Paul Westerberg - 49:00

Thirty seconds into the new Paul Westerberg album 49:00, you realize something: it’s a fucking bargain.
But then again, you probably already knew that without hearing a note.
I’m sure there will be a few cheap bastards, those who are conditioned that recorded music is theirs for the taking and the taking means they don’t pay jack shit. Those people are douchebags, spending double that amount on McDonald’s Dollar Menus and too dimwitted to understand that the story here isn’t the price point. You’re paying to hear what Paul Westerberg did last week in his basement.
Ain’t that worth a penny a minute?
To believe that the entire thing was done in a week is a tad unbelievable, but I certainly believe that Paul spliced together decent songs, half-baked ideas, and a few ridiculous cover choices in the span of a few days.
But inside this mess are some great songs and even more great fun.
Billed as a journey into Westie’s head, songs fade in, end abruptly, and occasionally overlap each other. There’s a real sense of intentional chaos on places while other hints of outright mistakes. Listed as one track, there are actually about 23 songs ranging from six seconds in length to four minutes. Of course, one could debate the idea that six seconds actually constitute a song, so we’ll appease that by stating that there are twenty-three different movements within this one-track album.
Fans of Grandpaboy will find comfort here as Paul channels that low-fi winner while the more irreverent entries on 49:00 bear close resemblance (fidelity-wise) to Westerberg hero Alex Chilton’s Like Flies On Sherbert.
Understand that the Sherbert comparison is a bit unfair as Chilton was clearly out of his mind on that recording while Westerberg is using the tape hiss and audio distraction to hide some incredibly personal work. Paul’s father passed away not too long ago and he was sidelined with an accident that nearly cost him his guitar-playing ability. Many of the themes on 49:00 reflect this heaviness: the lyrics occasionally reflect passing and the guitar parts are noticeably more animated than in recent efforts.
At the same time, it is the playfulness of 49:00…the entire rush to release this thing…that points out a passion for living.
By the time we’re over forty-minutes into the album, Paul regresses, delivering a morose version of the Partridge Family’s “I Think I Love You” before handing the microphone over to his son for a rollicking outro “Johnny Said So.” What it lacks in professionalism and structure, it makes up for in pure, unadulterated adoration. A devotion to the three-chord church of his youth, symbolically passed on to his own son. The act lovingly documented here for us to witness, and with the unbelievable price point that’s brought so many interested ears to consider this, it’s apparent that Westerberg wants us all to share in the affection.
To discount the worth of this album is grounds enough to question your own passion of music. As there is so much to be critical of here in terms of how a legendary performed like Westerberg should “behave,” it should be quite clear to anyone who still feels moved by rock and roll that this is a fine document of that fervor.
And while it only takes a few bits to be reminded of it, the results are priceless.