Post by allshookup on Jun 22, 2006 18:00:11 GMT -5
The Kings of Beer
Not a band, but a trauma ward: the rise, fall, fall and rebirth of ’80s chug-a-lugging antiheroes.
Karen Schoemer July 2006
Don't You Know Who I Think I Was?: The Best of the Replacements (Rhino) *****
Trying to separate the Replacements from their f*ckup legend is like trying to separate Madonna from outrageous bra-wear. Can one exist without the other? No indie-rock band equals this one for self-sabotaging grandeur, as measured by quantities of booze and madness.
The ’Mats were formed in 1979 Minneapolis by dyslexic former janitor Paul Westerberg, stimulant-fueled Bob Stinson, 12-year-old delinquent Tommy Stinson and dope-smoking Chris Mars. Even as Westerberg’s juvenile rants gained beauty and tenderness, band antics persisted: Industry showcases collapsed into shambling bouts of half-played heavy-metal covers. Bouncers pummeled them at their own shows.
The mainstream held its nose, and after seven raucous, willful albums, Westerberg, the most ambitious of the crew, honed his songs into pablum for 1990’s All Shook Down, and the band expired with a whimper. Bob Stinson died of a drug overdose in 1995, surprising no one. Devout fans sobered up, and occasionally looked back to wonder: What exactly was the point?
A 1997 double-disc overview, All for Nothing/Nothing for All, covered only their major-label years, so this new compilation instantly becomes the go-to collection for die-hards and novices alike. It strips the erratic albums of their worst instincts: no indulgent giggles, no high-velocity gags about boners, no painfully self-deprecating puns. Instead, 20 songs that form the real backbone of their legacy.
The CD tracks Westerberg’s evolution from taunting snot to poet of low self-esteem and isolation. The first track, “Takin a Ride,” has flashes of brilliance: Barreling breakneck in a car becomes a metaphor for containment and frustration. “The light was green and so am I,” he quips as his bandmates trip over one another to reach the finish line. By 1983’s “Color Me Impressed,” Westerberg has taken up a Holden Caulfield–esque stance at the outskirts of society, skewering phoniness. “Giving out their word, ’cause that’s all that they won’t keep,” he scoffs at a bunch of partygoers. On “Answering Machine” and “Unsatisfied,” he’s stranded in distortion, confused, neglected, lashing out.
As players, the Replacements never grew much beyond inspired amateurs. Mars’s drumming could be clunky, Tommy’s bass often amounted to adrenalized thumping and Bob Stinson’s guitar leads were strangulated wails. (Bob was booted in ’86 and replaced by Slim Dunlap.) Still, they shared a vision of rock & roll as delivery from nowhere; they were synchronized in the spirit of the Clash and the Stones. Anyone who has waded through Westerberg’s solo CDs would rightly approach the two new songs here with low expectations, especially since Mars declined to drum on them. But “Message to the Boys” and “Pool & Dive” are pleasingly sweet and defiantly slight, a return to their ragged-edged pop.
The tracks that matter most are “Bastards of Young” and “Alex Chilton.” These pseudo-anthems set on the outskirts of decent society help clarify why the Replacements so gleefully cut themselves off at the knees. Succeeding meant joining the corporate world like everyone else; better, instead, to fail and retain your individuality. These are prescient thoughts, considering today’s grassroots protests against corporate culture. The Replacements may not have changed the world, but in their own apolitical (and usually drunk) way, they defied it. They f*cked up plenty, but as this CD shows, they did at least 20 things dead right.
Download: “Unsatisfied,” “Bastards of Young,” “Here Comes a Regular"
Not a band, but a trauma ward: the rise, fall, fall and rebirth of ’80s chug-a-lugging antiheroes.
Karen Schoemer July 2006
Don't You Know Who I Think I Was?: The Best of the Replacements (Rhino) *****
Trying to separate the Replacements from their f*ckup legend is like trying to separate Madonna from outrageous bra-wear. Can one exist without the other? No indie-rock band equals this one for self-sabotaging grandeur, as measured by quantities of booze and madness.
The ’Mats were formed in 1979 Minneapolis by dyslexic former janitor Paul Westerberg, stimulant-fueled Bob Stinson, 12-year-old delinquent Tommy Stinson and dope-smoking Chris Mars. Even as Westerberg’s juvenile rants gained beauty and tenderness, band antics persisted: Industry showcases collapsed into shambling bouts of half-played heavy-metal covers. Bouncers pummeled them at their own shows.
The mainstream held its nose, and after seven raucous, willful albums, Westerberg, the most ambitious of the crew, honed his songs into pablum for 1990’s All Shook Down, and the band expired with a whimper. Bob Stinson died of a drug overdose in 1995, surprising no one. Devout fans sobered up, and occasionally looked back to wonder: What exactly was the point?
A 1997 double-disc overview, All for Nothing/Nothing for All, covered only their major-label years, so this new compilation instantly becomes the go-to collection for die-hards and novices alike. It strips the erratic albums of their worst instincts: no indulgent giggles, no high-velocity gags about boners, no painfully self-deprecating puns. Instead, 20 songs that form the real backbone of their legacy.
The CD tracks Westerberg’s evolution from taunting snot to poet of low self-esteem and isolation. The first track, “Takin a Ride,” has flashes of brilliance: Barreling breakneck in a car becomes a metaphor for containment and frustration. “The light was green and so am I,” he quips as his bandmates trip over one another to reach the finish line. By 1983’s “Color Me Impressed,” Westerberg has taken up a Holden Caulfield–esque stance at the outskirts of society, skewering phoniness. “Giving out their word, ’cause that’s all that they won’t keep,” he scoffs at a bunch of partygoers. On “Answering Machine” and “Unsatisfied,” he’s stranded in distortion, confused, neglected, lashing out.
As players, the Replacements never grew much beyond inspired amateurs. Mars’s drumming could be clunky, Tommy’s bass often amounted to adrenalized thumping and Bob Stinson’s guitar leads were strangulated wails. (Bob was booted in ’86 and replaced by Slim Dunlap.) Still, they shared a vision of rock & roll as delivery from nowhere; they were synchronized in the spirit of the Clash and the Stones. Anyone who has waded through Westerberg’s solo CDs would rightly approach the two new songs here with low expectations, especially since Mars declined to drum on them. But “Message to the Boys” and “Pool & Dive” are pleasingly sweet and defiantly slight, a return to their ragged-edged pop.
The tracks that matter most are “Bastards of Young” and “Alex Chilton.” These pseudo-anthems set on the outskirts of decent society help clarify why the Replacements so gleefully cut themselves off at the knees. Succeeding meant joining the corporate world like everyone else; better, instead, to fail and retain your individuality. These are prescient thoughts, considering today’s grassroots protests against corporate culture. The Replacements may not have changed the world, but in their own apolitical (and usually drunk) way, they defied it. They f*cked up plenty, but as this CD shows, they did at least 20 things dead right.
Download: “Unsatisfied,” “Bastards of Young,” “Here Comes a Regular"
