By Nicki Escudero
By Amy Silverman
By Brian Palmer
By Chris Parker
By Troy Farah
By Lauren Wise
By Lauren Wise
Let's face it. If James Dean were alive today, he'd be about as svelte as Marlon Brando and nearly as sexy as Gavin MacLeod. If Jimi Hendrix were still around, ten to one he'd be about as revolutionary as Eric Clapton. In other words, "Spuds" Hendrix. Hey, no one wants a hero to mature. If it's your goal to be a legend, you're better off dead.
R.E.M., the Athens, Georgia, band that seven out of every ten bands in college towns will be imitating this weekend, could've been legendary. Had one of its old ratty tour buses blown a tire on some curvy, backwoods highway somewhere in middle America when the band was touring early this decade to support Murmur, the group would've been Dean-ified on the spot. It would've gone out with all it needed: one masterpiece of an album--which upon inception made R.E.M. the only band in America worth imitating. That would've made guitar-rock fans forever misty-eyed.
The problem, kvetchers say, is that R.E.M. had the noive to live and to make albums for nearly a decade without letting loose another Murmur. Peter Buck, however, has never fancied himself as the Sylvester Stallone of the underground rock scene.
Peter Buck, 32, is the leader of a band that since 1984 has taken pains never to do a sequel. R.E.M. has wandered from the plaintive to the chaotic to the pure pop to the angular and back again. All the Murmur heads want is another masterpiece of murkiness, an intoxicating album filled with swirling, enigmatic, uplifting, breathtaking, jangling guitar rock.
And so it's no surprise when, speaking from R.E.M. pre-tour headquarters in Louisville, Kentucky, Buck says with a hint of a sneer and a snippet of annoyance, "If they want Murmur, they can still buy it on CD, record, cassette. Even the eight-track is still available, I think. That's not where we are anymore. We're not interested in that."
In fact, the only time R.E.M. discusses its early work is probably at the insistence of pesky reporters. "I don't think I've ever heard them discuss those records and wanting to bring back some of that, not in the studio, not anywhere," says Green producer Scott Litt. "People consider those records classic records, and they are, but as soon as you start trying to make a classic record again, there are gonna be problems. If you're trying to imitate something, it'll never be as good as the original."
So last year, R.E.M. did what any band sick of being an institution unto itself would do: It decided to have an out-of-body experience and record an album called Green to prove it.
When Buck returned from hovering above his body, it was with a mandolin in hand and a Mellotron by his side. Drummer Bill Berry came back also as a part-time mandolin player. Bassist Mike Mills resumed life as an accordionist and keyboardist. And singer Michael Stipe came back with his mouth fixed. The legendary self-imposed speech impediment that had Stipe mumbling artily up until about 1987's Document has now disappeared. Stipe returned also with a serious disinterest in continuing to write his series of enigmatic mystery poem-songs.
It's no surprise that Green is R.E.M.'s calmest album. No longer is there the feeling that R.E.M. is writing songs by pulling apart an old Byrds' song and skewing it until it resembles "art." Green contains pop songs so straightforward they seem scarily right-wing next to some of the band's early material. The "bubble-gum heavy metal," as Buck has called the R.E.M. sound, is showing up all over the radio in AOR heavy rotaters like "Orange Crush," "Stand," and "Pop Song 89." Those ditties, which hard-core R.E.M. fans whine about for not being obtuse enough, surround the quietest songs the band has ever thunk up--mandolin workouts like "You Are the Everything," "The Wrong Child," and "Hairshirt."
What gives? Is it that Buck's recent marriage has mellowed him? Is the band just out to stick it in the face of the Murmur glee club? Or is this just what 32-year-olds tend to do in their dotage?
"Actually," Buck says with the enthusiasm of a musician who's done too many interviews in support of a tour, "I bought a mandolin. If there's a mandolin, I tend to write on it. Those are songs you can just sit around and play, and it's all kind of emotion and melody. This record is kind of a challenge. We threw away the blueprint for whatever was the R.E.M. sound."
Not that everyone was sitting around musing on a life without amplifiers. Out of this neo-coffeehouse atmosphere, one J. Michael Stipe, lead singer and R.E.M. videomaker, calmly stepped to the forefront. Instead of mumbling cloudy, little dialectics like "Radio Free Europe" and "Fall on Me," Lieutenant Admiral Stipe was feeling uppity enough to bark commands like "Stand in the place where you are!" And he became quite content to tell listeners, "Sometimes I feel like I can't even sing/I'm very scared for this world/I'm very scared for me." (Hopefully, he was being ironic.) Instead of his former "I don't give a damn if you listen to what I'm saying" attitude, he dared you to ignore him now.