It’s been three decades since Bush’s debut record, Sixteen Stone, thrust Gavin Rossdale and his bandmates into the eye of a grunge-hungry storm. Thirty years, countless tours, and ten albums later, Rossdale is still on the road, still evolving, and still hellbent on making sure the shows are “so fucking good” that no one can say he’s phoning it in.
“I get super excited about the shows because I love the music,” Rossdale says, speaking from a Canadian tour stop. “And I would say that I’m possibly touring too much this year. They overdid it. I agreed to it in stages without realizing it as a whole, as a drone shot, so to speak. So it’s a little overwhelming. But the only way through the madness, to save myself going crazy… is to just really think about it, to be so fucking good that I can be really like crazy, get my voice right, warm up beautifully, play so much guitar that I’m playing the best guitar.”
He likens the discipline to a scene from the Tom Hardy film Bronson. “”People get stuck in the cell, all they’ve got is themselves 24 hours a day. Drives people crazy. I fucking love it.” If I can just concentrate on the shows being amazing, then it sort of justifies everything.”
Bush will play Place Bell in Laval on May 7 with support from Filter and Rival Sons, part of a sprawling North American tour that follows a recent standout set at Lollapalooza in São Paulo. That show was a taste of what’s to come, with the band performing “60 Ways To Forget People”—a brooding and emotionally raw cut from their upcoming 10th studio album, I Beat Loneliness, due July 18. The official lead single, “The Land of Milk and Honey,” drops June 5.
“What I feel about this record is it addresses the common struggles we all have,” Rossdale says. “‘60 Ways To Forget People’ is an ode to sacrifice and a dedication to the focus it takes to be better. All the time and in all things.”
Reflecting on Bush’s origins, Rossdale recalls the exact moment things started to click, well before commercial success. “There were many years that had passed before. I took two bands before I figured out what band I should be in… When I found myself in Bush, funny enough, I remember when I was first at the demos and I was lying in my green bath—I had a green bath and a green sink, which later on, I coloured gold, to be honest, with paint myself and passed out from the fumes.”
“I think the song was ‘Comedown’ and ‘Little Things,’ right? And ‘Comedown’ particularly, I was like, this is fucking great. Now, I may not be successful—fuck those other bands and fuck trying to make records or being commercial. This is the sound I really like. This is the vibe I really like. So, brilliant. Finally, I got myself in a cool band.”
The early days weren’t all glamorous though. “We played a tiny little pub in Manchester. They didn’t have a barricade, and I was like, oh, the shows we’ve done in America had barricades. Did the show, and the whole audience knocked everything over pushed us all back. It was the Wild West of the music, and it was brilliant.”
Even as Bush gained traction in the States, the UK was deep in the throes of Britpop. “So me making that kind of music was like literally commercial suicide,” he says. “The labels in England clearly were not looking for the next Blur via “Everything Zen.” I’m proud of that. I like the idea that I tried to do something that was never going to work. I just wrote a bunch of songs. And then we got this independent deal in America, and we took it because you know why? It’s the only deal we were being offered.”
Now, looking back from a place of stability and unexpected longevity, he reflects on the arc. “Here I am 30 odd years later, staying in a nice hotel with room service, 24 hours.”
That attitude has clearly rubbed off on his kids. “My 18-year-old son lives with me full time… and independently, they have just gotten really good at music,” he says. “Zuma, he’s 16, nearly 17. He’s the most incredible singer and guitar player and songwriter. Like a troubadour—but country. Really, really, really good.”
“Then my oldest son, Kingston, who lives with me… he loves the Pumpkins and rock music and Deftones and all the great bands. He writes the most incredible songs. Like, really good. He has a whole two, three years’ worth of material. He’s getting his band together. I’m really careful not to push them or help them in any way. Like, if they ask me, I love it. But I think it’s much more healthy and more typical, especially for a father. You want strong men who are individual.”
As for Bush’s live show in 2025, Rossdale’s mission is clear: keep evolving without alienating the crowd.
“My constant Achilles’ heel. Am I playing the right sets?” he laughs. “I always want to vary things. I want to take people on journeys. I don’t try and be difficult—like, oh, here’s seven new songs just to fuck you up. I want people to have a good time.”
He balances the expectations with a need for freshness. “It’s the case of having a skeleton set of what people need to hear or expect to hear and would feel somewhat shortchanged if it wasn’t in the set. I think it’s essential. But I’m obsessed with not being nostalgic.”
“People are like, the ’90s were so much better. No, not really. I mean, they were great as well. This is great as well. Some things were shit and some things are shit now. It’s such a waste of time to think it was so much better then. It just means you’re forced to park yourself in some long-gone days.”
That refusal to become a nostalgia act is why Bush’s upcoming setlists won’t just be a front-to-back run-through of Sixteen Stone.
“I just think that if I was out here doing a review show of just playing Sixteen Stone in order of the record, dressed in a fucking plaid shirt and ripped jeans… it’s just not my idea of a good time,” he says. “My idea of a good time is pushing these shows. As long as you play the hits, people don’t mind if you take them on journeys. I never want to lose people. I’ve still got that nice degree of healthy neediness that you need to be a performer.”
That neediness? It fuels the fire. “I want people to be happy, be involved, and connected to me. You’ve got to just give it. No one cares where you played last night or where you’re playing tomorrow. Fuck that. Give me that fucking Bush.”
When asked if there’s one song he particularly looks forward to, he doesn’t hesitate. “‘Heavy Is the Ocean,’ because I’ve got a solo on it. It’s one of those songs I’m really happy with in our set. Even if you don’t know it, it’s so infectious.”
He cracks a smile thinking about the production too. “We have lots of in-between music, which was really fun to put together. We’re trying to make the whole experience quite trippy and just sort of lift you up. Very elevator-y.”
“The job of a band is to lift people up and make them feel like they made the right decision to come and see you. It’s very expensive for people. I want people to feel like we give a shit. Like how we are for them.”
Still, there’s a part of him that wishes there was a way to measure the moment, real-time.
“I really wish we had a better system,” he says. “I’d love it if you played a set and people could just vote on a 1 to 10. Was that the right song to hear next? You could just have a little questionnaire: were you happy with the next song? Did your partner leave to go to the bathroom during that song? It doesn’t matter what anyone else says. The audience is going to tell you.”
And that’s who Gavin Rossdale is still chasing—not a label, not a trend, not even the ghost of grunge glory days. Just the people in the room, night after night.
“I never want to disconnect from an audience,” he says. “So yeah. I’m down.”
Watch the full interview below:
Bush play Place Bell on Wednesday, 7 May. TICKETS HERE
Photo credit: Joseph Llanes
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