Post by BoringEnormous on Feb 6, 2004 12:25:33 GMT -5
This one just came out today...
www.pitchforkmedia.com/record-reviews/w/westerberg_paul/come-feel-me-tremble-dead-man-shake.shtml
Paul Westerberg's solo efforts have always been notoriously spotty, and his relentless presence-- releasing albums on four different labels, under two names-- has somehow shoved him even further back into the colorless, rocker-without-a-band horizon. Now, releasing two brand new records (Come Feel Me Tremble, the soundtrack to his 2002 tour documentary, and Dead Man Shake, under shifty alias Grandpaboy), Westerberg is taking one last stab at escaping his disproportionately lame destiny. Grandly somersaulting between styles and bouncing from name to fakename, Westerberg seems tried of being Westerberg. And it's awfully easy to understand why.
Ultimately, it's not entirely Paul Westerberg's fault that most of his solo records sound formulaic to the point of tedium-- in the early 90s, the newly defunct Replacements were shamelessly co-opted by countless alt-rockers, with each bland, mediocre re-interpretation further deadening everybody's ears to the majestic howls of its sloppy originator. The Replacements were deservedly beloved, and for Westerberg, listening to alternative radio must have occasionally felt like squinting into a funhouse mirror-- familiar and grotesque at the same time. Each watered-down bar band shout and canned guitar riff became a distorted version of his own perfect, recorded truth (see also Westerberg's timely determination that longtime follower Ryan Adams "needs to have his teeth kicked in"). Given all this, Grandpaboy, Westerberg's freewheeling, bluesman pseudonym, might just be Westerberg's (gentler) way of reminding future generations that there are plenty of other bands to rip off besides The Replacements.
That Westerberg convinced Epitaph subsidiary/Mississippi blues-pushers Fat Possum to release Dead Man Shake is telling: Copping freely from the sludgy Chuck-Berry-by-way-of-the-Stones canon, the album sees Westerberg abandoning his own well-imitated chops for the super-derivative, ever-repeating blues-rock paradigm. Snatching everything from coarse, booze-addled howls to an entirely nonsensical, not-quite-supported moniker (even The White Stripes are more convincing public fibbers), Grandpaboy's second long-player is another contemporary reinterpretation of gritty Delta babbling.
But no matter how hard Westerberg tries to bury it, Grandpaboy still screams his name. Ramshackle, jumpy and curiously charming, Dead Man Shake is full of Westerberg's trademark spastic vocals and nimble guitar work, only now determinably fuzzed up and shrouded in Sun Records spunk. With nine new songs and a handful of covers (including songs by Hank Williams Sr. and John Prine), the record stumbles between styles, but still offers more variety, kick and shameless soloing than Westerberg-as-Westerberg. "No Matter What You Say" is the record's most convincing departure: Westerberg yelps and purrs, his lazy, lustful vocals dripping with unnamed longing while first-take guitar noodles run circles around some perfectly unsophisticated percussion (Westerberg plays all the instruments here, including the ones he does not actually know how to play).
Opener "MLPS" is slightly less raw, with hokey, rockabilly guitar and purely autobiographical lyrics ("On the Mississippi River/ Born in '59."). The song, whose title is a disarranged abbreviation of his hometown of Mpls, has a mind-numbing chorus (shocker: "M-L-P-S") and some goofy melodic turns, but Westerberg's guitar playing has never been so fiery, and even the nervous cymbal crashes are somehow spot-on. Westerberg's closing cover of crooner-fave "What Kind of Fool Am I?" (see comparable interpretations by, yes, Robert Goulet, Sammy Davis Jr. or Perry Como) is noteworthy just for the sheer scratch of the vocals-- eschewing the kind of syrup-voiced goo that the song so stubbornly demands, Westerberg karaoke-caterwauls, his voice off-key, cigarette-tinged and awesomely brash.
Meanwhile, Westerberg himself admits that Come Feel Me Tremble might as well be considered Side 3 of last year's Stereo-- picking up where that album left off, Come Feel Me Tremble is a scrappy, lo-fi collection of acoustic folk songs and storming rock ballads, some of which are excellent ("Wild and Lethal", "Meet Me Down the Alley") and some that are disappointingly mediocre. "Never Felt Like This Before" mixes wobbly piano with Westerberg's salty vocals, and the effect is perfectly subdued; "Knockin' Em Back" is a perky drinking anthem, aggressive at all the right moments, shifting back and forth between giggly acoustics and head-hitting guitar slams. Nearly every track included here (all of which were recorded in Westerberg's basement) takes one of these two approaches, and while the juxtaposition keeps listeners awake, the transitions aren't always entirely logical-- in the end, Come Feel Me Tremble suffers for its lack of cohesion.
Thus, the conundrum of the stalled artist: In a bold attempt to trot away from his past, Westerberg seems to have misplaced his future. Dead Man Shake is playful, but the record never really becomes compelling enough to rise above its "alter-ego" stigma; Come Feel Me Tremble is also nice enough, but ultimately lacks the hyper, Westerberg-ian spark that can, when present, make his work so insanely inviting. If nothing else, Westerberg's quirky solo career may finally convince some of his devotees to stop stealing his stuff and to go sniff out their own (inconsistent) sounds.
