DISGRACELAND - The Replacements: Stink Bombs, Broken Guitars, and Self-Sabotage

Episode Date: August 22, 2024

A teenage bass-playing f*ck-up prodigy. A big brother in an ill-fitting bodysuit on national television. A drummer playing chicken with the cops on his motorcycle. And one of the greatest singer-songwriters to ever pick up a guitar and stumble towards a microphone. These were the Replacements: shambolic and chaotic, just like the best rock ‘n roll often is. In 1986, the Minneapolis quartet delivered a legendary performance on Saturday Night Live – one which ensured their short-term demise while cementing their long-term legacy. What other bands or artists should have made it big, but never did? Are there other examples of self-sabotage in music history? Tell Jake at 617-906-6638, [e-mail], or on socials @disgracelandpod. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠www.disgracelandpod.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. This episode was originally released on August 22, 2024. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠YouTube⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠X⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠TikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court.

On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about the replacements, one of the greatest rock and roll bands of all time. It's also about a teenage bass playing fuck-up prodigy and his big brother in an ill-fitting body suit on national television. It's about a drummer playing chicken on his motorcycle with the cops and about one of the greatest singer-songwriters to ever pick up a guitar and stumble toward a microphone. The replacements were chaotic, shambolic,

devoid of any fucks to give, and they were most definitely a band that made great, music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop for my Melotron called Color Me Possessed MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to That's What Friends Are For by Dionne Warwick featuring Elton John, Gladys Knight, and Stevie Wonder. And why would I play you that specific slice of, I can't believe your mom loves this crap cheese, could I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America on January 18, 1986. And that was the day the replacements delivered a legendary performance on Saturday Night Live, a performance that came with a major consequence, one which ensured their short-term demise while cementing their long-term legacy. On this episode, a teenage bass playing fuck-up prodigy, an ill-fitting bono. body suit, playing chicken with the cops, pissing off Lauren Michaels and the replacements. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. Lauren Michaels, creator and executive producer of NBC's Saturday Night Live, listen to the voice on the other end of the phone drone on and on. One excuse after another,

and it pissed Lauren off. And the longer the call went on, the more it wasted his time. So Lorne responded diplomatically with just two words. I see. He said it calmly, but with a touch of menace. He hoped his tone delivered his real message. And that message was, What the fuck do you mean the point your sisters are pulling out a next week's show? In early 1986, after 10 years of groundbreaking sketch comedy,

Saturday Night Live was in trouble. Ratings were in the toilet. NBC executives were openly talking about canceling the show. Lauren Michaels had just returned after a few years' hiatus. He had to write the ship, which meant he couldn't afford any screw-ups. Like, for instance, having a musical guest cancel at the last minute, which is exactly what was happening now with the Pointer Sisters.

Lauren panicked. He had one week to find a new, musical guest. Lorne knew comedy, but he did not know music. Luckily, he surrounded himself with people he could trust, like G.E. Smith, S&L's musical director, and Moe Austin, head of Warner Brothers Records. Mo had hooked Lauren up with Madonna as a musical guest for this year's season opener, and ratings went through the roof.

Lauren remembered that GE had been raving about some up-and-coming indie band. They'd recently graduated to a major label for their fourth album just out of Warner's Sire Records imprint. And just like they were graduating from writing juvenile songs like Gary's got a boner to more sophisticated tunes. So Lauren figured an up-and-coming band with a new record to plug would be hungry for this kind of opportunity. So Lauren called up Mo Austin once again.

