Beyond The 'Mats
The Legend Of Drunken Masters

Left Of The Dial
1984—one of pop radio's shining moments: new wave's promising marriage of punk independence and disco plasticity, the blurring of black and white, the heady early days of hip-hop possibility. Mining the surprisingly deep caches of career albums by Prince and Bruce Springsteen (not their best, natch) and left-field flukes by Cyndi Lauper and Tina Turner, the airwaves became a friendly playground promising a CHR-fueled smorgasbord of shiny, happy three-to-four minute epiphanies. Significantly, 1984 was the last year I tuned in with any sense of purpose or zeal.

For me, pop radio was an anomaly. I'd long since cast my lot with the punk rock diaspora—drawn not just by the allure of short, sharp, catchy tunes (which, by the way, helped juice 1984's airwaves), but also the scene's doggedly defended outsider stance. Like anyone committed to pop culture, I respected and, in theory, got off on the possibility of a mass audience (the Beatles, the Stones—rah rah). But my heart belonged to the music's bruised fringes and tattered margins.

Perhaps not coincidentally, 1984 also witnessed the full flowering of post-punk's fruitful second wave. Building upon R.E.M.'s surprising and pivotal 1983 breakthrough, Murmur, the Amerindie terrain was suddenly awash with great bands making great albums: the Minutemen, the Meat Puppets, Los Lobos, the Del-Lords, the reconfigured dB's, the rejuvenated Ramones, even the Bangles. Sure, I loved Prince (still do in fact), but Husker Du and their ilk somehow spoke more directly to me. They were a personal talisman, a secret badge, a protective shield against the ravening hoards.

Aching To Be-Come
At the top of the heap were the Huskers' Minneapolis-mates the Replacements—and their incomparable Let It Be. A simple shuffle line, quickly goosed by an infectious rhythm—soon after, lead singer Paul Westerberg reels off a string of questions: "How young are you? / How old am I?" Poised between youth and adulthood, between cultdom and mersh, between a dalliance and a career, the band rides the soaring chorus heavenward, approaching transcendence on a wave of release with a vow that "I will dare." This is decidedly of-the-moment music, rich in possibilities—a music of becoming.

Westerberg's lyrics, seemingly cribbed from some pimply teen's secret journal, explore the raw, open wound of youth: vulnerability and isolation, misplaced anger and gawky charm, winning irreverence and face-down incoherence. The songwriting flirts with an offhand profundity, boasting a specificity born of naked introspection and crippling empathy. And whenever the maudlin or overripe threaten, Westerberg's buddies trip him up in their headlong rush for the exits.

Too thrilled or impatient or distracted to master their moves and changes in some imagined basement, the band's sound evolved and grew on stage and record. Informed by the unkempt disarray of such sub-underground touchstones as Big Star and the Heartbreakers, the 'Mats perfected a ragged-but-right clamor epitomized by junk guitar virtuoso Bob Stinson. Like some half-crazed, half-drunken barnstormer Stinson's leads hurtle forward, barrel roll around the melody and then cut dead, spraying shards of glass in their wake.

Amazingly, Let It Be manages to re-imagine, if not reinvent, our very notions of rock and roll. There's a freshness, a newness, a sense of excitement here that recalls the energy of Elvis' Sun singles or the Beatles' Please Please Me. "Wanna be something / Wanna be anything"—they don't know (or care) where they're headed, but they're hell-bent on getting there.

I Hate Music
But at the time, I wasn't overly concerned with what or where "there" was. After my feet finally touched ground (sometime in mid-'85—literally), I had to figure out where they'd come from, what I'd missed. Mistakenly lumped with the burgeoning hardcore scene, even in their formative days the band was too loose, too good-natured and (okay) too sloppy for the movement's humorless, white knuckled intensity. Powered by the relentless forward propulsion of drummer Chris Mars and the learn-as-you-play basswork of Bob's kid brother (and future indie pinup) Tommy Stinson, the early Replacements were, as always, unique—in both their strengths and weaknesses.

Their first effort (or effortless), Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash, is a collection of 18 mostly short, mostly fast rants keyed to the non-committal put-on of the album's oft quoted, "I hate music / It's got too many notes." And though much of the album speeds by in a dizzying yet infectious blur, the band develops a palpable groove on the album's second side. The emotionally complex, blues-inflected "Johnny's Gonna Die," the hook-laden statement of ethics "Shiftless When Idle," the breakneck Huskers shoutout "Somethin To Du"—already overflowing with attitude, these tracks suggest a promising future for the band's already huge talent.

