SONG OF THE WEEK: “Do You Realize?” — The Flaming Lips

Paul Westerberg
Folker
(Vagrant Records, 2004)

“You don’t sing for children/Or their parents in the night time in a bar/You sing for yourself/You stand up for nothing/As far as I can tell ...” So goes the first lines of the title track from former Replacements frontman Paul Westerberg’s latest self-played, basement-recorded album, Folker. Like his past few releases, which have been crafted pretty much the same way, this record is a giddy mish-mash of disheveled pop mastery, silly, over-the-top wordplay, and intimate, heart-breaking confessionals.

Westerberg has always been a bit of an enigma; The brash, bibulous bar-bomber with the ‘Mats through the ‘80s; The gasping, grasping, emerging solo performer of the early ‘90s; The clean, sober, curmudgeonly misanthrope of the latter part of the last decade; The reborn (as two characters—Paul and Grandpa Boy), triumphant rock ‘n’ roll survivor of the past few years; The recent, ordinary, fortysomething family guy down the block who’s finally reached a point in his life where he has more in common with the majority of his listeners than a debauched history of hanging out in dim, smelly nightclubs playing/listening to cool indie music.

Which begs the question: Is Paul singing about himself in the song “Folk Star”? Chiding himself for his own perceived self-interest over the years? Or is he calling on the carpet the gaggles of phony, coffee-shop folkies across the country who jump on any protest wagon that rolls through town solely for the money and/or glory? Let’s just examine the lines I quoted above: “You don’t sing for children ...” Well, I’m sure Paul sings for his son (whose birth has inspired, or unearthed, a side of Paul that’s only made his keen lyrical understanding of the universal human condition that much more sharp and focused) around the house, but I have a hard time imagining ol’ Grandpa Boy doing a children’s album along the lines of, say, Paul Simon or Sting. (Not that he couldn’t if he wanted to, but I hope he doesn’t) So that one’s ambiguous, at best.

“... Or their parents in the night time in a bar ...” Hmm. That’s not true. Can’t be about him. Paul’s been singing in bars more over the past 10 months than he has in the past 10 years. Hell, even when he plays at theaters or record stores, a good portion of his audience (OK, me, anyway) is either on something or looking forward to drinks after the gig, and many of the others have had to clean up or die. And it’s common knowledge that he has a little nip himself now and again these days, anyway, so that one doesn’t apply. “You sing for yourself ...” Well, that much is probably true, but Paul would surely be the first to admit it. The point is, he’s the kind of artist who sings for himself but has to have an audience. Thankfully.

And that brings us to the last line. “You stand up for nothing/As far as I can tell ...” Well, far be it from me to judge Paul or anybody else on what they do or don’t stand up for, but I will say, for my part, that I’ve always felt that Paul—whether he meant to or not—was standing up for the heartbroken, the outcasts, the freaks, losers, junkies, drunkies, misfits, and misanthropes among us. And that includes myself. So there we go—the answer is not really. Paul’s not really singing about himself in the song “Folk Star,” anymore than he was singing about himself in “Unsatisfied” (written for his fellow band members in the ‘Mats after he heard them complaining), “Androgynous,” or the more recent “Crackle And Drag” (about the suicide of poet Sylvia Plath).

I think the case here (as with most singer/songwriters) is that some of the songs are inspired by, or written with, others in mind, but in the end they come from an inner well of inspiration that’s all Paul. Because no matter what you may think of Mr. Westerberg, he’s always been an honest song writer who’s laid bare his soul time and again, win or lose, usually for the betterment of those who cared to listen. So yeah, in a way the songs are about himself, but they’re just as much about you, and me, and Tommy Stinson, and the whiny girl playing guitar at the coffee shop down the street, and your brother who’s just started drinking again after being sober for 20 years, and your cousin who’s shipping out to Iraq next month, and your niece or nephew who just started their first year at the U and called you all excited after hearing a Replacements song on Radio K. It’s universal, baby, that’s why it’s so good.

That’s not to say that there aren’t some highly personal songs on Folker—because there most certainly are—but even those have themes most of us can identify with. What I’m trying to get across here is that sometimes it’s good to just enjoy a song because of the way it makes you feel—and if you happen to identify with a line or two—or the whole thing—well, don’t that just beat a warm bowl of fuck, anyway? Paul’s not trying to be ‘60s-era Bob Dylan here, kids. He’s not trying to capture the attention of a new generation. He’s not looking for a stupid record deal from a stupid major label. He’s not trying to impress the folks running the Clear Channel radio stations across America. He’s just tossing off some great songs with some killer lines.

And there are some tasty lines on this album, fret not. In the opening track (one of those silly ones I mentioned, which may or may not be a goof on a deal gone awry that Paul had to write a song for a famous chain of stores), “Jingle,” Paul kicks things off by off intoning, “Buy it now, buy it now, buy it now/This is my single/Everybody really oughta have one ...” Wacky lead guitar riffs punctuate sloppy acoustic strummin’, and the whole mess ends with him winking, “Don’t tell Ringo ...”

