Anything Could Happen: Go See Tommy Stinson

The End of the World: Friday night, Mojave Desert.

“Where are we?”

“The Edge of Civilization, I guess.”

Tommy Stinson and I stared across the nighttime Mojave desert.

About 30 miles past Cap Rock, where Phil Kaufman cremated Gram Parsons, stands The Palms Restaurant, the only brick and mortar business in Wonder Valley, a community of about 600 artists, desert rats, and musicians. We were about as far away from civilization as you could be and play for paying customers.

There’s a giant “The End of The World” sign out back.

The End of the World & Not Feeling Fine. Photo Google Maps.

No idea how Tommy Stinson, bass player in The Replacements, leader of Bash & Pop, solo artist, and for about 15 years, member of Guns N’ Roses ended up here, but I’ll be damned if he and opener-accompanist Karla Rose didn’t fill the place. One guy I met drove an RV from Phoenix for a long weekend in SoCal. Another guy (lots of guys, but not only guys) drove an hour from Morongo Valley. Mixed in were locals and hipster musicians who looked straight out of Brooklyn.

I was unsure about driving 3 hours into the desert myself. Not because of the drive (I’ve done far more for far less), but because I didn’t want to shatter a dream that I didn’t even know that I had, which had just come true. Imagine a middle-aged guy standing around The Palms Restaurant, harmonica in hand looking for Tommy Stinson, like a girl in a prom dress looking for a date who never came.

“If Tommy Stinson is playing and you can go, then you go,” instructed my friend David. “It’s really that simple.” My friend Dan agreed,

“Fuck it. What’s the worst thing that happens? You pay your cover, you see Tommy Stinson.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want him to be uncomfortable.”

“After playing with Paul Westerberg, Axl Rose, and (his brother) Bob, what could you possibly do to make him uncomfortable?”

“Don’t be a fucker, dad. Just go,” advised my youngest son, who would have to fend for himself for dinner for a second night in a row. His mom, Constance was in San Quentin, studying a program to help incarcerated people and correction officers get along.

“You know, if I stay home, I’m just going to doom scroll. By 5pm, I’ll be furious. Why not.” I packed the harmonicas, threw the dog in the car, and drove off into the desert to see Tommy Stinson.

A pit stop on our land outside of Joshua Tree.

Bad News: Thursday Night, The Doll Hut.

“There would be a screaming harmonica solo here,” Karla Rose commented during the break in Silver Bucket. Instinctively, I pulled a harmonica from my pocket. Before leaving the house for Tommy Stinson’s Thursday night show at the legendary Anaheim punk club The Doll Hut, I had grabbed a C harp. A harp player should have one at all times. An A harp came along so I could practice Blues in E, should there be a traffic jam. Who knows, maybe I’d meet a busker.

I waved the harmonica around The Doll Hut, gesturing to whom I’m unsure.

Selfie of me in a vintage ‘Mats shirt. It was popular among fans.

Tommy Stinson, looking sharp in a black suit and trademark hat, walked by. “You wanna jump up for a song? What keys you got?”

“C and A. I mean, I can play in G and E. I could probably play in…. “ I stopped myself. He doesn’t need to know this. “G and E.”

“Great. You know ‘Bad News’? It’s in ‘G’.” I knew it well enough. It’s a Stonesy rocker, probably a I-IV-V chord progression, about a relationship and life needing a change, with more than a hint of self-effacing, maybe loathing stoicism. It’s the sort of thing Tommy does brilliantly, and the sort of Bash & Pop song that I invented parts to 30 years ago in a little red house in Ohio.

I assumed that Tommy would spot me a verse to figure out the structure. Then, I’d slide in around the chorus and be good by the solo. The solo could be played like a classic rock song: Open by wailing on the 5th note, grab the flat 7th, move around, land on the root. Warble across them if I get lost. Play it loose and sloppy, like Paul playing on “I Won’t” — or pick your favorite rock song. Crowds eat that up. But I’d be playing “clean,” directly into the PA, with only an acoustic guitar backing me, so it’s not that simple. Still, this is more consideration than I gave at the time. Better not to think too much.

“Now to call a complete fucking stranger to the stage… Kurt get up here.” Tommy looked at me with that grin. My feet started to move, and my mind started to question what I was doing here. I was now standing on stage next to Tommy fucking Stinson, who was looking at me, ready for me to do something.

Me & Tommy. Photo by Trevor Song

Tommy hit the opening chords to “Bad News,” and I laid back.