-Amanda Petrusich, February 6th, 2004
www.pitchforkmedia.com/record-reviews/w/westerberg_paul/come-feel-me-tremble-dead-man-shake.shtml
Paul Westerberg's solo efforts have always been notoriously spotty, and his relentless presence-- releasing albums on four different labels, under two names-- has somehow shoved him even further back into the colorless, rocker-without-a-band horizon. Now, releasing two brand new records (Come Feel Me Tremble, the soundtrack to his 2002 tour documentary, and Dead Man Shake, under shifty alias Grandpaboy), Westerberg is taking one last stab at escaping his disproportionately lame destiny. Grandly somersaulting between styles and bouncing from name to fakename, Westerberg seems tried of being Westerberg. And it's awfully easy to understand why.
Ultimately, it's not entirely Paul Westerberg's fault that most of his solo records sound formulaic to the point of tedium-- in the early 90s, the newly defunct Replacements were shamelessly co-opted by countless alt-rockers, with each bland, mediocre re-interpretation further deadening everybody's ears to the majestic howls of its sloppy originator. The Replacements were deservedly beloved, and for Westerberg, listening to alternative radio must have occasionally felt like squinting into a funhouse mirror-- familiar and grotesque at the same time. Each watered-down bar band shout and canned guitar riff became a distorted version of his own perfect, recorded truth (see also Westerberg's timely determination that longtime follower Ryan Adams "needs to have his teeth kicked in"). Given all this, Grandpaboy, Westerberg's freewheeling, bluesman pseudonym, might just be Westerberg's (gentler) way of reminding future generations that there are plenty of other bands to rip off besides The Replacements.
That Westerberg convinced Epitaph subsidiary/Mississippi blues-pushers Fat Possum to release Dead Man Shake is telling: Copping freely from the sludgy Chuck-Berry-by-way-of-the-Stones canon, the album sees Westerberg abandoning his own well-imitated chops for the super-derivative, ever-repeating blues-rock paradigm. Snatching everything from coarse, booze-addled howls to an entirely nonsensical, not-quite-supported moniker (even The White Stripes are more convincing public fibbers), Grandpaboy's second long-player is another contemporary reinterpretation of gritty Delta babbling.
But no matter how hard Westerberg tries to bury it, Grandpaboy still screams his name. Ramshackle, jumpy and curiously charming, Dead Man Shake is full of Westerberg's trademark spastic vocals and nimble guitar work, only now determinably fuzzed up and shrouded in Sun Records spunk. With nine new songs and a handful of covers (including songs by Hank Williams Sr. and John Prine), the record stumbles between styles, but still offers more variety, kick and shameless soloing than Westerberg-as-Westerberg. "No Matter What You Say" is the record's most convincing departure: Westerberg yelps and purrs, his lazy, lustful vocals dripping with unnamed longing while first-take guitar noodles run circles around some perfectly unsophisticated percussion (Westerberg plays all the instruments here, including the ones he does not actually know how to play).
Opener "MLPS" is slightly less raw, with hokey, rockabilly guitar and purely autobiographical lyrics ("On the Mississippi River/ Born in '59."). The song, whose title is a disarranged abbreviation of his hometown of Mpls, has a mind-numbing chorus (shocker: "M-L-P-S") and some goofy melodic turns, but Westerberg's guitar playing has never been so fiery, and even the nervous cymbal crashes are somehow spot-on. Westerberg's closing cover of crooner-fave "What Kind of Fool Am I?" (see comparable interpretations by, yes, Robert Goulet, Sammy Davis Jr. or Perry Como) is noteworthy just for the sheer scratch of the vocals-- eschewing the kind of syrup-voiced goo that the song so stubbornly demands, Westerberg karaoke-caterwauls, his voice off-key, cigarette-tinged and awesomely brash.
Meanwhile, Westerberg himself admits that Come Feel Me Tremble might as well be considered Side 3 of last year's Stereo-- picking up where that album left off, Come Feel Me Tremble is a scrappy, lo-fi collection of acoustic folk songs and storming rock ballads, some of which are excellent ("Wild and Lethal", "Meet Me Down the Alley") and some that are disappointingly mediocre. "Never Felt Like This Before" mixes wobbly piano with Westerberg's salty vocals, and the effect is perfectly subdued; "Knockin' Em Back" is a perky drinking anthem, aggressive at all the right moments, shifting back and forth between giggly acoustics and head-hitting guitar slams. Nearly every track included here (all of which were recorded in Westerberg's basement) takes one of these two approaches, and while the juxtaposition keeps listeners awake, the transitions aren't always entirely logical-- in the end, Come Feel Me Tremble suffers for its lack of cohesion.
Thus, the conundrum of the stalled artist: In a bold attempt to trot away from his past, Westerberg seems to have misplaced his future. Dead Man Shake is playful, but the record never really becomes compelling enough to rise above its "alter-ego" stigma; Come Feel Me Tremble is also nice enough, but ultimately lacks the hyper, Westerberg-ian spark that can, when present, make his work so insanely inviting. If nothing else, Westerberg's quirky solo career may finally convince some of his devotees to stop stealing his stuff and to go sniff out their own (inconsistent) sounds.
-Amanda Petrusich, February 6th, 2004
