It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Don’t Feel Fine)

Michaels as it all Burns Down

I always wanted to be in a band. I don’t think I would’ve handled it well, though. Seems like the kind of environment that might kill me. Booze, drugs, late nights, seedy venues, sharing, contract law—none of those suit me at all. Also, I can’t play an instrument or sing I think I could handle the writing part, though I had a poetry professor in college who brought me in for a one-on-one conference specifically to ensure I stopped rhyming. Now, when I teach poetry workshops, I have two rules: No rhyming, and there are no rules. I don’t really like rhyming.

Michael Shannon obviously wanted to be in a band. He has been in bands. But he’s better known as a two-time Academy Award-nominated actor from films such as Revolutionary Road, Take Shelter, Mud, Midnight Special, Man of Steel, and The Night Before, where he captures the true essence of a low-stakes weed dealer with Oscar-level perfection. But this winter, he’s touring with Jason Narducy (Verböten, Bob Mould Band, Sunny Day Real Estate) on their second outing as an REM tribute band, covering Fables of the Reconstruction in its entirety, as well as a bunch of other REM. They’re joined by John Stirratt (Wilco), Dag Juhlin (Poi Dog Pondering), Vijay Tellis-Nayak (Kick the Cat), and Jon Wurster (Superchunk, the Mountain Goats) in what amounts to an all-star cover band if ever there were one. And Shannon, whether immersed in the role of REM frontman Michael Stipe or simply playing the part of a frontman or actually being a frontman, fucking killed it Saturday night at the band's Brooklyn Steel stop.

Live music has always been an escape for me. In sobriety, it was one of my biggest adjustments. I mean, how do you dance without a pint of whiskey in your stomach and a beer in each hand? But instead of being a sober challenge, it has been a source of solace. The last seven years have been like going to my first shows all over again, to disappear not into myself but into the music and into the community of the crowd. I never saw REM back in the day, though they’re one of the formative bands of my youth. “Losing my Religion” was a present anthem when I first started visiting music stores and finding bands outside of what my parents played. “Everybody Hurts” was the slow song that played at the end of every high school dance. I have fond memories of my buddy Dave sitting absolutely still during “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” until the chorus kicked in, and then jumping from his seated position into an exaggerated downward fist thrust. And I remember thinking I impressed girls by telling them the story of the song’s title, about CBS news anchor Dan Rather getting beaten up while his assailant repeated that same chorus.

Fables of the Reconstruction, other than “Driver 8,” was completely unfamiliar territory before Saturday. But there’s something unmistakably REM and mid-80s indie about the songs, which are as addictive as they are timeless. Shannon and the band tore through the album during their first set, and I was reminded of how punk-influenced REM was, with short, tight songs that leaned more toward The Ramones or The Replacements than the multi-instrument, epic indulgences that defined the band’s later work. But what I found most interesting, most comforting about the evening was how much the music meant to the crowd.

Now, remember, this was not REM. This was a cover band fronted by an actor, and I don’t mean that as a slight, just a statement of facts. But the crowd sang and danced and cheered like Michael Stipe, Mike Mills, Peter Buck, and Bill Berry were on stage, and with the right kind of eyes, they were, manifested in Shannon’s showmanship and half-Stipe impression, soothed by the guitar work of Narducy and Juhlin. The world was gone, and we were in Athens, GA, at the 40 Watt Club in 1984.

But then, the world came back.

Standing in front of us was a quintet of douchebaggery that tried their best to destroy our useful illusion. At first, we thought they were a family—mom, dad, and three kids in their early 20s. It later became apparent that they were on some kind of work outing like Brooklyn Steel’s lawyer had comped five tickets to his hedge fund manager buddy who brought hjis three interns along in hopes of convincing at least two of them into bed with him and his wife. They were dancing but with an aggressive facetiousness. They were drinking White Claws by the dozen. They were taking selfies. They were taking up space, appropriating it from people who needed it, needed community, needed escape, and yet here they were, reminders of the ghouls that haunted our departure from the apparition.

Mid-show, the band brought Lizz Winstead on stage, the comedian, The Daily Show co-creator, and abortion rights activist, in support of her organization, the Abortion Access Front, who would be the beneficiaries of all the night’s merch sales. “On a personal note,” Winstead told the band. “I really need you guys to understand the joy that you are bringing. I couldn’t wait to get here because not only is it so fun, and we love this music, [but] how much you love it makes it so great. I’m not going to cry—because we’re fucked.” She summed up how we were all feeling, balancing our escape and what awaited after the encores. But the people in front of us weren’t having it. “I’ve been tricked!” the “dad” yelled. The kids booed Winstead, and I suppose abortion. I’ve never wanted to punch someone so bad in my life, but I was way more concerned that my wife would locate a knife and cut the motherfuckers up.

The crowd around us was similarly frustrated that our space was being invaded. Didn’t they have enough? They were outside the walls of Brooklyn Steel, destroying USAID, the Department of Education, and the NIH. They were at Kid Rock shows, cheering the recognition of only two genders, of the end of women’s autonomy, and the death of the humanities. They were in parts of the country colored dark MAGA blue, setting fires meant to spread nationwide. They didn’t need to be here. as soon as they left, the sense of escape returned. The community smiled. The songs filled us. And once again, we had a moment outside the chaos, outside the fires. Shannon and Narducy played a beautiful stripped-down “So. Central Rain” with Peter Gabriel’s “Red Rain” outro. The band came back and powered through random entries from REM’s expansive catalog, including “Daysleeper,” “Find the River,” and “Radio Free Europe,” to finish things off, as if they felt our reprieve, our need. And then, when we thought it was over, and the 1200 or so middle-aged attendees prepared to order Übers and relieve the babysitter, Michael Stipe himself stepped onto the stage and led the band in “Pretty Persuasion.”

Zappa once said, “Information is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not truth. Truth is not beauty. Beauty is not love. Love is not music. Music is the best.” And he was right. And on that night, I realized that escapism isn’t desertion; it’s replenishment. Fuck the MAGAts, fuck Trump, fuck Musk. As long as there’s still music, art, and community, we’re not fucking done yet.

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