Excerpt from Liner Notes to Let It Be

Recently, a student at the university where I teach rhetoric and writing came up to me and — perhaps having heard from someone that I once had an interest in popular music — said, "I just heard a band I think you'd really like. Do you know The Replacements?" I wanted to reply, "Do I know The Replacements? Are you kidding? I am The Replacements." But of course I didn't; it would've sounded psycho. Did I know The Replacements? Jesus! Only the way you know all those little code words we now use to unlock our computers: first pet, name of elementary school, favorite food. Did I ever listen to The Replacements? Not exactly: I glugged them down like Powerade after a particularly grueling marathon. Did I play them constantly on my personal, pre-iPod sound systems, in my car, in my dorm room, in my head? Sure: in the same spirit that a prisoner of war in a locked-down cell sends out faint signals to the outside world ... hoping and praying they'll be heard but feeling more certain they'll just become silent pings going off in an earless stratosphere. Did I see them when they came to town? When The Replacements come to town, the world stopped cold.

That was the thing about The 'Mats. You didn't just listen to them or like them or drop by a gig every now and again. You simply were them. You wouldn't have said that about R.E.M. or Sonic Youth or Husker Du or any of the other well-known bands of the era, much as you may have loved them. You wouldn't have said it about Springsteen, Madonna, or Prince. Unlike those acts, compelling as they all were, once you fell into The Replacements vortex, you took on their attributes — and their battles. It was sort of like that episode of the X-Files where hapless city workers are usurped by an amoeba in the sewer. You didn't listen to The Mats; you channeled them.

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This excerpt comes from Gina Arnold's liner notes for Let It Be.