl Who Lives On Heaven Hill," gained in melodic depth and power over the recorded versions.

Finally, they almost stopped -- and then fed out the opening chords to... "Louie, Louie." Joined onstage by the other bands, the SST ensemble then proceeded lovingly to thrash said garage classic within an inch of its life. They left the stage one by one, until only Curt Kirkwood remained, beating away at the drums and gazing forlornly around from time to time as if he couldn't believe the party had to end.

The following review of 'New Day Rising' appears in the same issue:

It's not surprising that reviewers assume accents of confused rapture in trying to describe the music of Husker Du. The Minneapolis trio seem to have thrown off everything that could tie them down. Limitations of idiom, region, and training no longer seem to count for the Huskers. They've taken off.

New Day Rising doesn't intend to outdo last year's extraordinary Zen Arcade double album. That's made clear by the down-home (if not down-market) cover and by a certain casualness of selection. (The version of drummer Grant Hart's "Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill" is vocally so over the top it comes across as a bad song. Yet the band made it sound marvellous at the Stone in March.) Still, don't imagine you can skip this release. Anyone who's wondered about the nature Husker Du's music will want to study the evidence on this record.

Let's take "Perfect Example," a track that's drawn less attention than some of the others. The abstract lyric sketches mental pain in the persistence of memory. The unassuming tune, like a phrase half-sung while brooding in the attic, is laid over a quiet, heartless guitar pattern and low hums of priestly dolor. This sparse tune and businesslike pace finish it off without sentimentality: an incommunicable kind of misery has been laid bare. Maybe one reason Husker Du have come so far is that they tackle tough songs. Using simple parts, they build musical models of complex (at times close to ineffable) themes.

Another way in which the band keeps working and developing is in the vocal harmonizing between Hart and guitarist/vocalist Bob Mould. In their latest Bay Area appearance Hart's backups were an intuitive drawing-out of hidden splendors in the vocal lines.

"New Day Rising," "Celebrated Summer," and "Powerline" are examples of the band's most characteristic and elevated current style. Firm and convincing notes of meaning are struck from the words (in the title song, no more than the three of the title). The tunes, typically major blasts of three or four notes, accumulate, layer and reverberate, often with minor harmonies, leading to celestially heartening resolutions.