See? It’s just fun. He could throw in “shingles” or “Pringles” or “Dingos” (and I think he does) and it wouldn’t really matter. Not a whole lot to pick apart and psycho-analyze here, folks. Just straight up, good-time rock ‘n’ roll. Another great set of tongue-in-cheek, happy-go-lucky lyrics come along in the tune “Gun Shy”: “Pet rock, I’m a stopped clock/I’m a yellow snake in a can/I’m a farm hand/I’m a charmed foot/I’m a jackrabbit, rock star, fruit jar, fuck you!” It’s really just Paul’s way of saying, “A-wop-bop-a-lula, a wop bam boom,” you know? Who put the ram in the rama-a-lama-ding-dong? Who cares? It rocks!

“Now I Wonder” has caused a bit of a furor among “serious” Westerberg students with the line, “Vices of the parents/Soon reveal themselves in the sickness of the child ...” because, apparently, people think Paul is blaming his partying years for some health problems his son may or may not have experienced at birth. Can I just interject here? YAWN! The kid’s happy and healthy now, and frankly, it’s nobody’s business what Paul does or doesn’t feel guilty about. Christ, it’s a beautiful song, one that strikes me as written from the point of view of an older, wiser, person who perhaps has learned some hard lessons from the life he’s lived over the years, and is just happy to have survived with a little love left around him: “And we get down on our knees,” he howls, “... and we don’t care who sees/And to hell with them who laugh ...” He goes on to question whether he’s even worthy yet of those rewards: “Makes me wonder when I’ll be there ...” Righteous.

“My Dad” is, without a doubt, the most direct and emotional track on this release. A buoyant, uplifting pastiche of personal recollections, hazy memories and funny asides (“He’s still got some ointment/From when my sister had that rash ...”) about his recently departed father, the tune is another of those “Universal” numbers Paul’s so adept at writing, made all the more poignant by the fact that the two came to some kind of mutual understanding shortly before the elder Westerberg passed on. Paul’s always written these kind of songs, half uplifting, half melancholic (from “Here Comes A Regular” to “A Wonderful Lie” right through to “Good Day”), but for my money, this one took the most guts to write and release to the public.

Other stand-out tracks here include “Lookin’ Up In Heaven,” a self-explanatory, tragic ballad that stands alongside “Skyway,” “Sadly Beautiful” and “Angels Walk” as one of Paul’s spine-tingling best—and features, for the first time in my recollection, the author speaking, not singing, in all seriousness, the words “I love you” out loud, on an album. “The years go by/My how I have grown,” he nearly weeps, and man, does that hit home, especially on this collection. This song also eases in on a traumatic acoustic riff that brings to mind Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind,” which is a song Paul’s said he loved so much he might want it played at his funeral. Destined for a future “Best Of” package, no doubt. (Volume One of the best of Paul’s solo work is under way now)

“Anyway’s All Right,” another melancholy track, finds our protagonist crooning about the trials and tribulations of non-traditional love affairs (“Cause anyway’s all right/On a now or never night ...”), “As Far As I Know” is a joyful, ringing ode to modern romance, (“I’m in love with someone that doesn’t exist/Keep lookin’ for them everywhere I go ...”), and “How Can You Like Him?” (which kicks off with the line “Come feel me tremble,” the title of one of his more recent albums), an unkempt little warbler that’s both self-indulgent (“You can’t go anywhere without me by your side ...”) and humble (“Bring a thimble/And I’ll pour my thoughts out ...”) at once. Classic Westerberg, in other words.

So is Folker a perfect Paul Westerberg album? Come on, even casual listeners know there’s no such thing, nor would fans (at least not this one) want there to be. Like Neil Young, Lucinda Williams, Vic Chesnutt or Will Oldham, a big part of the thrill of listening to Paul’s music comes from the fact that, while he’s undoubtedly a musical/songwriting genius, he’s a gleefully flawed one and proud of it.

There are a few clunkers among this batch, but even those hold a certain terrible charm. Take “$100 Groom,” for example: Though it’s got a snappy back beat, Paul’s trademark moan, and the requisite little hook, it’s chock full of idiotic, irritating rhymes and couplets (“... she was one/that I liked best/couldn’t believe/her two buck dress ...,” “... I’m your hundred dollar groom/I promise not to leave the room/Even if I’ve gotta vomit ...” “... she spent all of my cash/I broke out in a rash ...”). Need I say more? I think Paul just throws these numbers in to see if anybody besides his rabid fans are really, truly listening to his records. (Raising hand) Here! Hi, little buddy! I’m listening!

Likewise, “23 Years Ago” has a lot of potential (a ghostly Paul speaking from Mount Indie Rock to the young whipper-snappers coming up behind him), but drags musically and, at over five minutes, simply takes too damn long to get to the point. (The last line is, “wondering if it would end, would end, would end,” and by this time, you are too.) Those are the lowest of low points, though, on an album that, if released by just about anybody else, would be considered a career highlight. For a reluctant genius like Paul, though, it’s merely a decent batch of tunes—and a few really, really, good ones—to add to his excellent back catalog. Bottom line—a must-have for fans, a good rock album for the general listener, and another handful of kick-ass songs in the can for Mr. Westerberg. Tasty. I think I’ll have seconds ...

That does it for me this time ‘round, gang. Have a safe and happy holiday week. Tune in again to this space next time for more of the same. Until we meet again—make yer own damn news. ||

If you have local music news, gigs, CDs you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to give my wop bop a lulal a little wop bam boom, send replies to: (temporary e-mail) jamescrouch_1@juno.com.