Music Diary Project, Day One: Leap of Faith, Or a Jump of Stupid

(Note: this is my first post for the "Music Diary Project." I did this a little differently than I probably will the rest of the week, which most likely will be more a "log" of all the music I actively listened to for the day, not counting music overheard in stores or in movies or on tv. I did this on purpose because I usually feature a single album on Tuesday, and I really wanted to listen to this particular record in its entirety again.)

It's rare that I play albums in their entirety these days unless I'm writing about them, and it's even rarer that I go back and listen to an album in its entirety after abandoning it several years earlier. I am a chronic "shuffler." And from my twenty-plus years as a music fan, I've learned you can't force a "Proustian moment." More often than not, the magic the magic is tethered to that first listen.

I made an exception with Paul Westeberg's Stereo and 49:00. Two albums that, I think, that bookend his "basement tapes" era. When I first listened to Stereo, damn, eight years ago, I thought it was desperately sad, but hopeful -- like the beginning of something. And for him it probably was: freed from his label, producing and (allegedly) playing all the instruments himself. The Replacements are the only band I've managed to become unhealthily obsessed with*, and I went in with zero expectations. The solo projects that come after a band's breakup are usually held in contempt by its most inveterate fans. His first three were good, but nothing earth-shattering.

The verdict after nearly a decade? One of the things I loved about Stereo was its ability to read, not like a record, but a series of vignettes or a book of short stories. It still does that, but it's the same story of middle-aged, suburban, white guy angst throughout the dozen or so songs. Granted, he's very good at white guy angst.

49:00 is a different beast altogether. 49:00 released as a single track a few years ago (for the bargain price of $0.49), it's a jumbled mess. I still haven't warmed up to it. There's a lot of good -- maybe even some brilliance -- but my linear brain hates to pick through the mash of songs to find it. The one thing I find interesting is that, buried in the unholy mess, is Paul at his most vulnerable. He said in an interview with Musician magazines decades ago that he often creates characters to allow himself that vulnerability, but here he's almost dangerously close to his own lyrics. Aren't songwriters supposed to be close to their material? Not always, and it's probably healthy to have some fiction involved. I wonder if releasing it in the limited format without a lot of attention allowed him to get that close.

*I even have a goofy fangirl shot of me with Paul. I sincerely remember throwing my arm around him and thinking, "His shoulders feel stronger than I would have expected." I thought he'd be sort of frail, ready to crumble at the slightest poke. (Like Beatlejuice of maybe Keith Richards.) But the picture I have shows my arm hovering awkwardly above his shoulder, and he with a bemused expression on his face.