An off-kilter saxophone staggers through the tour bus. I know this theme music. I can already picture a bemused James Dean, falling drunkly onto the sidewalk, fumbling with a wind-up monkey.
I duck into the back lounge and confirm: someone’s just popped in Rebel Without A Cause.
I’m staying. One of my all-time favorites. Ties in perfectly with the tour, we drove past the Observatory just last week, site of one of the film’s most iconic scenes.
Also, not to be grandiose, but I can’t help but identify with Jim Stark. This close to fitting in with the gang, but just too God-damned independent. Maybe he thinks too much.
The film enthralls all the way into Oklahoma, where we stop for a break just a few miles from where Jonathan used to live. Touring triggers different memories for all of us.
When we get rolling again, I sit up front with Dominic, but I don’t talk much. My mom’s dad disappeared into Texas in the 1940s, where we’re heading. Guess being stubbornly independent is in my blood. I never met my grandfather, but every time I’m in Texas, I feel like I’m tapping into memories that aren’t even mine.
# # #
Late night, we check into a hotel north of San Antonio. Jeff and I have a suite with a kitchen and whatnot. We walk to an all-night supermarket to grab some frozen pizza.
For some reason, before she rings us up, the bored checkout girl decides she needs to show us the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Page by page, slowly, no explanation. Well, let’s say this is our evening’s entertainment and call it a night.
Next Day
Susan is the regional rep for our record company, or something like that. She’s usually up for a side adventure, we’ve become friends. Despite my assertions of independence, sometimes it’s nice to have a partner in crime. She picks me up in a rental car and we navigate into downtown San Antonio, to the Alamo.
I didn’t know that the Alamo started as a Spanish mission. It was converted into a military fort in the early 1800s, that’s how it came to be the site of the famous battle. There’s definitely a hushed reverence as we explore the site. In Texas, this is holy ground.
We grab lunch at Mexican restaurant, Susan gets me back to the hotel in time to hop back on the bus and head to Retama Park, a horse racetrack that’s only hosted a handful of concerts. Holds something like 20,000, so our last show with REM is also our biggest on the tour.
It’s Texas hot. I’ve already had my adventure for the day, so I decide to stay on the bus a little while, reading the book about the Alamo I picked up earlier.
Triple bill tonight. We’ll be up first, then Wilco, then REM. Recently I wrote an article for Mojo Magazine, the editor decided to pair it with a piece by Jeff Tweedy. When I meet Tweedy backstage, we talk about this coincidence briefly, that’s the extent of my interaction with him.
The conversation at dinner proves more memorable. First and only time on the tour I eat with Michael Stipe. Jonathan’s at the table too, maybe one other person, not remembering who. I don’t say much, if anything. Michael spends most of dinner talking about a film he’s producing. It seems inherently interesting because, well, he’s Michael Stipe, and he’s talking to me. It’s not like he doesn’t have my attention.
After supper, our show is delayed by a surprise wind storm. The crew hustles to reposition our equipment.
We manage to squeak in a compact six-song set. The crowd is dense, loud, and very responsive. From somewhere in the middle of the noise and mayhem, someone is clearly yelling my name repeatedly. I smile and wave in the general vicinity, not often I get a personal cheering section.
Later on, I realize it was my old pal Dylan calling out from the audience. I didn’t realize he lived in Texas, haven’t seen him in years. When REM goes on, with a little gang comprised of Dylan, Susan, and a few other friends, I finally venture out into the thick of the crazy crowd and watch the show like a normal person, getting tossed this way and that. And it’s awesome.
Somewhere in the flurry of activity I meet an enthusiastic feller named Sean who scribbles his number down.
“Come play Oklahoma City!” he tells me.
I stick the note in my pocket. It will become crumpled and almost indistinguishable from a tour’s worth of other crumpled notes. But a year later I’ll be fronting a band in Oklahoma City (another story).
Backstage, someone else calls my name. Oh my God, it’s Ted! One of our favorite bus drivers ever, he’s driving for Wilco!
I remember once watching Ted drive clear past Houston before he realized he’d missed it. Texas is pretty wide open. It’s not easy to miss an entire city. Well, we circled back in plenty of time anyway, and he’s managed to get Wilco here to San Antonio, so I guess old Ted is still in business.
We’re all hanging out in this astroturfed hospitality area. REM hangs with us too, we’re all talking, even Michael Stipe is just talking with us like a regular guy. Something about this being the last show of the tour, all the pretenses are down, we’ve all gotten through it together. Well, I don’t imagine it was as much of a stretch for REM as it was for us, for me personally. But I guess there’s pressure on them too, maybe more.
Where’s Peter Buck? I don’t see him anywhere. But Mike Mills comes over and gives me a big hug. Like I said, nicest guy in show business.
It’s a great last night. The shows with REM are over, but this doesn’t mean that we get to go home anytime soon. We’ve got a string of European shows to play, beginning just two days from now.
But first, we’ll need to get ourselves out of Texas…
This has been installment number seven. There will be one more installment in the REM series posting next week.
Click here to begin with the first