Michael Shannon, Jason Narducy & Friends Channel R.E.M. (and Literal R.E.M.) in Athens, Georgia
For a variety of reasons, I’ve commented to friends that the past five years have felt like I’m in a coma and my weird coma brain creates scenarios like “President Donald Trump,” “Global pandemic sends you back to your hometown on the other side of the country where you’ll only leave your house if absolutely necessary,” “Your friend kills himself a couple streets over after you arrive,” “Your brother dies,” “President Donald Trump incites riot at United States’ Capitol,” “Your high school sweetheart finds you twenty-nine years later and you’re giving it another shot.”
Since March 2020, very little has felt real. It’s felt like something an unstable person (me) creates in a deep-sleep dream.
On the morning of March 17th, 2020, I awoke on a buddy’s couch in Boston, unsure if I was driving back to Chicago, where I’d lived the past few years, or Florida, where I’d lived the rest of my life. It started lightly snowing, which seemed like a seasonal afterthought. St. Patrick’s Day? Snow? Didn’t seem right. Already felt like something out of a movie with a better soundtrack than storyline.
With everyone from news anchors to my best friend in the medical industry making it sound like the future was uncertain — talk of airports closing, curfews, etc. — I chose Florida. It wasn’t my first choice, but it felt like the smart one. Florida was more familiar. I had family and friends there. I could probably couch-surf a bit if it was hard to find work. If this really was the beginning of the end, where we all might be settling in for a long (or permanent) haul, it made sense to want to know the coffin would be comfortable.
The drive itself was surreal, passing flashing highway signs, which might normally read “Buckle Up” or “Don’t Text and Drive,” that now said things like “Stay Home, Save Lives.” What the fuck was happening? Had I already died and this was the long, strange journey to Heaven (or wherever)? Is that what a hometown really is: the beginning and the end? The place you come from and return to when everything else fails or ceases to exist? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and, hey, there’s the old high school football field.
Since that morning snow, next to nothing has felt real. Sure, I eventually found a job, started going out again, stopped wearing a mask, stopped wondering “if this trip to the post office might be my last,” but, in many ways, things have only gotten weirder. Now a convicted felon, bankrupt real estate tycoon, reality TV star and fraud-lawsuit-settler, Donald Trump, got to run for president again and … wait for it … won. Now he and human-cartoon-sidekick, billionaire car-maker, rocket-launcher and father of fourteen, Elon Musk, are getting away with whatever they want, while the rest of our alleged officials sit idly by, twiddling their thumbs within earshot of what sounds like the last gasp of anything resembling democracy.
Friends of mine, some with lucrative careers and/or children depending on them, have become outspoken about feeling hopeless, so I know I don’t just speak for myself when I say, “Not only does it feel like the rug is being pulled out from under us, it feels like, perhaps, the rug was never on solid ground to begin with, but precariously floating atop an ocean of quicksand, where ‘Stability’ was always little more than an illusion.”
What does any of this have to do with Oscar-nominated actor Michael Shannon performing an evening’s worth of R.E.M. songs with a supergroup of indie musicians at the legendary 40 Watt Club in Athens, Georgia, while actual members of R.E.M. hop on and off stage in front of a sold-out, adoring crowd?
Everything.
For starters, re-read that. It doesn’t sound real. It sounds like something my weird coma brain conjured up to keep itself entertained, or distracted from the nightmares it also conjures up. But, having been in attendance of this show not once, but twice, I assure you — or at least I’m pretty sure — it was very much real, and very much needed.
In 2024, one month shy of four years from that strange, snowy morning, I drove to Athens when Shannon, his long-time friend, Jason Narducy (Verbow, Bob Mould, Superchunk), Jon Wurster (Superchunk, Mountain Goats, Bob Mould), Dag Juhlin (Poi Dog Pondering, Sunshine Boys), Nick Macri (Heroic Doses) and Vijay Tellis-Nayak brought their tribute to R.E.M.’s debut album, Murmur, to the 40 Watt, a club I’d visited since my late teens to see bands that would almost come to Florida. The idea of a sort of all-star tribute to R.E.M. in the land of R.E.M. at a club synonymous with R.E.M. was something I couldn’t pass up. And in February? I could dismiss the expense of it as A Birthday Present to Myself. [Feb 6th, if you’re wondering. You can get me something next year.]
