Life’s fun, largely, isn’t it. But then it does have a habit of throwing up spanners of discomfort, just to fuck around with your day, or your very moral foundations, from time to time. Like, for instance, feeling conscience bound to watch the leader of the free world (that’ll be the President of the United States of America, if you were wondering) grump his way through an important internationally televised debate with the eloquence of a 6 year old forced to take a spelling test he doesn’t much care for when he could be out playing in the sand. Or stepping on a drawing pin in your stocking feet (or choking on a pretzel for that matter). Or having no choice but to watch someone you care for subside slowly into old age and all the inevitabilities it brings with it.
REM are a treasure, and one which has stood the test of time more than adequately, but even precious stones aren’t impervious to the ravages of time. Though they have staved off their onset rather more expertly than popular legend would have you believe. They did not cease to exist after ‘Everybody Hurts’ and ‘Man On The Moon’ with a goodwill encore of ‘What’s The Frequency Kenneth’. ‘Up’ was justifiably exploratory, ‘New Adventures In Hi-fi’ easily their most commercially underrated work and ‘Reveal’ persuasive if rather non-revelatory. And many of their best individual moments (‘E-bow The Letter’, ‘At My Most Beautiful’, ‘Daysleeper’, ‘Walk Unafraid’) can be picked and mixed from the last decade.
With ‘Around The Sun’ though they’ve finally given into a possibility that stirred on ‘Reveal’ – that REM can be made to order. That’s not categorically a harsh criticism, 12 albums have found a band calmly confident of their ability to craft emotional pop songs professionally from the ground up. But you get the feeling that if the correct attributes were tapped into a computer it’d spit out something resembling this, especially given that the organic vibrancy and instinct at the heart of so many earlier works couldn’t ever be fathomed by formula. Ambiguity is often peculiarly quoted as a definitive pillar of theirs, particularly where Stipe’s earlier vocals are concerned, and actually that’s what’s missing here. Everything is so clear, predefined, balanced and rehearsed.
They have not fallen backwards into a quagmire, exhibiting signs of creative Alzheimer’s or anything, the contradictory feeling is in fact that Michael Stipe is more narked at the state of the world and actions of his government than he has been for years, ergo more inspired, more impassioned. But we’re not questioning how heartfelt he is, that’s not in doubt. Repeated listens see the peaks grow vast, the folksy and ambient ‘I Wanted To Be Wrong’ particularly and the stylistically similar anti-war ‘Final Straw’, the Neil Young-esque ‘Boy In The Well’ and ‘The Ascent Of The Man’, and ‘Leaving New York’ too. All led by Stipe’s strong poise. These are also capable songs with levels not always apparent immediately, mature to both extremes of the word.
Elsewhere though ‘Aftermath’ is merely ‘Electrolite’ wearing a less fashionable cardigan, ‘The Outsiders’ a pleasant enough trip-beated foray let down by an underwhelming and misjudged guest appearance by Q-Tip (see also ‘Radio Song’ from ‘Out Of Time’ for a similar faux pas) and ‘Wanderlust’ sounds like ‘Modern Life…’ era Blur covering The Kinks, without a punchline, and is painfully out of place. Ironic perhaps that without life throwing up those spanners this album could be without all its successes. Shame that it’s also eventually, inevitably contributing to its falls.