He needed a favor. For SNL next week, Lorne needed a replacement. Actually, he needed the replacements. Halfway across the country, the replacement's lead singer, Paul Westerberg, woke up on a couch in Chicago. His head was killing him. Yesterday, when the band left their hometown, Minneapolis,

he told himself he wouldn't drink too much. The gig was supposed to be just a tune-up for the huge East Coast run in support of the band's new album, their major label debut called Tim. So Paul thought it might be a good idea for once to lay off the booze and focus on nailing the new songs. But lead guitarist Bob Stinson was drunk before he even got in the van. Bob's little half-brother, bassist Tommy Stinson,

may have only been 19, but he wasn't far behind Bob. With the brothers already shit-faced, Paul figured they should all go down in flames together. One for all and all for one. and all of that. So halfway to Chicago, Paul tossed a can of old style to drummer Chris Mars, and they started playing ketchup. And by the time they made it to the club, Paul was wasted. His memory of what came next was spotty, like a series of blurry pictures. Paul forgetting the words, Paul smashing his guitar to pieces, people booing and throwing full cans of beer at them.

Replacements gigs weren't always good, but at least they were never born. Just like the lives of the replacement's members were never boring. On one particular night, Paul and Chris were knocking back beers at Bob's house. Not Bob Stinson, but Bob Mould, guitarist of Husker Doe, the replacement's friends and one of their fellow bands in the early 80s Minneapolis hardcore scene. Chris, who was feeling real good after this drunken hang session, hopped on his motorcycle, and Paul rode on the back. Chris was fucked up, so much so that he decided to play chicken with an oncoming car.

It was late, dark, and the approaching car's headlights were bright. The driver laid on the horn. Chris stayed the course. Paul dug his nails into Chris's side and hung on for dear life. At the last minute, Chris swerved, narrowly missing the vehicle. And as the car went screaming past them, driver slammed on the brakes and spun around. A hand came out of the driver's side window and stuck a flashing red light on top of the hood. Chris had played chicken with an unmarked police car. He gunned it, and the cops gave chase.

Chris took a sharp right at high speed and cut across Joe Q Publix front lawn. The bike clipped the hedge. Paul went flying. As soon as his body hit the ground, Paul tried to outrun the cops on foot. They caught him easily. Then they continued to pursue Chris. Chris got in the throttle. Cops were right on his ass.

He was going too fast and he was too drunk and the bike wobble. He was thrown. And then... The next thing he knew, Chris was in the hospital with a fractured skull, spinal fluid leaking from his nose. These things really happened.

Chris Mars did play chicken on his bike with the cops and he did fracture his skull in an accident. Or was it his spine? Depends on which account you're reading and from when. The band members' memories are not 100% reliable when it comes to time and place. Because the life of a replacement took a toll on the body and the mind. The same went for a replacement's gig. So when Paul woke up on Saturday, January 11, 1986, on a couch in Chicago with a splitting headache,

he did what he always did on tour. He dulled the pain with a line of cocaine and immediately began drinking again. Six hours later, Paul was lying on a mattress on the floor of the Torvan, on route back home to Minneapolis. And Paul noticed Bob Stinson slumped over in his seat. And he elbowed Tommy and nodded his head toward Tommy's big brother. An evil grin spread over his face. Paul suddenly launched himself onto Bob with a flying elbow drop. Bob sprang up, howling in pain like a feral animal.

Bob quickly knocked Paul back onto the mattress and pinned him there. Rage flooded his eyes as he lifted his fist in the air, and Paul wondered if he was about to get his face smashed in. Instead, Bob relaxed his hand, and then he started cracking up. Tommy joined in, and soon Paul was chuckling too. Lately, though, they weren't laughing as much as they used to. But right now, the tension was pushed aside and everyone was smiling. Even hours later, when the van pulled up to the CC Club in Minneapolis,

The local watering hole doubled as the band's unofficial headquarters. Everyone headed into the bar for a couple more rounds before going home. Their manager, Peter Jesperson, helped prop Bob up on a bar stool and prayed that he would sober up enough to head home. Not so much that he would start drinking again. It was always a delicate balancing act with the replacements. Peter had spent years trying to manage that balance. He'd almost quit a dozen times, but every time he'd, they got themselves back on track, he would become a believer in the band all over again.

