This week, Rhino Records finally delivered something that many rock & roll fans had been dreaming about for years: remastered, expanded reissues of the Replacements’ Twin/Tone albums. Their four Reprise albums will follow this fall, but the Twin/Tone LPs — 1981’s Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash, 1982’s Stink, 1983’s Hootenanny, and 1984’s Let It Be — were in greater need of such treatment and they’re also where much of the band’s legacy lies, so it’s a thrill to have these records finally out in the deluxe editions they deserve.

Part of the Replacements’ appeal always was that they didn’t quite fit into any tidy category and nowhere was that truer than on their 1981 debut, Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash. Falling over themselves to fit into the Minneapolis hardcore scene, the ‘Mats played fast and loose, which was part of the problem — they were too loose, lacking the discipline to fit within hardcore, which even in ‘81 was adhering to the loud-fast rules that would later morph into straightedge. Then again, that was a common problem in the Twin Cities, as Hüsker Dü also were too big and blustery to be a standard hardcore band, but where the Hüskers traded in violence and fury at this early stage, the Replacements wallowed in cheap thrills. Danger still pulsated in their music but the group didn’t inflict emotional damage: they were a party spinning out of control, getting sloppier with every beer swilled. The messiness on Sorry Ma is hardly confined to the cheap, thin recording or the band’s playing — they sound as if they’re stumbling upon each other as they fumble for the next chord — but how the songs pile up one after another, most not managing to get close to the two-minute mark. Such brevity could be dubbed as hardcore but apart from the volume and speed, this doesn’t feel like hardcore: there’s too much beer and boogie for that. Then, there’s also the fact how the Replacements reveled in mid-American junk culture, with Paul Westerberg boasting how he bought himself a headache the very year that Black Flag sneered that they had nothing better to do than having a bottle of brew as they watched the TV. Neither did the Replacements, but they sang about this with no disdain, as they enjoyed being “Shiftless When Idle,” as one of the best songs here called it.

This could be called defiant if it seemed like the ‘Mats were raging against anything besides garden variety suburban troubles, as there’s nothing that attacks other punkers (quite the opposite, there’s love letters to Johnny Thunders and Hüsker Dü) and even when Westerberg is chronicling Midwestern ennui, there’s a sense of affection to his laments, as if he loves the place and loves acting being an angry young crank. This strain of premature curmudgeonly humor is undercut by the boundless energy of the band, so happy to make noise that they don’t care if they’re recycling old-time rock & roll riffs that are closer to amped-up Rockpile than the Ramones, as there’s more swing to the rhythms than that — swing that careens wildly and madly, but swings all the same. And that’s what made the Replacements seem so different with their debut — they didn’t fit anywhere within American punk, but there’s no defiance here, there’s a celebration of who and what they are that’s genuinely, infectiously guileless. It may not quite sound like any other American punk record but Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash is one of the best the entire scene produced in the early ’80s.

Rhino’s reissue of Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash adds a whopping 12 tracks to the original 18-track LP, all as strong as the proper album. Indeed, there are alternates of what showed up on the record, including a ferocious demo of “Raised in the City,” which is one of four songs from their first demo. Some of these unreleased tracks emphasize the band’s latent rock & roll roots — “Oh Baby” twists like Elvis, “Basement Jam” is a messy blues shuffle — but all fit the reckless spirit of the debut… well, all but one, as the bonus tracks conclude with the wonderful solo country “If Only You Were Lonely,” which acts like a teaser to the shambolic songwriting Westerberg later embraced.

Almost as if they were aware that Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash was masquerading as a hardcore album, the Replacements designed their second record as a mean, lean, nasty, brutish affair, the opposite of the mirthfully messy Sorry Ma. Stink wasn’t even a full-fledged album — at eight tracks, it was labeled a mini-LP, maybe just a bit longer than an EP, but it was just scraping by at 14 minutes regardless of what label it wore. So, it was tighter than Sorry Ma but that wasn’t the only way Stink seemed more like a hardcore record: the band approximated a hardcore raveup at the end of the white blooze parody “White and Lazy” and Paul Westerberg’s songs bristled with anger against all manners of middle-class irritants, as he spit vitriol at his “God Damn Job” and told school to go fuck itself. Such a sudden burst of anger could almost seem parodic, especially with such snide jokes as the “Frère Jacques” chorus of “Gimme Noise,” if the Replacements didn’t sound so lethal: they’re hard and merciless, never stopping for air. This is where the brevity of Stink in its favor — not that it would be too much to take if it was longer, but at this brief length this dose of thunder is positively addictive. And only once it starts to roll away does it sink in that Westerberg wrote his first genuine anthem with the great “Kids Don’t Follow.”

Rhino’s expansion of Stink proves that the album is just as addictive and still as nasty at a slightly longer length, as it’s pumped up with four bonus tracks: the delirious “Staples in Her Stomach,” a song better than many on Sorry Ma, ridiculous covers of “Hey Good Lookin’ and “(We’re Gonna) Rock Around the Clock,” and then “You’re Getting Married,” a brokenhearted Westerberg solo home demo that doesn’t fit sonically or thematically with the rest of Stink but it it’s too good not to save, and it demonstrates that beneath all this absurd fury, Westerberg was getting serious and growing as a songwriter.

