No conversation about the ‘80s underground rock scene is complete without Hüsker Dü. And no discussion about Hüsker Dü is complete without Bob Mould, who helped to lift the band to iconic status. But in Mould’s new autobiography, See A Little Light, the band is merely a leaping-off point to a surprising, engaging life full of fury and transformation.

What made you want to write this book?

Well, it’s been many years in discussion and taken two and a half years to write. I’d reluctantly spoken with Michael Azerrad for Our Band Could Be your Life, his book on ‘80s American rock. We hit it off well and right after the book came out, he arranged a meeting with Michael Pietsch, his go-to person at Little, Brown. When I met with with them, Pietsch asked if I’d ever thought about writing my life story. At the time I was 40, and it seemed a bit premature. So we tabled that, and I guess by early-mid 2008 I was coming to the sad realization that I’m getting older and my memory is a little sketchy at times. I was 47 at the time and I thought there was a real story to tell.

The book is a chronicling of doors opening and doors closing. And you pretty firmly closed the door on some moments in your life.

(Laughs) I had this vision of me running around kicking doors open and slamming them shut.

What was it like to go back and open those doors again?

I didn’t see this much work coming, and I’ll define “work” as revisiting emotional content that’s not really pleasant to look back at. There was a part of me that thought, initially, “I’ll just glide through. I’ll just write one of those books where I talk about all the good things that have happened and maybe mention one or two small things that seem bad, and it’ll be all these accolades and these achievements that I’ll go with and that’ll be enough.” But that’s not really a life story; that’s more a career summation. So, in working with Azerrad, picking away at my core we opened the “What was your childhood like?” door. I don’t think any of us ever take the time to do that, so that’s a good place to start.

Fearing the consequences of your actions is a running theme throughout.

I call that worrying myself to death. There are two major points where there’s that inner consternation about how people will perceive things: late ‘85 or ‘86 where I write that enormous apologist letter to that punk-rock fanzine and then ‘94 and the Spin story with Dennis Cooper. I thought then that four little words said in the wrong sequence were gonna harm me for the rest of my life. That’s the kind of person I am.

Has your audience changed now that you’ve come out?

I came out in ‘94, and a lot of people who had been following my career were gay and were sort of waiting for me to do it. And I think for them it was a real sigh of relief. I think they were happy for me and maybe they were happy for the community at large, hoping that maybe I would become a spokesman—which even to this day is a tough spot for me: to be a spokesperson for a large group of people. But I think in my core rock audience, yes, there are LGBT followers. And with my DJ work and club life, that’s really where I have this 100% gay audience in front of me. In that environment I can really let my hair down and be that side of my personality. It’s still a little schizo, but I think it’s worked out well.

How is DJ-ing similar for you to the process of writing songs?

I’m a huge fan of new music; I’m constantly looking for new music. As a DJ I’m putting sets together, trying to tell a story in the course of a night, and have to be ready to alter the story on the fly if people aren’t buying what I came in with. But I’m also trying to segue songs together in similar key, and composition, and color. I put a lot of time and care into it. To me, it’s similar to constructing a tour, or a live set, or sequencing albums. And I’m working with Rich Morel, who’s also a writer and records his own music. So it’s what makes Blowoff a quality night.

What’s it like to have become an indie-rock statesman?

It’s very humbling, especially with people I consider my peers, like Dave [Grohl], or Ryan Adams, or Kevin Shields—people whose work I truly appreciate. Or the younger bands like No Age or Fucked Up. People I really feel a kinship with at this point. They’re carrying the heavy load now and I play when I can when I put out a record. It’s really flattering. It makes me really happy that my work has been consistent and pretty strong. I mean, I’m a hard worker. I hope that comes off in the book. I work hard at what I do. So that’s a nice reward, to hear people appreciate the work.