“Play. I’ll go again.” He wanted me to come in, full steam, off the top.

“Shit.” I thought to myself. “He plays with professionals.”

Axl Rose, who Tommy played with for 16 years came to mind. “I suppose that Tommy played with Buckethead. I wonder who else…” Tommy Stinson has seen and done it all. What on Earth was I doing here. Stop thinking. Play.

No mistake I could make would rival the infamous Replacements Portland show, a show so bad that they wrote a song to apologize to the city. But disappointing Tommy Stinson would suck. And then there’s my fellow fans… although offending aging Tommy Stinson fans would be the most on-point thing to do.

I opened with tongue-slapped, bluesy single notes — leaning into the Stones vibe. It felt right, fun for me at least. The crowd responded better than I anticipated, whether from my playing or the absurdity of a stranger being called on stage and not face-planting.

“Bad News” isn’t structured like I thought (it’s I-ii-IV-I), but that didn’t matter because I focused on Tommy’s voice for melodic cues and feel. I wanted to avoid stepping on his vocals, which is the number one rule for any harmonica player: Don’t get in the way of the singer. A duo leaves more latitude (thinking of Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee), and a harmonica player just standing there can be awkward. I tried single-note country licks and made it through the first verse.

The next day, the desert drive gave me time for a closer listen, and I developed an approach should I ever be called upon again: Sit out the first half of the verse, come in with energy in the second half, imitating a chunky guitar. For the chorus, I found a melody line based on the album’s guitar figure. I think it added structure and maybe an anthemic feel? The recorded guitar solo also has a lovely melody, which I also learned, but playing live, I couldn’t muster. “Play that cool little figure! How could you forget it? Wait, where does it go?” (here’s a video of that solo, which was actually fine).

Photo: Travis Prine.

Karla Rose and Tommy Stinson Entertaining the Desert Rats at the End of the World

Listening to a recording can trap you into trying to reproduce those parts instead of being in the moment. What if the recorded lead makes less sense without bass and drums? I’d come to think of it as central to the song and I wanted to play it, dammit.

I was frustrated at myself for overthinking, so for the second break I messed with myself. I played a single repeating note, bending it in and out of time trying to create tension until something broke. Don’t be so precious and have fun. I think Tommy chuckled — it was a more adventurous than what’s on the record. It felt right for the desert audience. (I wish my old band Crooked County could have played there, although we may have never escaped Wonder Valley). The next night in LA, I maybe found that guitar line, but Sunday, I returned to my single note thing because it made me happy. What started as “playing on a song” had evolved into me inventing parts and then having opinions for various audiences, which is not how I expected the weekend to go; I had planned to read a book for our local book group.

I’m coming back to The Palms Restaurant.

But back to Thursday, that first night at Doll Hut. Midway through that first verse of “Bad News”, I realized I should calm down. Insofar as I’m prepared for anything as a harmonica player, it’s to play with Tommy Stinson. How many harp players learned by playing along with “Friday Night is Killing Me?” Maybe Vice Presidential candidate Tim Kaine? That’s weird: Me and Senator Tim Kaine. The Replacements inspired most of my sensibilities — prioritizing feeling, finding a hook, embracing abrasiveness — not taking it too seriously while wearing your heart on your sleeve.

As we finished “Bad News” and I walked off the stage at the Doll Hut, Tommy said over the PA, “We may have you back up here.” I think he liked a moment of genuine spontaneity that was safer than, say, pitching a sofa out a window.

Tommy Stinson checking his phone for set list ideas.

“Dad, what’s for dinner,” Warner asked, as I picked up the phone. Warner had called me while I was on stage, and I finally made my way outside the bar as he called a second time. “I dunno, order pizza?”

“What?”

“Pizza?”

A 19-year-old who had been standing outside, tapped me on the shoulder. I’d previously bought them waters and made sure that they could see, so we were cool.

“Tommy’s calling you. He wants you to play in ‘e’.” I hung up on Warner. He’s 15. Older than Tommy when The Replacements released “Sorry Ma Forgot to Take Out the Trash.” He’d figure it out.

A 16 year old Tommy Stinson on the road with The Replacements

“This is a new one,” Tommy said. He launched into a song that’s currently stuck in my head, but I am still not sure the title of. And I’m not even sure how I’d describe it, other than it is in “e,” is similar to the 1950’s chord progression (I–vi–IV–V), there aren’t obvious spots to play, and makes me want to cry. Again, I laid back, but Tommy wanted me in from the top.

