Post by headlightbeams on Jul 13, 2006 0:16:21 GMT -5
The Roanoke (Virginia) Times reviews DYKWITIW? (Explanation of "Mats" nickname? Check. "coulda-woulda-shoulda"? Check. Goo Goo Dolls reference? Check. ... but actually, it's ok):
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'80s rock anti-heroes get the last word on new anthology
by Ralph Berrier
A few weeks ago, I was talking to a young man who works at my favorite coffee shop. Like most college-age dudes who sling java to make a buck, he is a big music fan, and by that, I mean he likes a lot of the new stuff that passes for modern rock these days.
He asked me about my favorite artists and I mentioned a few of my present-day faves such as Wilco, Modest Mouse and Beck; then, as I am prone to do, I dropped all those hoary old bands from my youth that I still love as I crash (bald-)headlong into middle age: the Pixies, R.E.M., the Meat Puppets, Husker Du and, of course, the greatest of them all, the Replacements.
Surprisingly, the bandanna-wrapped dude didn't know most of those groups. Granted, he was in Huggies right about the time those bands were in their guitar-bashing prime. But I wasn't much older when the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Who, Jimi Hendrix, Velvet Underground and other legends were at their peak, and I had heard of all those bands and had bought many of their albums long before my college days.
I know that many of you would scoff at even the most meager comparison of 1980s alt-rockers to the bands on Mount Rockmore. My point is that young people who are as into music today as I was at their age should know about the bands that came after the Hall of Famers and inspired the bands of today.
I have mentioned these '80s bands pretty frequently in recent columns, and I am really hesitant to devote more recycled newsprint to their legacies. Time to move on and leave them to the Hall of Fame -- or to the trash can in the broom closet of the Hall of Fame -- except that, well, I can't let 'em go just yet.
Besides, the Replacements are back in the news.
Rhino Records has finally released the Minneapolis punkers' best-of anthology, "Don't You Know Who I Think I Was," which not only boasts a typically idiosyncratic title but also provides a new generation with a good entry point into a band whose influence can still be heard, somewhat faintly, in today's modern rock.
The only thing new for those of us who have all the albums (there were eight between 1981 and 1990, not counting a live cassette whose name cannot be printed in a family newspaper, even though the bad word is something your mother probably screamed most days when you were growing up) is that two new songs are included. They were recorded last year by the three surviving members: Paul Westerberg, Tommy Stinson and Chris Mars. Original guitarist Bob Stinson died of a drug overdose in 1995 and his, ahem, replacement, Slim Dunlap, didn't participate in the new songs.
The legend of the Replacements maintains that they were a bunch of drunken idiots who might or might not be sober enough to get through a live show, whose chief strength was Westerberg's songwriting gifts and who could never be serious enough about their music to become the rock 'n' roll heroes they woulda-coulda-shoulda been.
"Don't You Know Who I Think I Was" spells all of this out in its chronology, moving from the sloppy punk of the early days to the pristinely produced ballads of the later years. The album serves as proof of what was great about the Mats (short for their nickname, the Placemats) and why they never made it big. Their three-minute anthems of youthful alienation, sadness and boredom articulated the feelings of broken-hearted and tongue-tied kids who were raised between Vietnam and the Persian Gulf War (an era Westerberg neatly summarized in the couplet "Unwillingness to claim us/ You got no war to name us" in "Bastards of Young").
This was the sound and the fury of college rock in the 1980s, when bands that were sick and tired of slick '70s corporate rock decided they preferred cult audiences and independent record labels to "selling out." Not selling out also meant they didn't sell lots of records, either.
When a band proudly sings, as the Replacements did, "One foot in the door, the other one in the gutter/ The sweet smell that they adore, I think I'd rather smother," all the fans scream, "Stick it to the fat cats, Paulie!" But you shouldn't clear a space on the wall for all your platinum records, either.
That self-destructive "I wanna be famous/I don't wanna be famous" inner conflict ultimately doomed the Replacements forevermore to cult status. A recent New York Times headline about the new album read: "Memories of the Replacements, a band that could but didn't."
Eventually, most of the '80s underground groups scratched their way into the bright light of major label deals. Those deals produced a mixed bag of consequences. Bands like the Replacements suddenly had the resources to make better-sounding records and expand their audiences, but many of those bands had drained their reservoirs of creativity and attitude. By the end of the '80s, everyone had grown up. The Mats' final two albums were slicker, quieter and had mostly abandoned reckless abandon. Fittingly, it all seemed to end with the close of the '80s.
