Music: the Replacements, the other lot besides Prince out of Minnnesota

Memories of the Replacements, a Band That Could, but Didn't -- by DAVID CARR

Record reissues are, by nature, not a big deal. There may be comfort for completists looking to fill a slot in the CD collection, but not much in terms of revelations. Still, record stores and a self-selected tribe of rockers were atwitter last week because this time the retrospective in question was from the Replacements, the Minneapolis four-piece that became a musical Rosetta Stone. "Don't You Know Who I Think I Was?" — a 20-song collection from Rhino — notably includes two new tracks from a band that has been silent for 15 years.

But even Paul Westerberg, the guy who wrote and sang all the songs, can't generate a lot of enthusiasm about the record, which deftly etches the band's musical trip from anarchy to angst to ache. He is exceedingly cordial on the phone — he is a Minnesotan, after all — but seems to wonder what the fuss is about.

"It probably isn't Interview 101 to say so, but I haven't really listened to it," he said. "I guess you should know what you are hyping, but I could say that I know there are a handful of good songs on there, and it may introduce some young people to what we did."

The band never sold a lot of records during its seven-album run from 1979 to 1991, but the Replacements achieved mythic status for their off-the-hook live shows and indelible anthems about going fast to nowhere in particular. "I Will Dare," "I'll Be You" and "Bastards of Young" all blew a whistle that a certain type of disaffected fan found almost too beautiful to bear.

"Don't You Know" is an impressive, if not comprehensive, reintroduction, one that received an 8.8 (out of 10) rating from Pitchfork, a Web site ( www.pitchforkmedia.com ) with an expertise in all things indie. Critics have always tended to fall over themselves when it comes to the Mats, short for Placemats, which is short for, well, you get the idea. It makes sense that music geeks elevated the Replacements to the pantheon even though, or perhaps precisely because, they never broke through.

The Replacements' influence is writ large, with or without a reissue. Sensitive rocker boys like Jeff Tweedy of Wilco, Kurt Cobain of Nirvana, Billy Joe Armstrong of Green Day picked up guitars and made important records after hearing Mr. Westerberg tilt his head up into the mic and chase away the ennui by filling a room with possibility.

Mr. Westerberg, a self-described "rebel without a clue" who is more apt to brag about his skills as his son's baseball coach than a singer-songwriter, does briefly acknowledge that the work he did with the Stinson brothers (Bob on guitar and Tommy on bass) and Chris Mars on drums lingered long after they had destroyed their last stage set.

"Maybe it is a little big-headed to say, but what I hear on the radio, I can't help but wonder what it would have sounded like if I never opened my mouth," he said. "I hear bits of my voice. Then again, I listened to Mick Jagger before I ever sang a note."

In much the same way that Bruce Springsteen floored the rock intelligentsia, the Replacements, beginning with the magisterially titled and executed 1984 album "Let It Be," seemed to not so much raise the bar as snap it in half. In a book due out next year built on oral history about the band, Jim Walsh, a columnist at City Pages in Minneapolis, calls the Replacements "the little working-class band that could — but didn't."

"Here was this kid who was giving voice to pretty complicated growing pains," he said. "There was a sensitivity, along with the fury, that gave people permission to explore the inner and let it rock."

Much of the legend was built in cramped barrooms all over the country, but most often in Minneapolis. As a live act the Replacements were the ultimate crap shoot, taking stage foolishness to the level of beery performance art.

Mr. Westerberg, now 46, who has done limited touring behind his solo records, sounded neither opposed nor committed to a reunion. Bob Stinson is gone, having died a rock death in 1995, years after being kicked out of the band. Tommy Stinson plays bass in Guns N' Roses and recently toured with Soul Asylum, while Mr. Mars is a successful visual artist.

Things did not end in a hug. A song called "Popular Creeps," on "Horseshoes and Hand Grenades," a solo record by Mr. Mars that came out after the breakup, seemed precisely aimed at Mr. Westerberg: "Seven hundred hard slaps wouldn't help," the lyrics say.

Mr. Westerberg said he very much enjoyed recording two new songs for the reissue — "Message to the Boys" and "Pool & Dive" — with the remaining Stinson and Mr. Mars. He dismissed long-ago tensions, saying, "Bygones are bygones." He is busy scoring an animated film, "Open Season," for Sony Pictures Animation, but he allowed as how if something came together for the right reasons, he'd be happy to work with Mr. Stinson, although he doubts Mr. Mars could be pulled away from his art.

Brianna Riplinger, a freelance critic in Minneapolis who at 24 has never seen the band, was so excited at the prospect of a live reunion you could almost hear her hugging herself with joy. "Growing up, you would hear about this show was a mess, this show was legendary, then this show was a mess, this show was spectacular," she said. "You never hear that about anybody else, and I would die to see it myself."

Minneapolis has always taken an inordinate pride in the Replacements, whose song "Color Me Impressed" seemed like a fitting stance for a band caught between coasts. More so than even Prince, the Replacements reflected the knowing, curled lip behind Minnesota Nice.

"I think there was a rock quality about everything that they did, an element of surprise and poignancy," said Martin Keller, a former critic in Minneapolis. "Not to mention that they could turn a phrase and that they rocked pretty hard for a four-piece that wasn't always in shape to play."

Mr. Westerberg remembers the last part pretty well. (The cops are heard breaking up a show at the Minneapolis club Seventh Street Entry in a brief live segment on the reissue, and Dave Pirner, the Soul Asylum singer who was a Replacements fan at the time, is heard telling the cops where they should go.)

Being on the road, Mr. Westerberg said, is not the healthiest place for anyone not in control of himself. "There are guys who can read books and go out and see the sights." he said. "That was never me. I would stare at the wall and end up going a little nuts."

During the band's heyday Mr. Westerberg was prone to giving fistfuls of money back to unimpressed fans or hopping in a stageside wading pool with the boys when things got a bit too comfortable; now he has trouble envisioning a reprise of the spontaneous mayhem.

"I am a singer-songwriter, but I carry a lot of baggage with me," he said. "I'll get out there with a guitar, and people want to see me swinging from the chandelier or jumping from the balcony. Some people show up expecting me to trash the joint."

"I'm mostly still excited about making music," he added.