by Bryce Napier and Tom Demi, first published December 9, 2015
Automatic For The People
released October 6, 1992
Warner Bros. Records
“...a note-perfect culmination of everything that R.E.M. had evolved into while staying true to their own artistic vision. I’m not sure if it’s baffling or inevitable that backlash would ensue.”
So now we arrive at the pinnacle of R.E.M.'s presence in the global consciousness. It sold big (it went Platinum five times over in the US), critics loved it, old fans embraced it, new fans were won over by it. The record garnered nominations for a handful of Grammys (though won none) including Album Of The Year, making it their second album in a row to receive that industry honor. They'd shaken off the frivolities of "Stand" and "Shiny Happy People" and turned in a mature, somber, reflective masterpiece. They were on the precipice of world domination, challenging U2 for Biggest Band In The World status. That's the context of Automatic For The People in 1992. It was a note-perfect culmination of everything that R.E.M. had evolved into while staying true to their own artistic vision. I'm not sure if it's baffling or inevitable that backlash would ensue.
Some of this might be due to the upstart third entrant in the Biggest Band sweepstakes: Nirvana. After all, R.E.M. had been going about their business for over a decade now, and the sweeping-out-of-the-old brought on so suddenly and forcefully by Nevermind at the tail end of 1991 included them, at least to a degree. If "Shiny Happy People" seemed frothy as a freestanding entity, it was downright ridiculous when compared with "Smells Like Teen Spirit." As a frontman, Michael Stipe fell somewhere between the extremes of Bono and Kurt Cobain. He was not the misanthrope Cobain was, suffocating on unwanted popularity, but Stipe always came across like a private person—one who got accustomed to the spotlight with little relish for it. Nevertheless, he had also adopted some of the outsized rock star tropes of Bono; I think there comes a point when self-parody is the only route left available to demonstrate that, hey, come on, I don't take myself that seriously. But U2 seemed to exist from the beginning as a platform for Bono's Very Important Things To Say, and Bono appears to crave the attention of stardom; Stipe, by contrast, appeared to only slowly realize that he held the respect and admiration of a sizable audience. Understanding that, and being a socially-conscious person, he felt it was a responsibility to use that mantle to talk about things that were important to him. (And counted among those that respected and admired him was Kurt Cobain himself, but we'll touch on that again later on.)
All of this has very little to do with the actual music, however. My point with all of this is that cultural context can sometimes overshadow the merits (or lack thereof) of the art itself, and it's particularly difficult to separate Automatic For The People from its moment in history.
I agree with everything you say there, Bryce, but while R.E.M.'s U.S. popularity began to suffer, their stature overseas continued to increase. Beginning with this album, they stopped having Top 10 hits in this country (and had only a handful of Top 40 hits here for the rest of their career), but in the U.K. they had Top 10 hits from every album through 2004, and many other places (Canada and Norway, in particular) were hotbeds of fame for them, too. But at this moment, in 1992-1993, R.E.M. was about as relevant as a group could be, their every move tracked by the rock/alternative press. They played only one full concert to promote this album, and that was to support the environmental group Greenpeace. By continuing to eschew touring, a mystique was building up around them, heightening interest even more.
Part of that interest was due to their political views, and for this album, the political statements that had been almost entirely absent for the last two albums returned, first in the single "Drive," with its line about being "Bush-whacked," but especially in "Ignoreland," the one full-on fiery rocker on Automatic that seems to criticize the voting public for electing Republicans to the presidency in 1980, 1984, and 1988 and cautions that it could happen again here in 1992 (in the end, Clinton won, and Stipe and Mike Mills performed at his Inaugural Ball).
It's almost more bewildering that this record came out 23 years ago than it is that Murmur is over 30 years old. My first thought on cueing up "Ignoreland" for the first time in a long time was that he was indicting Clinton and the Democrats equally with that "'92" tacked onto the list of elections he felt we'd screwed up; like it was all going to be more of the same without some fundamental changes. It only dawned on me later that the album came out prior to the election, when most pundits were still assuming that Bush would be reelected for a second term. It's also interesting that he couches the sentiment at the end, singing, "I know that this is vitriol/No solution…But I feel better having screamed."
"Drive" was an odd choice for a single, though: ominous, lacking a chorus, mostly played on one chord—it was an effective album opener, inviting the listener on a journey that promised many moods and styles, but on its own, it apparently felt too unresolved, unfulfilling to the average consumer. On the album, the tension begins to lift on track two, "Try Not To Breathe," a lilting 6/8 charmer that nonetheless has dark undercurrents ("something to fly over my grave again"). The mood brightens considerably on "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite," an ersatz tribute to "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" and, as I think about it, probably the last time R.E.M. ever allowed themselves to be truly silly on an album track, underscored by Stipe's unrestrained giggling after mispronouncing "Seuss" in the lyrics. At this point, the setup is perfect for "Everybody Hurts," a straightforwardly empathetic and lush track with quirky turns of phrase ("Don't throw your hand") that keep it from getting maudlin. The band allows you to ruminate on this through a noirish instrumental track before giving you the gut-punch of "Sweetness Follows," a meditation on loss awash with swirls of guitar feedback.
