Alex Chilton’s passing last week at the too-soon age of 59 has been noted and eulogized by many, many people – as well it should be. Chilton somehow managed to stay under the mainstream radar for over four decades while influencing a couple of generations’ worth of musicians (so far).
Chilton’s brush with the Big Time came at the age of 16, when he lead the Box Tops through “The Letter”. (That’s right – that’s a 16-year-old kid growling out those lyrics.) But Big Time be damned – it was the sound of Chilton’s band Big Star in the early 70’s that changed everything. Terms like “tension-filled folk/rock” and “ragged and raw guitar pop” were applied to Big Star’s music. If you were a music fan, it was cool to have a Big Star album on the shelf; if you were a band, it was even cooler to name-drop Chilton and Big Star as having influenced your sound. Chilton would sometimes publicly question the importance of Big Star’s music; bands from R.E.M. to Yo La Tengo would gladly debate the point.
Me, I have a couple of things to admit to you. First, my awareness of Alex Chilton came second-hand. It was my discovery of The Replacements 21 years ago that lead me to seek out Chilton and Big Star – a path not unlike a Derek Trucks fan searching out old Howlin’ Wolf and Charlie Christian records. Secondly, as impressed as I was by Chilton and the musical fuse he’d lit, The Replacements were something I couldn’t shake. They were both perfect and flawed; they were both genius and dumb-ass. They might be out of tune and off the beat or they might be dead-nuts on in that Karl Wallenda hold-your-breath-and-pray-they-make-it way. The Replacements bowed to their hero in 1987 with the recording of “Alex Chilton” – then managed to drunkenly upset the backstage buffet table when they shared a marquee with him.
Whereas Chilton attained fame at a young age and chose to go in his own direction for the next 40-plus years, The Replacements slugged it out in the musical trenches for a decade or so, seeming to go out of their way to fuck up every time the aforementioned Big Time got within reach. Sure, they hammered bare-knuckled on fame’s door as any hard-working band would – and when it opened, they took a look in … but like a bunch of drunken rock ‘n’ roll Charlie Chaplins, The Replacements would blow it. (Was it on purpose? What do you think? Do you suppose it was the hand of fate that turned the mid-80’s gig at CBGB into a live train wreck in front of a house full of industry execs and rock critics? Even the fact that original ‘Mats guitarist Bob Stinson had mummified himself in aluminum foil prior to staggering out onstage couldn’t save the set; the band struggled to actually complete a song.)
In typical I-missed-it-I’m-from-Maine fashion, I didn’t cross paths with The Replacements until late in their existence – the night of May 31, 1989, to be exact. At that point in time, I was in a bit of a black hole musically – both personally and with the world at large. My guitar was spending most of its time in the case under the bed, and about the only release of then-recent vintage I was interested in listening to was Keith Richards’ first solo album, Talk Is Cheap. In fact, ol’ Keith was the reason I was sitting in front of the television that particular night. (I didn’t go cold turkey on TV until 1995, but that’s another story.) The occasion was a glitzed-out event called the “1st International Rock Awards” (I think there might have been three of the things before it swallowed its own head) and Keith was to be presented with a “Living Legend” award during the broadcast. Me, I was just hoping he’d play a live number with the X-Pensive Winos that night (which he did). That wasn’t the moment that spun my head around, however.
Picture this: returning from a commercial break, the cameras go live on multi-colored spotlights panning over a cheering crowd. The female announcer lists off some of the upcoming guests, including: “John Taylor! David Bowie’s Tin Machine! Tina Turner! John Waite!” The audience roars! It’s all too wonderful!
There’s a pause, and then the announcer sounds like she’s just found a dead mouse in her can of Tab: “We apologize … here they are: The Replacements.” The crowd reacts a little nervously – is something not quite right here? There’s a hiccup of silence, then one sole bass drum thump that has nothing to do with the riff guitarist Slim Dunlop had launched into – the opening chords to “Talent Show” from the ‘Mats’ Don’t Tell A Soul album. As the camera begins to slowly swoop in on the stage, lead singer/guitarist Paul Westerberg leans into the mic: “What the hell are we doing here?” Uh-oh … someone’s not sticking to the script …
Bassist Tommy Stinson may be laughing – it’s hard to tell from a distance as he takes a lurch backwards, then steps back into the spotlight, rubbing his head like he’d just gotten up. Dunlop cranks away at the intro while Westerberg hits the occasional power chord on his Gibson. The camera zeroes in on him – hair tousled and a bottom-of-the-laundry-basket white shirt with the right elbow ripped out – as he begins the first verse:
In my waxed-up hair and my painted shoes
Got an offer that you might refuse
Tonight, tonight, we’re gonna take a stab
Come on along, we’ll grab a cab …
A little slurry, a little bleary-eyed, Westerberg fluctuates between staring right back into the guts of the face-on camera defiantly and pointedly ignoring it. Dunlop makes the chord change:
We ain’t much to look at, so
Close your eyes, here we go …
Drummer Chris Mars is locked in on the beat now, riding the cymbals and kicking the bass pedal on the downbeat:
We’re playin’ at the talent show
Playin’ at the talent show …
Westerberg is looking bored already – and when the view shifts to a stage-level camera wheeled up under his right elbow:
Come on along, here we go
Playin’ at the talent show …
He pauses mid-lyric to stick his tongue out at the lens peering up at him, totally annoyed. One more swipe at the chorus:
