![]() There was never much tawdry glamour with the Replacements just raw nerves.īut as boredom and fear of semi-fame crept up on the band, they more often sputtered through a schlock-block of stunted covers (“Detroit Rock City,” “Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room,” “Cat Scratch Fever,” etc.) like janitors throwing a smoke bomb down the toilet. Mars, a dead ringer for an ABC After School Special “loner,” hunched over his drums, slight frame pounding away like somebody was chasing him. Tommy, 11 when he joined, struck airborne rock poses and thumped punkily, flashing his I’m-too-young-to-know-better glance at college girls. His best songs (“Shiftless When Idle,” “Color Me Impressed,” “Kids Don’t Follow,” “Unsatisfied”) scripted the self-deprecating middle-class vulnerability of the ’80s just as sharply as Dylan sketched the pretentious middle-class dreams of the ’60s. Westerberg-an aloof fuck-up much like Bob, would inevitably smirk, look away, and cigarette-rasp a heart-wrenching, no-future-in-frontin’ chorus. Grinning like a vagrant crashing an office party, he would petulantly refuse to play a solo, then spew out some grossly beautiful racket that was equal parts Kiss babyfood-metal, Robert Quine art-mangle, and pure-pop trash. Bob, a burly, gentle Yes fan who favored thrift-store frocks nicked from Captain Sensible, played Shakes the Clown to Westerberg’s half-assed Pagliacci. Long before Kurt Cobain’s bank card became an indie-rock talisman, the Replacements were self-destructively struggling with the postpunk myth of “selling out.” While Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” video effectively fetishized the band and its fans’ alienation, the Replacements refused to even show their faces for their first video, 1985’s “Bastards of Young” (instead, the camera shot their feet, nervously tapping). ![]() A pink dress, a relic of Replacements past, hangs on a broken mike stand.Īlso Read Christmas Stalkings: What to Buy for the Music Fan in Your Life Meanwhile, Bob, 33 and holding on, is an unemployed cook, divorced, killing time in the Bleeding Hearts, a youthfully Stones-y bar band, and living in a dorm-style apartment wallpapered with rock posters (Jimmy Page, Ace Frehley) and Madonna pin-ups. Dunlap, The Old New Me Tommy, Friday Night Is Killing Me, Bash & Pop’s debut ex-drummer Chris Mars, 75% Less Fat, his second solo album and ex-singer-songwriter Paul Westerberg (who also refused to be interviewed), 14 Songs, his first solo outing. ![]() Every other Replacement, including his replacement, guitarist Bob “Slim” Dunlap, and Bob’s half-brother, bassist Tommy (who refused to be interviewed for this story), has released, or will soon release, an album this year. ![]() Still best known as an ex-Replacements guitarist more than six years after being fired from the band he started in his mom’s house, Bob is harshly defined by the past. “It’s completely untouched by screw-ups,” he marvels, blood-shot blue eyes squinting into a bright midday sky. An unrepentant alcoholic for ten-plus years, Bob insisted that we buy a six-pack and do the interview out here, near where the speedboats race in the summer. Heineken propped up in the snow, thrift-store suit jacket pulled tight against the ten-degree cold, he blows his nose into the wind, belches, and shivers. Sitting on a fallen tree on a small island in the middle of a frozen Minneapolis lake, Bob Stinson is a shaky defense for the rock life-style. ![]() This story was originally published in the June 1993 issue of SPIN magazine ![]()
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