I’m glad you told me that, man

On meeting Michael Stipe and the joys of guitar feedback

People look at me skeptically when I tell them I met Michael Stipe at a Vancouver party. The elusive crooner of course couldn’t care less what I, the fan, had to say. But for me it was a defining moment.

It was 1989, and the night of R.E.M.’s performance at the Pacific Coliseum. I didn’t buy tickets, partly because I was kind of down on the 80’s alt-sensations. I didn’t care for the “Green” album that much (too many mandolins), and I had already seen the band in a cosey Edinburgh night club in ’85, plus their fated War Memorial show (’87) here in town.

I felt – and their 4 year live show hiatus bears this out – that concert tours for R.E.M. were a drag. The night of the Vancouver show I heard Mr. Stipe sang with his back to the audience through several songs, so I was not terribly disappointed that I skipped the show.

ticket stub from Edinburgh concert, circa 1985Back to the party. It was in old Gastown, and from the street outside I could view a second floor loft crammed with party-goers. Furthermore, a throng was assembled outside, unable to get past a doorman the size of a Port-O-John. This behemoth was letting no one into the bash upstairs.

To this day I do not remember what bullshit line I used to get my friends and I past the hulk. We all dashed up the stairs fearing he’d change his mind. It felt like Han Solo had duped Darth Vader into borrowing the Millenium Falcon for a quick spin. And if you don’t mind, Darth, Princess Leia and C3PO are with me too…

Inside, we scoped the room for the 2 vital ingredients of any party: cheap booze and toilet facilities. The latter was a more pressing concern for me, so we divied up the search duties.

Stipe is redThe place was packed, it was dark, and black apparel was de rigueur. One young woman wore a fitted black plastic dress that’s still burned in my memory. In the crush I stepped backward and knocked someone over. One time controversial video artist Paul Wong fell on his ass. Ooops.

Still unable to locate the loo, I stopped and asked a stone-faced guy in eye makeup and braided pony-tail who seemed to be by himself. “Say, pal. Do you know where the toilet is?” He shook his head, “No idea, sorry.”

I did a bug-eyed doubletake deserving of The Little Rascals. It was Stipe. “Hey you’re…nice to meet you,” was all I could get out. “Oh well, I’m sure I’ll find it,” I blithely muttered. And continued my search.

Hold on, that’s not good enough, I thought. That was Stipe. I own all his records. He’s in my city, hanging with my people. This is a fortuitous occasion, and I will hate myself forever if I do not go and rap with college rock’s demi-god.

Stipe, where are you?

I walked back to our meeting place. Not there. I needed night-vision infrared goggles in this place. Scanning, scanning… Ah, I spotted him by the window. Must make contact with Stipe. Must proceed with caution.

Not fair really, but I had the bugger cornered. I dispensed with small talk, and launched right into reasons why I felt the third album was the best. Stipe quickly got this glazed look, and I took it as a sign he didn’t want to debate the merits of the R.E.M. discography.

In my life I’ve met lots of famous and successful people, and always conducted myself like a gentleman. But in this instance, I couldn’t feign cool like it didn’t matter – this was Stipe. Five bottles of beer had turned me into just another kid with a record collection. God forbid, a fan. A member of the music-consuming public. I knew the chances of me clicking with the infamously eccentric singer of R.E.M. were absolutely nil. The man was caught between a huge carton and a two-story drop. He could listen, tackle me, or jump.

Stipe was all ears…

Stipe is hanging outYears before, I began, I concluded my greatest fantasy would be to fly. Not in the Boeing sense, but like reckless Icarus with wings engineered by his father, and who flew too close to the sun.

And the skies would be filled with rhythm and – thus enter the pop singer – the sound of electric guitars (credit that to an ever-present Walkman player and an R.E.M. cassette). Lying on a bed in a cheap hotel room in Nice, France, I realized I wanted their song “Kohoutek” to fill the air. As hard as I’ve tried I could never discern the lyrics of that song. I know the singer’s beautiful cant isn’t about the comet that would end the world, but not much else. Even so, “Kohoutek” was the perfect theme for my unrestrained tour of the stratosphere.

My gravity-free fantasy reminds me of a moment in Jonathan Demme’s film “Philadelphia”. It’s the scene where Tom Hanks’ character reacts with elated honesty to an opera. I know that surge of spirit and light, I too get it from music. And on those sweet occasions, I’m often rapt by the sound of electric guitars.

To some, to many, it is white noise. Aural smears on a melodic canvas. An electric guitar feeding back was once considered a mistake. Then it was a statement, as with Jimi Hendrix’s rendition of “Star-Spangled Banner.” Then it was only a bit of bad behaviour, as with Black Sabbath or AC/DC. And when bleeding ear-drums became the fashion again, grunge music took off with artists like Nirvana. Even Neil Young released records like the noisy “Ragged Glory.”

Stipe is blueI credit headphone use among teenage boys for the feedback craze. I’m talking the big, heavy headsets of the 70’s like the Koss Pro 4AAAA. Not the little hummingbird numbers we wear today. Literally two speakers strapped to your head. Ask Pete Townshend, if he can hear you, what they were like.

No generation before this knew the exhilaration of amplified music. Beethoven would have loved it. Bass amps so loud they knock the wind out of an audience. Imagine punishing someone like me with loud music. It’d be like Brer Rabbit all over. “Please don’t throw me in the mosh pit, anything but that!”

Put on Smashing Pumpkins “Drown” or “Silverfuck” and crank it if you want to clear a room. Everyone will roll out, but I’ll still be sitting there, my head filled with dreams of kings and empires. I don’t know why, but I love, I believe in, I thrill at the sounds of electric guitars.

And Stipe? Well his response was, “I’m glad you told me that, man.” He then stepped past me to join some friends.