Not just in the band, though, but in the power of the band, in the power of rock and roll. It was like seeing the Beatles play Ed Sullivan for the first time. When they were on, the replacements were a revelation. That's why Peter pushed the band to sign with a major label instead of sticking with twin-tone records, the local indie label that Peter co-owned and had released all the replacements. placements records to date. From the punky sorry ma, forgot to take out the trash, up through the more eclectic let it be. And also, why he willingly brought on a new team to manage the band's business affairs.

If he was going to take these guys to the top, he knew he couldn't do it alone. The phone rang at the bar. The bartender handed it to Peter, and on the other line was Russ Rieger, one of the band's new business managers. Peter listened intently for a moment. Yes, we made it back, he said. The gig? It was memorable. What Russ said next almost made Peter drop the phone.

Next Saturday? Peter yelled. My God, they're all right here. I'll tell them now. Peter hung up the phone and let the tension build for a moment. He'd been waiting years to deliver a line like this. And now, he was going to savor it. All eyes were on him. He raised his glass in the air. Gentlemen, pack your bags.

We're headed to New York. The replacements were about to blow up. Peter had never been so sure of anything in his life. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends.

I'm Anna Sinfield and in this new season of the girlfriends Oh my God, this is the same man A group of women discover They've all dated the same prolific con artist I felt like I got hit by a truck I thought how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care

So they take matters into their own hands I said oh hell no I vowed I will be his last target He's gonna get what he deserves Listen to the girlfriends Trust me babe on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia

Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance, like he's about to attack me, like,

making karate noises. And his entire, the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. And I immediately know that I've been a sleepwalk. David O'Yello. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham.

So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu. Camilla Marone at Carrie Kenny Silver.

And more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened.

His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them, changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do.

You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. January 18, 1986.

One week after the replacement's manager, Peter Jesperson, received that fateful phone call, the one that sent the band in New York City to, well, replace the Pointer Sisters on Saturday Night Live. Tommy Stinson was sitting in a cramped dressing room on the 18th floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. He picked out some notes on his bass while listening to veteran actor Harry Dean Stanton,

host of Tonight Show, talk about road trip with Bob Dylan from Mexico. to Leon Russell's house in Oklahoma while they're filming the excellent movie Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Tommy didn't really know who the hell Harry Dean Stanton was

and he didn't even know who the hell Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid were either. But damn, Tommy had to admit this old fart told some pretty great stories especially after he'd had a few drinks to loosen him up. Tommy, of course, was having a few as well even though he shouldn't have been drinking.

not just because he was underage. Technically, none of them should have been drinking. That's because by 1986, the wild and crazy SNL of the 1970s was long gone. The cocaine so prevalent in the days of John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd have been replaced with trays of fruit and muffins. Drugs and alcohol were strictly forbidden on set, which, okay, fine, there are rules, but after their early afternoon sound check,

the replacements found out they couldn't leave the building until the show was over. That meant for the next 10 hours, this cramped dressing room was going to be their home with no drugs, no booze. No way. Tommy knew how his big brother Bob felt about tight spaces. This is going to be a problem.

And sure enough, Bob was freaking out, pacing back and forth, wearing out a path in the dressing room's carpet. Mercifully, one of the band Sound Engineers loaded up a road case with bottles of booze and stuck the contraband backstage. After a few drinks, Bob finally quit pacing and settled down. And by the time Harry Dean Stanton popped by for a visit, there was a swinging party underway inside the replacement's dressing room. Tommy was glad he invited Harry in for a drink. He was glad to spread a little mayhem. And this was Saturday Night Live, right?

Wasn't it supposed to be a little wild? Bob plopped down on the sofa next to Tommy, and Tommy kept noodling away on the bass. Bob listened for a second, and then he looked up at Harry Dean Stanton. He plays pretty good, doesn't he? He said with a proud grin, taught him everything he knows.

