ONE
Christ, what a mess.
TWO
Their fathers had fought in the Second World War II, which makes them old men now, but they were boys in the 80’s. The Stinson brothers, Bob and Tommy; Chris Mars, and Paul Westerberg, who was first among equals. Bob was crazy, and an alcoholic, and his step-dad raped him throughout his childhood; he was never well. Tommy dropped out of school to go on tour at age 14, and was an alcoholic. Paul (an alcoholic) had nine or ten personality disorders competing with each other for dominance, chief among them an aversion that bordered on allergy to even the mildest authority. Chris played drums.
They looked like this:
There was no money in the budget for cool shoes, or new trousers for Tommy. He had outgrown the pair he was wearing because 14-year-olds do stuff like that.
THREE
The first two records are unnecessary; Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take out the Trash and Stink! are blueprints for the albums to come. The last two are Paul Westerberg solo records. Those middle four, though? Just as good as the Stones’ run from Banquet to Exile.
FOUR
Paul wrote all the songs. He looked like this:
His dad sold Cadillacs, and he was a terrible student. He liked pop music–what Bob would call “Doodley-bop shit” and walk out of bars to avoid–and Slade and all the punkers except the political ones, and White Crosses. Never weighed more than a buck-twenty. Dropped out of high school because of course he did. Teachers, man.
Give my regards to gym class.
He’s a janitor. This is an important detail in the Origin Story. Queen met through a note pinned on a bulletin board at college, but Paul first encountered the Stinson brothers while walking home from his job cleaning up other people’s messes. Beginnings are important; everything starts with them.
FIVE
I am trying to remember how I heard of them. It could not have been MTV–the channel did not play the band’s half-assed, snotty videos–so it must have one of the Rock Magazines I devoured. There was Rolling Stone, of course, which I had a subscription to, and RIP, which was dedicated to Sunset Strip bullshit, and various instrument-specific periodicals redolent with tablature.
And Musician. That was for the Rock Nerd bullshit. I read about Warren Zevon in that magazine, and The Replacements, too. (I think.)
The Livingston Mall had two record stores back then: Sam Goody ‘s and Alwilk. Sam Goody’s was the cool one. They had the giant metal fan of posters on one side of the shop, and guitar strings and straps on the other. Sheet music in the back. Cassettes in the middle, individually trapped in plastic caskets. Vinyl was dead as disco. Compact discs were ramping up. The guy at the counter would KerCLACK the tape free when you paid.
Did I read about them? None of my friends recommended the band: I do not recall bonding over the Mats in the way I did Van Halen or the Dead or even Cheap Trick. (Me and my high school buddies were HUGE into Cheap Trick’s first three records, and I believe we were in the right.) But my teen band did not cover Can’t Hardly Wait or Bastards of Young, and those are both songs with few enough chords so that A Bunch Of Guys From France could have handled it.
They’ve just always been there.
SIX
Imagine you worked at MTV and some assholes sent this in. It’s a middle finger. I wouldn’t play it, either.
SEVEN
This is Bob:
Bob was simple, and broken, and then broken again. Step-dad raped him over and over. Family gave him over to the state for a while. Group home for the disturbed, that kind of thing. Bob played guitar and heard voices. Drank a lot. Worst hair in the group. Thought it was his band, even though Paul wrote all the songs and did all the singing. Sometimes, he’d black out and beat his wife.
But, boy, could he play guitar.
He mammothed about stage left in his dress, or tutu, or maybe just jeans and a filthy tee-shirt, with a Telecaster or SG or Strat–the Mats were not one-guitar type of dudes–and slopped about the chord structure of the song like King Kong with a hard-on. After Paul fired him, a reporter from Spin magazine came out for an interview; Bob suggested scoring some heroin and shooting up. When he died, he was 35 and shared an apartment with roommates in Minneapolis. The walls of his bedroom were decorated with Led Zeppelin posters.
EIGHT
This is the point at which I usually compare a band to the Dead, but I can’t here. The Dead were surely Bush League in every way, but not like The Replacements. It is the difference between Chaotic Good, or even Neutral, and Chaotic Evil. The Mats were trying to fuck up–these young, snotty men were some of the very trolls–while the Dead just fucked up a lot. The Grateful Dead didn’t mean to play poorly at Woodstock, it just kinda happened.
