The scream at the beginning of the Replacements’ "Bastards of Young" should be more convincing. With a title like that, it should give you goosebumps. It should make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. It should be a call to arms, a rallying cry, a blistering primal roar at the elders who abandoned us. More Roger Daltrey, less...well, less Westerburg.
And in that way, it's perfect. A croak, a swallowed cry. Not the voice of a voiceless generation, raging against machines (that would come later), but the voice of a generation that can barely be bothered to use its voice. What difference does it make? None, that's what, and I don't begin to understand it.
But it's not "it" that young Paul can't understand. That's a different song, something more populist. Instead, it's, "I don't begin to understand...them." He he mumbles the last word, and "them" is almost more "yeah." I don't begin to understand. Why not end there? The one's we'll die to please, are they the referents? I don't understand them, either.
Then again, bastards don’t visit graves much. But they do seek approval from those who don’t want or deserve their love.
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