1995 08 05 R.E.M. Cardiff Arms Park NME

OGRE FRIENDLY!

REM
Cardiff Arms Park

THERE IS a clock. Positioned a few streets away, its deadpan face gazes over the rooftops and the terraces at Cardiff Arms Park, almost hidden behind the huge stack of amps which dwarf Peter Buck stage left. Thus it will stare for the ensuing two hours of rocking, rolling shenanigans. And it will not move once. For this clock is stuck, its hands stretching back to such a dusty point in time they are almost completely horizontal, from left to right. Forget asking Kenneth about the frequency - what's the bleedin' time. Michael? Why. it's 2.46. Eternal.

Perfect.

For isn't this predsely the kind of riddle that so delights REM-ites? Yet another twist to tease the masses, another act of subversion to upset the applecart of preconceptions? Of course not - it's just a bloody town clock that some sod can't be arsed to wind up. But such have been the dangers inherent in disseminating the REM info overload over the past 17 years: no matter how hard you strive to suss out the mind-boggling games that they play, you can never quite shake off the sense that REM are making you feel like a complete prat. Because, really, when you get down to the nitty gritty, are REM that different? Is this global sensation really sensational?

Check this situation. Then check your head in at the turnstiles. Belly, Del Amitri, The Cranberries. These are today's supports. This is not punk rock. This is Stipes-and-slippers, a 50,000-strong rock'n'cheese roll picnic for the comfortable couples, soothed by the reassuring twang of Buck's Rickenbacker, the steady thwack of Bill Berry's snare. And there is no beer. Anywhere. "Welsh Bitter!" bellow the stadium's advertising hoardings. Too f—ing right we are.

And so REM, the six million dollar band in more ways than fiscal ("Gentlemen, we can rebuild them. We have the technology...") rumble into Britain for the first time this decade. 'Monster' by name, monstrous by nature. It seems somehow fitting that they should have seen their record sales go stratospheric whilst refusing to tour them. It seems even more fitting that they should be playing here at the Cardiff Arms Park, home of Welsh Rugby Union, in a stadium peppered with so many permanent testosterone-singed 'Men Only' signs you feel as though you're trapped in a porn mag convention.

Because this surely cannot work out. How the heck are REM going to relay all their intricacies and intimacies to such a vast expanse? How can their subtleties possibly survive such an ordeal by open air? Sure, as Blur are discovering, there's no other way to satisfy punter requirements but how is the REM psyche standing up to such enormous enormodome demands?

Wobblingly, if the opening is anything to go by. 'What's The Frequency, Kenneth?' and 'Crush With Eyeliner' represent the rush out of the blocks, bludgeoning the PA senseless. Even the girls from the typing pool are tut-tutting about the "crap acoustics". You shudder to think what the next 172 minutes will be like. And then everything - ever-so-gently - starts falling into place.

Not least because, well, Michael Stipe gives good stadium. Really! A perfect mixture of sweetness and blight, his theatrical repertoire extends from victory poses to shadow boxing; from strangulating the mic stand to sitting on the monitors looking bored shitless. "Hi! I'm not very fond of your shirt," he drawls at a heckler at one point. "This song was written in 1066 at the beginning of the Norman Conquest," he burbles at another. "This song's about whatever you want it to be about," he shrugs at yet another, not unlike the mildly dysfunctional uncle who doesn't actually give that much of a toss about the nephews but will make some sort of effort on their birthdays.

Stipe does not shout at Wales. He does not holler "HELLOOOOO CARDIFF!!!" at regular intervals. REM are still, stubbornly not designed for the Bon Jovi-tastic perm-soaked among us. If there is any irony tonight it is of the gentle, self-mocking variety - this most decidedly isn't a case of REM making a clumsy MacPhisto of proceedings. There might be little obvious danger in their music, but equally there's little hideous desperation. Instead, the set settles for being downright sneaky, creeping up - Tango-style - to slap you in the face with a drowned aardvark when you least expect. REM are nothing if not discreet.

Key moments? A vicious, vibrant sprint through 'Star '69'; the acoustic stroppery of ‘Man On The Moon'; Stipe announcing "This is called 'Try Not To Breathe' - it's a song about death..."; Mike Mills' alarmingly awful sequinned scarlet suit, which masterfully still actually looks worse than it could ever read in print; a "new song about drowning" that sees Stipe suddenly let rip with a quite dramatic chorus; and a complete and utter absence of 'Shiny Happy People'.

Best of all, there's the knee-trembling brilliance of 'Everybody Hurts'. Having been ruthlessly economic with the use of the lightshow and video screens for most of the set, it's here that REM completely let go with a whirlwind of huge X-ray visions and lightning flashes. And when Stipe howls "Hold on! Hold on!" and everyone sings along you get the sneaking feeling that this massive nocturnal chorus is the nearest you can possibly get to the gospel/rugby/celebratory spirit of the vast surroundings, with thousands of yearning voices echoing around the valleys. And then you stop and think "Hang on. I'm not even drunk...."

Such is the power inherent in REM's poignancy, their ability to take the simplest of emotions and freeze-frame them into an almost unbearably sensitive snapshot of a moment lost. There's immense power, as well, in their contrariness, such is the way they reel from a splendid 'Finest Worksong' to a prickly 'Losing My Religion'. And such is the way that the likes of 'Stand' and 'Drive' are ignored in favour of a feisty, crowd-silencing new song, 'Departure' (written on February 11 in the Basque region of Spain, if you must know), during those all-important stadia-satisfying encores.

It ends with - oh yet more irony of ironies - the f—ed-up communal jubilation of 'It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)'. And you're thinking, "Yeah, not quite absolute genius" - the contrary side puts paid to that - "but on a scale of heart-warming, soul-thrilling, memory-spinning magnificence, REM... aren't bad at all". And you would be absolutely right.

Simon Williams