Sons of No One: A Review of The Replacements' Tim, 40 Years On
God, what a mess!
For me, music itself began with classic rock. Clutching my iPod with every morsel of strength a seven-year-old could muster, I would discover catharsis in the screeching vocal acrobatics of Guns n’ Roses or the theatrical gaudiness of Queen thanks to my father’s curatorial expertise. Even then, I recognized its irresistible magic, hidden in plain sight within muscular riffs, devastating solos and wailing, almost effeminate vocals. For years, it was this raucous, righteous blend of distortion and the blues, this seething anger of men and women as divine as they were carnal, that carried me through the necessary discombobulation of growing up, and my ears were mostly content. It seemed I had found my groove and my grounding force, and my musical curiosity adhered to a path of least resistance as I springboarded from AC/DC to U2 and Van Halen.
Since then, as my musical inclinations have branched into various tributaries, the waters of the riverbed have gathered sediment and become increasingly murky. My taste has splintered so considerably that providing a succinct answer to “what kind of music do you like?” has become embarrassingly taxing. While existing as an amalgamation is the ideal for most critics, the dislocation such a state of being so effortlessly induces is often intolerable. At the same time, we are eternally aware of the dangers of being lulled into the same senseless comfort that invariably leads to developing a distinctly ancient frigidity and reticence. Fortunately, I have found my middle ground: constructing a musical home from the bones of the primordial revelation that prompted my interest in music and returning to it after setting forth in whatever direction the compass points.
In the last year, The Replacements (affectionately called the ‘mats) have emerged as a particularly successful haul from one of these journeys. There was, and remains, something eerily familiar about their discography of half-vitriolic and half-satirical but nevertheless tuneful power pop/punk rock, and their history: a band of four hooligans who scratched the surface of stardom but plummeted gracelessly at their own heavily intoxicated behest. Yet, under the tutelage of chief drunk Paul Westerberg, the ‘mats recorded music that burst with soul and became an integral constituent of the now-celebrated 80s college rock scene. Rather than bury their immediately striking hooks in the gloss of obscurity, Westerberg howled and slurred about matters of the heart: of the failures of masculinity, of the failures of capitalism and, on occasion, of his failures in reckoning with the alcoholism and drug addictions that once plagued his life. Like most discographies I love, theirs is a discography of crisis with a boozy coat of paint and Tim is a near-perfect pour: a record that both emblemizes and condemns a lifestyle of excess and begins to confront the demons of a turbulent youth.
The opening track “Hold My Life” is The Replacements’ modus operandi writ large, beginning as though the music has already established itself and grooving and clanging along without any hitches. The bounciness of the sparse, palm-muted guitars that float on the similarly undecorated drum groove assuages the doomsaying of its lyrics: “hold my life/Until I’m ready to use it/Hold my life/Because I just might lose it”. This is the first concession the ‘mats ever made, that perhaps a lifetime of debauchery had its limits, but even this recognition is not without cheek, as Westerberg delivers the line “if I wanted, I could die/dye”, drunkenly riffs and follows up with “my hair”. These satirical impulses are indulged with great effort and to great effect on the sophomore track, which features arguably the most memorable chorus the ‘mats ever recorded: “anything you want, dear, is fine, fine, fine, fine, fine/Everything you say, dear, I’ll buy, buy, buy, buy, buy”. In an exemplification of pure character, what surrounds these choruses is, as far as I can tell, utter nonsense that has something to do with a lighthearted takedown of capitalism: “hey give my regards to Broadway, tell 'em I got change to spare/One big buck, gonna have to suck up here”. Thankfully, this nonsense has the good grace to preside over the finest imitation of rockabilly the ‘mats ever recorded and is sung with a punctuation bordering on invective.
After expounding on two of their finest themes - youth by way of addiction and the evils of money - Westerberg takes on their most underrated topic, love, in “Kiss Me on the Bus”. Even a smattering of irony is suspiciously missing (“ooh, if you knew how I felt now/You wouldn’t act so adult now”), and the hallmark sonic effusions or chugging of most ‘mats tunes are noticeably absent here. Instead, as the chorus begins, teenage romance seems less a subject of derision and more one of divinity, as Westerberg’s vocal glides down as a plagal cadence would. All this wholesomeness falls apart in the aftermath of the next track, “Dose of Thunder”, a deafening anthem paying loving tribute to drugs. The pre-chorus does most of the talking here: “when it comes, when it comes/Only takes a little ‘til you want a ton”, but some words are spoken in kind by the explosive guitars, which erupt after a brief, low-volume section where Westerberg mutters something indecipherable (believe it or not, this would be a very popular songwriting strategy in the 90s). With the tongue-in-cheek roots-rock number “Waitress in the Sky”, entitled passengers are the true target: “and the sign says ‘Thank you very much for not smoking’/My own sign says ‘I’m sorry I’m smoking’”, even as the chorus/refrain “you ain’t nothing but a waitress in the sky” seems almost vindictive in its inexplicable dismissal of air stewardesses.