I fell in love with Athens during my first visit in 1999 or so. Sure, it was initially fueled by the fact that I’m a huge R.E.M. fan and, as such, Athens is basically Mecca, but it quickly became more than that. Athens is an anomaly in the south: a quaint, college town with a rich history of art and music, surrounded by sprawling farmland, isolating it from neighboring Atlanta, making it a funny little island, where, for decades now, weirdos get to be weirdos, experimenting with sounds, words and visuals, free of judgement and expectations. Leaving Athens always stings a little, in that I find myself wishing I could spend more time there, or had lived there in my 20s.
A big ol’ nerd, on prior trips, I’d make a point to check out R.E.M. landmarks: the preserved steeple of the church where they played their first show, Weaver D’s, where they lifted the title of Automatic for the People, John Keane’s home studio, Wuxtry Records, the site of the railway trestle that adorned the rear of the Murmur sleeve.
In 2024, I crossed others off the list: Philomath, the unincorporated town forty-five minutes southeast of Athens that gets name-dropped in “Can’t Get There from Here,” the field of kudzu from the cover of Murmur.
I love that none of this stuff is in a museum somewhere, but that you can walk through it, eat at it, buy records from it, as living, breathing, American rock and roll history. In a future quick to demolish the past in the name of progress, progress that tends to look like cookie-cutter condos, strip malls, Starbuckses (or whatever the plural of Starbucks is) and self-checkouts, any artifacts of what used to be, where we’re from, what inspired us, is a welcome reprieve, a breath of fresh air, a reminder that we got here from there.
The night of the Murmur show wasted no time getting surreal. As I walked from my hotel to the venue by myself, I passed Michael Shannon, by himself, carrying what looked like t-shirts and records. I don’t like bothering people under the best circumstances, let alone while they’re carrying a bunch of shit, but I did say something like, “Looking forward to the show tonight, man” and he said something like, “Thanks, see ya there.” Oscar-nominated actor, Michael Shannon, my introduction to whom was probably the 2002 Eminem biopic, 8 Mile, then the 2003 Gram Parsons postmortem biopic, Grand Theft Parsons, both films about musicians (or so it’s literally occurring to me right now), so maybe it makes perfect sense that, twenty years later, I’d watch him live, in person, front a tribute to one of my all-time favorite bands.
edit: Nope. Still doesn’t make sense. Still weird as fuck. And it’s about to get weirder.
I’ll be honest, knowing that “special guests” were popping up at other stops on this tour, I was less-than-secretly hoping that someone from R.E.M. might drop in for a song or two. Drummer, Bill Berry, still lives nearby and I’d heard the others still have homes in Athens. It didn’t seem out of the question, but I also knew better than to get my hopes up. Since disbanding in 2011, R.E.M. has famously dismissed any interest in reuniting, not due to internal animosity, but suggesting that doing so “would just be really tacky and probably money-grabbing, which might be the impetus for a lot of bands to get back together” (Michael Stipe, NME, 9/22/2021). And I know this upsets fans of theirs, but it makes me appreciate them even more. Not a lot of millionaire rock bands make it through a career with friendships and integrity intact.
That said, Berry sitting in with a band that isn’t R.E.M. to play R.E.M. songs wouldn’t count as reuniting, so I remained reluctantly optimistic something of that sort might happen.
Spoiler alert: it did happen. And kept happening. I don’t remember who appeared first but, before we knew it, Peter Buck (guitar) and Mike Mills (bass/backing vocals, though, tonight, backing vocals only) had joined Shannon & Co. onstage, and Berry stepped up to play, not drums, but keys on “Perfect Circle.” Mills kept hopping up, with those familiar, soaring harmonies taking me back to the early ‘90s, when I, personally, got into the band.
The room was electric, knowing we were witnessing probably the closest thing the world will ever get to an R.E.M. reunion. And, just when we thought things couldn’t get any more insane, Michael Stipe walked onstage between songs, while Berry, Mills and Buck were up there, and said a few kind words into the mic, complimenting both the band and event, before exiting the stage again. He didn’t sing a single note. Would’ve been nice (other than the 40 Watt staff having to scrape our brains off the walls after our heads exploded), but he didn’t need to. For us, we’d just seen all four members of R.E.M. onstage together at the 40 Watt. There’s no doubt in my mind, everyone in attendance, Alzheimer’s and dementia be damned, will carry that memory to our graves.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Yes, R.E.M. showed up to the R.E.M. tribute show. Yes, three-fourths of R.E.M. joined the tribute band to cover some of their own songs (at that point, is it a cover? I’m too tired to figure this out now). But what’s getting lost in most of the reports I’ve read about the recent (and last year’s pseudo) reunion, is that this particular tribute band is a fucking tour de force. I had no idea what to expect from Shannon as a frontman, allowing myself only to watch a couple clips of him singing in Chicago to keep this show as much of a surprise as possible. Gratefully, he doesn’t try to sound like Michael Stipe. He isn’t doing an impersonation or “goofing on Elvis,” so to speak. This isn’t an imitation of life. In fact, “actor Michael Shannon” also completely disappears. In its place, Michael Shannon, human person, and clearly a huge fan of R.E.M., belting out the words as best he knows how (which is quite good), with all the passion and tenacity of someone who sings along to the radio in their car as though they’re onstage themselves, not just going through the motions, but feeling it, as the singer might’ve felt it, as we’ve all felt it with that inexplicable part of us that “connects” with an artist.
