The Replacements / All For Nothing/Nothing For All by John Golden Reprise Records It's an old trick in literature. John Milton did it centuries ago in Paradise Lost, when he duped chin strokers and finger waggers everywhere into sympathizing with Satan. More recently, old J.D. Salinger did it in Catcher in the Rye -- luring generations of lost youth into "finding themselves" in Holden Caulfield. Of course, by Book IV of Paradise Lost it is clear that Satan really is the big, red source of all evil, and similarly, by the end of Catcher in the Rye Holden is the big white softy. In both cases, the only thing that is clear to the reader is that he/she (and you too, mister) is fucked. For those unfamiliar with Minneapolis' late great Replacements, listening to the first disc of their new greatest hits set, All For Nothing/Nothing For All, will be a similar experience. The reason for this, as any of the few, the proud, the maniacally devoted 'Mats fans will tell you, is that The Replacements combined all of Satan's devilish, whiskey drinking, skirt chasing charm, with Holden Caulfield's fragility, idealism, and double edged tenderness. Paul Westerberg was a master of the anti-heroic couplet ("a dream, too tired to come true/Left a rebel without a clue, and I'm searching for something to do"), while Bob Stinson's guitar was like a peeled orange rolled in sugar and hooked up to a car battery -- all sizzle and sticky sweet. Listen to songs like "Bastards of Young" and "Alex Chilton," and you will swear that The Replacements were the greatest goddamned band in the world with the same conviction that Dec-reading-intellectuals think "Holden is me! He really is!" and 2nd year 381 students proclaim "Satan was railroaded by God! He got the shaft, dammit!" Alas, being a believer has its price. Like Lucifer and Holden, The 'Mats had their fall -- the destination of which was more disgraceful than both hell and the funny farm: the discount racks. And for those who think I exaggerate their status as rock and roll's ultimate romantic lost cause, who underestimate the abject depravity of the discount rack (and assume, therefore, that I am capable of irony -- suckers), I will relate but one of the myriad testaments to their shame: the closest The Replacements came to recognition was a spot on Saturday Night Live. It was during the season which featured one of the most notorious collections of losers in history (Anthony Michael Hall and fellow brat pack wash-ups -- remember?). The cast was too cool even to stand near them at the final curtain. Enough said. The point is, becoming a 'Mats fan means you will be forever changed. For instance, that Gin Blossom shit ain't gonna fly anymore. You have been excommunicated from the church of Buzz Bin. Your poetic understanding of the sad and the beautiful (not to mention the killer guitar solo and the fishnet stocking) has led to your fall from hippie heaven. You are now relegated to the insane asylum with all of the other stigmatized geniuses. What next? Put in disk two, Nothing For All, a collection of b-sides and rarities, and crank up gems like "Beer for Breakfast" and "Like a Rolling Pin" and party like a mad man. Hey, the walls are padded, the nurse is cute, and Satan and Holden'll be there!

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