Hüsker Dü’s Greg Norton, Grant Hart, and Bob Mould, photographed by Steve Hengstler
Approximately 53 minutes after a solar eclipse darkened the skies of St. Paul and beckoned the entire city outside to gaze upward in awe, Grant Hart wandered into my cubicle and stood quietly behind me, smiling politely and nodding his head hello. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a dark navy suit coat, which hung loosely on his small frame, and he tilted his head to take in the muted office noises happening around him, meandering toward a collection of motorcycle posters that were tacked up in a neighboring cube.
Grant didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry that day, and we walked slowly together from the cubicles to a recording studio down the hall. As we settled into seats facing one another, I wondered what it would take to stop time for a few more moments like the eclipse had seemingly done earlier that afternoon; what I wouldn’t give to stretch out this particular afternoon so we could have just a little more time together.
The date was August 21, which I’ll always remember — not just because of the eclipse, but also because it was the last time I would ever see Grant. Seven weeks before our interview, I had watched with a lump in my throat as he performed one of his last shows to a packed and adoring crowd of punk rock luminaries at the Hook and Ladder Theater, a surprise celebration of his life that was pulled together by his longtime friend Lori Barbero. And a few weeks before that I’d learned that Grant was seriously ill and not likely to live through the end of the year, which sent me reeling through all my memories of watching him perform and talking to him about his life and art. Would there be enough time for one more interview?
Up until his untimely death on September 13 at the age of 56, Grant had been the most vocal member of Hüsker Dü to participate in the Number Group box set Savage Young Dü, a collection of previously unreleased early recordings that will be released tomorrow. He wanted to make sure people knew about the box set, so he agreed to stop by Minnesota Public Radio for his only interview about the release, and we talked for nearly two hours about his life, the origins of the band, and the preservation of their legacy. I treasured every minute of it.
The following is a transcript of our conversation, edited sparingly for clarity’s sake. As anyone who knew him could tell you, Grant never hesitated to express his opinions about the world, and this interview was no exception; you’re getting pure, uncensored Grant Hart.
Andrea Swensson: Thank you so much for coming in today.
Grant Hart: My pleasure indeed. There is an eclipse going on just as we speak.
That’s true. Just about an hour ago we reached peak eclipse here in St. Paul, pretty magical. I got to go look at it with special glasses. Did you get a peek at it?
It’s an amazing event. It’s no wonder that the ancients were so amazed by them, and feared them.
It makes you think about all the previous generations that have seen it. I kind of got chills thinking about that.
What did they think in the early days of Christianity, when they believed [in] the geocentric universe, where the earth was the middle of everything? And now we think we’re correctly believing that eclipses are a result of the heliocentric universe. But I wonder what they thought was going on with eclipses back when they thought the sun revolved around the earth.
I’d love to talk to you about eclipses all afternoon, but we are here to talk about some very exciting Hüsker Dü news, that there’s this big reissue coming out — or an issuing for the first time of some music that has never seen the light of day. I’m wondering if we could start by talking a little bit about your origins as a musician. As a kid, was there a moment or an album or something that really spoke to you and said to you, “I want to be a musician, too”?
I’d always been able to monkey around on a piano that we had in the basement, like so many other suburban families. And then when I was 10 years old my brother was killed in an automobile accident, and a very close friend of the family approached me and my brother and said that we each had to take on half of my brother’s work. For me, that was the music aspects of my brother’s life. He was a drummer. He was a record head. And these are all things that I didn’t need to be forced to enjoy them, but I think that was a kick in the right direction. I don’t know if it intruded upon on the stages of grief. It definitely was given power by it. That moment really sticks out.
That was a lot to handle as a 10-year-old. What kind of music would your brother play?
He played a lot of the ‘60s local classics like “Liar, Liar”; “Run Run Run” by the Gestures; a lot of old local records, but a lot of nationally promoted stuff as well. He didn’t own any Beatles from what I noticed. No Beach Boys either, except the single “409,” which must’ve been so popular that it overwhelmed him. But really diverse and real eclectic would pretty much sum it up.
I came to know the drums by playing along with these records. I would set the 45 player it. It wasn’t a stereo. There was nothing that fancy. My mother in particular was kind of a cheapskate, and her way of thinking about music is like this record is 25 cents. What’s the difference between this and the 50 cent one? Back in the days of the cutouts, she and my father never bought a record outside of the Columbia Record Club, and were very musically naïve. Their idea of the ‘70s was leisure suits. Every one of us of that age can understand what I’m talking about, if they had their eyes open at the time.