And the band couldn’t be better. Close your eyes, you’re listening to R.E.M. in the smallest club possible, loud, blistering, perfect. Having seen Wurster and Narducy play with both Superchunk and Bob Mould, I knew what to expect from those monsters. Juhlin, Marci and Tellis-Nayak round it out with precision, all of them collectively becoming the timeless sound of R.E.M.: a wash of Rickenbacker over drums that sound like the wheels might come off any second, but somehow never do, basslines reliable as a heartbeat gluing it all together.
And they didn’t stop at recreating Murmur, that’d be a pretty short show. The “encore” was the entirety of the Chronic Town EP, followed by an onslaught of other R.E.M. songs, culminating in a set spanning two-plus hours, with ongoing appearances from Buck and Mills.
By the show’s end, I was elated, a word I don’t think I’ve ever typed before. It was this spectacular, next-level, post-concert high that also left me asking myself, “Did that really just happen?” As though to answer that question, Mike Mills exited the club next to me while I was talking with someone from Chicago I hadn’t seen in years, interrupting whatever we were saying when something inadvertently fell out of my mouth along the lines of, “Well, that’s just Mike Mills right there,” while we watched him disappear into the night.
In the fall of 2024, another tour was announced, this time covering Fables of the Reconstruction, also with a stop at 40 Watt, also in February (happy birthday to me). I bought a ticket, this time knowing what to expect: even if R.E.M. themselves don’t show up, we’ll be subject to probably two-plus hours of spot-the-fuck-on R.E.M. covers, hand-delivered by an exceptional band of players, this time with John Stirratt (Wilco) on bass. There are worse ways to spend a Thursday.
It wouldn’t be Another Adventure into the Strange Coma Happenings of My Post-Pandemic Brain if this trip didn’t also get off to a surreal start. As I arrived at Weaver D’s the day of the show for lunch and a walk around Dudley Park, I passed Shannon and Narducy in what appeared to be a photoshoot outside the restaurant. Again, I don’t like bothering folks, so I didn’t, but the sighting itself was enough to get my road-weary blood pumped for the concert — a sort of wake-up call of, “Oh, yeah, that’s tonight.”
And the evening proceeded to get stranger. Knowing the show was sold-out, I got to the club forty-five minutes early. A line had just started forming. Ahead of me, a couple I met at Weaver D’s who’d driven in from Maryland or Delaware (I’m writing this a month later, and I confuse all those states anyway). I’d offered to take their picture in front of the Weaver D’s sign and we talked about the show the year prior, and how he was hoping “lightning might strike twice” with R.E.M. themselves making an appearance this time as well.
Sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the front wall of the 40 Watt, I heard someone who sounded official say the name “Lance.” Someone behind me in line heard it too and replied, “Lance, like Lance Bangs?” Instagram posts from the tour had shown filmmaker/music video director, Lance Bangs, at some of the shows. And, sure enough, this guy meant Lance, like Lance Bangs, who soon walked past a few feet away to get things out of his car.
Sidenote 1: I’m not alone in hoping this means an eventual concert/tour documentary of this whole thing. Someone needs to do it and that someone might as well be Lance-fucking-Bangs.
Sidenote 2: Several minutes later, the same person in line who said “Lance, like Lance Bangs?” asked me if my name was Alex Luchun. It is not, but, because the world is much, much smaller than we think it is, Alex Luchun is one of my best friends. We used to do comedy together. The guy in line was also from Florida. See? I’m fucking telling you. None of this is real. I’m asleep.
An older lady directly behind me in line told me she used to work at a bank in Athens that Michael Stipe was a patron of, and that he would sometimes bring them lollipops. Which I found funny, ‘cause I normally take lollipops from banks. She also said Bill Berry was definitely at the venue and had stopped to talk to some folks in line, so it felt like Delaware/Maryland dude might get at least some of that lightning strike.
