CENTERSTAGE
If I was truly wise to the wily ways of mathematics, I could maybe whip up some tidy theory of rock ’n’ roll relativity. But as my high school algebra teacher—the rotten schmuck—will tell you, I have no such leg to stand upon. Still, in light of this recent R.E.M. show, I’m wont to ponder more concrete notions of a pebble, say, or maybe a chewed-up wad of Bazooka bubble gum, dropped into the calm of a garden pool.
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CENTERSTAGE
LESSONS NEVER LEARNED
R.E.M./dB’s
Crisler Arena, Ann Arbor, Ml (October 29, 1987)
Kevin Knapp
If I was truly wise to the wily ways of mathematics, I could maybe whip up some tidy theory of rock ’n’ roll relativity. But as my high school algebra teacher—the rotten schmuck—will tell you, I have no such leg to stand upon. Still, in light of this recent R.E.M. show, I’m wont to ponder more concrete notions of a pebble, say, or maybe a chewed-up wad of Bazooka bubble gum, dropped into the calm of a garden pool. Notice, grasshopper, how the ripples radiate from the epicenter, growing smaller and less perceptible as they spread.
I figure I must have been out there—in that skinny ripple zone—in the expanse of Crisler Arena, a cement cave more suited to the breast-beating Wolverine hoop team than one of my fave rockin’ bands. See, some guys I talked to had scammed far better seats than me (my connections not being what they once were, hint, hint) and actually enjoyed what had not been much more than a cheerless passion play to me at my perch on the perimeter. But seeing as how it’s me doodling over this typewriter and not them, you’re stuck with my disappointment.
Shall I point out here that R.E.M. fared better than the poor dB’s, who opened and were subsequently swallowed whole by the hall, sadly lost in space? It’s no big news to anyone that bands who’ve cut their chops in the clubs can have difficulty translating the subtleties of their act into the Grand Gesture necessary for these large venue shows to work.
R.E.M., at least, had no problem there. Michael Stipe’s demonically possessed frontman routine, coupled with Peter Buck’s rock stage/hero leaps, made for fine rock ’n’ roll theater. And Stipe’s ongoing costume change, peeling off layers of clothing like a big banana, was halfway to a burlesque revue. But give me Henny Youngman any day, fer cryin’ out loud, or Bruce Springsteen maybe, but please make him stop already with those pointless—yes, pointless—mock parables he’s been reeling off. I was half-embarrasSed for the guy and halfafraid that some loose nut might make it into a religion. Or something worse.
In short, what plagued most of the show was the sorry sound that robbed the groovy former club band of the sparkle that’s made them what they are. Roaring out a muddy mid-range that echoed around the concrete canyon, R.E.M. emitted the aural equivalent of smog that was cut—fortunately—by brief shining moments such as “I Believe,” ‘‘It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” and “Flowers Of Guatemala.” “Oddfellows Local 151” (a tune from the Document LP that, to me, fails as the mood piece I suspect it’s supposed to be) worked well under the circumstances, with its loping rhythm, chanted vocals, and open, jamlike structure.
An odd, maybe extemporaneous cover version of Bill Withers’s “Ain’t No Sunshine” figured in there somewhere, with Mike Mills doing tag team vocals with Stipe. This drew a collective shrug from a crowd who’d come to hear the band who does “The One I Love” (which they did, effectively silencing the guy behind me hollering “Play something good!”).
What would have been my favorite moment of that night was an encore with only Stipe and Buck doing “South Central Rain” as an acoustic number (OK, so Pete used an electric guitar, but you get the drift). In all of that darkness, under a dim light, crooning what might well be the most heartfelt lyrics Stipe will ever cough up, was half the band delivering the kind of mood piece that this band can really nail your noggin with. Just fine, until puddin’ heads in the audience turned it into a clap-along routine that would have done Barry Manilow proud.
Qualms, qualms. I got ’em. I wouldn’t even buy the obligatory T-shirt ’cause of the big arena price tag on ’em. What a grouch. Truth be told, I’d probably go and see the same show again tomorrow—the upscale seats preferred, mind you— as lessons in rock ’n’ roll are apparently never learned. But, if I were that wise and wily math student I never was, I think I’d buy the album, forget the show, study my algebra and never, ever have to suffer that D minus again.
Statement of ownership Management and Circulation for CREEM Magazine. Filed October 1987. Published Monthly. 12 issues per year. Annual Subscription Price $27.00. Location of offices, 7715 Sunset Blvd., Suite 202 Los Angeles, CA 90046. Publisher and Owner of Cambray Publications Inc. Arnold Levitt, 7715 Sunset Blvd., Suite 202, Los Angeles, CA 90046. Editor: John Kordosh, 7715 Sunset Blvd., Suite 202, Los Angeles, CA 90046.
Extent and nature of circulation: Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months, total 'copies printed 282,024 mail subscription 3,413 free distribution by mail, carrier or other means samples, complimentary, and other free copies 1,078. Copies not distributed, office use, left over, unaccounted, spoiled after printing 6,406. Total 282,024. Actual no. copies of single issue published nearest to filing date. Total no. copies 288,596 mail subscription 3,663 free distribution by mail, carrier, or other means, samples; complimentary, and other copies 1,001. Copies not distributed, office use, left over, unaccounted, spoiled after printing 5,912. Total 288,596.1 certify that the statements made by me are correct and complete. Signed Arnold Levitt, President.
