James
Baumann:
November, 2003

Bastards of Young Grow Up

Joe is no longer with us. Neither are Joey or Dee Dee. The Pixies may be getting back together. You know, just like the Sex Pistols did. Michael, Mike and Pete (but not Bill) just finished a "greatest hits" tour. You know, just like the Who and the Rolling Stones do. And meanwhile Bono is more welcome at the United Nations than the president of the United States is.

What does all this mean? Mostly that "alternative" rock is getting a bit on it years. It used to be called "college rock" but that name began to fall out of favor several graduate degrees ago.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not criticizing any of the above for hitting the road or heading to that big club in the sky. I'm simply using them to illustrate a point that there is a generation and a genre of musical artists that are entering a stretch of career path that no one has really blazed before. "Burn out vs. fade away" used to be the only choices. But now many of these once young punks are trying to discover what to do with the second act that they were never supposed to get in the first place. Are they going to be a nostalgia act? Are they going to be statesmen? Do they run the risk of appearing foolish as they desperately try to hang on to their youth? While everyone was busy worrying about indie cred and the punk ethos, no one ever thought to ask how they were going to age gracefully.

I started pondering this while watching and listening to the new Paul Westerberg DVD and CD Come Feel Me Tremble. Westerberg is now a sober solo artist, releasing his records on a small independent label. He's no longer a drunken member of a hot young band being courted by the majors. Based on interviews he's given recently, at the same time Westerberg is re-igniting his musical career he's also involved in caring for his ailing father and raising his young son. Those are incredibly real-world issues for any 40-something, but it must be additionally vexing for someone who many want to remember as the 20-something punk who shaved off his eyebrows, tossed couches out of windows, and left an inebriated trail through every college-town in America.

With this documentary and his recent albums - including those under the Grandpaboy name - Westerberg has launched what could be considered the third stage of his career. The first would be those early Replacements days, where he smuggled himself into the Stinson family basement and to the front of the band, were about being young and on fire. The later days of the band, and his first three solo records were - he admits - about reaching for that golden ring. (Did you ever think the guy who wrote "Customer" would be recording with Don Was?) Now he is back doing what feels right to him. He has the freedom now to do an album of mostly blues tunes (Grandpaboy's Dead Man Shake) because he loves blues tunes. Critics say his songs are half-finished. He says he's thriving in the spontenaity of first takes and made-up-on-the-spot rhymes.

Most old-time Replacements fans - traditionally a forgiving lot - have welcomed him back with open arms. In the documentary, a handful of fans are captured outside the venues, sharing tales of seeing Westerberg with his band back in the day. Crowds gather around the tour bus to offer gifts, squeeze into photographs, and collect his signature on CD cases, handbills, and Chuck Taylor shoes. One gentleman gives Westerberg a baseball bat with "Johnny Westerberg model" burned into the barrel - apparently a gift for Westerberg's son. The scene is presented without the dialogue - just the forlorn song "Meet Me Down the Alley" plays. In all its rough glory, it's probably one of the greatest testaments to the circular fan/performer relationship ever captured. They welcome the music he has provided. He is grateful for acknowledgement of his work.

What's gratifying is that the people seem as responsive to the new songs as they do the old chestnuts. Sure, it may have been tracks like "Alex Chilton" or "I Will Dare" that he built his reputation on, but he was still able to offer up a full selection from his career. The fans love the history, but they (and Westerberg) recognize it as history. Try to imagine the reaction if The Eagles tried to debut some new songs to the folks who dropped $150 for their tickets.

Westerberg is not the only artist who faces this situation. And I'm sure there are plenty of one-hit-wonders who would love to be wrestling with how to approach the second decade of a musical career. But why does this burden have to fall to the rock artist? Authors and poets are allowed to continue creating works until the day they die. Sinatra and company was on stage with gray hair. And there are certainly the acts from the '60s and '70s - the Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, Elton John, etc. - who are still onstage, entertaining fans (even while the recorded music bores most critics).

I think the problem comes when you treat the musical act as a symbol more than an artist. While those older acts had their share of sex and drugs and rock and roll (I'd still love to have Keith Richards on my side should I ever get into a knife fight), they still didn't have the anti-authority edge of the alternative image. And if an artist sticks around long enough, that rebel image begins to contradict real life. It's like having a built-in self-destruct mechanism. Only a handful of acts have snipped the wire to survive

There's always going to be new and exciting music coming up out of the clubs and basement recording studios. But maybe the acts that came before aren't always going to be as interested in giving up their space to the youngsters. And plenty of those acts maybe they shouldn't always be too quick to, either.

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