It sounds like your siblings were really the ones to open your eyes to a different musical world.
Yeah. I certainly couldn’t depend on my folks for it. They really had no world to offer to me other than just, there’s your life.
Did they have any kind of inclinations for what you should be doing with your life?
They loved the fact I was – I could get away with anything as long as it was associated with drumming, from the point my brother the drummer died. I took advantage of it at a couple different occasions. As I say, “I’m off to practice, mom.” “Okay, don’t be too late.” “Oh, it might be midnight.” “Okay.” They trusted me. When I think that they think I was using it as an excuse, yeah, maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t know. Very tight town, where phone calls would be made if you were seen misbehaving in town.
Was this South St. Paul?
Yeah, South St. Paul.
So where in that progression of drums and dabbling in music did you get the first impulse to write a song?
It was kind of disconnected to the actual part of me that was writing. I don’t know if you remember Mad Magazine, but they would have these songs that you could construct from nothing. It’s kind of hard to explain. It was a songwriting device where, by replacing lines of the real song with Mad Magazine’s lines you can come up with your own fun song. And then writing – different sources for different uses.
So your first songs were like little joke songs?
Not so much that they were joke songs, but the way that this work went was, it gave you the idea of the construction, like with the English subject, predicate – it kind of reinforced some of the ironclad rules of lyricism.
So instead of diagraming a sentence in school, you were diagraming a song.
Tell me about some of the bands that you were in before Hüsker Dü.
The first two things were kind of headquartered in the band room at school, like kids that would just get together and jam afterwards, and there was a couple bands inspired by that convenient situation. We weren’t being a band so much as we were playing at being a band and learning what the roles were and what you needed to do to fulfill them. It was finding where the holes are so you can fill them up with what you were learning.
What kind of music would you say that was?
You would take say three people, and the songs that remain after other things have been rejected would be the songs that we would play. And someone would go and find the sheet music and someone would transcribe the sheet music, and later on it was like, we can take care of the sheet music parts ourselves; why write it down just to erase it again later?
So you were learning how to deconstruct the songs and figure out the chords and that kind of thing?
Yeah – how to get into the philosophy of the whole creative process.
Sounds pretty deep for – what were you, 12 or 13 at the time?
I think most 13-year-olds I know are learning how to play “Smoke on the Water” on the guitar and trying to get these riffs.
The other two guys that would be playing with me would be playing “Smoke on the Water” – the guitar store standard.
Tell me about getting the job working at the Melody Lanes record store.
Basically I had petitioned the manager for a job, and this is after I had hung around like the shop mascot for, it seemed like, two years. It was probably a year and a half. Up at Signal Hills Mall – I hung out there, and I think I was attracted to the variety of music and the fact that this fellow, Mark Wheeler, who was running the joint, that he was playing all sorts of different fantastic stuff that I’d never heard before. It was when the first New York Dolls album came out. That day he was extremely happy. A few months later he asked me to take a ride to OarFolkJokeOpus and that was my first experience like big time record shopping, like going to something that isn’t in a mall, something that doesn’t have 60 copies of the newest Kenny Rogers or what have you.
What did you think of that?
I was all for it. I was gung ho.
So you met Mark and then you started courting him to get a job.
Yeah. And also he was the same age as my departed brother, so I put some stock in that, that that was the role I was giving him.
How did you convince him to hire you?
He didn’t hire me. In the meantime he quite and another wonderful person, Sharon Boyd, had become the manager. In the meantime Greg Norton had kind of just been the right man at the right moment, and he got the job. Later on I met him in the mall, and I don’t know exactly what I said, but I apparently said something a bit snarky to him about, “Yeah, you’re the guy that got hired instead of me by Sharon Boyd.” It wasn’t too vitriolic, but I was expressive.
And you were 15 at that time?
How long did you hang around the store before they gave you the job?
That job came fairly quick after that. I think Sharon realized that I was disappointed, and she had room on the staff for one more, and all was right with the world.
What do you remember about getting to know Greg?
What stands out is how quickly I became – I had a car and Greg didn’t, and I ended up driving for the both of us. I was getting something from him; he was getting something from me. It was all right, but there was a bit of a I-want-to-hang-around-with-my-cool-guy-that-drives-me-places.
