Damien Jurado - Ghost Of David (LP)

Mudhoney’s March to Fuzz landed at the start of 2000, the kind of no‑nonsense career overview that feels like a battered tour case stuffed with everything that mattered from their first dozen years. It is a two disc set on Sub Pop that splits the difference between a punchy best‑of and a crate‑digging trove of B‑sides and oddities. If you’ve ever worn out a copy of Superfuzz Bigmuff or Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge, this plays like a victory lap that still smells of stale beer and burnt valves.

The first disc is the big grin. It opens a vein straight back to the late 80s Seattle moment that Mudhoney helped spark, all fuzz pedal snarl and garage‑punk swing. Touch Me I’m Sick still lurches like a sickly carnival ride, a reminder of how Jack Endino’s early Reciprocal Recording sessions caught the band with their hair on fire. You get the sledgehammer churn of In ‘n’ Out of Grace and the darting, surf‑ruined riffing of Here Comes Sickness. Then the early 90s work arrives with a different kind of snap, thanks to the crisp, unfussy ear of producer Conrad Uno at Egg Studios. Let It Slide and Good Enough show how Mudhoney could tuck hooks inside the grime without losing the grin. Suck You Dry remains a high‑water mark, a Reprise‑era single that somehow made their racket sound radio sized while keeping Dan Peters’ drums and Matt Lukin’s bass locked like a barfight. Mark Arm’s drawl is the constant throughline, half sneer, half laugh, always ready with a line that leans into the absurdity of it all.

The second disc is the reason lifers cherish this set. Rarities that once lived on hard‑to‑find singles get hauled into the light. Hate the Police, their thumping cover of The Dicks, hits with the gleeful venom that made their early Sub Pop 7‑inches so collectible. You can hear the band chase stray ideas, tear through covers, and bash out experiments that never lost the low‑budget thrill. This side of March to Fuzz reminds you Mudhoney were never precious. If it cracked a smile in the practice room, they put it to tape. Sequencing helps too. The scrappy one‑offs sit neatly against minor classics, so the story flows rather than feeling like a dumping ground.

It’s also a neat way to hear their studio path in miniature. The thick, mosquito‑swarm guitars of the Endino cuts give way to Egg Studios’ grainy warmth, then on to the mid‑90s records where the band’s sense of swing sharpened. None of it sands off the attitude. This band loved ugly guitar tones and proudly made them feel like home. You can draw a straight line from these sides to the next wave of garage revivalists, but Mudhoney’s humour and refusal to posture keep them in a lane of their own. Critics at the time treated March to Fuzz as more than a tidy package. It read like a case closed argument for their place in the grunge story, the missing link between punk snot and stadium‑ready noise.

On a format note, the original set was a 2CD, though March to Fuzz vinyl pressings do exist and tend to vanish fast whenever they surface. If you collect Mudhoney vinyl, this one is catnip, but any format gets you the goods. The fuzz is the point, and it is gloriously intact. Spin the “hits” disc when you need a straight shot, then use the rarities disc as a reminder that accidents and side roads often hold the best stories.

If you’re digging around a Melbourne record store and spy a clean copy, don’t overthink it. Grab first, text later. The same goes if you prefer to buy Mudhoney records online. With Mudhoney albums on vinyl, condition matters since these were the records that actually got played at parties, not just filed. In the world of vinyl records Australia can be a paradise if you’re patient, with the odd Sub Pop gem tucked between pub rock and punk. Whether you’re rebuilding a collection or just filling gaps, March to Fuzz sits nicely next to the core studio albums and tells the tale in one hit.

More than a primer, it’s a reminder that Mudhoney never chased the slick version of Seattle. They took the cheap gear, the big muffed guitars, the in‑jokes and the hangovers, and made a sound that still feels alive. March to Fuzz is that sound bottled, shaken, and served with a wink.