The Replacements' influence probably eclipsed their fame, as every post-punk band of the 1990s and 2000s echo the Mats' sound. If you're young and into contemporary rock, pick up the Rhino anthology and get an idea where it all comes from.
-----
'80s rock anti-heroes get the last word on new anthology
by Ralph Berrier
A few weeks ago, I was talking to a young man who works at my favorite coffee shop. Like most college-age dudes who sling java to make a buck, he is a big music fan, and by that, I mean he likes a lot of the new stuff that passes for modern rock these days.
He asked me about my favorite artists and I mentioned a few of my present-day faves such as Wilco, Modest Mouse and Beck; then, as I am prone to do, I dropped all those hoary old bands from my youth that I still love as I crash (bald-)headlong into middle age: the Pixies, R.E.M., the Meat Puppets, Husker Du and, of course, the greatest of them all, the Replacements.
Surprisingly, the bandanna-wrapped dude didn't know most of those groups. Granted, he was in Huggies right about the time those bands were in their guitar-bashing prime. But I wasn't much older when the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Who, Jimi Hendrix, Velvet Underground and other legends were at their peak, and I had heard of all those bands and had bought many of their albums long before my college days.
I know that many of you would scoff at even the most meager comparison of 1980s alt-rockers to the bands on Mount Rockmore. My point is that young people who are as into music today as I was at their age should know about the bands that came after the Hall of Famers and inspired the bands of today.
I have mentioned these '80s bands pretty frequently in recent columns, and I am really hesitant to devote more recycled newsprint to their legacies. Time to move on and leave them to the Hall of Fame -- or to the trash can in the broom closet of the Hall of Fame -- except that, well, I can't let 'em go just yet.
Besides, the Replacements are back in the news.
Rhino Records has finally released the Minneapolis punkers' best-of anthology, "Don't You Know Who I Think I Was," which not only boasts a typically idiosyncratic title but also provides a new generation with a good entry point into a band whose influence can still be heard, somewhat faintly, in today's modern rock.
The only thing new for those of us who have all the albums (there were eight between 1981 and 1990, not counting a live cassette whose name cannot be printed in a family newspaper, even though the bad word is something your mother probably screamed most days when you were growing up) is that two new songs are included. They were recorded last year by the three surviving members: Paul Westerberg, Tommy Stinson and Chris Mars. Original guitarist Bob Stinson died of a drug overdose in 1995 and his, ahem, replacement, Slim Dunlap, didn't participate in the new songs.
The legend of the Replacements maintains that they were a bunch of drunken idiots who might or might not be sober enough to get through a live show, whose chief strength was Westerberg's songwriting gifts and who could never be serious enough about their music to become the rock 'n' roll heroes they woulda-coulda-shoulda been.
"Don't You Know Who I Think I Was" spells all of this out in its chronology, moving from the sloppy punk of the early days to the pristinely produced ballads of the later years. The album serves as proof of what was great about the Mats (short for their nickname, the Placemats) and why they never made it big. Their three-minute anthems of youthful alienation, sadness and boredom articulated the feelings of broken-hearted and tongue-tied kids who were raised between Vietnam and the Persian Gulf War (an era Westerberg neatly summarized in the couplet "Unwillingness to claim us/ You got no war to name us" in "Bastards of Young").
This was the sound and the fury of college rock in the 1980s, when bands that were sick and tired of slick '70s corporate rock decided they preferred cult audiences and independent record labels to "selling out." Not selling out also meant they didn't sell lots of records, either.
When a band proudly sings, as the Replacements did, "One foot in the door, the other one in the gutter/ The sweet smell that they adore, I think I'd rather smother," all the fans scream, "Stick it to the fat cats, Paulie!" But you shouldn't clear a space on the wall for all your platinum records, either.
That self-destructive "I wanna be famous/I don't wanna be famous" inner conflict ultimately doomed the Replacements forevermore to cult status. A recent New York Times headline about the new album read: "Memories of the Replacements, a band that could but didn't."
Eventually, most of the '80s underground groups scratched their way into the bright light of major label deals. Those deals produced a mixed bag of consequences. Bands like the Replacements suddenly had the resources to make better-sounding records and expand their audiences, but many of those bands had drained their reservoirs of creativity and attitude. By the end of the '80s, everyone had grown up. The Mats' final two albums were slicker, quieter and had mostly abandoned reckless abandon. Fittingly, it all seemed to end with the close of the '80s.
The Replacements' influence probably eclipsed their fame, as every post-punk band of the 1990s and 2000s echo the Mats' sound. If you're young and into contemporary rock, pick up the Rhino anthology and get an idea where it all comes from.