1978, 19-year-old Bob Stinson lay on his bed and closed his eyes. The song, Roundabout, by Yes, Blaired from the speakers. Bob was indulging in one of the most basic of American teenage privileges, kicking back and listening to a record. He savored this moment because he knew what it was like to have this kind of thing taken away. Bob had spent the last four years in one boy's home after another, including two long years at Red Wing,

a place Minnesotans called the San Quentin of Juvie, a place where he couldn't eat what he wanted, he couldn't do what he wanted. Worst of all, he couldn't listen to music when he wanted. And it was all because of his stepdad. Bob was only six when the guy hooked up with Bob's mom. He beat Bob with a belt, with his fists. He yelled at Bob and told him that he was no good.

And he did these things out in the open. But when they were alone, he did things that were even worse. Things that still gave Bob nightmares. Sometimes it felt like those nightmares would drown him. And in a way, they did. Bob found himself getting into fights and breaking windows. And by the time he was 15, his mom was desperate and his stepdad was fed up. And that's when they sent Bob to a boy's home.

And then to Red Wing. He told the counselors at Red Wing that he wanted to be a musician. They said music was a distraction. And they didn't understand. Music was the only thing that got Bob out of bed besides drinking and drugs. It was the only thing he was any good at. It was the only thing that made him feel any good. Like the galloping riff of the song Roundabout,

which, right now, back home with his mom and her new boyfriend was blowing his impressionable 19-year-old mind. His fingers moved in time with Steve Howe's guitar licks. He was soaring through space, completely surrounded by the music. Suddenly, a rustling sound brought him hurtling back to Earth. His eyes snapped open and he looked down. His 11-year-old half-brother, Tommy, was pulling something out from under the bed,

a little fucker. With the music blaring, Bob never even heard him come in. Bob was worried about Tommy, not even a teenager yet, and already a little hoodlum, stealing bikes, going to juvenile court. Bob knew what lay down that path, and he wasn't going to let Tommy go there, even if he had to drag him in a different direction. So Bob was excited to see his brother dragging on an instrument case from under his bed. Tommy's eyes got wide when he flipped open the latches on the case

to reveal an old silver-tone electric bass inside. Tommy reached down and plucked one of the strings. Hey, Bob asked. Want me to show you a few things on that? Tommy shrugged, halfway and arrested. Bob pulled out the base and gave him a rundown of a basic blues in E. And he pushed the base into Tommy's hands, and Tommy tried to mimic the pattern that Bob just showed him.

It was clumsy, awkward. But the little fucker had a good sense of rhythm, that's for sure. Bob could already tell that. Tommy put the bass down, and Bob told him to play it again. Tommy looked at the instrument for a long second. Nah, this sucks, Tommy said. My fingers hurt. And then Tommy ran outside to play in the backyard.

The next day, when Bob came home from work, he had a candy bar in his pocket. When he saw Tommy, Bob waved it in front of his face. Tommy reached out for the candy bar, but Bob pulled it back. You get to play a little bit first, Bob said. Tommy didn't look happy. So Bob held up a fist like he was going to punch Tommy in the shoulder. Tommy flinched and then got out the base.

An hour later, Bob watched him meet the candy bar. Same deal tomorrow? He asked. Tommy looked up at him with a smirk. Tomorrow I want a candy bar and a Coke. Harry Dean Stanton shook his head in amazement as Bob Stinson finished his story about using candy bars and the threat of violence to get his little brother to learn the bass guitar.

Tommy told the actor he was a veteran performer too. He'd been doing this, playing in a professional band, for half his young life. All three of them were laughing when the door flew open. A distressed-looking production assistant made a beeline for Harry, pulled the drink out of his hand and led him out of the room. Tommy couldn't quite figure out what was going on, but he could hear someone say, Lauren is going to be furious when they left the room.

Oh well. Let him be furious. What was he going to do? A few minutes later, sufficiently sauced, the band went out and nailed their dress rehearsal performance. The only hiccup was Bob coming in late on the guitar solo. Tommy and Paul locked eyes when they heard it. They were on the same wavelength.