Whereas The Replacements meant to do this shit:
They released this. 30 people showed up to a venue that held 1,200. The manager of the venue recorded the show FOB, and the Mats’ soundman stole the tape. The band gets all the way through–at most–30% of the songs; it is the single most unprofessional hour you’ve ever heard. They released it.
NINE
Steve Albini hates The Replacements, and that is good enough reason for me to love them. Fuck that guy and his rules.
TEN
Geography used to matter. This is before the internet, Younger Enthusiast. Whatever-and-a-half was going on in The World, and you’d hear about that on the nightly news with that Texas fellow or that Canadian gentleman, but mostly what mattered was what was going on in your city. Who was playing your venues, and who your radio stations were bumping, and who your local alternative paper was on a rampage about this week. Bands were from somewhere. Ramones were from Queens; Pearl Jam was from Seattle; Bruce was from Jersey. Skynyrd was from the South, and Rush was from the Great White North, and those facts were important.
The Replacements were from Minneapolis.
ELEVEN
This is Tommy:
He looks like a kid because he was.
When Tommy was 11, he was doing stupid shit. Breaking windows, stealing, shit like that. His older brother Bob figured music was a good outlet for his energies, and plunked a bass guitar in his hands. When he was 12, the Mats played their first gig. Minnesota’s economy is based on lakes, hockey, and rehabs; they were booked to play a sober dance; they showed up drunk, of course, and the show was cancelled. 14 when the first album came out. The band’s manager had to be made Tommy’s legal guardian, so they could tour without any worries. 17 when he signed the contract with the major label, Sell-out. 20 when he was banned from Saturday Night Live.
Tommy Stinson had a more interesting youth than you did.
I saw him once in Los Angeles, at an AA meeting. He was wearing the suit you’d imagine him wearing, and sitting with his legs draped over the stage; it was a multi-purpose hall that could be used as a cafeteria or gum or auditorium. His hair was…well, you know. I resented his presence; Jesus! this fucking city! I wasn’t even cool enough for AA meetings.
TWELVE
Tommy was both the most fuckable–due to his dewy twinkiness–Replacement, and–due to his underagedness–the least fuckable Replacement.
THIRTEEN
Got an offer that you might refuse
Tonight, tonight, we’re gonna take a stab
Come on along, we’ll grab a cabWe ain’t much to look at so
Close your eyes, here we go
We’re playin’ at the talent show
Come on along, here we go
Playin’ at the talent show
Check us out, here we go
Playin’ at the talent showWell we got our guitars and we got thumb picks
And we go on after some lip-synch chicks
We’re feelin’ good from the pills we took
Oh, baby, don’t gimme that lookWell it’s the biggest thing in my life I guess
Look at us all, we’re nervous wrecks
Hey, we go on nextPlayin’ at the talent showWish us luck if you can’t go
Playin’ at the talent show
An empty seat in the front row
We might even win this time, guys, you never know
That’s the opening track from Don’t Tell A Soul, which didn’t sell. Dudes in thick, black eyeglasses loved it, and so did bookish women with drinking problems, but the general public remained aggressively indifferent to The Replacements. Music critics loved ’em; the kids bought Bon Jovi records.
They looked like this:
The guy in the Harpo Marx wig is Slim Dunlap. He played the guitar solos after Bob got fired, and did not make the band any better-looking.
FOURTEEN
Paul was in charge, and he gets all the credit, and bears all the blame. Tommy was a child. Bob was crazy. Chris was the drummer. Paul wrote all the songs and sang all the songs and he was in charge; the band was a process of shedding. Paul fired the manager, and the record company, and the guitarist, and the drummer, and the record company again, and then he fired the bass player and himself and there were no more Replacements left.
FIFTEEN
This is Chris:
He played drums.
SIXTEEN
Again: you cannot compare them to the Dead, at least not to the Mats’ favor. The Dead were winners. Enthusiasts like to play the aggrieved minority, but the Dead headlined stadiums for a decade straight. The Replacements biggest tour was opening for Tom Petty in 12,000-seater sheds; usually, they played ballrooms and theaters, and were not guaranteed a sell-out. The Dead had to resort to begging teens not to come to their shows; varying record companies and management firms spent hundreds of thousands–real money in the 80’s–futilely trying to drum up interest in the Mats.
