2004, Vagrant
Grade: B
Now creeping into his mid-forties, Paul Westerberg seems to have finally found his niche, for better or worse, in the music industry that has managed to both critically worship and commercially reject him for going on 25 years. With his latest release Folker, we find him continuing the rough, loose, almost sloppy style of recording he adopted following a re-birth at Vagrant three years ago. As is becoming customary, it is simultaneously charming, at times brilliant, and ultimately frustrating.
After his seminal 80’s band, The Replacements, imploded in the early 90’s, Westerberg embarked on a solo career that was expected to vault him into the rock-star stratosphere. Musicians already worshiped him, his followers were almost fanatical in their dedication, and he himself was freed from the alcohol addiction that plagued him during his years with the band. The world was his for the taking. Then a curious thing happened. The records didn’t sell. It wasn’t for lack of trying though. Paul signed a major deal with Warner Bros., got a big push (by his standards) from radio and MTV, and recorded a solid, professional batch of pop-rock tunes for his solo debut 14 Songs. The album certainly had its moments of Westerberg magic, but the abiding feeling was that something was lost in his transformation from ragged, devil-may-care rock rebel, to slick, sober, music professional. Many of the Mat’s faithful rejected it, and even worse, the general public ignored it. After another, even less successful stab at commercial success with Eventually, Westerberg jumped ship to Capital and released the largely acoustic-based Suicaine Gratification. Depression followed and he retreated to suburban life as a husband and father.
With his return on Vagrant, Westerberg quickly remedied the chief complaint against his post-Mats career. Ditching the polished, produced sound of his previous releases, he returned to the raw, off-the-cuff style of his earliest Mats releases. Recording tracks from his basement, Westerberg found some of the heart that had been missing from his major-label work. A few flubbed lines here and there were a small price to pay for getting the creative juices flowing again. With Folker, Westerberg may have taken this style as far as he can take it, and then some.
That’s not to say that highlights on Folker aren’t a-plenty. Acoustic rockers like “Gun Shy” and “Folk Star” can hold right up with some of his Replacements-era work. The endearing “My Dad”, a tribute to his late father, is heart-on-his-sleeve Paul at his best. While “Lookin’ Up to Heaven”, arguably the catchiest of the batch, unfolds like a softer version of his Singles soundtrack tune “Dyslexic Heart”. All good stuff, and for the Westerberg-faithful most of Folker is sure to bring a smile. As one might expect considering the album title, nothing rocks like Mat’s era Weste, or for that matter even like Mono-era Weste. But he’s clearly more content than he’s been in years. Though this makes for a satisfying and heartfelt album, it also contributes to the ultimate letdown.
Westerberg’s continued adherence to a loose, one-take approach on all his releases with Vagrant can be hit or miss at times. At best it’s refreshingly honest and casual following the years of labored, mainstream pop. At worst it just sounds lazy.
For example, coming from the man who penned achingly beautiful songs like “Here Comes a Regular” and “Answering Machine”, hearing a lyrical dud like “Promise not bug you, only just to hug you” honestly made me shudder. These moments combined with the aforementioned lyrical flubs, some off-key plucks, and a few rhythmical hiccups can often make Folker sound more like a demo tape than a serious release.
But perhaps that’s all Folker was ever meant to be. Maybe Westerberg, at this point in his career, is just having fun. The tossed-off genius that shines through a release as rough as this might make the hardcore fans once again long for the “proper” release that rockets up the top-40, knocks the legions of imitators down a peg, and finally gets Weste his due. But then again, he seems to have forgotten all about that. Paul Westerberg screwing around in his basement is still better than 90% of the radio fare meticulously constructed by teams of hit-makers. Perhaps it’s time we forget too.
Jeff Cambron
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