There was no way they were going to let Bob make the same mistake tonight. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that, trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends,

Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed I will be his last target.

He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me

and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, Can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance.

Like he's about to attack me. Like making karate noises. And the entire the Kardashians family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. And I immediately know that I've been sleepwalking. David O'Yellow. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham.

So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Durbin. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Madarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena, Monsu. Camilla Marone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more.

Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, a host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face. and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone.

These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it, and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the day,

the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Paul Westerberg counted off and the band thrashed into the opening chord. Right away something was off. They sounded like a semi-truck grinding its gears for a few beats before finally everyone stopped. For a second, the room was dead silent, except for the buzzing coming from the amplifiers. Paul stared out into the sea of angry and confused faces and yelled into the microphone. This is our last fucking performance. Ever.

Then he cackled with laughter, and the band kicked into a ramshackled cover of Elvis Presley's do the clam. After a few minutes, they stumbled to a stop. Paul stared at the floor and tuned his guitar for what felt like an hour before switching gears again and trying to make it through Led Zeppelin's Misty Mountain Hop. It was January, 1985, and the replacements were on stage at CBGB and Nog. New York City, playing an unannounced performance that was supposed to be their East Coast Major Label Showcase. The hype around the replacements was growing fast in the industry,

especially after the Village Voice were in a cover story that called them the most exciting band in America. At the band's West Coast Showcase, Bob and Chris found a way to undercut that hype by letting off a pocketful of stink bombs just as the band hit the stage. Then that cleared the room pretty quickly. Tonight, they didn't have a little bit of. have literal stink bombs, but they found another way to clear the room. They kicked off the set with You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch. And things even go weirder from there. Paul started maybe 50 songs that night, but the band made it through less than five. They tried their hand at Dolly Parton, and then the theme from the Andy Griffith Show. What they didn't play were songs by the replacements. As the crowd

streamed out of the club, Paul started playing a U-2 song. These label stiffs couldn't take a joke, then fuck them. One year later, memories of shows like that one at CBGB kept Replacements Manager Peter Jesperson on the edge of his seat. The SNL cast was in the middle of some lame skid about a Wild West gunfighter when Peter checked his watch. It was 11.50 p.m. The band was supposed to hit the stage in 15 minutes. He looked around him at the huge crowd of people there from the label. The band's new management team and more than a dozen friends in 15 minutes.

family. Everyone was excited. They knew this could be momentous. But Peter was worried. He knew it could also be another C.V.G. And Peter kept her playing a scene in his mind from earlier that day. After the band finished their sound check, he watched new business manager Russ Rieger strut up to Paul wearing leather pants and snake-skin boots. Peter cringed when he heard Russ's matter-factly tell Paul that for camera blocking, the band had to stay exactly where they were told to stand. The sneer on Paul's face said it all. It was a bad idea to tell the replacements what they should and shouldn't do. Back inside the dressing room, Paul was sprawled on a couch.

An empty whiskey bottle dangled from his hand. His chest was tight. His heart was hammering. All he could think of was bombing in front of eight million people. There was a knock at the door. A small army of production assistants swarmed inside. It was time. Paul pulled himself up from the couch,

and he slapped hands with Tommy, who was practically bouncing up and down with excitement. Chris Mars was coolly twirling his drumsticks, and the bathroom door flew open and out stepped Bob, decked out in a purple and black, skin-tight women's body suit. He looked high as hell, but at least he was awake and in the building, which was good enough for Paul.

The wave of activity carried them out of the dressing room. The hallway was a blur of motion, with dozens of staffers rushing in all directions. Someone called out, three minutes to air! Just behind the steps leading up to the stage, Paul and his bandmates huddled for a brief moment while crew members rechecked the microphones. Paul told Bob that he better not be late on the solo. Bob understood. They all understood. They were going to go out there, live on national television.

