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Is It Time to Bid R.E.M. Good Night? by C. Bottomley When I first heard the news that R.E.M.'s Peter Buck had been thrown in jail for allegedly menacing a British Airways cabin crew, I felt a little bad for the guy. British Airways flight attendants have a way of thinking you're trying to intimidate them if you ask for a second cup of tea, and their commitment to service is in the grand tradition of such British institutions as Jack the Ripper. So Buck was probably just trying to get through his long journey from Seattle to London by having a few beers. By the end of the flight, though, the cops were waiting for him at Heathrow Airport, ready to charge the guitarist in rock's mildest-mannered band with disobeying an aircraft commander, assaulting the air crew, engaging in threatening behavior, and smashing airline crockery. Then there was the additional charge of being drunk on an aircraft. As if staying sober and watching the in-flight movie Remember the Titans three times were an option. You can disagree with the Ten Commandments if you like, but even God didn't seem to have a problem with a few G&Ts after takeoff. R.E.M. profiles have oft insinuated that Buck is fond of the grape, hops, and anything else that's been fermented for more than a week. But being caught in the act of getting sloppy set off alarm bells. Because while he was allegedly smashing china - by the way, hasn't BA heard of Tupperware? - R.E.M. were reintroducing themselves to the world as a group who had only just survived making its last album. Let's rewind. The day the music died for me was back in October 1997, when I learned that drummer Bill Berry was leaving R.E.M. He certainly had his reasons. Berry had always been the group's quiet one, and suffering an aneurysm during 1995's Monster tour had probably given him even more pause for reflection. Berry has since sought a quieter life working on his farm in Athens, Ga. Although Buck, Michael Stipe, and Mike Mills vowed to carry on as a trio, it wasn't the same. Bands are called such because they're supposed to be precisely that, an inseparable unit. At the height of their success, R.E.M. seemed like one of the last. Just like the Beatles, you could pick your favorite member. Most fans gravitated to the enigmatic Michael Stipe. But there was something for everyone to love about R.E.M. - Buck's way with three chords, Mills' uncanny songwriting talent, and Berry's handiness with harmonies and guitar. We all knew the stories about how they swapped instruments to make their 1988 breakthrough, Green, so that it's Buck you hear smacking drums on the untitled final track. R.E.M. were as organic as the kudzu swamping the cover of their 1983 Murmur debut. R.E.M. minus one weren't much fun. In 1998, R.E.M. released Up, replacing Berry's time-keeping with drum machines and drafting in Eno-like keyboard washes. Rolling Stone compared it to Pet Sounds. But although "Daysleeper" seemed like a return to form after the recorded-on-the-road bummer of New Adventures in Hi-Fi, few really liked it. The band had just signed an $80 million deal with Warner Bros., watched Up debut at No. 3, and hastily changed its mind about not touring. R.E.M. - who had altered their sound with every album - had finally made their David Crosby record, the contractually obligated platter that true believers thought might improve with repeated listening. |
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