R to the E to the er, M
Went to Twickenham yesterday to see REM. As a pro-football, anti-rugby man I really wanted to have a moan about the venue but annoyingly I could find nothing wrong with it. Even though the station isn't as near the ground as Wembley, the crowd control and journey home were as good as they could realistically be. Curses!
I arrived just in time for Guillemots, between whose songs the screens either side of the stage displayed adverts for their album and downloadable songs, which even in these days of commercial saturation seemed a tad vulgar. The 'Mots (as nobody calls them) are as erratic a proposition as you'd expect from a band whose members include a fat Brazilian drummer, an impossibly exotic double bassist/percussionist named Aristzabal Hawkes, and a hyperactive indie-boy leader who goes by as strange a moniker as Fyfe Dangerfield.
Take Kriss Kross, which begins with a killer keyboard riff that proceeds to go missing for a couple of minutes as the song tears through at least three more entirely different musical ideas before returning to the original one. Similarly, Dangerfield's voice can go from gentle croon to yelping falsetto in the space of a few bars. However, when it all comes together, such as on the epic 12-minute Sao Paulo, the results are sublime. Dangerfield clearly has talent to burn, what he needs is somebody to show him how to bloody well use it properly.
Next up - Editors. I've never really been able to get past the bad Ian Curtis impressions of singer Tom Smith (at least he doesn't attempt the dancing), but even when I did I was confronted with slab after slab of relentlessly bland indie rock. They've somehow amassed a fairly large canon of well-known songs, none of which are anything to get terribly excited about. Actually one of the most boring bands I've ever seen.
It's strange being an REM fan, as they're viewed by the general population as a band in terminal decline and I can't really argue with the fact that the last few albums are way below their earlier (tremendously high, lest we forget) standards. I like a lot of Around The Sun, but objectively it is pretty weak, to the extent that Accelerate was considered a make-or-break record by band and media alike.
The truth is though, that however poorly-received the recent albums were, REM have been a consistently great live band. Such is the standing and sheer volume of their back catalogue that gigs have never been shaped - or tainted, if you like - by the current record. New songs aren't forced down people's throats, but instead mixed in with a combination of the usual suspects (Losing My Religion, Man on the Moon, et al) and an ever-changing selection of lesser-known gems. Plus, Stipe is still a consummate frontman - expertly carrying the crowd through any troughs, which are kind of inevitable in a two hour plus set. The result is something for everyone - the more casual fans go home happy having heard the "classics", whilst the more hardcore amongst us are sated with stuff like Perfect Circle, Country Feedback (a superb double whammy in the encore which perked me up when my feet were flagging) and the underrated Exhuming McCarthy.
They clearly enjoy reworking the odd oldie too, such as the lovely moment everyone gathered around Mike Mills's piano for a gentle reading of previously scuzzed-up ballad Let Me In (from Monster). Moments like this make me glad to have persevered with REM. If they lack the vaulting ambition - and, let's be honest, sheer arrogance - that enable the U2s of this world to remain at the top table for so long despite advancing years and diminishing returns on the album front, they remain an utterly absorbing live act. Long may they continue.
I arrived just in time for Guillemots, between whose songs the screens either side of the stage displayed adverts for their album and downloadable songs, which even in these days of commercial saturation seemed a tad vulgar. The 'Mots (as nobody calls them) are as erratic a proposition as you'd expect from a band whose members include a fat Brazilian drummer, an impossibly exotic double bassist/percussionist named Aristzabal Hawkes, and a hyperactive indie-boy leader who goes by as strange a moniker as Fyfe Dangerfield.
Take Kriss Kross, which begins with a killer keyboard riff that proceeds to go missing for a couple of minutes as the song tears through at least three more entirely different musical ideas before returning to the original one. Similarly, Dangerfield's voice can go from gentle croon to yelping falsetto in the space of a few bars. However, when it all comes together, such as on the epic 12-minute Sao Paulo, the results are sublime. Dangerfield clearly has talent to burn, what he needs is somebody to show him how to bloody well use it properly.
Next up - Editors. I've never really been able to get past the bad Ian Curtis impressions of singer Tom Smith (at least he doesn't attempt the dancing), but even when I did I was confronted with slab after slab of relentlessly bland indie rock. They've somehow amassed a fairly large canon of well-known songs, none of which are anything to get terribly excited about. Actually one of the most boring bands I've ever seen.
It's strange being an REM fan, as they're viewed by the general population as a band in terminal decline and I can't really argue with the fact that the last few albums are way below their earlier (tremendously high, lest we forget) standards. I like a lot of Around The Sun, but objectively it is pretty weak, to the extent that Accelerate was considered a make-or-break record by band and media alike.
The truth is though, that however poorly-received the recent albums were, REM have been a consistently great live band. Such is the standing and sheer volume of their back catalogue that gigs have never been shaped - or tainted, if you like - by the current record. New songs aren't forced down people's throats, but instead mixed in with a combination of the usual suspects (Losing My Religion, Man on the Moon, et al) and an ever-changing selection of lesser-known gems. Plus, Stipe is still a consummate frontman - expertly carrying the crowd through any troughs, which are kind of inevitable in a two hour plus set. The result is something for everyone - the more casual fans go home happy having heard the "classics", whilst the more hardcore amongst us are sated with stuff like Perfect Circle, Country Feedback (a superb double whammy in the encore which perked me up when my feet were flagging) and the underrated Exhuming McCarthy.
They clearly enjoy reworking the odd oldie too, such as the lovely moment everyone gathered around Mike Mills's piano for a gentle reading of previously scuzzed-up ballad Let Me In (from Monster). Moments like this make me glad to have persevered with REM. If they lack the vaulting ambition - and, let's be honest, sheer arrogance - that enable the U2s of this world to remain at the top table for so long despite advancing years and diminishing returns on the album front, they remain an utterly absorbing live act. Long may they continue.
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