1999

by Eoghan O'Neill

As I entered Lansdowne road last Friday evening I found myself reflecting on the fact that it should be REM of all people I was going to see. Such reflection was inspired by the chance encounter I had when I attended the second of the two shows U2 played in the same venue in August 1997. Others would remember it as the day that Princess Diana died but my memory will always associate it with a particularly successful execution of that subtle art known as ‘gate-crashing’. What happened is that minutes before U2 hit the stage I somehow succeeded in spoofing my way into the VIP section in front of the sound-mixing desk. This had me instantaneously catapulted in to the immediate company of such darling icons of our time as Naomi Campbell, Elvis Costello and Helena Christiansen. Shying from their presence I quietly retired to the rear of the small VIP area and found a spot to stand beside a skinny, strangely self-conscious, thirty-something man. I didn’t recognise who it was immediately, he being hidden under a one of those floppy hats much loved by the Britpop fraternity. Pretty soon though I realised it was no aging Britpopper but the old codger himself Mr. Michael Stipe of R.E.M. For the entire Popmart spectacle he remained at my left shoulder from where I was afforded the privileged opportunity of observing his idiosyncratic dancing method at close quarters.

Two years later I’m back in Lansdowne Road and so is Mr. Stipe. This time though I don’t make it into the VIP area and instead join the heaving, sweating mass of humanity on the pitch. Stipe is also not in the VIP pound but is nonetheless on for doing his dance thing again. This time he’s chosen to step it out on the stage in front of 42,000 or so (with his band as well it might be added, providing the appropriate moral and rhythmical support).

It all began at 8:30pm when, unannounced, REM hit the stage. Stipe, evidently pumped up and sporting purple eyeshadow, was soon covering every corner of the stage like a cheetah on Red Bull. Mike Mills – who one time looked more like a young Bill Gates than the musical fulcrum of one of the great rock bands – strolled on wearing an outrageous and extravagant sequined overcoat. It is warming to see his metamorphosis into indulgent rock star is progressing well, even if it is at a rather late stage of his career. Peter Buck was, well, uh, Peter Buck. What can you say? He, it seems, was just here to rock and focus on his guitar, leaving the bells and whistles of stadium performance to his colleagues.