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Modern Maturity
As bands get older, they start to sell out--or do they?
By Noel Murray
APRIL 5, 1999:
I was 15 when I first heard the word "sellout." I was chatting with
some punk pals about The Replacements and Husker Du (two of my favorites),
when my companions mocked both bands as artistically bankrupt just because
they'd recently signed to major labels. Funny enough, I still listen to the
'Mats and the Huskers, but I haven't talked to those friends in over 10
years. And since then, I've been suspicious of snobbish music fans who
claim that anyone who ever picked up an instrument was better "before"--in
that mythical time before they were co-opted by commercialism.
Unfortunately, even rock 'n' roll true believers will come
to a moment when their heroes let them down. For punk fans, the letdown is
almost inherent in the genre Unless fans refine their tastes, their
favorite bands' inevitable gravitation to finely honed musicianship is
bound to disillusion. But when exactly does a musician cross that line--the
point at which the audience's expectations fall out of sync with his own
creative needs?
Paul Westerberg confronts this very question in the opening song of his
third solo album, Suicaine Gratification. "I'm past my prime/Or was
that just a pose," he sings on the poignant acoustic ballad "It's a
Wonderful Lie." That's a barbed reference to the critical reaction
generated by his previous two solo albums--the admittedly disappointing
14 Songs and Eventually--especially compared to the ecstatic
praise he received as leader of The Replacements. In his earlier work,
Westerberg juggled sloppiness, snideness, and sincerity--throwing a net
around the possibilities of chaos. As a solo artist, he's largely been too
sober, in every sense of the word.
"It's a Wonderful Lie" is full of classic Westerberg wordplay ("You can
dress to the 8s/You can dress to maim"; "Wearing too much makeup/Not near
enough clothes"), but it gets the listener's hopes up unduly. The very next
song, "Self-Defense," keeps one interested, if only because it's rare to
hear two straight ballads kick off an album. From there, though, the glory
is fairly tarnished, limited to two marginally compelling songs. "Final
Hurrah" is wooden, but has an ear-catching hesitation in the chorus, and
"Fugitive Kind" is almost as good as the toe-tapping shuffles on The
Replacements' underrated final album, All Shook Down.
More typical are uncomplicated, up-tempo numbers like "Best Thing That
Never Happened" and "Looking Out Forever," or two-chord dirges like "Born
for Me" and "Actor in the Street." Westerberg was never a melodically
complex guy, but he at least knew how to write brisk, hummable songs; this
new work could've been slapped together by any open-mic wannabe. By and
large, it's unencumbered by the sort of witty, crystalline lyrics that
earned Westerberg so many disciples--mostly he just repeats the titles over
and over again.
Some of the tracks on Suicaine Gratification are from Don
Was-produced studio sessions, while others are taken from Paul's own home
recordings. The album is supposed to hark back to Westerberg's raucous
past, except that it doesn't rock nearly enough, and the "rawness" of these
stripped-down tunes fails to distinguish them. It's hard to tell anymore
whether Westerberg wants to regain his artistic credibility or to catch the
hit-record train that he missed back when he carried his acerbic brilliance
like an unpunched ticket.
If he did want to cash in, he wouldn't be alone. The fine early-'90s
college rock band Buffalo Tom was so desperate for success last year that
for their awful album Smitten, they hired a vocalist to add
strained, Matchbox 20-style chops to their tribal heartland grunge.
Meanwhile, I'm sure every time Westerberg hears Goo Goo Dolls on American
Top 40, he wants to take a bite out of his sofa cushions.
Sebadoh, like Paul Westerberg, have had some trouble shaking off their
slapdash origins. The band started out as a loose home-recording
collective, and as each new album has gotten slicker, their earliest
supporters have gotten grumpier. That's the fans' loss. Sebadoh's best
records are 1996's Bakesale and 1997's Harmacy, both of which
eschew drippy tape pastiches; they're also the first two without annoying
drummer/shouter Eric Gaffney.
The core duo of Sebadoh now is singer-guitarist Lou Barlow, with his
low, sweet croon and his punctured-heart lyrics, and singer-bassist Jason
Loewenstein, with his monotone yelp and his love of power chords. Together,
they've mastered the art of the buzzing guitar, the pounding drum, and the
minor-key melody. Their music is unassuming and unpretentious, but capable
of a dewy-eyed nobility. On their latest album, though, Sebadoh have hit
something of a wall. The Sebadoh has its share of winners: "It's All
You" and "The Flame" employ a catchy trance-dance beat alongside guitar
riffs that hang in the air like the vibrations of a clanging bell; "Tree"
is a fast acoustic number with seesaw rhythms and a chorus that seems to
dissipate as soon as it escapes Barlow's lips.
The rest of the record is mostly rote. Loewenstein has always been the
lesser of the two main Sebadohs, but his contributions here are especially
shrill, as if he'd picked up the mantle of the long-departed Gaffney. "Bird
in the Hand," "Nick of Time," and "So Long" (all from the first half of the
record) pound like a headache. Even Barlow's famed wispy ballads are
starting to sound less effortlessly dreamy and more sopping wet.
There's a generational thing at work here too. Westerberg, for all his
fabled brattiness, grew up in an era that prized the LP as a definitive,
fleshed-out statement. Sebadoh are of the warts-and-all lo-fi movement that
applauds endless releases of outtakes and B-sides. Such a value system
tends to cripple an artist's judgment--a group may settle for something
that might better have been thrown away. For all their recently amped-up
craftsmanship, Sebadoh's allegiance to playing off the cuff may be keeping
them from developing their songs more.
Is Sebadoh following Paul Westerberg into the corral of irrelevance?
Hardly. Any band capable of songs as energized as "Weird" or "Decide" still
bears lending an ear to. Call The Sebadoh a momentary lapse, for
now. It's a scary thing, though, for a fan to contemplate the almost
certain decline of his favorite musicians. Inspiration is so fleeting for
so many that we hold our breath every time one of the good ones slips even
a little, and we weep when the best of them wander far away.
It's hard to keep hoping for greatness, to care so much. People who
quickly cry "sellout" or "has-been" are infuriating because they have it
easy--sooner or later, they're bound to be right.

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