“I guess the first song wasn’t a total disaster?” I thought to myself as I tried vibrato, chords, octaves and eventually stumbled into a swelling pulsating chord thing I’d made up while goofing around to Wilco. By the second or third night, I could grab the vocal melody and respond to the vocals. The harmonica has to play around the vocals on this song, and I don’t entirely have a grasp on where the vocals are (and are not). So I tried to avoid the vocal range. By Saturday, I was inventing parts to the song, and looked forward each night to seeing what might work. Karla asked me about the low notes, wondering if it was a normal harmonica. I took that to suggest that it was novel at least to her, so I tried to return to that theme at the end of the song with a long low vibrato. It reminds me of a cello. I like how it sits.

“I guess it’s a Hootenanny,” Tommy commented as I left the stage. So, I could die happy now. Afterwards, I thanked Tommy, bought Karla’s record, wished the teenagers luck, and drove home without even checking the news.

Karla & Tommy Opening the tour at the Doll Hut

Saturday Night Killing Me: Burbank Area, Los Angeles.

Tommy finished his set Saturday night in LA and was being coaxed out for an encore.

A band meeting between Tommy and Karla in Burbank.

Although playing with Tommy was “easy,” I had been nervous as shit for the obvious reasons. Ending the night by soaking up his Friday Night is Killing Me encore medley was perfect. Just as I’m feeling my feels in the middle of the title track, Tommy calls out, “Come on Up Kurt — we’re in ‘e’.”

This coming up in the middle of the song routine was becoming one of my favorite little nightly surprises. Friday night in the desert, Tommy called me up mid-song, announcing the key, and then by the time I reached the stage, it was time for a solo. I felt like Buddy Guy coming out of a taxi (a trick a friend Jon Roket and I intended to do with my 50-foot mic cord — I think we tried in Chicago once — I can’t remember).

I fumbled through my pocket, searching for my A harmonica as I walked. It wasn’t where it should be. “Friday night is killing me, And your hair and smoke has got you broke and lonely.” I love any time Tommy and hair come up. That song was a bridge to my sobriety, so I was feeling a lot of stuff and maybe not thinking straight.

Now I’m standing up front with Tommy in some sort of nightmare, still fumbling through my pockets searching for a harmonica that keeps disappearing. It had to be there somewhere. I missed my first cue, so I just went with the D harmonica, which has an outside shot of working in 3rd position. Maybe I could switch back during a verse. But that sound sucked. I took a breath, found the “A” harmonica, and sat on the “B” note as I got my bearings. As luck would have it, one might actually think of the song as in B. Later, I’d recall that I would use a “B” harmonica to play straight harp style back in the 1990s. The record is a few cents off normal tuning, so although I loved playing along, you wouldn’t want to hear it. “Friday Night” is one of my favorite songs ever written, the only song of these I’d ever played, and now I was completely butchering it in front of a room of LA people. Kind of Replacements-ish, to be honest.

WTF Kratty Get Your Shit Together.

Eventually, it worked out well enough. Mostly because Tommy is a master showman who could roll through anything. Still, it bothered me, until Tommy launched into “Alternative Monkey,” which smacked me back to reality.

Me & Tommy. Photo: Peter Jesperson

The night before, deep in the desert, Tommy looked at me, said “We’re in ‘e’” and started thrashing “Alternative Monkey.” Playing his abrasive trashing of the music industry (off of Perfect’s 1996 When Squirrels Play Chicken) could not have hit me more by surprise. I had no idea what to do — so I had to just say fuck it and jump in. so I tried a staccato chugging rhythm, which often works in “e”. On the record, the drums are a modified Bo Diddley kind of beat, so my (or Tommy’s?) instincts weren’t so crazy. Winging it with Tommy on a punk song will be an all-time highlight. It’s a hootenanny alright.

More ‘Mats fans approached me at the LA show, including the family of a new friend who’d seen Tommy 31 times. He and his family approved of whatever chaos happened between “Friday Night, “Alternative Monkey,” and the rest of it. Meeting musicians like Meredith and Brandon from *Easy Dreams (*another great record) further affirmed the naturalness of all of this. Tina, who had been taking photos and sending them to my friend Michelle all evening (which then made their way back to me in between songs), asked me:

“You’re going to San Diego tomorrow night, right?”