The Dead were personable, at least. Bobby and Garcia? They were downright garrulous! Sure, they’d bitch about doing radio interviews, but once you got ’em down to the station, they’d start chatting away. If only to be polite. The Replacements would shit on the studio floor while making hard eye contact with the deejay.
Sometimes, the Mats would play a cover tune but only know the verse and chorus, so they would abandon the song at the bridge and stand there grinning like assholes. Dead never pulled that shit.
SEVENTEEN
We were the Bastards of Young, my generation. Generation X. We didn’t take what’s ours. I wouldn’t claim us, either.
EIGHTEEN
God, they didn’t give a shit.
This was The Replacements’ big break. Tim was their first major label release, and Warner Brothers was backing them. The record’s sales had stalled, so Mo Ostin made a call to Lorne Michaels. All the rich Jewish assholes in New York know all the other rich Jewish assholes in New York. 1/18/86. Harry Dean Stanton was the host. Sam Kinson did a monologue.
Lorne was stressed. SNL seems inviolable now, but it was vulnerable in 1986. He had left the show along with the major stars in 1980, to be replaced by multiple showrunners of varying incompetence, and returned in 1985 with a cast that featured Randy Quaid and a pre-Iron Man Robert Downey, Jr. The ratings were exactly the same as always–there is a fixed audience for that time period–but the critics were harsh, and Lorne lived in a world where that kind of thing mattered. Lorne Michaels has always cared deeply about what the other rich Jewish assholes thought of him.
Maybe Lorne heard a tape. His buddy Mo Ostin, who had gotten him laid a number of times, had called him up and asked him to book a band, so he had his assistants pop him up some corn and bring in Tim. Listened to side one, maybe. Okay, whatever. This is what’s hip and today.
Also, the Pointer Sisters had to cancel.
I used to be on teevee, before I reclused myself. I speak from experience. You show up and they keep you in the building; you may not leave. Usually, they send a car so you do not have access to a vehicle of flight. The PA comes with you if you step out for a smoke. They’ll run to the store to fetch you a bottle of wine. Once the showrunner knows you’re on premises, you’re not allowed to leave. It’s a “bird in a gilded cage” type of situation. This treatment made the band itchy. Various pages were dispatched for various beverages. The band became schnockered, as did Harry Dean Stanton, whom they had befriended because of course they had.
Paul makes it 90 whole seconds before walking away from the mic. Boredom? Disgust? Tommy is whirling and bopping, and Bob is wearing a striped leotard that hugs his hairy chest and beefy thighs; Chris is in overalls. There’s a “fuck,” apparently. I can’t hear it, but it’s supposed to be right before Bob’s solo. Lorne heard it, though. Yelled real loud, and banned the Mats from ever appearing on the show again. Their performance still isn’t available on the official site.
The Replacements took their chastisment with humility and chagrin and nah just kidding they did thousands of dollars of damage to their hotel rooms.
New York stopped spending money on the band after that.
NINETEEN
They toured again in 2013 and ’14.
I don’t know who the randos on the ends are. Legally, Paul and Tommy were allowed to tour as The Replacements, and so they did. They played all the old hits. They played Bastards Of Young, the old motherfuckers. Paul had a different letter taped onto his jacket at each show; spelled out, they read NOW I MUST WHORE OUT MY PAST. Which is graduate-level audience-contempt. The Sex Pistols called their reunion shows the “Filthy Lucre Tour” but that’s nothing compared to Paul’s dickery.
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
They looked like this, for a moment:
White boys with no asses and no futures at all, just some amplifiers and barely enough cash to get to the next show.
It’s too late to turn back. Here we go.
These aree great thoughts, that was a great book, they were a great band.
Mrs JES grew up in the ‘hood with Chris and the Stinson’ sister. Mrs JES was the youngest of 11 children, and they were not the big family on the block. She used to help Chris with his math homework and he would help her with her art homework.
He is easily now the most successful of the bunch as a freakin’ amazing artist. But his stuff is dark dark dark and is mostly inspired by his schizophrenic brother . . .
https://www.chrismarspublishing.com
Also, I will argue the point that the best of the post-Mats solo albums are Chris’.