The tension continues to re-mount with the spiky, slightly Eastern "Monty Got A Raw Deal," culminating in the howling "Ignoreland" before dissipating somewhat in the seedy tremolo twang of "Star Me Kitten." The feelings of suspicion and mistrust underlying these three tracks then hit an anthemic peak with "Man On The Moon," a song that would soon become their signature live track and also inspire a major film about the song's main subject, the maddeningly unpredictable and provocative comic Andy Kaufman. The final two tracks of the album ease the listener back toward a feeling of comfort, easing from the surreptitious pleasures of "Nightswimming" into a hopeful but tentative communing with nature in "Find The River." A calmly pulsing keyboard dotted with a gentle acoustic guitar figure takes us to a satisfying conclusion.
I don't know who's responsible for selecting the singles (I read a quote recently from Peter Buck that suggested it was the label), but you're right, Tom—"Drive" was definitely a puzzler, one of many confounding singles put out during the Warner era. Leave it as a mood-setter opening, but lose the strings (which undermine the late-night, lonesome vibe, to my ear) and you've got something. "Everybody Hurts," a message song framed with tranquil arpeggios and something of a gospel feel, was an obvious single. It's a beautiful song, though it was also strangely polarizing. Plus, that video, revealing the thoughts of motorists stuck in traffic together? It was manipulative as hell, but damn if it didn't move me. Though there was some definite overexposure to it, I personally never got sick of it. It seemed to solidify the view (among those who perhaps were predisposed to disliking him) that Stipe was a blowhard that just needed to shut up. Ironic, considering his long history of inscrutability. There's a big string arrangement here as well, but this one feels like it can support it, and more: I would've liked to hear an actual Southern gospel choir vocalizing during the outro.
In fact, for something that was largely viewed as image reclamation for them, it's surprising to be reminded how far this is from the bare-bones sound of early R.E.M. The organ seems to have taken over during this mid-period, often relegating the guitar to texture in the mix. It's less polished than Out Of Time, but still screams "big budget." I'd forgotten how much I like the band working against the dramatic, churning cello on "Sweetness Follows"—a definite highlight. "Nightswimming" is lovely, with a beautiful lyric, but that countermelody of descending notes on the piano is repeated just a little too frequently for my tastes, and it wears on me. Much more successful, in terms of long-term listening, is "Find The River," which balances on the razor edge of quiet meditation and epic sweep—no small feat. My favorite from the record, though, both then and now, is "Try Not To Breathe." I like a song that feels a little angry, a little sad, a little heart-on-sleeve, but downplayed as matter-of-fact. I like that it affects me because I decided for myself that there's a kernel of something I can relate to, and not because it's a song created with the explicit goal of throttling listeners' emotions.
Overall? Automatic For The People probably deserves its vaunted place in the R.E.M. canon. Even the forgettable "Monty Got A Raw Deal" is a pretty good song (by "forgettable" I don't mean "worthless," but that it gets lost in the middle of the record, and I literally can't recall how it goes if it isn't currently playing). It's big songs on a big stage, delivered impeccably. Definitely worth revisiting if, some time in the past two decades, you've developed an overarching opinion of the band that colors your ability to hear the music behind the legacy—or perhaps can no longer even remember the time when they were one of the biggest acts in the world.
It was quite a balancing act, but they did manage for a time there to be hugely popular and largely immune to negative criticism. I've mentioned that they had a mystique, and part of that was in their choice of song titles: you tended to read them for the first time and either think "How could there even BE a song with this title?" (e.g., "Try Not To Breathe") or "Oh, this sounds boringly obvious" ("Everybody Hurts"), but then the song itself would surprise you with its catchiness or its emotional impact.
Speaking of the latter, I bought a new (used) car in the fall of 1993. Car shopping was a process I really abhorred in those days to begin with, but then the next day at work, my co-workers convinced me that I got a raw deal, so to speak. So I went back to the dealer with my "game face," declaring that I didn't want this car at all if they couldn't adjust my interest rate. They declared in no uncertain terms that this was not an option, and I felt utterly defeated and left. I got into the car and as I drove away, "Everybody Hurts" came on the radio, and… let's just say it was a very, very emotional moment. Flash forward to the spring of 2001, and the British music magazine Q was having a contest where you had to submit a meaningful anecdote related to an R.E.M. song to win the deluxe version of their latest CD. I submitted this story and, to my shock, I won the contest. Take that, Toyota!
My fandom had taken another step up the year before Automatic For The People came out: I joined the fan club (still $10 a year), mostly for the annual holiday singles that were unavailable any other way. The 1991 single included the hilarious "Christmas Griping," but in 1992, they covered an obscure punk-era tune called "Where's Captain Kirk?"—this devoted Star Trek fan was bemused but pleased. Considering this, and the quality of their latest album, and their fame, and their critical standing, I looked forward to their next move, wondering if they could possibly get any cooler.