Last night I watched a documentary, Color Me Obsessed, on a band from my home town of Minneapolis named The Replacements. Hence, the quote/post of song lyrics from their first album last night, a song that does have individual words in the intro, but the lead singer says so fast, ala George Carlin’s Seven Words, that they may as well be a single word.
First off, I was surprised that anyone did a documentary on The Replacements when I stumbled onto it while skimming through free-to-watch-with-ads on Vudu. I mean, The ‘Mats were locally popular within certain circles, and apparently loved by music critics, but they never did go very far. As one of the interviewees said, they may have been one of the catalysts for the college rock movement of the 80s found typically at the left hand of the radio dial (he suggested they might be THE catalyst), but everyone agrees that they never particularly caught on. The argument in the documentary was they were largely misunderstood. I don’t know if I agree. I think there was a lot of self-destruction, especially as they got more nationally known, whether willful or ignorant. My own opinion was that more of the former than the later happened. The band shot themselves in the foot far to often for it to be mere accident.
How young are you? How old am I? Let’s count the rings around my eyes How smart are you? How dumb am I? Don’t count on any of my advice
The first three lines resonate with me; they have more than ever since about 2010. The second three give you an idea about who I am.
Pre-grunge. We wore flannels, layered and torn clothes because, well, we were part of the Reagan poor. Seattle co-opted our “fashion sense” in the 90s. In Minnesota you wore layers and flannel because it might be 30°F in the morning and then 70°F by midafternoon. It wasn’t fashion, it was being sensible. And, before the second-hand stores got popular because the fashion world decided grunge was cool instead of Coke t-shirts and Guess Jeans, you could buy clothes for pennies on weight, as long as you weren’t too particular about holes, stains, rips, and missing buttons.
‘Mats fans were as like to punch you as anything if you said they were punks. “Punk” was a label for someone who cared what you thought. Most of us didn’t care. For some, it was still considered an insult from the 60/70s (the ones who might punch you).
I laughed really hard the day someone walked up to me and asked what it was like being a punk-rocker. “What makes you think I’m a punk-rocker?” I asked. He pointed to my rats-nest black hair, eyeliner and Victorian ruffle shirt. “That,” he said as if it was proof itself, though he looked a little unnerved by my laughter. I tussled his hair, though he was probably older than me. “I’m no punk, kiddo. I just dress funny because I like how it looks.” And then I walked the fuck away to smoke in peace.
Which goes a long ways towards explaining why I didn’t cling to the “goth”, “darksider”, “batcave”, or “spook” labels applied to me until much later when it became easier to say “I was goth” than to explain that I didn’t call myself that at the time because I didn’t see myself as taking it serious enough to take that label. Hell, I was blond for the first two years of emulating Bob Smith and Simon Gallup. And I looked more hippy than goth at the end (inspired more by Wayne Hussey and Simon Hinkler). I was only your “classic goth” for about a year, though the makeup and the long hair trended longer. I still wear mostly black, except when I’m not allowed to.