“Well, my wife Constance is just getting back into town, and we’ll see…”

“Sure you are. Text me for the address in San Diego.”

Super Bowl Sunday: Palo Verde House Concert, San Diego.

Like leftovers and house guests, harmonica players can go bad after three days, but again, David said, “Go.” I bought two tickets, let Tommy know that I would be there with Constance, and he was free to utilize my services or not. The kids could have their own Super Bowl Party. I grabbed two (maybe 3) harmonicas, queued Tommy & Karla on the car stereo, and drove to San Diego for date night.

“Is Kurt here?” Karla asked, searching the crowd. “You see, there’s this guy we met in… Anaheim?” she paused to remember the details. If I’m not there, is she telling the crowd about a random harp player from Anaheim?

Karla & Tommy under the lights.

Karla’s set came together in the backyard under the moon and twinkle lights. Her exploration of bad choices, substances, and romance landed with the audience. If you haven’t yet, put on one her records — I’ve been listening to the Gone to Town (also filed under Karla Moheno) all week.

Silver Bucket is a swampy, bluesy song in E that features a nice distorted harmonica solo, played mostly with single notes, based around the flat 7th note (5 draw). Without an amp I couldn’t get that sound. With no bass and drums, I tried some bluesy stuff to underscore the mood, accentuate the groove, and dirty it up a little. Playing off of her voice was particularly fun. As I was walking off the stage (for the last time?) she said, “Thanks for making me sparkle.” I couldn’t imagine a better compliment, and that feeling of connecting to a songwriter is all I ever wanted as a musician.

Tommy seemed genuinely grateful to be playing songs with and for people who care as much as he does. Whether it’s a punk bar in Anaheim, a nice room in Burbank, or possibly at the End of the World, he is, to quote Uncle Chip, “Above ground” and doing what he loves.

I felt like part of the show in a Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue kind of way (an observation Tommy later made). Even without rehearsals, playing with Tommy was becoming kind of smooth. Because I understood what he was about, I could trust my instincts. Realizing this musical connection with a hero in real-time, on stage was crazy. I had to convince more than one skeptic that Tommy’s “I just met this guy yesterday,” line wasn’t a joke. ‘Mats’ fans delighted in this — like the the fat roadies or “Tim” or something.

Tommy called me up for “Zero to Stupid,” and sensing the incoming solo, I started playing as I walked to the stage (captured by Faux Jean on IG, below), feeling confident to screw around with stagecraft a little bit. I played with my little chorus hook on “Bad News” by varying timing, notes, and attack. Not just playing with Tommy Stinson, but tweaking parts, as if I belonged there on stage cracked me up.

Some sort of stage rapport was forming based around Tommy throwing stuff at me, me scurrying away, and Tommy calling me back. As Tommy swapped back and forth between keys and capos, looking overwhelmed, I blurted out “Too many chords!” (a poor riff off of “I Hate Music”). I laughed, but otherwise stuck to my job.

Sunday was memorable less for being on stage, and more for sitting next to Constance, holding hands, her head on my shoulder, as Tommy played songs like “Light of Day”, “Dream,” and “Without a View” under the full moon. Granted, most of these songs speak of love gone bad in various ways, but they are romantic all the same. They speak to the challenges of fighting ruts and love in middle age. Songs like “Anything Could Happen,” “Anybody Else,” or “Breathing Room” are the same Tommy Stinson, just with perspective fitting the miles traveled. A pretty damned good date night.

Now three years sober, Tommy Stinson writes and performs with more clarity than I’ve seen from him. He looks great, grounded, and with 3 albums in the works, more is in front of him. Yes, it was special to play on stage with Tommy (like really special), but the opportunity to live and breathe this music for 4 days — with whatever small part I had in contributing — is what sticks with me. Peter Jesperson (who glowingly reviewed the LA show) said that the love that he experienced would keep him floating for days. I’m not sure if the state of the world will grant me such grace, but after 4 days at Tommy Stinson shows, I’m reminded of enduring goodness amidst the troubles.

On the way out, I introduced Constance to Tommy, and he was as charming as ever. We briefly discussed the state of the world, said our goodbyes, and headed for the car.

As we sifted through the gates toward our car, Karla peeked from behind the merch booth. “See you in Fresno!” As Tommy Stinson might say (emphasis on might, as I hear different lyrics every time),

I might change my mind I might change my clothes I mind change this life I don’t know Anything Could Happen.

Go see Tommy Stinson & Karla Rose. Go support live music.