The Night of the Locust
REM Tour ’99
Being that I only joined this band a few years ago, it’s kind of amazing that anyone would want to interview me.
Days like yesterday when I could just bop around Hollywood are atypical. There’s a constant stream of promotion, and there are enough interviews that management divides them between four of us.
Like I said, they always seem so happy to talk with me. How could I complain?
# # #
A late-day cab ride through Griffith Park only costs a few bucks more than city streets. We wind our way to the venue along “Observatory Crest,” a place that previously existed only in Captain Beefheart lyrics and in our own imaginations.
It’s a scenic ride, and also in homage to the Beefheart song, which we sometimes cover. The views, the actuality of finding ourselves in the setting of the song, puts us in a collective state of reverie. Suspended in time, like the western sun hanging in the dusty Los Angeles sky.
The moment remains with me, part of a spiritual Los Angeles which really does exist. But we are about to be re-delivered to that other Los Angeles. The one that makes me question things.
# # #
“Hot coffee! Hot coffee!”
This is what the guys on REM’s crew say when they push past you backstage, and they say this constantly.
Our band has a small crew, of course. We all ride the same bus, we drink together, everyone wears what they want.
REM’s crew has their own bus. Maybe buses, plural. They wear uniforms (matching black t-shirts) and take their jobs very seriously.
The music world is filled with pecking orders, as evidenced by Michael Stipe having his own dressing room. He and Peter Buck and Mike Mills are being incredibly gracious with us, but they could just as easily not be. They’re not only the headliners in this scenario, they are in the freaking stratosphere.
But how about their crew? Is the crew of the headlining band famous by proxy? Are they higher in the pecking order than the band members of the opening act who are, actually, slightly famous in some parts of the world? One or two of REM’s crew members seem to think so.
If we lived in China during the Han Dynasty, maybe Confucius could help clarify the situation. For now, when I hear “Hot coffee!” I just get out of their way.
# # #
Some contest winners get to come watch REM sound check. I sit out there with them in the still-empty, massive theater, watching the band rehearse. A private REM concert, fully amplified. I feel like a contest winner too.
Our soundcheck tonight is a lot shorter than last night. They’ve already pretty much got all the levels, just making sure everything still works.
Dinner tonight is enchiladas and Peter Buck hangs out with us. What a totally cool guy. Like I said, stratosphere, but here he is, just chilling. He makes you feel like he actually wants to be here and is not just being polite.
We play another good show, I’m into it. Afterwards, I’m trying to make my way back into our dressing room, but there are these very short people blocking the doorway. Then I realize it’s Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman and their kids.
Years later, my wife will do some work with Danny DeVito, and I will find myself giving incredibly nice Rhea Perlman a tour of our modest backyard. But this night, I’m saying Excuse me to Louie from Taxi and Carla from Cheers so I can get to our bathroom, and it’s just plain surreal.
My friends Heather & Matt live in LA. I was able to get them backstage passes, another perk. Seems like they’re having a good time, and it’s grounding to have friends here. We watch REM together from the side of the stage.
Matt’s not in the industry, but he’s a musicophile and usually seems to know more about music than I do. He leans over and tells me one of the additional musicians playing with REM is from a certain band.
I try to take a closer look. The guy in back with dyed orange hair playing the keyboards, maybe he looks familiar? Can’t quite tell for sure, will have to investigate further…
REM plays a slightly different set than last night. This one perhaps has even more new songs that I’m not entirely familiar with, but they do play some recognizable hits like The One I Love, a personal favorite, and Losing My Religion.
Michael does a solo thing about seven songs in, a Velvet Underground cover song, which breaks up the set nicely. He’s not a guitarist’s guitarist like Peter Buck, but with that voice, he could accompany himself on a rusty coffee can and it would still sound great.
There are more and more celebrities milling about. One of my bandmates spots John McEnroe. There’s something really weird about this odd mix of famous musicians, actors, and sports heroes, it’s starting to mess with me, and I can’t say exactly why.
I’ve been getting used to meeting people who are famous on other tours, but not dizzyingly famous. What I’m surrounded by here, it seems, is a situation where what matters is fame itself, not what you did to achieve it. Uber famous people hanging with other über famous people.
I’m really starting to feel like I’m swimming in water that’s just way over my head. Rational or not, it’s beginning to give me an anxiety attack.
Having started with small audiences and worked my way up, I’ve developed the ability over time to perform in front of large audiences. Usually it’s a remarkable experience. Like, “Wow look at this fantastic sea of human energy.”
But tonight, through the filter of creeping anxiety, it’s different. Looking out at this massive crowd screaming for REM, I’m thinking:
“This could crush me…”
# # #
The actress I was hanging out with last night appears backstage again. Okay, she’s definitely flirting with me. No after-show party for me tonight. In fact, for logistical reasons, we actually have to leave before REM even finishes playing. So, goodbye actress.
This is 1999, before cellphones will fly out of pockets with lives of their own, sharing contact info as if they know better than we do. No social media yet either. How many entanglements I may have avoided thanks to the limits of late 20th century technology I might never tabulate.
Our new tour bus is waiting for us behind the Greek Theatre. It’s a Prevost. This detail is interesting to me because I’m still, at heart, a ten-year-old boy obsessed with things like buses. Our previous buses have been Eagles. I’ve heard drivers say they prefer Prevost.
Our new driver is Dominic—from the Bronx! This is also interesting to me, because all our other bus drivers have been from the South. I ask him what he thinks about actually driving a bus in New York, he says he prefers it. Another first, because every previous otherwise competent driver has asked for my navigational assistance as they white-knuckled it across NYC.
Dominic drives us back to Le Parc. Our equipment has already been loaded, but we humans get one more night at the hotel.
Back in my room, they have me squeeze in one last phone interview, making this a working day from start to finish.
I’m still rattled from tonight’s show, this sensation of feeling overwhelmed by crowds and celebrities. I pull up a footstool and try flipping on the gas fireplace, which was such a novelty and had a calming effect when we first got here.
I sit staring at the fire, which should be mesmerizing. But tonight I can’t seem to get over the fact that the logs are fake.
Okay, maybe this isn’t quite “Day of the Locust.” Am I remembering correctly, does the main character get pulverized by an angry Hollywood mob? Not sure if I’d even read it yet in 99.
Great title, anyway.
This has been the third installment in this series.
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I was riveted. Cool story! Did you keep journals through this period, or have all these details been massaged forth from memory?
I remember this all so well, except Matt telling you a detail about what other band the musician played in. I also remember Matt pointing out another celebrity you must have missed. Ellen Barkin, just after we left you by the side view of the stage!