Also, I love “Sorry Ma,” but agree about “Stink.”
Dammit, the bouncer is holding me at the rope line again!
Attica! Attica!
Hooray! Hootenanny!
“That little Pisher yoinked my Zinfandel from the Green Room”
“The pale skinny one with the leather pants & the curls? He has the Face of an Angel, Bea”
I think i was made passingly aware of the mats from MTV- 120 minutes and the kiss me on the bus video. I became actually aware of them – like they were a group that people were really into – from my first official rock nerd college friend. Way late to the party
I also did see the reunion tour in 15 and I gotta say it was a magical night. Like they had decided to do themselves and the songs justice finally.
Like everything else it was an illusion.
P.S. I can’t remember if the book came out to late to pick it up, but the Slim part of the story is sad too . . .
https://blog.thecurrent.org/2013/06/slim-dunlap-long-difficult-recovery-inspires-star-studded-songs-for-slim-project/
It led to one of the few legitimately decent things that the Mats ever did together with their “Songs for Slim” series.
In response-
Fuck You- Sorry Ma and Stink are both amazingly awesome.
I saw the ‘Mats play at Folk City in NYC-maybe ’82? Ran into Bob Stinson lost on Bleeker Street. He was wandering around, drunker then shit (even drunker then us) and wearing a dress. We led him into the club. I believe Bob and us both missed the first song.
Bob was a sweetheart. And a tragedy.
They played a big “record company showcase” at CBGB’s in about ’83- Called themselves “Gary And The Boners”- They were drunker than shit and completely blew the show- yes- i was there. It was great. If you think the “shit hits the fans” tape is a trainwreck- find a copy of the CB’s show on the Interwebs.
The two other guys in the ’13 pic are Josh Freese (drummer of many many many amazing bands) and Dave Minehan- formerly of The Neighborhoods- they also played on many Westerberg solo shows. They were legit.
On SNL- right before the solo in “Bastards Of Young”- Westerberg yells at Bob- “Play it Motherfucker”.
Then the three of em (not Bob- no one was gonna wear that pantsuit) switched clothes for the next song “Kiss Me On The Bus”.
They were banned, but Lorne let Westerberg onto SNL in 1993- Charlton Heston hosted- Westerberg (including Tommy fucking Keene and Freese “almost” played it straight through. Then Charlton Heston ignored Paul’s handshake attempt during the goodbyes.
The “reunion” tour was fun- but lacked any sense of danger. But then again, good for them. I hope they raked the cash in- Billy Joe Armstrong had to play Westerberg’s guitar stuff at one point because he fucked up his back.
ps- Fuck you again- Sorry Ma and Stink are epic.
Forgot to mention the other time they crossed my radar earlier on was that I distinctly recall reading the westerberg interview in guitar player – or whatever guitar mag – where he said “dont buy those pointy guitars kid.” As I remember it – probably wrong – the same issue had jerry and bob on the cover. Cause theres always a dead connection.
I reviewed Paul live in ’96. It was pretty boss . . . https://jericsmith.com/1996/07/30/paul-westerberg-and-patti-rothberg-saratoga-winner-cohoes-new-york-july-26-1996/
I used to know a guy who worked at Alwilk Records!
I notice the s hit the fans cassette was on minneapolis’s Twin tone records. I remember ordering Robyn Hitchcock’s ‘eye’album from them (it was later rereleased on some other big label) and it taking about 6-7 months to arrive.
I remember seeing on vhs some mats ‘video’ which was just a camera placed behind a couch on the floor looking out.
Was thinking about other bands that drank too much and was pleasantly surprised to find Canadian ‘legends’ jerry jerry and the sons of rythm orchestra (whose 84 album was even called ‘road hog the band who drank too much) available on Spotify and YouTube https://youtu.be/qMMTViuA6cE
30 subscribers and 108 monthly listeners – I think it says something – not sure what- that all the great bands from way back can be listened to on the wonderful Interweb. Kids today are so spoiled.
Your damn hurricane is going to hit us tomorrow, gotta hunker down.
Livingston Mall??!!
How is it you and I never got into a fistfight?
loved that book. there’s also a movie where they only interview fans and friends of the band that’s pretty interesting. if you’re a fan. it’s called Color Me Obsessed.