Were you older than he was?
No. He was like a year and a half older than I.
You just had the car.
Yeah. The car’s worth three years.
Where would you go in the car, other record stores or shows?
We would ride around smoking pot with a bong in the front seat. We’d go to different parties. Friends of ours were students at MCAD, so that gave me a great early exposure to that, which – MCAD today does not compare in the least to what it was back then. It used to be an art school/design school and now it has become a design school/design school. The number of affluent students I think is uncomfortably high, and I worry for that aspect of the arts where if everybody is a wealthy intern, where’s the working class artist coming from? The art that’s being produced by people under 30 is atrocious. There has never been a worse time for the arts in my lifetime than what I’m seeing right now. It’s terrible. People are getting away with such laziness. It’s a shame.
But back then you got to meet some artists that you connected with?
Yeah, and made friendships with – but most importantly you had meetings of the mind with – the punk scene at that time was limited to what Minneapolis could spit out, and unfortunately it was a lot of affluent people from Hopkins, Edina. The privileged of Minneapolis – they were the ones parading as punks. There was no working class punks at all, and when we first came on the scene people thought that we were like Hell’s Angels or something because we defied their definition. I don’t want to overuse the word “posers,” but there was no working class punk until Husker Du came along.
Do you think that’s a product of the background that you had, coming from St. Paul and kind of being the underdogs in that way?
Perhaps. I think also the fact that the location was represented instead of just these western suburbs producing the punks. All of a sudden it was the Macalester/Groveland contingent. We didn’t scare anybody, but people were like a bit of fear about our reality. They were just a little bit that way about it.
We talked a little about meeting Greg Norton. I want to close the trio and talk about meeting Bob. I’m a little confused about this. You were working at Melody Lane, but then you also worked at Cheapo. Is that the same job?
Not at the same time. It would’ve been later. I’m trying to think which was my last record store job, because I did Hot Licks on Block E, which was a great store. But anyway, I’m working at Cheapo on Grand Avenue, and one day this bright blue set of eyes comes in and is just like anxious to meet somebody, anxious to talk and make a friend. And later on, once I met the other people that Bob was hanging around with I realized how empty his life had been before meeting up with me. That’s a pretty pompous thing to say, but it must have been very boring for him to have been under that nothing-but-college-boys – back then MCAD did a lot of student outreach as far as kids that didn’t have a great deal of money. So there was even more contrast. But the whole world seemed so much more democratic back then.
What do you mean by that?
Just the way that values have shifted, I think there’s a big vacancy in human existence right now, and in the United States particularly, but the whole turn towards conservatism is heartbreaking. We came so close to having some really tight agreements between countries, and one guy can screw that up for everybody.
I should be on Bob here. So he didn’t have any people to trade and listen to records with, and I had my collection, which to him was mostly new stuff. He was bringing stuff from the East that I hadn’t seen before, and there was a great give and take situation. He started taking lessons from [Chris] Osgood after we had been invited to play a gig at Ron’s Randolph Inn at St. Paul. The gig kind of dropped in our laps. We didn’t even have a band, but the money was good that we were willing to put together a band. Bob and I had been jamming in his dorm room. We weren’t bringing drums up there or anything, but with those small beginnings we got the big push when these gigs came along, and continued up the slope.
Is that when you were referred to as Buddy and the Returnables?
The fellow that was the connect for the gig later went on to career highlights such as managing Gary Louris’s outfit. He is one of these fellows that’s just a little bit too cute, a little bit too much of himself. So we played this two or three shows that went alright. They paid us after the end of the weekend. We packed the place with our friends, so the owners were more than happy to accept the result. So we were a band.
Photo by Steve Hengstler
Were you playing your own material or covers at that point?
I believe it was all covers, but then there was a second night where this guy also — because of this guy’s contacts we were invited to play one of the minor dances at Springfest. It’s the be all to end all at Macalester. During the performance this friend of mine – and I swear there was no collusion involved – but he figured out how to disconnect and disable the Farfisa that this guy was playing – this fourth guy. I think it was like the third time that he became disconnected that the guy finally just gave up the ghost and accepted that. But in the meantime that Bob and Greg had worked up together, there was three songs, and we embarked upon playing them, and Charlie’s like – oops, you know his first name – just, “Wait, wait, tell me the chords,” and it’s like you’re not going to get it by us telling you the chords. It’s going to take as much practice as it took us. He refused to have much to do with us from that point on afterwards. Humiliation comes to mind. It was the kind of humiliation that, at that age, you don’t realize how long lasting the effects may be. I’m remembering it. I don’t think – I think this fellow’s gotten over it by now. I never got any hate mail from him for firing him onstage.
