By Kat Bein
By Shea Serrano
By S. Pajot
By Terrence McCoy
By Falyn Freyman
By Shea Serrano
By Jacob Katel
By Michael E. Miller
More than any other group that emerged during the Amerindie boom of the early Eighties, the Replacements summarized everything that I had ever loved about rock and roll. R.E.M. was great, but I always found Michael Stipe to be an infuriatingly obtuse songwriter and I always wanted guitarist Peter Buck to play harder -- often his twelve-string jangle was just too tame. Husker Du was great, but the collective angst of vocalists/songwriters Bob Mould and Grant Hart was sometimes a bit much. Plus, there was no sense of unity or teamwork in their blinding punk-rock attack; I always got the impression that both Mould and Hart would've rather had their own bands to control. (And, in fact, I was right: The former is now exorcising his demons in Sugar, and the last time I checked, the latter was wandering in a pop-rock fog with Nova Mob.) Sonic Youth was okay, but I found it hard to get past their numerous pretensions, and Kim Gordon's flat, atonal voice drove me insane.
The Replacements, though, were perfect. Guitarist/vocalist Paul Westerberg wrote songs that defined my own fears, frustrations, and insecurities so well it was as if he had been hovering over my shoulder, watching me fumble through teendom and taking notes as I stared in terror at adulthood looming in the distance. The Replacements were scared, too, and nervous, and vulnerable, and they got drunk when they wanted to make the bad shit go away for a while. Here was a band that eschewed the boho aesthetic of the arty postpunk elite in favor of the trash-guitar verities of Exile-era Rolling Stones and Bollocks-era punk, as well as embracing the Anglo-pop fetishism of Big Star. And the band wasn't afraid to own up to a fondness for Seventies rock gods Ted Nugent and KISS (both favorites of mine since fifth grade). I happened upon the 'Mats (short for Placemats, one of the band's several pseudonyms) in 1983, after their second album Hootenanny had been out about six months. It was a spotty record then, and it's spotty thirteen years later; their first album, 1981's Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash, offers a more focused sampling of their melodic, punky pop. But Hootenanny's best moments -- "Color Me Impressed," "Treatment Bound," "Within Your Reach" -- were full of longing and doubt, heartache and confusion, and the record set the pattern for every 'Mats album that followed over the next seven years.
Scattered across those five albums (Let It Be, Tim, Pleased to Meet Me, Don't Tell a Soul, All Shook Down) are some of rock and roll's greatest anthems of emotional turmoil, along with some compassionate and sensitive open-heart confessions: "Unsatisfied," "Answering Machine," "Can't Hardly Wait," "I Will Dare," "Left of the Dial," "I'll Be You," "Someone Take the Wheel," "Here Comes a Regular," and "Swingin' Party."
I read somewhere years ago that true love dies hard. I don't think it ever dies, though, and that's why I have a hard time falling in line behind music critics across the country to blast Eventually, Westerberg's second album since he broke up the Replacements six years ago. I can't say it's a great album, because it's not: Compared to the expert essays on fear and self-loathing he wrote in the 'Mats, even the best songs on Eventually are undeniably slight, and none of them rock with the urgency and abandon of his old stuff. Instead, his new songs are mannered, acoustic-based constructions set to graceful midtempos not unlike those on All Shook Down, the 'Mats' 1990 swan song. But like his 1993 solo debut 14 Songs, and like the songs he's sprinkled on soundtracks such as Singles and Friends, Eventually offers a striking and evocative portrait of who Paul Westerberg is today A what's on his mind, what he's been thinking about and obsessing over. And years after my first encounter with Westerberg and his passel of neuroses, I still care about him. I still want to hear what he has to say.
Why? I'm not completely sure. Maybe it's because the things he's always chewed on have been the same things I've always chewed on. Or because the things he's been saying through the years have held an almost uncanny relevance to the things I've been feeling. Or maybe it's simply because a lot of what attracted me to Westerberg in the first place is still there in his music. Not all of them, mind you. I miss the squall of 'Mats guitarist Bob Stinson (who died last year after a long-time addiction to drugs and alcohol), and I miss the ramshackle enthusiasm drummer Chris Mars and bassist Tommy Stinson brought to Westerberg's songs. (Stinson makes a bass-and-trombone cameo, by the way, on Eventually's "Trumpet Clip," the weakest cut on the disc.) I miss the raw, naked pain in Westerberg's voice, which way back when lent an unnerving sense of vulnerability to songs such as "Never Mind," "Left of the Dial," and "Answering Machine." And sometimes I miss the primal punk-rock energy of the 'Mats first album, on which Westerberg's writing flirted with genius and on which the band simply burned.