In front of the biggest audience of their career, millions of Americans watch. at home, and they were going to crush it. They were going to prove why they were one of the most beloved independent bands in the country, and why they were one of the few indie rock bands who did not compromise their sound when they made the leap to a major label. Paul, Bob, Tommy, and Chris made a collective B-line for the Saturday Night Live stage. Then, Bob, in the lead, surged forward and missed the whole first rung. He fell face forward onto the stage with his guitarist. still strapped to his chest. The guitar's neck snapped like a toothpick.

At first, the band was shocked into silence. Then they all began to laugh. Fucking up, blowing it. That kind of shit was funny to the replacements. S&L's production assistant seemed less amused by the idea of finding Bob a new guitar in the next 90 seconds. But G.E. Smith hustled and came through, handing Bob a substitute with just seconds to spare.

Paul looked straight ahead into the camera. Somewhere, a voice was counting down from commercial break. Three, two, the red light on the camera blinked. They were live. Harry Dean Stanton introduced the band, and they launched into the opening notes of Bastards of Young, one of the hardest rocking songs from their new album, Tim. The song lurched sideways,

but for a second it sounded like everything might collapse. Paul wondered if he might collapse. But Chris Marrars kept pounding the backbeat and Tommy's bass line locked in. Even playing a strange guitar, Bob was holding his own. And by the time they hit the first verse, Paul could feel it. They're going to pull this thing on. He was surrounded by the music, soaring through space.

There was no studio audience. There were no label reps, no management team, no people watching at home. Just the four of them in the song. A great song. They blasted through the chorus, and Paul knew they were going to make it. He pulled back from the mic and leaned towards Bob. Come on, fucker, he yelled just off Mike, not a diss, but urging Bob and did the solo at the right time. Bob came in right on time as Tommy and Paul bashed their instruments along beside him,

destroying any hopes for clean camera blocking. But when the song came to its cathartic clothes, the crowd of friends, family, and supporters roared in approval. Paul collapsed to the ground in a sarcastic bow. The performance was ragged, but right. It had almost flown off the rails more than once. But somehow, in that shambolic, chaotic, don't-give-a-fuck way of theirs, the replacements pulled it off. They had delivered a performance for the ages.

Paul of the boys figured that from here, there was nowhere to go but up. In reality, they were about to hit the skids and go all the way down to the bottom. Russ Rieger pushed his way through the crowded hallway at 30 Rockefeller Plaza and into the dressing room backstage. He was walking on air. He knew that the performance the replacements had just given would push their album Tim onto the charts. Russ had been a replacement's fan ever since a publicist slipped him in an advanced copy

of Here Comes a regular. The acoustic ballad that would eventually be Tim's closing song. It made him realize that the replacements were more than just a dysfunctional punk band. Unsatisfied, answering machine. These songs were so simple, yet so deceptively deep. Midwestern angst and alienation, written like a William Carlos Williams poem. Even when Paul flubbed a line like he may have done when he sang Pretty Girl Keep Growing Up, playing makeup, wearing guitar on the song left of the dial,

somehow that fuck up made the words more poetic. Paul Westerberg was a hell of a songwriter. Russ could already see it. The glowing reviews, the chart traction. Soon the replacements would be as big as the Rolling Stones, or at the very least, REM. So when someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, Lauren Michaels wanted to see him right away,

Russ thought, Ah, Lauren wants to commend me, and the band on a job well done. Thank us for someone. saving SNL's ass after the pointer sisters backed out at last minute. Russ stepped away from the party happening in the dressing room and out into the hallway. Across from him stood Lauren Michaels. His arms were crossed, and his face was frozen in a scowl.

Do you realize what you've just done? Lauren screamed. Fucker! Your band said fucker on live television. Russ thought back to the performance, specifically to the moment before Bob's guitar solo, when Paul looked over and yelled, come on, fucker, just off mic.

Apparently, though, not off mic enough. For a show that was already on thin ice, apparently this was a bridge too far. Lauren ended the conversation with a promise. This band will never, ever, I repeat, never play Saturday Night Live again. Russ returned to the dressing room where we took a deep breath and shared the news with the boys.

