Last year, Paul Westerberg's cover art for Come Feel Me Tremble looked as if it were conceived on a home computer which was surprising to see. The fonts were conventional and there was very little, let alone lyrics, inside the CD sleeve. It was endearing in a way even if it was a half-assed formation, because it was abundantly clear that Paul was in charge of all facets of his recordings. A true solo artist if you will. After seeing the DVD that accompanied the record, I was even more awe-struck by his go-for-broke, one-take approach in which he literally wrote and recorded all tracks in his basement by himself in a strictly organic fashion. There were beautifully poignant moments in which he sang a heartrending ballad directly to the camera as well as a live performance that gave him the opportunity to invite all the fans on stage to surround him as he strummed his acoustic while sitting on a couch. I consider that to be one of the most incredible moments I have ever witnessed on a rock documentary in my life and is followed by a mass signing of autographs outside the tour bus.

It should be clear by now that I am an avid supporter of Westerberg's pop rock palette from the past to the present. I even forgave the overly polished, ultra glossy sound of 14 Songs , which stemmed from his success with the Singles soundtrack back when the inferno of grunge had ignited. He had a short run of mediocre records that would've rendered him as a pseudo-has-been if not for the stellar comeback double release of Stereo/Mono in 2001, a return to form akin to Dylan's Time Out Of Mind. “Let The Bad Times Roll," off of Stereo, is easily one of Westerberg's best songs since the heyday of The Replacements, a band that I discovered after his solo career, probably due to the fact that I was only seven when those guys were hitting their stride. Now they're one of my favorite bands of all time.

Westerberg continues to prolifically expand his catalog in a rather blissfully coasting manner. He's not really venturing out into new terrain, but building his niche much to his advantage. There's no doubt he needs to crank out the distortion pedal and turn up the Marshall more often than not, but that's what his bluesy post-punk side project, Grandpaboy is for. The poignant, aching new record, Folker, is a torn-sleeved, holes-in-the-jeans kind of record: wobbly, brittle, draped in threadbare flannels with trails of tape whispers and unpolished microphone transmission. This is classic Westerberg that is marked by warts-and-all heart-and-soul. The best moments on both Folker and the aforementioned Stereo came when Westerberg would veer off-key and deliver his poetic stanza without a metrical conviction. His songwriting approach is much more macrobiotic and driven by her-of-the-moment emotion, rather than the need to perfect the quality or even do ninety takes before it sounds right. Folker continues in that free-spirit tradition, and although it's not as spot-on as Stereo, it's still a solid effort that will please the devotees like myself.

There's no doubt that his nicotine-flavored, alcohol-sheltered growl is headed towards Bob Dylan-Tom Waits territory, which may turn off casual listeners. But how can one not find beauty in the Dylan-flavored “My Dad," which basically cops the melody from "Positively Fourth Street" and without apology. The agile optimism that douses "As Far As I Know" combines the pop sensibility of "Dyslexic Heart" with the more recent wave of impulsive folk. Witness the opening jab at the radio industry with "Jingle" in which he aptly damns the marketing of rock and roll with “Buy it now buy it now/This is my jingle/here is the single." Standouts include hearty rocker "Gun Shy", in which he snickers: "I learned to tell it like it ain't/When I run this fast I faint and I fade." This song, with its spicy guitar riff firing off little cylinders of jangling decline, is a quaint confirmation that Westerberg still matters as a substantial rock artist that's not simply going through the (e)motions. Some songs go on a bit long, and there are tacked-on thirty second 4-track ditties that don't add much but head-scratching. But for fans of Westerberg that are looking for Replacements nostalgia, you can't beat "Lookin Up In Heaven," which is predestined to become a negligible Beatlesesque pop radio hit. Folker may not become a modern-day classic or even win over some new fans, but Westerberg has built a solo institution in which he has caged himself inside; in other words he's clearly comfortable inside his own skin and his gratification comes through with nearly every track. He probably has no plans of busting out of the style that only he can master and God bless him for it. Even if he's releases two or three records a year and some songs are more miss than hit, it's better to have an overabundance of Westerberg than very little or nothing at all.