Steering away from the "in concert" tour souvenir route, the guys in R.E.M. have worked up a richly varied batch of new songs. Hi-Fi's miscellaneous moods and textures smack of a broad-based experimental autonomy that recalls 1985's Fables of the Reconstruction. But this time, the exploration seems bred out of healthy curiosity rather than (as with Fables) the anxiousness that often accompanies a third-release identity crisis.
Ten of Hi-Fi's 14 tracks were recorded on last year's Monster tour, some in front of an audience, others during sound check and one -- the disarmingly tender instrumental aside, "Zither" -- at an informal dressing room session. The remaining four tunes were laid down at Bad Animals Studios in Seattle. Not surprisingly, the songs knocked out by the band on-stage are Hi-Fi's most gruff rockers. The sheer locomotive force of "Departure," Hi-Fi's most glaring tribute to mobility, feeds off of the positive energy of its Detroit audience. Ditto with "Undertow," its murky forward momentum captured in performance at a concert in Boston.
Prettier, more atmospheric moments came about in the sanctuary of the studio, and they are spread throughout Hi-Fi in a manner that defies any obvious thematic logic. The CD begins tentatively, for example, with the esoteric, trip-hoppy number "How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us," setting in motion an awkward ebb and flow that's apparently representative of the bumpy aesthetic ride the band was after. Upon repeated listens, that slapdash quality turns sublimely sensible.
Negotiating his way gingerly through Hi-Fi's disjointed itinerary is Michael Stipe, who suffuses his strained whimper/wail with spoken verse, flitting back and forth instinctively between coherent fragments and metaphoric, profound sounding gibberish. His delivery implies a state of perpetual restlessness that, like the music on Hi-Fi, mirrors the turmoil that dictated R.E.M.'s 1995 tour, a tumultuous blur of sold-out arenas, hospital stays (bassist Mike Mills and Stipe) and a near-death experience on-stage (drummer Bill Berry's aneurysm).
R.E.M. makes an admirable attempt to organize the mess with the gorgeous, refined finisher "Electrolite." As the song's tidy pop melody resonates and fades, Stipe declares matter-of-factly, "I'm outta here."
You have to think that he's just making idle conversation, though. Everything about the extraordinary New Adventures in Hi-Fi indicates that Stipe, Mills, Berry and Buck plan on sticking around for a while. (****) (Hobart Rowland)
Like overripe cheese, few things offend as mightily as aged teen angst. Especially when you can't even dance to it. The misnamed New Adventures in Hi-Fi is neither new nor adventurous, but a preening collection of big chords and lyrical drivel that will no doubt sell as handsomely as any R.E.M. release since 1988's Green.
Bands that don't have anything to say usually either attack only their instruments or holler to cover their shortcomings. Michael Stipe takes a different approach, offering faux-poetical snippets the ear has to strain to catch, while the connectors are lost behind Peter Buck's repetitive strummings. R.E.M. fans may mistake such evocative song titles as "New Test Leper" and references to Maria Callas, William Greider and Steve McQueen for cool profundity, but it all has a hipper-than-thou reek.
On the other hand, maybe it's better that the band throws a few words into the mix. R.E.M. was at its instrumental best in the early '80s as a throb-rocking bar band wringing sweat from writhing bodies in small East Coast clubs. The further Stipe and his mates move toward slow, trancelike songs that actually require listening, the more its collective choplessness intrudes. Through the guitar and synth fog, it's hard to tell whether the occasional sprinkle of acoustic instruments adds to or soothes the pain (but take the sickly "Zither" with its sorry autoharp backdrop ... please).
Alas, you can't go backward in the music business, and maybe all the overtones of anguish, despair and plaintive meditations on fame that dominate Hi-Fi reflect the sad truth of soulless stadium concerts and the other inescapable claws of success. R.E.M. could break apart tomorrow and retire to the fat farm, make movies, whatever. But the band has less chance of returning to its clubland roots than this CD has of actually living up to its name. (*) (Bob Burtman)