Paul! Good god, man, it's been a while. Last I heard, you were wasting away in some piss-gutter on Minneapolis' north side, regaling the local liquor slobs with tales of 7th Street glory and Tommy Stinson's ace hair parades. Hey, how about that solo career? Yeah, you blew it right from the start. Christ, dude, "Silver Naked Ladies"? Suicaine Gratifaction?? What'd, you have an aneurysm? Ahh, no offense, pal. Heard your new records-- fuckin' shocker, man! Thought we'd heard the last of you after that career-ender back in '99. But that's all history now, buddy. Get up on that barstool and talk some noise about Pete Jesperson. You still owe me a rum-and-coke for "World Class Fad."

Such is how a conversation between myself and olde Paul Westerberg might've gone had we hooked up for a drink at the Turf Club a couple of months ago for an interview I just dreamt up to make this transition smoother. Yeah, I could be like the rest of you cynical half-breeds and feign disinterest, write this weathered codger off and tell you to save yourself the worry and pick up a Sorry Ma reissue. After all, I've got the practice, having spent the last ten years bored to tears by Westerberg's post-Replacements solo schlock. 14 Songs and Eventually have long since left my memory banks, forgettable like the phrase 'adult contemporary singer/songwriter.' Yet, after getting the boot from two major labels in the past four years, Westy's back on the minor circuit with a sense of confidence so renewed it produced two full-length records.

But what shocks even more than his sudden resurgence in popularity is the fact that these albums mark the first time since about 1987 that Westerberg's released anything worth more than a 5.0. In fact, while I'm on a roll here, I'll go ahead and be controversial: Stereo and Mono are the best work Paul's done in like fifteen years. And yeah, I'm just as surprised as the rest of you skeptics.

Stereo's a collection of low-key, country-tinged acoustic ballads, sad love songs, and bluesy rock beaters that were reputedly self-recorded in the basement of Westerberg's house over the course of two years. The amateurish production announces its presence with abruptly ending songs and occasional, unintentional background racket. Westerberg plays all the instruments, occasionally flubs lyrics, and gets defensive in the liner notes: "Unprofessional? Perhaps. Real? Unquestionably." Cocky? Yep. But the man's got a right. This here's the inventor of cock, the guy who shared a town with the already well-established Hüsker Dü and openly mocked them in a song on his band's debut album!

That cockiness fights its way onto both Stereo and Mono, and solely on the basis of the man rediscovering his testicles, these records are worth a listen. But there's more: reverting to his trademark graveled vocals and veering off the path of predictability by dropping some genuinely loud material along the way, Westerberg's conviction is nearly as strong now as it was in his prime. And, spared the studio polish and complex arrangements of the rest of his solo catalog, these songs are simply solid-- proving that when he's inspired, he can still bring home the magic. Unquestionably.

The disc opens with "Baby Learns to Crawl," with its spacious guitar and muted accordion effects fading into "Dirt to Mud," a plaintive, acoustic Dylan-esque paean to regret. The excellent, waltz-timed "Got You Down" even recalls the sparse intimacy of Nebraska-era Springsteen. For an album conceived and recorded with a modicum of slick production toys, it does a great job manipulating atmosphere from song to song. Take the downtempo blues-pop of "No Place for You," which, for its spatial expanse, is remarkably intimate (likewise the lo-fi rock of "Unlisted Track"). Makes one wonder about the acoustics of Westerberg's basement.

Included with the original pressings of Stereo comes Mono (released under that cheeseball moniker Grandpaboy), and seen as a double album, Stereo/Mono is particularly effective. If the Paul Westerberg of Stereo is a seasoned musician putting his sorrows to music in the basement, Grandpaboy is his incorrigible alter-ego, playing spacious, low-fidelity Stones-stampin' rock 'n' rule that evokes his Replacements days without pandering to nostalgia. Westerberg's even joined by a tight backing band on Mono, and claims to have recorded the album in a state of hurried, sweaty-handed irrationality-- something some of you digital perfectionists out there might take a cue from.

As on Stereo, Mono moves fairly seamlessly across genres without disrupting the essential tone of the album: the bar-brawling "High Time" kicks things off somewhere between rootsy Americana and power-pop; "Let's Not Belong Together" is a reverb-heavy, imperfect rockabilly number; "Anything But That" pits Jagger swagger against Westerberg's best 'Mats yowl. And of the two, Mono holds up as the stronger album throughout. But only by a hair.

Both of these records are considerable accomplishments, considering that the last time we heard from this guy it was on the cut-out bin damnation of Suicaine's abysmal "Bookmark." Westerberg's influence was planted in this fertile indie rock soil back in 1982, and whether it's been bastardized through the generations or not, you can still hear echoes of his rasped tone deep in the mixes of today's greatest counter-cultural masterpieces. Mono and Stereo would be fine records from any musician-- that Westerberg himself is the source makes it all the sweeter. These albums, if nothing else, serve as a reminder of all he's done, and all he's yet to do. Congrats, Paul. Didn't think you had it in you.

-Ryan Schreiber & Alison Fields, May 24th, 2002