So that Springfest gig was really when the band became the trio.
So then tell me about what happened after that. You started playing out more, the three of you?
Yeah. From that point on it was desired to play the Longhorn, because the Longhorn was the punk rock club. That was the badge of honor. You weren’t a punk rocker in this town unless you played the Longhorn, and it was also us bringing it to the people – “the people” not being our people, but being the Minneapolis punk audience. Our friends – when we would play a show, we had dedicated people that would show up, and they didn’t care what somebody from Hopkins thought or whatever. It all got along.
What do you remember about playing the Longhorn for the first time?
The first memory that really comes to mind about the Longhorn is – there’s a funny story where there was a gay friend of mine who was close to Hartley Frank, Hartley being the fellow in charge at the Longhorn. And Hartley was in charge of the booking of the bands. I told the band that we had an audition at 2:00 Thursday, because this friend said that he could make it happen using the power of romance. We’re playing maybe 1:30 in the afternoon, but it’s in the middle of lunch rush and buffet, and we start playing, and Hartley comes out and he’s like, “What are you doing?” And it’s like, “We’re playing our audition. We want to play here.” And Hartley’s like, how do I take care of this nightmare. We got our first show at the Longhorn that way. He fell for our trick. Everybody fell for our trick.
So you just came and blasted through lunch.
Yeah. We stopped when he reiterated that – it’s possible it could’ve ended up very terribly.
The moment that you guys entered the Minneapolis scene seems like such a pivotal time, with this kind of underground scene bubbling up at the Longhorn. And then just a few months later you played the Seventh St. Entry as it was just opening, right?
It seems the Entry didn’t follow that closely because there was Zoogie’s. Zoogie’s was the Longhorn after they changed hands. The Replacements played Zoogie’s a lot. How early on they were playing the Longhorn, I don’t know. There’s no need to be archeological about it. There was a lot of activity early on. But then we’re looking backwards at time, so it’s going to be compressed by perspective.
Something that’s interesting to me is that there were live recordings captured during this time, and you guys started making demos, but none of those ever got released. How did all that material just kind of end up on the cutting room floor?
Hüsker Dü has never had a cutting room floor. Or let’s say if there is, that we keep that floor well swept and anything that falls on that floor, we make sure that we pick it up and put it where it belongs. But a mistake that was made with the construction of this box set was somebody involved opened up the whole archive to this Numero group, and they did it for all the wrong reasons. It was like, “We can get these transferred for nothing if we just let them use it.” And it’s like, meanwhile they’re hearing this stuff; they want first dibs on everything. It’s not the deal that we signed. There was never a marketing strategy whatsoever as far as this box set is concerned. There was no plan. The people that we beat the big bass drum for two years ago when everything was looking so bright for Hüsker Dü – it just didn’t happen. The fellow that was chosen to represent us was a boob.
What happened two years that seemed like everything was looking great?
For the first time since the breakup of the band we all had the same person that we were conferring with. This person played both ends against the middle. “Bob doesn’t like this.” And then he’d, “Grant doesn’t like this.” Just quit playing both ends against the middle and just do your job. But no accounting – we engaged this t-shirt manufacturing company because they could provide us inroads into the SST vaults. That was a complete line of BS. Absolutely nothing has resulted, but things are still looking up. Never say never.
I want to ask you a few more questions about that time period of the box set. I’m wondering if you can tell me about starting to tour with the band, and I understand you were playing the hardcore circuit. What was that like?
The same time we were playing this mostly Western – well, East too – this circuit, as it were, sometimes you might have to stall your tour because there’s no venue in Tucson until Thursday. So on your way to Los Angeles you’re going to have to play punk night. That sort of thing – the way that we were able to get by with as little advance work as we did – was it a sign of the times? Was it just our luck? Things just seemed less complicated when you could – all the information you needed was the guy’s phone number. You’re pulling into town – do we have the guy’s phone number? And we’d pull into the club, and the guy is like overwhelmed to see us or overjoyed, and that’s the beginning of a very good day. Nowadays people send 15 voicemails just between the restaurant and the venue. It’s like we’re over-informed to the point where we’re tripping over our own brains with this minutia.