Understandably, Twin/Tone head Peter Jesperson pushed for a quick follow-up. With its shouted lyrics and daunting pace, the resultant EP, The Replacements Stink, inadvertently fed the band's misleading hardcore rep. But even given the set's thrash trappings, the band's goofy, mildly subversive leanings are readily apparent from a quick perusal of the titles—"Fuck School," "God Damn Job," "Dope Smokin Moron." If you're looking for a category, call it jokecore. More importantly, the EP showcases Westerberg's first bonafide (albeit offhand) anthem "Kids Don't Follow," a hint of the band's staggering, often complex grasp of the emotionally treacherous adolescent/adult cusp.

Approaching their early work as an obsessed archeologist rather than a there-from-the-beginning fan, I'm duty bound to note that many sane individuals consider the group's third album Hootenany a major statement, the younger sibling of Let It Be, if you will. Unfortunately, to my heathen ears, the album seems diffuse, unfocused, sometimes self-indulgent, the product of a band whose reach (at least for now) exceeds its grasp. Inspired by a putatively healthy curiosity, the Replacements appropriate musical guises (junk country, junk synth pop, junk spoken word · even a junk Beatles interpolation) with a winning glee that, at least in part, compensates for the albums rough spots. Somewhere amidst the tumult, Westerberg intones, "We're getting no place / Fast as we can"—in just a few months, such idle boasts would appear willfully na•ve.

Westerberg's lyrics, seemingly cribbed from some pimply teen's secret journal, explore the raw, open wound of youth: vulnerability and isolation, misplaced anger and gawky charm, winning irreverence and face-down incoherence.

We're Comin' Out
It's a common enough scenario. Cherished cult band attracts media attention and, soon after, takes the plunge, jumping from indie to major. And though a small cadre of Minneapolis faithful may still consider the band's Warner Bros. signing a betrayal, in retrospect, the decision was simply a further step in the band's professional and artistic development. After all, maturity and careerism aren't discreet events; they're ongoing processes played out over time. The same tensions and insecurities that haunted Let It Be, made the Tommy Erdelyi-produced follow-up Tim inevitable (perhaps even necessary).

So just be thankful that Westerberg was sensitive and canny enough to make something of the experience. Tim's "on the verge of something" aura is grounded in confusion and fear, the band's uncomprehending response to a rapidly expanding universe of opportunities. From the howling I-won't-dare opener "Hold My Life" to the doomed self-laceration of "Swingin Party," the 'Mats are as ungainly and vulnerable as ever, searching for connection and community in an unfamiliar, sometimes frightening new environment. Ultimately, Warner's dollars (and the band's ever expanding sonic palette) simply guaranteed that the 'Mats' familiar angst would be voiced with greater aural definition and clarity: dense and focused, drunk on forward motion, with nuanced musical touches providing emotional color and lift.

Of course, Let It Be was a stroke; Tim is merely mortal, burdened with the unreasonably lofty expectations of greatness. Consequently, I'll quibble—the generational broadside "Bastards Of Young" seems overly self-conscious, and several of the band's trademark shit-rockers are simply ordinary. That said, the album's unpresuming high point, "Kiss Me On The Bus," effortlessly captures the band's "between and betwixt" dilemma. Riding a playfully jaunty beat, the singer struggles to maintain his cool, but his uncooperative hormonal urges, echoed by Mars' martial drumming, surge and pulse—"Hurry, hurry · here comes my stop." The album's closing trifecta—two blistering hard pop classics and a dusty barroom lament (you can practically smell the stale beer and lingering cigarette fog)—anticipates a gracefully matured Replacements, older and wiser but with energy, commitment and integrity intact.

Bobby's Gonna Die
Fabled for their on-stage meltdowns and off-stage debauchery, the 'Mats were binge drinkers (and druggers) with a healthy downpayment on AA poster-boy status. Inevitably, the romance of waking up regularly in a pool of vomit lost its glamour—it's hell on your professional life and hell on your personal life. During their Warner stint, the group members made a concerted (if not wholly successful) effort to curb their fabled excesses—that is, all except Bob Stinson. Always the band extremist, the guitarist's Tim-era breakdowns and blow-ups veered precipitously towards self-destruction. Quite sanely, the band shit-canned him.