Enough is already said about “Swingin Party”, but all the usual breathless praise bears repeating. In general, whenever Westerberg is sincere, one can expect a poeticism that rivals some of the era’s preeminent writers: “on the prairie pavement/Losing proposition/Quitting school and going to work/And never going fishing”. The song seems to play on a generational scale, as insecurity and fear are laid bare on the swaying foundation of a 50s slow ballad: “if being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side/At the swingin’ party down the line”. For all the machismo that the ‘mats might have tried to promote, the absence of the distorted guitars here foregrounds the futility of attempting to fulfill this image: “being strong’s your kind, then/I need help with this feather”. This small respite of serenity yields to the focused bluster of “Bastards of Young”, arguably the signature Replacements song. If the subject was hazy on “I’ll Buy”, it comes into full view here: “God, what a mess, on the ladder of success/Where you take one step and miss the whole first rung”. Beyond rebuking endless rat races, however, Westerberg assumes the philosopher’s burden of diagnosing human nature itself: “the ones who love us best are the ones we’ll lay to rest […]/The ones who love us least are the ones we’ll die to please […]”. There can be no mistake: this is punk rock in every way that counts, from its minimal guitar solo to the bluesy chorus riff and the nonstop action on the drums, peaking with the fitting barrage of noise the song ends with as Westerberg yells “take it, it’s yours” with all the collectedness a heavy drinker can afford.
Where the ‘mats lose my attention a little is “Lay it Down Clown”, which is another round of incomprehensible lyrics with vestigial connections to alcoholism, with Westerberg nodding to the jitters caused by withdrawal: “the only exercise you ever get is the shakes”. Unlike its other nonsensical counterparts, its chorus merely repeats the title with some bluesy carnage thrown in for good measure, making a hell of a racket but offering little in the way of meaning. Perhaps a broken drunk is only right ten times out of eleven. On his ninth go, Westerberg finds gold in the fan favorite “Left of the Dial”, which resembles a Big Star song blasted through a broken amp (obligatory reference). As Westerberg addresses the song to a lost, similarly musical sweetheart, the ephemerality of love tugs at our heartstrings with the same attack of his pick, but in a refreshing volta, it becomes an homage to college radio instead: “and if I don’t see ya, in a long, long while/I’ll try to find you/Left of the dial”. Two memorializations are thus performed: one in commemoration of the song’s muse Lynn Blakey and the other in commemoration of the DJs that enabled the ‘mats’ to come swinging into our musical consciences. With “Little Mascara”, Westerberg’s piercing gaze refocuses onto a woman who has made a series of regrettable decisions, culminating in understandable tears: “all you’re ever losin’ is/A little mascara”. Although it runs the risk of moral grandstanding, it appears to shed the weight of judgment and lets the misfortune run its course, accentuated by a rather beautiful major-key instrumental that seems aspirational rather than glum.
Of course, Westerberg saves the best for last. The legend goes that in a rare occurrence of reflectiveness, and with a heavy dose of reluctance - and likely whiskey too - he recorded the final track on Tim, “Here Comes a Regular”. As a kind of spiritual antithesis to the opener, it is completely devoid of wit and doubles down on its exhortation to slow down on excessive living. If anything, it is a song of painful idleness (“well, a person can work up a mean, mean thirst/After a hard day of nothin’ much at all/Summer’s passed, it’s too late to cut the grass/There ain’t much to rake anyway in the fall”) that comes to terms with painful reality (“I used to live at home, now I stay at the house”). This time, there is no groovy earworm to implant itself in a listener’s mind, just the hard truth airing itself in the Minneapolis autumn with ghostly interjections of cello and piano. The ‘mats were a band of alcoholics - the inspiration of “Here Comes a Regular” is a bar they drank at - and the significance of this song preceding the infamous, stumbling performance on Saturday Night Live, which began tracing their downward arc, cannot be understated. The Replacements were writing their own history and then closing the book altogether on this final song.
When I fell in love with Tim, I was listening almost exclusively for its instrumentals. Stripped of its lyrical woes, its cacophonous riffs, melodic solos and peculiarly danceable grooves reminded me of my precocious years. Subsequent listens, however, seemed to age me considerably. At some point I understood that Tim has its moments of idealism, but it is ultimately defined by ruthless incisiveness in its treatment of such issues as disillusionment and substance abuse. And, on a slightly more heartbreaking note, I understood that every innocent - myself included - must at some point face the music.
P.S. I know this ended on a slightly depressing note, but I’m OK, honestly. If you happen to listen to Tim and like it, please listen to The Replacements’ whole discography - it’s completely worth it.