The borderline between evergreen alt-rock elder
statesmen and deathless careerist dinosaurs is often
very hazy. [a]REM[/a] were certainly a vital cultural force
when they first signed to a major label 15 years ago
after a fertile, promise-filled apprenticeship as
America’s answer to [a]Smiths[/a]. Michael Stipe’s gangly
crew virtually invented ‘alternative’ rock. When the mainstream US media wasawash with mullet-haired metal clowns, Stipe and co
offered a genuine antidote to Reagan-Thatcher macho
triumphalism that was intelligent, bookish, sexually
ambivalent and steeped in a quasi-literary Americana.
[a]REM[/a] laid much of the groundwork for [a]Nirvana[/a] and
[a]Sonic Youth[/a], [a]Beck[/a] and the [a]Pixies[/a]. Taken from ‘Green’,
their 1989 breakthrough, ‘Stand’ is anthemic and
bouncy, a skewed state-of-the-nation address disguised
as a ‘Sesame Street’ singalong. ‘Orange Crush’ is more
menacing, its headlong melody spiked with Stipe’s
descending, minor-chord harmonies. Cerebral and
opaquely political, they use folk-rock traditionalism
like a Trojan Horse.
When grunge raged and howled, [a]REM[/a] went eloquently
quiet, applauding the punk spirit while retreating
even deeper into rootsy Americana. Two landmark
stadium-folk albums in the early 1990s became
multi-million-sellers and clarion calls for incoming
president Clinton’s vision of a caring, sharing
superpower. ‘Out Of Time’ spawned the mandolin-powered
mega-hit ‘Losing My Religion’, dynamic and spare and
haunted by secret wisdom. Then the pared-down
‘Automatic For the People’, all hushed piano and
strings, fused the freewheeling country-rock homage
‘Man On The Moon’ with rueful, intimate, spin-tingling
short stories like ‘Nightswimming’. The stately,
aching waltz ‘Everybody Hurts’ became an unofficial US
national anthem in 1992. Stipe was iconic, intriguing,
untouchable.
But then came – what? Overexposure? Flimsy rebel
credentials tamed by success? Retreat into
wealth-cushioned playboy-liberal bohemianism? Just as
the prosaic realpolitik of Clinton diluted [a]REM[/a]’s
mildly left-leaning edge, so the death of Kurt Cobain
pulled the alt-rock rug from under them. With their
belated 1994 response to grunge, the amped-up UK
chart-topper ’Monster’ , the Stipe brigade no longer
looked elegantly out of time but slightly behind the
times. Beneath Peter Buck’s juddering power chords on
the burly bruiser ‘What’s The Frequency, Kenneth?’ , a
sense of rudderless repetition took hold.
A massive $80 million contract renewal in 1996 and
drummer Bill Berry’s departure in 1997 further
strained [a]REM[/a]’s image as the Last Indie Noblemen.
And their output was becoming pleasantly inessential tunes, from
the opiated lullaby ‘All The Way To Reno’ to the
swooning waltz of ‘Daysleeper’, but they were now
firmly entrenched as official poster boys for Nick
Hornby-reading, Middle Youth suburbanites. Even people
with the most conservative musical and political
tastes bought [a]REM[/a] by the bucketload. Who did Tony
Blair name as his favourite band as far back as 1994?
Take a guess.
‘In Time’ is inevitably a selective history,
annoyingly so at times. There’s no ‘Near Wild Heaven’,
no ‘Radio Song’, and only those who snap up early
copies with the patchy limited-edition bonus disc of
B-sides and rarities will get an acoustic ‘Pop Song
‘89’ and a live version of ’Drive’ . Most perverse of
all is the glaring absence of ‘Shiny Happy People’, a
transatlantic Top Ten in 1991 and [a]REM[/a]’s biggest hit
to date. The band dislike it, but hey – [a]Radiohead[/a] hate
‘Creep’, Underworld are ambivalent about ‘Born
Slippy’. Big deal. Get over it. Don’t treat your
listeners with indie-snob contempt.
Even the two new tunes are minor, déjà vu affairs.
‘Bad Day’ is a pleasingly vigorous country-punk
torrent of allegedly politicised spite, but it’s
characteristically vague and strongly reminiscent of
the ancient [a]REM[/a] standard ‘It’s The End of The World
As We Know It’. Meanwhile, ‘Animal’ is bubblegum
powerpop with twangsome retro guitars, more [a]Monkees[/a]
than [a]Pixies[/a].
Peter Buck’s farcical outburst of mid-air yoghurt rage
in 2001 shattered any remaining alt-rock godfather
cred that [a]REM[/a] once possessed. Respect is due for
helping to reshape the mainstream, but Stipe’s journey
from America’s Morrissey to Kurt’s Big Brother to Thom
Yorke’s Oddball Mate has been mostly taken in downward
steps. Since 1988, pop has progressed in mighty leaps
while [a]REM[/a] have hardly moved. Celebrity mates like
[a]Radiohead[/a] and even [a]U2[/a] make far more radical,
passionate and progressive records. But where is
Stipe’s legacy now beyond smug, humourless,
whiny-voiced boho poseurs like [a]Placebo[/a] or the Dandy
Warhols?
‘In Time’ is a two-thirds decent compilation, but also
a revealing overview of a once-vital supergroup in
mid-life stagnation. They should have called in
‘Losing My Direction’.
Stephen Dalton
Get ‘In Time’ at the NME Shop
