I had worshipped Paul Westerberg ever since I had gone to the indie bookstore in Scottsdale, AZ, bought a copy of a month old Village Voice, and read the Greil Marcus piece on the new “Greatest Band In The World.” I soon had all of the Replacements albums (on cassette) and thus began my great obsession with Paul.
The Replacements. For God’s sake, who didn’t love the Replacements? The greatest band that never was. Always on the very cusp of greatness, and failing miserably yet perfectly. Screwing themselves over by performing both brilliantly one night, and then being too fucked up to remember Paul’s heartfelt, angry and gorgeous lyrics the next.