Reduced to a trio on their follow-up, Pleased To Meet Me, the Replacements unleashed a cleaner, tighter sound; gone are the clutter, crunch, cobwebs and chaos of old. Still, at its best—the fanboy mash note "Alex Chilton," the love-besotted "Valentine" and especially the too-much-too-soon "Never Mind" (hey, there's a title for you)—the album stands proud among the band's oeuvre, our 'Mats at a higher level of acuity and execution. Nonetheless, Pleased To Meet Me is the kind of solid, well-crafted effort that even the notoriously squeamish critic J. D. Considine can get behind; "perhaps the band's finest moment," he avers—color me impressed.

The album's litmus test may be "I Don't Know." Pundits and well-wishers regarded the track's signature line "One foot in the door / The other foot in the gutter" as a statement of ethics, a rallying cry, a promise to rage untiringly against the dying of the light. In 1987, I dutifully suppressed my disbelief, but now I regard the track's know-nothingism as mere affectation, a sop to the band's former selves. Perhaps more tellingly, the album's toss-offs, "Shooting Dirty Pool" and "Red Red Wine," are tired, ineffectual dogs, pallid reflections of Let It Be's inspired piss-takes. In short, an enjoyable album that rarely intimates magic.

You Be Me For A While
Reflecting on their creative peak, the Village Voice's Robert Christgau aptly characterized the Replacements as "a band whose idea of inspiration was crashing into a snowbank and coming out with a six-pack." If in their early days, the group was just as happy to pass out in said snowbank (after pissing themselves, of course), then the latter day 'Mats were more likely to negotiate soberly such dangerous curves or avoid them altogether—six packs and snowbanks be damned.

Inevitably, every once-revered band faces fandom's unforgiving dark side, a vicious backlash born of jealous protectiveness and disappointed aspirations. For those fans still on board after the Warner signing, Slim Dunlap's addition signaled the Replacement's artistic Waterloo. Nothing against Dunlap, but his journeyman's arsenal of slick hooks and pop fills represented yet another quarter turn away from the wild, wooly, make-it-up-as-you-go-along ethic of the band's youth. As an undisciplined, post-adolescent goof the 'Mats approached genius; as mature, aspiring songsters, they were just another pop band.

In interviews, Westerberg grudgingly acknowledged that "loud sloppy rools" no longer inspired; he and bandmates Mars and the younger Stinson had grown apart. Not surprisingly, the resultant tension and ambivalence colored the band's strained final output. At their worst, Don't Tell A Soul and All Shook Down are emotionally sodden, self-indulgent, over-produced and frustratingly defensive. In the end, the period's sole standout is the MTV-friendly "I'll Be You," and only a handful of others—"Anywhere's Better Than Here," "Sadly Beautiful," maybe "The Last," maybe "Nobody"—qualify for the band's career portfolio.

The 'Mats' final years are probably best sampled (and mis-remembered) on the ephemera-and-misses second disc of the Warner comp All For Nothing / Nothing For All. The collection's opening salvo—a raw, early "Can't Hardly Wait" that can't hardly wait, the sadly beautiful "Birthday Gal" and the remembrance of 'Mats past "Beer For Breakfast"—powers an endearingly misshapen mess that belies the official product's cautious compromises. Tim and Please To Meet Me are stronger, more focused and ultimately, more engaging, but Nothing For All is a cultist's treasured memento, lovingly evoking the band's Sorry Ma beginnings.

Beats Pickin' Cotton
After the inevitable bust-up, the disbanded Replacements indulged their slightly impoverished solo visions. Tommy Stinson's new band Bash and POP released a credible, mildly diverting effort. Mars' somewhat less diverting 75% Less Fat didn't improve on its single entendre title. Reportedly, even Dunlop managed to release a half-assed, instantly forgettable collection. And, oh yeah, Bob Stinson died—sadly, alone · in his apartment · of a drug overdose. Meanwhile, Westerberg has persevered, clearing the indie terrain for such late-'90s confessional troubadours as Jakob Dylan and Ron Sexsmith. And despite the intended dig, his solo debut 14 Songs