In an era when the concept of the “rock star,” at least that of the drunken and rowdy eccentric whose tortured soul can only be expressed through brutal yet vulnerable songwriting, is quickly becoming both somewhat outré and increasingly a tool within the province of industry marketers, the continuing story of Paul Westerberg is refreshing.
Westerberg, leader of The Replacements (one of the most influential post-punk rock bands) and famed rock ‘n’ roll eccentric, has embarked on a now decade-long solo career that has seen him embrace any number of roads less traveled. He has done so in a fashion that led him from an almost-successful couple of relatively mainstream pop-rock records to his current status as one of the premier providers of both heartbroken middle-aged angst and of scuzzy, fuzz-drenched rock and blues.
In the past two months, Westerberg has released two different records, though neither is really an official album release. One, Come Feel Me Tremble, is the soundtrack to a recent DVD documentary, and the other, Dead Man Shake, is the latest from Westerberg’s alter ego, Grandpaboy. Both albums find our boozy, profane hero further exploring his love for riff-driven rock ‘n’ roll demon rhythms delivered with a seemingly conscious desire to keep the shit as rough as possible.
Dead Man Shake is a little like a lost session tape from an unknown rockabilly band, solid in its chops and experimental in its orientation. From the opening stomp of “MPLS,” written about Westerberg’s hometown of Minneapolis, the album careens around the tunnels of American roots music with the irreverent celebration that the best rock ‘n’ roll has always possessed. The title song is perhaps the record’s most definitive moment, consisting of one verse (with only 10 words), repeated over a tough R&B strut.
Westerberg, who refers to himself in one song as “just a honky with a hat on,” plays with conventions while finding a way to simultaneously confirm the perverse grandeur of various brands of “the devil’s music.” Blues, country and rockabilly slam together with a distinctly garage ethic that Westerberg clearly understands was always a part of the music’s original power.
Dead Man Shake was issued on the great Fat Possum Records, a label mainly known for raw-and-righteous blues from Mississippi (what Fat Possum itself calls “the real punk blues”), and, like the label, Westerberg manages both to pay great homage to the music he clearly loves while never taking it so seriously that he strangles the life (and naughty fun) out of it.
This is perhaps most obvious when Westerberg offers his versions of songs by classic American songwriters Jimmy Reed, Hank Williams and John Prine; his take on Hank’s “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” is particularly stunning, a slow blues on which Westerberg’s pained vocals shatter the soul. Overall, it is a record of bracing informality, a concentrated dose of unpolished, unvarnished rock ‘n’ roll essence that so many current bands seem to find only through the most contrived circumstances.
This is not to say that Come Feel Me Tremble is either polished or formal. In fact, it is arguably as ramshackle, in its own way, as Dead Man Shake. The recording, very much an “official bootleg,” contains the occasional sonic imperfection, and one song is repeated (albeit in two very different versions).
In the best tradition of Keith Richards, whose solo work both records (as well as the last Grandpaboy album) call to mind, songs are less lyric-driven than they are a set of basic (yet poignant) ideas structured around a deep guitar-and-drum groove. Songs like “Dirty Diesel” or “Soldier Of Misfortune” are near-replicas of classic Stones workouts, but they are not simply derivative.
Rather, Westerberg’s strained yowl and abstract lyrical sense help signify the songs as uniquely his, with that drunken eccentricity that he has always found favor with. (With “Wild And Lethal,” he may have even written the best song yet about, well, people like him.) “Pine Box” runs his confessional tone through a blues buzzsaw, ripping apart his memories of his father with the fuzz-drenched fire of punk rock.
Occasionally, remnants of the power-pop he is perhaps more associated with creep through; “My Daydream” or “What A Day (For A Night),” in particular, would not be out of place on a Replacements record. There are also a couple of genuinely affecting songs, acoustic affairs on which Westerberg breaks up the party with a look inside.
“Meet Me Down The Alley” is particularly memorable, as Westerberg offers a graceful riff on a thematic idea consistently present in American music, perhaps best expressed in the soul classic “Dark End Of The Street.” The song is followed, and the album is closed, by a country-fied cover of Jackson Browne’s “These Days” that is as well-suited to Westerberg as the covers on Dead Man Shake, and the two songs end this journey to the center of one rocker’s mind on a note of perhaps unexpected dignity and grace.
His next project is supposedly an acoustic album, and that should come as no surprise to any follower of Paul Westerberg’s restless spirit. He seems to find great pleasure in both garage-band cacophony and quiet intensity, and his trips down those roads, regardless of their quality, never sound forced or phony. We should all be thankful.
Dead Man Shake: A
Come Feel Me Tremble: A