What kind of rooms were you playing?
Everything from huge derelict burlesque houses to little taquerias. Every once in a while there’d be a gem, where there’s something about a place that just is magical. Sometimes you’re playing an Irish pub where the bartender has a fondness for hardcore punk music and your connection is from that. There really was a rolling of the dice back then.
I wanted to go back to First Ave for a little bit, because we talked very briefly about how you guys had played the Entry very close to when it opened. Can you reflect more on your relationship with that club?
In fact we were the first band to ask for a gig at the Entry. This one fellow, his name was Danny Flies, he was a ne’er-do-well promoter. Great guy, friendly guy, and as near as I can tell he never pulled a bad move. So he convinced the people of the committee, which is the organizing body of First Avenue’s people, he convinced them to let him use the place that was going to become the Entry – the old like cafeteria/donut shop at the bus station, and it worked out great. Then they started making it more fancy. Not that it became fancy. It’s just that it became less ersatz. It turned into a professional grade nightclub, and I kind of get a chuckle nowadays when I go to the place and see how much has changed, but also – the only place in town that I’m ever carded is going into the Entry, and the head of security is always coming up going, “No, no, he’s cool.” I’ve never tried to bring attention to myself with the whole rock star shit. So there’s a certain amount of satisfaction that comes from that anonymity.
Photo by Steve Hengstler
What does it mean to you when people come up to you and tell you that you’re influential or that you inspired them to start a band? How does that feel?
It makes me judge that person. It makes me evaluate them as they have complimented me.
I want to ask you about Land Speed Record, because something that’s interesting to me in the context of these recordings that are now being released is that it took until 1982 for the band to put out a live album, even though shows were being captured all the time. What was it about that recording that made you want to put it out as an album?
We were very deliberate about it. We wanted to record when we were hot off a tour. At that time two years wasn’t an excessively long a time to make a release, especially for a first album where you got to let things kind of simmer, kind of let the juices move together. Learning how to do what you do took plenty of time. Even once we had recorded Land Speed Record there was perhaps as long as year where we had played around with different mastering companies and deciding who should press it. It was our precious little baby. We wanted to make sure it was in good hands.
What do you recall about the decision to sign to SST? That would’ve been ’83?
We had made common cause with them in Chicago of ’81, I should say. There was always the, “hey, we’re going to put your record out someday” kind of attitude from them, and SST couldn’t do it, but New Alliance said they were willing to do it, and that they had just received a rebate refund check from the studio. And so we were there with the right record and they were there with the right cash and the right mastering, the right everything, and it came to happen. Of all our records I would have to say that one resonates – there’s no more Husker Du record than Land Speed Record. It is – especially the first half of the band’s output. It was very – there’s free jazz players that have embraced that record. There’s people of all musical walks of life that have taken it upon themselves to dig those songs. It makes me pretty intrigued, if not proud.
What was it like when the Walker did the exhibit? They had the drummer do all your parts?
Yes. Interesting situation because I had appropriated imagery through most of my graphics career, and Chris has this idea – there was a film which I won’t even go into. It’s extremely important to the story, but a film that Chris made, and it involved the remains of my house fire, but a lot of the static imagery was direct lifts from work that was part of my output. I didn’t want to, but I could not say, “Hey, you’ve appropriated this from me,” because I’d just appropriated it nine years earlier from somewhere. So I took it as a plus-plus. I think the fact that I’m involved in it, given those parameters, is not a common occurrence in the arts.
I curious to know, now that all these recordings have been compiled into this box set and they’re coming out, what was it like for you to listen to them all as a release?
I pretty well knew what to expect. I’ve not shied away from the band. I don’t immerse myself in it, but it’s part of the wholeness that is my career and my music. I keep myself cognizant of it.
Are these the earliest recordings of you as a musician?
No. There’s things of me that are a bit older, like Mount Everest is older than me; the glaciers.
I know this is a little beyond the point that we’re talking about with the box set, but I just have to ask you – I was watching the Joan Rivers Show clip the other day. What was that experience like for you?
