The above video is very rare; catch it before NBC pulls it down. It’s The Replacements’ legendary SNL performance of “Bastards Of Young,” which was so drunken and loud that they were kicked out of the studio and never asked to play there again.

These guys kill, man.

Eddie O’KEEFE

He first saw the back of her head. Her brown hair gently bouncing with her footsteps, once and awhile making itself visible through the tiny gaps between other far less interesting people’s heads. How was it that he could be so attracted to the the back of someone’s head? He hadn’t seen her face yet, but man, the way he felt about the back of this girl’s head, shit, he loved it.

What nice hair. She probably shampooed it before bed every night to get that commercial approved shine. He imagined her jumping into her large, pink bed. She’d be cold from the warm shower water drying in the winter air of her bedroom and she’d burrow her head in the sheets, laughing; her toes curling around the loose slack of bed spread in her body’s every attempt to get warm, get warm, get warm it’s freezing! It’s February! Stay under the covers, baby! Here, I’m here, cuddle up next to me, I’ll keep you snug as a bug.

How he wished to be in that bed with her. Nothing dirty or nothing. Just to watch her and to hear her breath. Just to keep her warm if the comforter wasn’t doing it’s job. He wanted to look around her room and spot artifacts that could help explain her. She seemed so complicated. So serious. He was just a young man and he didn’t know women the way they most definitely knew him. Had always known him. He needed to see the photos they had on their walls, to smell their perfumes and visit their bathrooms, their shrines. He needed to look behind their mirrors and under their beds. He needed to bask in their elusive tangerine strangeness.

Man. He fell in love too often, that’s for sure. That was only the back of a head. If he thought much more about it he’d be off and married to her or some nonsense. He felt lousy in his stomach. That poor girl, well, she’d probably be all dead before they crossed paths again. How sad a thought, he thought to himself. She’d  go on and live a life, a splendid little life somewhere full of lots of little joys and little saturday nights and sunday afternoons, and he wouldn’t be a part of it, not one bit. She’d never even know his name. She’s never even see the back of his head. Lotsa people like that in the world, he guessed. Lotsa people he’d never know. A buncha backs of a buncha heads.

Just wait ’till the minute mark.

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Eddie O’KEEFE