The Replacements All Grown Up

by Kurt Hernon [Bang Sheet]
(1999)
 
Old legends never die; they just zip by at 21,000 feet.

“When you wish upon a star that turns into a plane”: Paul Westerberg wrote and sang that line, one of the all-time great rock and roll axioms, in a song called “Valentine”. In the end it is, to me, his most useful and prophetic phrase.

You see Westerberg used to front a band, the Replacements; a raucous, chaotic, intensely burning, brilliant light in the 1980’s alternative skies. The brightest - but in the end, just a plane.

Taking off out of the blustery, sanitary plains of Minnesota in 1981, the roar of the Replacements was deafening.  The skree of Bob Stinsons’ tortured guitar. The heavy undertow of Chris Mars on drums and “little” Tommy Stinson (most put his age at 13) on bass. And the anguished, seemingly knowing, at times mature, at others “fuck you”, lyrics and vocals of Mr. Paul Westerberg.  It was a conspicuous start.

The climb out was rapid and exhilarating.  It was a band that respected the chaos that stemmed from their indifference.  And chaos ruled.

When the band, in its quieter moments, wasn’t trying to build upon the usual punk loud/fast/rules credo, it was completely dismantling them.  Those moments (and they were only quiet within context) were the measure of the band.

In their collective genius, they began to blend the two styles early.  The attitude and noise would be chaotic, but the sounds, the lyrics, the vocals, would be, well, almost warm (“Johnny’s Gonna Die”).  Or, they could work the opposite; band playing subdued, (almost) quiet, and the lyrics charging forward (“Kick Your Door Down”).  It was done to astounding effect.

Within three years, 1981-1984, they had built an arguable, yet unrivaled legacy.  Rock music was again proven to be a living entity.  Taking its form from the hands of four ne’er do well punk Norsemen, rock lived again.

The good, Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash, became the better, Hootenanny, which, of course, ended up the great, Let It Be. With three albums of unusually terrific music, of course, somebody noticed.

It was hard not to notice the Replacements by 1986.  The band became major label-ites, put out a mostly good, at times great, album, Tim, and built a reputation (deserved) for brilliant-lousy-reckless-fun-waste of time and money but worth it-live shows.

It was fun to watch, but you just knew someone was going to wind up getting hurt.

If he didn’t exactly crash and burn from the chaos, Bob Stinson somehow ended up kicked out of the band, alone, and very, very fucked up.  The Replacements found themselves traveling on, minus a bit of their soul.

Bob Christgau was right when he said, “You would have kicked Bob Stinson out of your band too”.  Yes Robert, I would have.  At least, from what I hear, I would have.  All the while knowing that my band would never be the same.

The Replacements became Westerberg’s band after that.  Hell, they pretty much were before, but the looming presence of the senior, more wild (read: punk) B. Stinson gave Westerberg pause from stepping forward to drive the wreck.   People/fans viewed the band as Westerberg’s baby, but I defy you to listen to those first four recordings and tell me that’s what you hear.  Paul’s talent for turning an anxious phrase is obviously evident, but the band, led by Bob, created the grating sonic bottom for those words.

That is not to infer that the Replacements became any less significant after the departure of the elder Stinson.  They continued on. At times they remained as brilliantly punk as ever (“I.O.U.”), however, more often (most of Pleased To Meet Me, and all of 1989’s Don’t Tell A Soul) they served as one of music’s great power pop groups.  Although Westerberg continued to develop as one of pop music’s most astute songsmiths the Replacements were different at this point. Metamorphosing from chaotic punk avatars into post-punk power popsters, they remained one of rock’s most important bands nonetheless.

The parting of the rest of the band was probably inevitable.   Shortly after recording Don’t Tell A Soul, original member and drummer Chris Mars left the band and moved on.  Westerberg and the younger Tommy Stinson carried the band name forward touring in support of Don’t Tell with Bob Stinson proxy Slim Dunlop, and veteran Minneapolis drummer Steve Foley.

The final salvo in the legend of the Replacements was more whimpers than whomp.  All Shook Down signaled the beginning of Paul’s solo career more so than capping the brilliant story of its namesake band.

Yet, for the money, All Shook Down offered less kick than Paul’s debut solo disc 14 Songs.  Westerberg was able to grab hold of the grail for numbers like “World Class Fad” and “Knockin’ On Mine”, but seemed to be lost in some more quiet moments, “Runaway Wind”.  That he was still the brilliant pop-songwriter is never in doubt on 14 Songs.  But, whether his pop could still rock was becoming a cloudy situation.  Or at least it seemed to rock less.  Perhaps that is where he wanted it to be, but his lyrics still bit, and the music needed more bite.

Chris Mars, Tommy Stinson (Bash & Pop, Perfect), and Slim Dunlop also continued their music careers.  Quite often their individual music spoke volumes more about the Replacements than did Westerberg’s.

