Bob Mould unlocks something in me, a rotted chest that tries to secure all my anxieties in tight. It fails, venting resentment and anger and pain at inopportune moments, like it has for most of this week. That’s how it was yesterday, and after hours of being on edge, trembling and trying (and failing) to hide a stem where my hand makes these weird repetitive motions like I’m casting spell to wish it all away, I drove home, putting on Here We Go Crazy, Mould’s latest solo album. I was driving 20 mph, cars all around me frustrated and gunning to get past the school zone, and the chorus to the title track came up and the chest unlocked, and if you looked though the windows you would have seen an old, bald man just lose it, sobbing as he vainly tried to sing along. And here’s the thing: that’s not the only Bob Mould song to do that to me.