Check us out, here we go
Playin’ at the talent show …
And then – WHAM – all hell breaks loose and the ‘Mats come to life, Mars slamming into the drums full-tilt as Stinson begins thumping a driving bass line. Westerberg spins around and gropes at his amp (there’s nobody to say “No, Paul!” at this point), cranking the piss out of something, up on one foot and almost losing his balance, but somehow landing back at the mic in time to launch into the next verse:
Well, we got our guitars and we got our thumb picks
And we go on after some lip-synch chicks
This is no lip-synch job by The Replacements – oh, no. Compared to the album cut, this version of “Talent Show” is raw and punky. Westerberg looks almost wild-eyed at first, then his expression changes as he launches into the next line:
We’re feelin’ good from the pills we took
Which gets totally bleeped out by the network censor (that’s right – this wasn’t cable, boys and girls; there was going to be no dope at the 1st International Rock Awards … un-uh) and Paul knows it; there’s a big eye roll as he plows on:
Oh, baby, don’t gimme that look
A lyric once intended for a disdainful girlfriend is now directed at the powers-that-be; this is live prime-time, and short of cutting to a commercial, the network is stuck with what it has. And The ‘Mats know it:
We ain’t much to look at so
Close your eyes, here we go
The front line all bellow the chorus as Mars holds down the beat with a sparse Charlie Watts-style intensity:
We’re playin’ at the talent show
Playin’ at the talent show
Wish us luck, here we go
Westerberg fires off a goofy little wave to somebody – in the audience? Back home in front of the television? – while Stinson dances wildly around the stage, almost-but-never-quite taking a header:
Playin’ at the talent show
This time I know where I’ll go
Playin’ at the talent show
Dunlop is hunkered over his Les Paul, looking like the neighbor’s kid that’s come to mow the lawn after downing the first can of beer in his life on a scorching hot day, trying desperately to remember where his hands are. On one hand it’s scary to watch – and on the other hand, it’s beautiful. It’s pure rock and roll, without a net. The Mats swing into a little bit of “bomp-bomp-bomp-ba” barroom chorus, then take it to the bridge:
Well it’s the biggest thing in my life I guess
Look at us all, we’re nervous wrecks …
And the music falls away for just a moment, with drumsticks and picks hanging in the air:
Hey, we go on next …
And then as the ladies in their gowns fan themselves with their programs and the suits pluck nervously at the nice tablecloths, Westerberg explodes in laughter:
The Elvis?
Totally mocking the name of the 1st International Rock Awards’ sacred statuette. Oh, dear … there would be no Elvis tonight for The Replacements, but they don’t give a rat’s ass, as they’re roaring into the final chorus with the biggest kind of shit-eating grins:
Playin’ at the talent show
Playin’ at the talent show
Playin’ at the talent show
Playin’ at the talent show
Pretty soon it’s over, I know
Playin’ at the talent show
An empty seat in the front row
_We might even win this time _ …
Westerberg then throws in – with total conviction:
I doubt it …
As reckless as things seem to be, you realize that the band is locked in and cranking on the groove – unshakeable in the face of all the weirdness, both self-inflicted and from the setting itself. They’re not done yet, though; on the original album cut, the chant at the fade is
It’s too late to turn back, here we go …
Yeah, well, Westerberg knows that his earlier drug reference has been bleeped, so now’s the time to make things right in the world, ‘Mats-style:
It’s too late to take pills, here we go …
What? Did they really sing that? Yes, they did – and just to make sure you didn’t miss it, they do it again:
It’s too late to take pills, here we go …
Sure, it was dumb-ass and school-boyish and served no purpose other than to piss off the powers-that-be after they realized what the band had pulled … but at the time – 21 years ago, boys and girls – it was an act of rock ‘n’ roll heroism. (It was also the sound of four sets of feet being shot simultaneously.) There’s a moment when Westerberg looks off into space almost wistfully and sings:
What a show …
And you could almost believe that he’s happy to be there, but then they give it one more blast:
It’s too late to take pills, here we go …
Stinson is absolutely slashing at the strings of his bass and Dunlop looks like he’s just holding on for chrissakes. “We’re outta here,” says Westerberg, then slurs out one final
Talent show …
Mars rolls and tumbles his way along his drum kit as the guitars honk and bark. Crash. Bang. It’s over. The ‘Mats can’t get off the stage quick enough – and the camera can’t cut away quick enough, either. The crowd applauds, although a quick glimpse shows more than a few with dazed expressions – “Were they supposed to be here?”
That was the scene on my screen that evening – and, luckily, I snagged it on my VCR when it happened. (The tape – along with the means to play it – is long gone, but God bless YouTube.)
I remember the feeling of sitting there, grinning, knowing I’d just witnessed something that fell into the space between horrorshow and brilliance.
It was ragged. It was stupid. It was perfect.
I can honestly say that seeing the Replacements that night helped to inspire me to drag the guitar out from underneath the bed and get back to playing again. By the 4th of July, we had a band together and debuted on a flatbed trailer in the local parade.
As we were crawling through Deer Isle village on that hot summer morning, “woo-woo”-ing our way through “Sympathy For The Devil” (a good 20-minute-or-so version), we had no idea that the walking group behind us was passing out prayer books.
The Replacements would’ve loved it.
I like to think Alex Chilton would’ve, too.