The replacements were banned, not just from Saturday Night Live, but from the entire NBC network for life. It was almost 10 years later when Bob Stinson laid back on his bed and dropped the needle on the turntable one last time. The familiar opening riff to roundabout rang out. Bob closed his eyes and let the music surround him. Music still provided him solace, but it had been a hard decade.

Months after the SNL debacle, he was kicked out of the band that he found it. Even worse, he was kicked out by his own brother, his little brother. That stung. Bob kept playing in bands around Minneapolis, and he watched his former bandmate Siljaron with a new guitarist. They put out three more albums, including 1987's Pleased to Meet Me, whose second single Alex Chilton was an homage to the frontman of Big Star, one of the replacements's major inspirations both in terms of music and glorious self-sabotage.

But despite the strength of that song, the album pleased to meet me and the records that followed all failed to find the elusive hit that would catapult the replacements into the mainstream. And that failure was not the result of integrity in the face of commercialism, by the way. That failure was because the replacement, couldn't help be fuck-ups. Just look at the music video they made for bastards of young. It's just a single shot of a stereo speaker

that slowly zooms out to reveal a faceless dude listening and smoking a cigarette on the couch. He kicks in the speaker when the song's over. It was like a metaphor for the band's entire career. By the time they hung it up in 1991, they still hadn't scored a single top 40 song. Their drunken Saturday Night Live set might have doomed the band short-term.

prospects. But a decade on, many were starting to call it one of the most legendary performances in the show's history. Right up there with Elvis Costello changing songs at the last minute, which also got him banned from the show, but I'm digressing. As alternative rock surged in popularity through the 1990s, new bands were constantly name-checking the replacements as an inspiration. They were loose-limbed, shambling, always teetering on the edge of destruction. In short, they were rock and roll at its best. But all that came too late for Bob Stinson. He was mired deep in the throes of a heroin addiction and diagnosed with bipolar disorder, likely stemming from the child abuse that he suffered. Bob tried to get on medication, tried to clean up his act, but he was

tired. And the only thing that kept him going was music. As Roundabout kicked into the familiar galloping riff that Bob had heard so many times before, he let the music. He let the music. He left the music. Music send him soaring into space. And this time, there would be nothing to bring him back to Earth, just the music calling him on higher and higher as he drifted skyward. And then Bob Stinson was gone. Organ failure from all those years of drug abuse. Dead at 35 years old.

Just four years after the band he founded and kicked him out called it quits. So much promise unfulfilled Such a bummer Such a disgrace I'm Jake Brennan And this is disgrace land All right hope you dug this episode Apple podcast listeners

Get those auto downloads turned on So you never miss an episode This week's question of the week is Which band or artist Never made it big But should have, but should have Was it the replacements? Well yeah

They're certainly one of them. But who else? Who else do you know of? They could have been huge, but never was. There's an endless number of great artists who never dominated the charts, but probably should have. Let me know who your picks are. 617-906-66-36-38.

Leave me a voicemail or send me a text and be part of the show. We play and read some of your answers on the after-party bonus episode coming up right after this in your feed. And I can also be reached on Instagram, Facebook, X, TikTok at Disgraceland Pod, and over at Disgracelandpod at gmail.com. Leave a review for the show on Apple Podcasts or Spotify, and you might win some free merch. All right, here comes some credits.

Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. Subscribe, follow, like, rate, and review the disgraceland podcast wherever you get your podcast, because the Disgraceland podcast is now available everywhere. If you love Disgraceland, tell someone,

Tell everyone, shout us out on social, spread the word, and follow us to find out how you can cop some free merch for spreading that word. Follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook, at DisgracelandPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at DisgracelandPod. Rock a roll. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target.

He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that, trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe, on the IHartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark.

When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever, and my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can. You can do rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yello. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts.

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