By Rebecca Bulnes
By Laurie Charles
By Chuck Strouse
By Lee Zimmerman
By Laurie Charles
By Falyn Freyman
By Hans Morgenstern
It seems like forever ago that R.E.M emerged from Athens, Georgia, looking like art-school students who drove pickups to class (except for Michael Stipe, who probably rode his bike). What has it been now, seventeen years, since the first single? How time flies when you're having no fun at all. That R.E.M. even exists today seems almost incomprehensible, especially when so many of their contemporaries have died on the roadside, abandoned by their fans like Paul Westerberg's discarded beer cans. Pylon, the dB's, the Replacements, HYsker DY: all gone, mostly forgotten by all save the most ardent diehards who went to college before college radio became mainstream alternative. They're symbols now and not much else, vestiges of a time when music fans existed as a collective, before being different meant being just like everyone else. They were alternative before the word meant "alternative to good music"; they spoke to the audience because they were the audience, guys who stepped out of the crowd and onto the stage and shared their insides (and beers) with everyone. Here comes a regular, and there he goes.
Now Paul Westerberg is nothing but a plugged-in James Taylor, bouncing between labels and producers until his passion becomes product; never before has a hero so let down his faithful. And Bob Mould is out there on his last legs, swearing this record will be his final rock record, as though anyone's left to pay him much attention. Which leaves R.E.M. as the last band standing, a relic from the days when rock and roll seemed to belong to anyone who had the temerity to plug in, turn down, and let the world in. They were an indie band for only one single, seventeen so-long-ago years back, yet they were more responsible than the Replacements or HYsker DY for the birth of the movement known as "indie rock." The bastardized term doesn't really mean music released without major-label ties; it has more to do with a sound, one that's homemade, crafted in a bedroom, done while the rest of the world is off to work or sound asleep. It means music for its creator; the audience is secondary to the creative process, though if you happen to identify with it, feel it in your bones, then welcome to the club. We feel your pain. In Michael Stipe's case, even when you can't quite understand it.
Yet Stipe, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Bill Berry were not so revolutionary as rock-crit history would portray them; they didn't change the world, not even when they went platinum with 1987's Document. Their earliest records were Southern rock of a melancholy variety, the Byrds as played by young men raised on punk rock's promise; Chronic Town, Murmur, and the masterful Reckoning were beautiful, lush, beckoning, even if Stipe mumbled his tenebrous poetry beneath Peter Buck's learn-as-you-go guitar playing. They turned pedestrian rock and roll into the stuff of art; never before had anything so pretentious sounded so fragile, rough-hewn. Their rock and roll was almost like folk music. It belonged on a front porch. Too bad it didn't stay there.
As soon as R.E.M. hit the arenas a decade ago in support of Green (a record coated in gold plate before it even left the warehouse), they began believing they needed to turn it up to make themselves heard in the back row. There were a few steps back toward home along the way (1992's Automatic for the People remains this decade's masterpiece, offering proof you can whisper and rock all at once), but 1994's Monster and 1996's New Adventures in Hi-Fi proved they had lingered too long in the shed. Their music, once so delicate and approachable, began to crumble beneath all those Peter Buck guitar solos and all those Michael Stipe poses. Suddenly it all seemed like noise and affectation. They had become an R.E.M. tribute band. So perhaps the abrupt departure of drummer Bill Berry last year is indeed the best thing that could have happened to R.E.M. this far in the game. Instead of just making one more record to fulfill its $80 million deal with Warner Bros. Records, R.E.M. was forced to reconsider its position and face its future, or its demise. (The band had promised long ago to break up if one of its members left. Liars.) So Up, R.E.M.'s eleventh full-length record, becomes the truly new adventure in hi-fi for a band of veterans. It is where they pick up and move on, where they pare down the sound until Up sounds like New Adventures cut not on the road or during sound-checks (as 1996's debacle was) but, yes, in the bedroom. It's the most intimate record made by a superstar act since Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska.
Berry has been replaced in only the most rudimentary sense of the word by Buck's Tuatara bandmate Barrett Martin and Beck's drummer Joey Waronker; also fleshing things out are ex-Young Fresh Fellow Scott McCaughey and veteran indie-rock producer John Keane. But the sound they make is not a completely unfamiliar one, not something that will alienate those true believers who still pine for "Driver 8" and "Gardening at Night" during concerts. The songs are simply expanded and contracted in the right parts; keyboards murmur in the background until they sound like a heartbeat -- imagine "Man in the Moon" merged with "Country Feedback," the sound made when Southerners discover the world is theirs. When Stipe beckons you to "sing along" on "Diminished," finally he sounds like a man who wants you to join in.