More Than A Feeling

The interwebz told me there was a “new” Replacements album out — that is, a new release of old material, a live show from 1986. I have a tape of that show somewhere amongst my stuff, but I wanted to support them and I figured the best way was to buy an actual thing of it — an object. A commodity. A relic.

I could have ordered it on Amazon. I could have downloaded an MP3. But just for the sake of old times, I decided I’d go whole hog down memory lane and go to a record store to purchase it.

Sadly, it wasn’t that easy. To begin, there isn’t a record store anywhere in my town. Luckily I work in San Francisco, where there are many. Still, in order to go to the record store, I had to leave for work a half hour early one Thursday, find a parking space near Haight Street, and put money in the meter…none of which are actually instantaneous, the way that downloading an MP3 is.

In addition to the sheer time consumption of that process, there is a mentally draining component. The record store I chose to go to — because close to my work — was Amoeba, on Haight and Stanyan. I am so old I remember when the building was a bowling alley, which was right around the same time that I saw the Replacements play across the street, upstairs at the I Beam, in a building which is now a large Goodwill. So there was a little bit of weltschmertz to be dealt with, going there: that sense of ‘you can’t go home again.’

I suppose that is the proper feeling to feel though when purchasing a live album. The whole point of live albums is to capture a long gone moment; to re-feel a feeling, to drown out the present. And the first feeling that I captured, even before I put on the record, was sadness that record stores are gone. Plus, it turned out that Amoeba was sold out of the Replacements record, so I ordered it online, from their website. Then on the next Thursday afternoon I set out for work again, this time with the exciting prospect of a live show at Maxwell’s to enliven the journey to SF.

And the minute it began I was like…oh my god, am I a bad person? Because at first, I didn’t like it. And then I was like, wait, that’s not a thing. I love ALL things Replacements, those are the rules. Not only are those the rules, I am the one who made them! So love them I would.

photo credit: Dan Corrigan

First, let’s be clear: It wasn’t the music I didn’t like. It just sounded super clean for a live album. There was no patter at all, and although there was a bit of heckling — — absolutely tons of idiot-calls for “Free Bird” calls (interspersed with ones for “September Gurls”) — it was very subdued. The whole concert felt subdued, in fact, and that’s not a thing I recall from those days…so what I gather is that recording technology has really changed now, and the result was like the aural equivalent of an instagram photo with many, many filters — the ones that change the light values, sharpen the image, thin your face, and add different hues to the whole picture to give it a different feel.

Then there was the problem of the time-space continuum. Live albums are weird because they rip it apart. Hearing a concert 31 years ago in one of my favorite venues, transposed to a sunny fall afternoon in California while zipping down the freeway…it’s just hard. It’s hard to put yourself back into that mindset. But, unsurprisingly, after a little while, I did. And underneath the shininess of it all, there they were there; the band we loved, the sound we swallowed, the songs we sang along to, the je ne sais quois of an era and a place that is very difficult to articulate, that at the time to me was actually holy. “For Sale” does catch those things, as on “Hold My Life” or “Bastards of Young,” or of course, on “Unsatisfied.” This may well be the best-sung version of that number I’ve heard, and it is still a dead-center shot to the absolute heart.

Mostly, though, the record is a reminder — a sonic Madeleine, rather than a revelation, of just how good good can be. Few bands have more than three great songs in whole career, but in 1986, I had only been listening to the Replacements for two years, and even if you account for personal taste (i.e. I never liked Gary’s Got a Boner or Fuck School), there are a minimum of twelve great originals — “great” being an inadequate word, as there were actually no better rock songs written in that era than “I Will Dare,” “Can’t Hardly Wait,” “Go.” None. Nil. At their best, the mats were so good that even some of their songs that sounded like throwaways at the time, like “Kiss Me On the Bus” and “Color Me Impressed” hold up really well.

It’s weird how some things are so dated, and yet so not. Can any kid today really understand why or what it means to hate your answering machine? And fucking don’t even get me started on ‘Left of the Dial.” The import of that phrase, the tag line and title, which describes the imaginary place where we would all meet, the Replacements and you and me, back in 1986, would be completely meaningless to kids today, but on the tape, in the show, it is simply everything. It’s so important that Paul Westerberg leaves it unspoken and the audience shouts it. “I’ll try to find you,” he sings, and the sound comes to a halt.

Left of the dial.

You can hear, feel, intuit, the audience chanting it to themselves, but not aloud. It is a whisper on the tape, but a scream in my mind. I did it myself, in my car, in the daytime, thirty-one years after the fact.

That the ‘mats had that many great songs at that time is really remarkable, and even more remarkable is that there’s a bunch of already extant great songs (“Sixteen Blue,” for example) not even on it — as well as songs like “Alex Chilton,” “Skyway,” “Merry Go Round,” “The Ledge” that are hovering around or in the near, near future. This show captures what they did live so well: I recall at the time we absolutely loved it when they played covers like “Nowhere Man” and “Baby Strange” and “Fox on the Run” but actually playing those things was a big waste of time compared to playing their own work. They were too humble by half.

Another thing this recording hints at (though does not really delve into), is that most of the time the Replacements played like shit. Over the years, I saw way more bad shows than good ones, and yet, there was something about the experience that captured what it was like to be alive and human, something about them that was just so poignant and true. Do you know, I think that in the modern world, it takes an incredible amount of courage, and is almost unbelievably honorable, to actually suck a little bit. To take a chance. To not care. That’s what the mats did; that singular thing that we all envied so much. They really didn’t care. Paul Westerberg, he just burns talent. He drips it off him in great globs and then he squanders it in front of your face. But that is all he does with it; he lets it go. At the time, and even now, it seemed like a positively noble gesture, a grandiose ‘fuck you’ to a world of expectations and aspirations and responsibilities and tension: a giant sigh of relief. Loving the Replacements was like that too: it was a way to just let go of desire and doubt. To be OK with what you got, whatever the hell that was.

Anyway, to suck a little bit as part of your brand; if you think about it, that’s not such a bad strategy. That was what I’d forgotten, and it is what you need to remember to enter into the spirit of this record. In 1986, six months or so after this show was recorded, I flew to Paris (but only from London, where I was hanging out at the time) to see the Replacements play a tiny club in the Marais. There were about 20 people there, and the ‘mats were just terrible. After it was over, Bob Stinson followed us down the street to ask if we knew where he could score any drugs; we had to positively shoo him away. Then, on the opposite side of the spectrum, many, many years later, I was sitting glumly in a crowded movie theater with a bunch of tiny children surrounded by wails and the small of fake buttered popcorn, watching a dumb movie about animated grizzly bears called “Open Season” when Paul Westerberg’s voice burst onto the screen and briefly turned me into a puddle of glop. It was like finding a nugget of gold at the bottom of a porto-potty. It shook me up to hear it then, and it shakes me up now.

Well, what can I say? Life is very long, and very strange, and it takes you to so many places, and so is, and so does, music. F Scott Fitzgerald (who grew up in St. Paul) once said that American lives have no second acts, but actually I think he was wrong as hell. Always what I loved about the Mats was their downhome-ness, the way they tied country music to punk and saw the beauty in cheesy top forty tunes, and took minute pleasure in the most manufactured and daunting aspects of life in these United States. The Replacements couldn’t help themselves out of a paper bag, but they’ve always had the power to help me through rough times.


Originally published at foolsrushinredux.blogspot.com on October 21, 2017.

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