Mars led off with a keen effort, 1992’s Horseshoes and Hand Grenades, which impressed as much as startled.  It is a tuneful, well written collection of rancorous songs that can only be faulted for being too long (14 songs…ironic?!), and sometimes too droll.  The initial jolt of hearing a drummer - the Replacements drummer of all things! - record such a euphonious group of songs (not the entire album mind you) gives way to more sensible critique: it is a commonly good, not great, album.  However, more effectively, it showed that indeed the Replacements existed on chemistry.   Mars moved on recording several other records, gradually slipping away from rock and into a secluded jazzy sound.  But Horseshoes and Hand Grenades validated his contribution to the late great Replacements.

1993 gave us Bash & Pop – Friday Night Is Killing Me, Tommy Stinson’s entry into the post-Replacements world.  Tommy, leaving his pounding, youthful bass guitar playing days behind him, picked up a guitar, a couple of bandmates (one of which was Chris Mars surrogate Steve Foley, on drums) and a pen that was filled with more good than not.  Again, the recorded results are a revelation.  Did these guys learn everything from Westerberg?  Well, probably not everything, but clearly a little something.  Friday Night is filled with too much chops to have been entirely tutored from Mr. Paul, and Tommy makes good use of them.  From the opening blast of “Never Aim To Please” to the anthem pomp of “Loose Ends”, the boy wonder Stinson recorded the surest bastard Replacements music.  Unlike the initial Mars solo shot, this one holds up, probably even more so than Westerberg’s solo music itself, as true Replacement-esque rock and roll.   Formulaic in concept – loud bloozey guitars topped by cranky lyrics, touched off by a moving elegy or two (the touching “Nothing” and equally pleasant “First Steps”) – it is clearly a paean to his growing up in one of America’s all time important, if not great, rock and roll bands (I hold the later to be the truth).   Proof again that the Replacements were a sum total, not a singular digit.

Slim Dunlop followed up his tour of duty with the Replacements in 1993 by releasing The Old New Me.  Dunlop, like Mars and Tommy Stinson, peppered his work with echoes of the sounds he helped create for the Replacements.   Unlike his other now-solo bandmates, Dunlop seemed to carry less baggage with him, most likely due to his late arrival to the band. Dunlop performs admirably, but in true journeyman fashion, tosses off natural “anyfellow” barroom poetry.  Good music…but just that, good music.  A Stonesy riff, a hoarse voice, and a few beers… “hey! That guy at the microphone, he used to be in the Replacements.” That will always be Slims’ story, and he can tell it proudly.

The world lost Bob Stinson in 1995.  The Replacements lost his ghost.  No longer haunted, the former members seem to have been able to bury “the little-band-that-could(‘nt)” as well.

Eventually, Paul’s second solo effort, smoothed the hard edges he developed fronting a seminal alternapunk band.  Sounding (and it is not the death knell one thinks) more mature, somewhat haggard, and affected by Bob Stinson’s death (listen to “A Good Day”) he may still be unsatisfied, but he’s not disgruntled.  He still writes lyrical circles around the competition, and his pop sensibility is intact-Evidence: “Love Untold”.   However, Westerberg sounds as though he’s struggling to find a way to present himself and his music.  And considering his pedigree, I wouldn’t want to be wearing his Doc Martens.

1997 had Paul releasing a 4 song EP titled Grandpaboy.   Band name, or ,as I see it, a witty self-reference, Grandpaboy is a tempting, not-so-near-a-return-to-form, non-return to form.  Hailed by fans as a “Paul’s rockin’ again!” comeback, the music is fun, a tad strident, and very much as tounge-in-cheek as the title.  Westerberg has always had a sardonic sense of humor, and sometimes even the true believers can be fooled.  The older-kid is all right.

Form following chaos.  Suicane Gratification (he clearly made the words up, but I think they deserve consideration) is reportedly the title of the next serve from Mr. Westerberg.  And if the sound bites are any indication, he may have found his delivery: stark, acoustic melodies, and a voice.   Probably all his talent needs, yet amazing it took so long for him to arrive there.   Post-post-Replacements, a post enough away that going back two “posts” may get you lost, the Replacements are just a memory, and Westerberg just himself.  I admit to a certain level of indifference about a new Paul Westerberg product, but the junky in me needs the fix.  I hope this is it.

So, Bob Stinson is gone forever, Tommy, after a quick stint fronting a capable alternative band-Perfect, is said to be in Axl Roses’ “new” Guns’n’Roses (a different kind of death?), Chris Mars is doing whatever drummer/painter/artists/conceptualist post punks do, Slim Dunlop, after  recording a second, equally solid/unspectacular solo album, is certain to be playing his guitar somewhere, anywhere, and Paul is a new dad.

Just how we all figured our heroes would wind up: Still up there-flying. Go ahead, make a wish.