August 5, 2002 20th Century Theatre, Cincinnati, OH
By Sean Cauley
Paul Westerberg is, largely, a victim of his own success. As the beating heart and beaten soul of THE REPLACEMENTS, one of the eighties' most influential bands, he built up expectations he could never subsequently match. His solo albums, while fairly popular, are often derided by REPLACEMENTS purists as watered-down imitations of his earlier works, not necessarily by any fault of their own (though I'll let each listener be the judge of that), but by virtue of the fact that they're not REPLACEMENTS albums.
Last week, Westerberg launched his first nationwide tour in six years in support of his two recent albums, "Stereo" and "Mono" (the latter of which is released in the name of Westerberg's alter ego, Grandpaboy, and is available in the "Stereo" package or on its own). On Monday, the tour stopped at Cincinnati's 20th Century Theatre, a renovated 1940's neighborhood movie house that's starting to build a name as a live entertainment venue. (The show was originally scheduled for Bogart's, a larger club near the University of Cincinnati campus, but was moved to this more intimate venue just before tickets were to go on sale.)
The crowd was a mixed bunch, ranging in age from teenagers to fortysomethings. Some people had the definite look of HIGH FIDELITY record-store-geek-chic; others appeared to have conquered their inner punk in the name of maturity (for what it's worth, I think I fall somewhere in between, and hold nothing against either group). One young girl, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen, was there with her dad, and she was proudly wearing an autographed SOUL ASYLUM T-shirt. I'm still not sure whether that warms my heart or makes me feel prematurely old. The venue was set up nice and cozy, and with the lone microphone (Westerberg is doing this tour without a band), sponge-painted walls, exposed-brick stage backdrop, and neatly arranged rows of chairs, there was a definite coffeehouse vibe before the show.
That all went out the window when Paul took the stage (about fifteen minutes after the scheduled start time, although since there was no opening act, this can probably be chalked up to accounting for stragglers in the audience rather than any rock-diva pretension), as people from the rear section of the room flooded down the center aisle to fill in the front, proving that there was still club-show energy in the house.
Westerberg arrived onstage wearing a navy-blue windowpane suit, a black silk shirt unbuttoned halfway, a canary-yellow checkered ascot, and small, dark sunglasses. With his mismatched wardrobe and the spiky, matted hair, he looked like a younger Ron Wood who had just rolled out of bed after sleeping off a weekend bender. Strapping on an electric guitar, he ran through a couple of tracks from the "Stereo/Mono" albums, "High Time" and "Mr. Rabbit," before rip-rocking through the early Grandpaboy track "Psychopharmacology." He slowed it down thereafter with "Waiting for Somebody" (one of his contributions to the SINGLES soundtrack ten years ago, and one of my personal favorites, as I will admit-much to the detriment of my cool factor-that the soundtrack work there, and not any of his previous REPLACEMENTS music, is what won me over to his charms in the first place, though I did catch up on past history later).
He kept the audience happy throughout the night with solo tracks from his three nineties-era albums and renditions of REPLACEMENTS classics from years gone by. Like many musicians with a nearly bottomless supply of tunes from which to choose, he needed a little help remembering everything sometimes, and the die-hard fans made sure to help him out. He also consulted a folder full of loose-leaf lyric sheets from time to time, and it seemed that his set list was completely flexible and beholden only to what popped into his head at any given time. When he decided to give the 1987 'Mats track "Valentine" the old college try for the first time in fifteen years, the audience was right there with him. They were also completely supportive of his rollicking cover of the ROLLING STONES' "Jumping Jack Flash," which seemed to be the perfect cover song for the alternately growling, whining and screaming voice he's put to use over the years.
He alternated between acoustic and electric guitars every few songs, relying on audience members to keep the beat with tambourines he'd handed them. Some songs, like "First Glimmer" and "If Only You Were Lonely," were conducted as singalongs. Some, like the electric "Alex Chilton" that closed the regular set, were all Paul. When, in that last song, he replaced the words "Big Star" in a line that now read, "We never travel far/Without a little G 'n' R-fuck 'em!," the audience couldn't help but laugh at his dig (which was either at former Replacements bassist Tommy Stinson, who's now with GUNS 'N' ROSES, or at Axl Rose, whose iron grip over the nebulous touring and recording plans of his band precluded any possibility of a REPLACEMENTS reunion; take your pick).
In an encore that included "Love Untold," a melancholy "Swingin' Party," and an impromptu "Can't Hardly Wait" (which was done reluctantly by Paul-who didn't remember much of it-at the urging of front-row fans as he was trying to leave the stage), the sloppy became sublime, and the audience went along with every blown lyric and sour note, just glad to see the man having a good time playing for a crowd of old friends.
***
As if to underscore the friends-and-family vibe of the evening, Westerberg spent very little time back on his tour bus after the show, emerging in a fresh change of clothes (for those concerned: jeans, sneakers, a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a Minnesota Twins cap) after just a few minutes, Sharpie in hand, ready to shake hands, take pictures, and sign people's stuff in the parking lot. For a guy with twenty years of recorded music behind him and a built-in audience wherever he goes, that's a hell of a gesture toward the fans. It's not like he's a new act trying to shake hands and kiss babies to build up an image; it really seemed like an effort to be approachable to the people who've given him his living, and is a commendable way to do business.
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