Hootenanny is the place where the Replacements began to branch out from the breakneck punk that characterized their first two records — which isn’t quite the same thing as growing up, however. The brilliant thing about Hootenanny is that it teeters at the brink of maturity but never makes the dive into that deep pool. Paul Westerberg nevertheless dips a toe into those murky waters with “Color Me Impressed,” as good an angst-ridden rocker as he would ever write, and the heartbroken “Within Your Reach,” which presented a break from the Replacements’ past in its slower tempo, driven by a stiff yet sad drum loop, and its vulnerability. Not long after this, Westerberg’s vulnerability would become central to the ‘Mats, but here he’s keeping it way in check, but Hootenanny has something better to offer than a collection of soul-searching ballads: it offers the manic, reckless spirit so key to the Replacements legends. All the myths of the Replacements at their peak speak to how it seemed like anything could happen at one of their shows, how Bob Stinson could blow out his amplifiers, how Westerberg would stumble through impromptu kitsch covers, how it could seem like the band would never make it to the end of the show. Well, Hootenanny is the only record of theirs where it seems like they may not make it to the end of the album, so ragged and reckless it is. It lurches to life with the folk piss-take “Hootenanny” before spinning out of control with “Run It,” a piece of faux-core harder and funnier than anything on Stink. Hootenanny continues to bounce from extreme to extreme, stopping for Beatles parody on “Mr. Whirly” and the instrumental “Buck Hill” before Westerberg reads out personal ads on “Lovelines.” Almost all of the album’s 12 songs could be seen as slight on their own merits, but the whole is greater than its individual parts, not just in how it is a breathless good time, but how this album offers a messy break from American punk traditions, ushering in an era of irony and self-deprecation that came to define much of American underground rock in the next decade. Nowhere is the Replacements’ influence clearer than on Hootenanny and although they made better records than this, no other one captures what the band was all about than this.

Rhino’s expanded reissue of Hootenanny contains a hefty seven bonus tracks: alternates of “Treatment Bound” (with a full band) and “Lovelines” (with different lyrics); the raging outtakes “Junior’s Got a Gun” and “Ain’t No Crime”; the early Westerberg original “Lookin’ for Ya” which only appeared on a local comp called Trackin’ Up the North; and another exceptional Westerberg solo demo, the very funny “Bad Worker.”

Let It Be looms large among ’80s rock albums, generally regarded as one of the greatest records of the decade. So large is its legend and so universal its acclaim that all the praise tends to give the impression that the Replacements’ fourth album was designed as a major statement, intended to be something important when its genius, like so many things involving the ‘Mats, feels accidental. Compared to other underground landmarks from 1984, Let It Be feels small-scale, as it lacks the grand, sprawling ambition of the Minutemen’s Double Nickels on the Dime or the dramatic intensity of Hüsker Dü’s Zen Arcade, or if the other side of the Atlantic is taken into equation, the clean sense of purpose of The Smiths. Nothing about Let It Be is clean, it’s all a ragged mess, careening wildly from dirty jokes to wounded ballads, from utter throwaways to songs haunting in their power. Unlike other classics, Let It Be needs those throwaways — that Kiss cover, those songs about Tommy getting his tonsils out and Gary’s boner, that rant about phony rock & roll — to lighten the mood and give the album its breathless pacing, but also because without these asides, the album wouldn’t be true to the Replacements, who never separated high and low culture, who celebrated pure junk and reluctantly bared their soul. This blend of bluster and vulnerability is why the Replacements were perhaps the most beloved band of their era, as they captured all the chaos and confusion of coming of age in the midst of Reaganomics, and Let It Be is nothing if it’s not a coming of age album, perched precisely between adolescence and adulthood. There’s just enough angst and tastelessness to have the album speak to teenagers of all generations and just enough complicated emotion to make this music resonate with listeners long past those awkward years, whether they grew up with this album or not.

All this works because there is an utter lack of affect in Paul Westerberg’s songs and unrestrained glee in the Replacements’ roar. Sure, Let It Be has moments where the thunder rolls away and Westerberg is alone, playing “Androgynous” on a piano and howling about having to say good night to an answering machine, but they flow naturally from the band’s furious rock & roll, particularly because raw, unsettled “Unsatisfied” acts as a bridge between these two extremes. But if Let It Be was all angst, it wouldn’t have captured so many hearts in the ’80s, becoming a virtual soundtrack to the decade for so many listeners, or continue to snag in new fans years later. Unlike so many teenage post-punk records, this doesn’t dwell on the pain, it ramps up the jokes and, better still, it offers a sense of endless possibilities, especially on the opening pair of “I Will Dare” and “Favorite Thing,” two songs where it feels as if the world opened up because of these songs. And that sense of thrilling adventure isn’t just due to Westerberg, it’s due to the ‘Mats as a band, who have never sounded as ferocious and determined as they do here. Just a year earlier, they were playing almost everything for laughs on Hootenanny and just a year later a major label contract helped pull all their sloppiness into focus on Tim, but here Chris Mars and Tommy Stinson’s rhythms are breathlessly exciting and Bob Stinson’s guitar wails as if nothing could ever go wrong. Of course, plenty went wrong for the Replacements not too much further down the road, but here they were fully alive as a band, living gloriously in the moment, a fleeting moment when anything and everything seems possible and that moment still bursts to life whenever Let It Be is played.

Rhino’s reissue of Let It Be is bolstered by six bonus tracks: a heavy cover of T Rex’s “20th Century Boy” that seems focused compared to the shambolic covers of the Grass Roots’ “Temptation Eyes” and the DeFranco Family’s “Heartbeat-It’s a Lovebeat”; the session outtake of “Perfectly Lethal”; a home demo of “Answering Machine” and an alternate of “Sixteen Blue” with different lyrics.