It was surreal. That was for Warehouse. It was – it captured the band at a moment where the ones that eat you up are beginning to nibble. Hard to describe. It was like the last of the great days of the band, when we were getting the positive and the negative hadn’t started yet.
And it was captured on national television.
There you go.
That’s pretty remarkable.
To me it looks like we’re all wearing makeup. I thought I remembered not wearing any makeup whatsoever, but I guess we had it on because sometimes it sure looks like it. But that’s part of what we had bought in for. That’s why we joined that part of the game, is because we wanted to promote our records the way that Warner Bros. promoted records, and one of them is getting you on Joan Rivers and catching flies.
I watched a bunch of old interviews of the band. Everyone asks you about the same two or three questions, and you had kind of funny answers by a certain point. There was a quote from you — someone asked how the band got together, and you said, “We started it as friends and then we put an end to that pretty quick.”
Do you think you guys were friends during this period that we’re hearing on the release? Was it a friendly dynamic?
Let’s say that the worst it got, there was still mostly respectfulness toward each other on the road. Lord knows, when Bob would be out of the room Greg would bitch about Bob. When I was out of the room I’m sure it was about me, and when Greg was out of the room it was about him. So we each took our turn. Nobody ever wins with two against one. That could’ve helped our longevity, but you never know. There could’ve possibly been the contingency where you have two bands that united by conflict.
What do you think would’ve happened if you’d have stayed together? What would the next record have sounded like?
I think if we hadn’t majorly regressed – we were heading down some terrible pop territory by Warehouse’s completion. But thank God that we got out of there with our reputations. I’m happy for that. Reputation and the work of an artist is the thing that you cannot replace with anything, whatsoever. As long as you have that, you can start from scratch every day and reinvent and recreate and relive your experience as an artist.
I’m such a fan of your solo material, and I wanted to ask you about “2541,” because it seemed like that just burst out of you after the band broke up, and I’m wondering if you can tell me a little bit about where that came from.
It didn’t so much burst out at that time. It was a song that I’d performed at the opening of Garage D’or, and it was – there was a house number – 2541 – but then there was also our business address, which was 2541 Nicollet. When the band broke up I was able to twist that into a personal and a not-so-direct statement.
You had a pretty funny summary of it at the Hook and Ladder show, I thought.
You said it was just a fuckpad.
[laughs] Can’t deny it.
That was a very intense evening at Hook and Ladder. What was that night like for you?
Oh man, the seeds of distrust that were sown that evening — I totally expected a run of the mill, average gig. The Rank Strangers were warming up. Plain and simple, Brigid informs me, when she picks me up to go down to the club, she tells me that they can’t open up the club until 8:00. And so we go out to eat, and about 7:30 we’re looking for the way out of the parking, and Brigid’s like, “Give me the parking ticket,” and it’s like, “I don’t have it, you do.” And it turns up she had mangled it and thrown it away. She finds it, it fits in the machine, it works fine. We get down to the club and I’m parking and there’s one fellow that steps outside and I say, “Hey, what’s going on?” Meanwhile I’m thinking there’s like two people inside there. He’s like, “Nothing but a whole lot of people that are anxious to see you.” And I’m like, that’s odd.
I carry my guitar in and it’s like this sea of faces turning to me with great affection. It was – there’s not too many big surprises that have been successfully thrown at me, but that was definitely one. The nature of the show was, there was no preparation between me and the rest of the groups, and so there was a little bit of problems with other performers’ expectations. It’s like, I’m singing one of my songs and then all of a sudden some helpful rock start all of a sudden is bellowing [bellows a line of “Green Eyes”] and then another moment later I get the beatific face of Kraig Johnson just looking at me like the child that he is. But outside of that disconnect – I don’t need somebody else to show me how to put on a performance. There’s a couple simple rules when people are performing with me, and if they can’t get it, I really don’t know what to say.
What’s next for you? What are you working on right now?
I’m working on a project that’s taking a bit. Let’s say I’ve gone on from Lucifer to a more human antagonist in this little phono play. It’s pretty much based entirely on the life and work of Theodore Kaczynski. I figure he’s a pretty bad ass to write about. [looking at his phone] I gots to straighten out some stuff.
I don’t want to keep you any longer. Thank you.
Are you happy?
I’m very happy. My list of questions goes on and on, but I know you’ve got other things to do. So thank you so much for talking to me.
Make the list and we’ll get to it next time.
That’s a plan. Thank you, Grant.