Being an American grunge rocker must be one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. Past incumbents, from Nirvana to Alice in Chains to Pearl Jam, have succumbed to various combinations of heroin, suicide, gunshots and bad haircuts. But the band who arguably started the whole thing with 1988's Superfuzz Bigmuff, Mudhoney, have got off lightly. So far, their terrible fate has been to play bizarre venues such as this rowing club, which fills in time between gig bookings by hosting locals' 60th birthday bashes.
Not that Mudhoney give a jot. In fact, part of their appeal nowadays is that they plainly don't care about anything any more - except rocking long and hard.
Once upon a time, when flying-haired rockers were seen as commercial gold dust, Mudhoney were signed to Warners, for whom they produced their least interesting music. Now back at their spiritual home, US indie label Sub Pop, the band are clearly enjoying no longer having to play the high-profile game. Front-hair Mark Arm eschews the usual "Hello, Nottingham" for a wonderful: "Uh, I remembered where we are." Then the band mischievously rampage through Hawkwind's Urban Guerrilla, a song that, ludicrously, was once banned on grounds of glamourising terrorism.
Ravaged by age and appalling waistcoats, Mudhoney have an air of genuine seediness. If this band moved in next door, the earthworms would move house. But their horribleness suits their music entirely. They used to mix punk riffs (mud) with sweet melodies (honey). Nowadays they wade into rock's most polluted waters: Black Sabbath, the 'Wind, Iron Butterfly and the Stooges. Their riffs raise the middle finger while their rhythms sound like something dredged up from the sea bed. As for lyrics, some very naughtily concern oral sex, although lines such as "I'm a winner, because I've nothing left to lose" have a philosophical purity that would have given Socrates sleepless nights.
As the band's rock of ages becomes granite-hard, one girl shakes her head like a doll being electrocuted, while a sensible-looking, middle-aged man hurls himself headlong into the mix of sweat, dandruff and beer. "Our time is now!" yells Arm, without discernible irony. Factually, their time was 1988, but in 2002 Mudhoney are enjoying a second coming as a much-needed wart on the face of corporate rock and squeaky pop.
· At the Electric Ballroom, London NW1, tonight. Box office: 020-7485 9006.