Spoiler alert 2: He got all of it. Berry joined the band on drums for “Wendell Gee,” and I don’t remember which song they first sat in on, but Buck and Mills found their ways to the stage as well. It was 2024 all over again, and the crowd couldn’t be more ecstatic. Actually, strike that, yes it could, if Stipe not only showed up, but also sang this time. Which is exactly what happened for a cover of “Pretty Persuasion,” which also found Buck on guitar, Mills on backing vocals, and, lastly, Berry stepping up to play tambourine.
This was the lightning strike the year before, taken up a notch, the lightning strike the year before setting a tree on fire and fanning those flames through a nearby forest of gobsmacked adults who looked like they just started believing in Santa Claus again. When Stipe grabbed the mic, the energy in the room felt like the clock struck midnight on the last New Year’s Eve on earth. And that’s what that particular version of “Pretty Persuasion” in that particular venue on that particular night felt like: a jubilation, a resurrection, a reminder that, if you believe there’s nothing up his sleeve, then nothing is cool.
I honestly didn’t know where to look. The amount of talent, spanning decades, on that stage, in those minutes, was fucking staggering. Do I watch Wurster play drums? Stirratt play bass? Peter-goddamn-Buck play guitar? Mike-goddamn-Mills sing backup? Michael-goddamn-Stipe sing, period? The guy from that Eminem movie sing lead?
It was almost too much. A carnival of sorts. And, not to get political, but I’m absolutely going to get political, in a country that’s felt swallowed up in a black cloud since November, where all hope seems lost and reasons to wake up in the morning feel like they’re growing fewer and farther between, those four minutes felt like a crack in the clouds to let some light in, a warm blanket to seek temporary shelter under from the cold, unforgiving real world. I can’t speak for the other, however-many people in attendance, but I felt like a kid again, in awe of something positive for the first time in a long time and enjoying every fleeting second of it for as long as a second lasts.
“Pretty Persuasion” making an appearance probably lets you know that, as with the Murmur tour, the band didn’t simply cover Fables front to back. The rest of the show found them dabbling in R.E.M’s extensive catalog. Personal highlights included “New Test Leper” from New Adventures in Hi-Fi (maybe my favorite song from my favorite R.E.M. record) and “Let Me In” from Monster.
All Photos and Videos: Larry Fulford
As per the prior year, the band was top notch, with Shannon appearing considerably more comfortable than he had the year before — this time wearing a plain white tee with the bold, black words, “NO ONE LEFT BEHIND,” an obvious nod to the 1991 MTV Video Music Awards, during which Stipe removed layers of tee shirts with various slogans — “CHOICE,” “ALTERNATIVE ENERGY NOW,” “HANDGUN CONTROL,” etc.
But that’s kind of where any physical homage of this begins and ends, because what these guys do doesn’t feel like a “tribute,” it feels like a group of friends who loved a band and decided to jam on their songs one day, and they just happened to sound great, so they played a show, then another show, and another show. And, at this particular show, they were joined by the band who actually wrote those songs.
But, beyond how good the songs sounded, beyond the special guests, beyond “Did we just get to see R.E.M. reunite for one song at the 40 Watt?”, both the Murmur and Fables shows have been about joy. They’ve felt like genuine celebrations, not only of a band or an era, but of life.
I’ve been going to concerts since (I think) I was fourteen-years-old (first one: Meat Loaf w/ Cheap Trick, the old Orlando Arena). I’ve seen probably hundreds of shows and I don’t think I’ve seen a single band look happier than this combination of Shannon, Narducy, Etc. It was impossible to count the number of times those guys looked at each other or the crowd and smiled.
For lack of a better word, it all just felt so pure. These guys don’t need the money, they’re these guys. They don’t need something to do, they keep pretty busy. It is beyond obvious, they’re doing this for the love of R.E.M. and the thrill of bringing their songs to life, with each other and for fellow fans.
To that end, this tribute act is more than that. First of all, it never feels like an act. It feels almost like a reboot, like a garage of kids in their first band who all happen to love R.E.M. decided, “Until we write our own songs, let’s play these.” Except the kids are an Oscar-nominated actor and some of the best musicians working today, who never completely grew up or away from that feeling — the buzz you get when you discover something that not only speaks to you but gives you a voice, something that resonates on levels maybe previously unreachable by teachers, friends and your own family.
Take a second to dive back into the recesses of your memory right now. Remember how wondrous it was to stumble upon something and feel like “This is mine”? Or, to quote The Goonies, “This is our time down here”?
This “tribute band” remembers, and delivers that in spades. They’re the embodiment of an energy every die-hard music fan knows. They’re geeks. We’re geeks. And rock and roll doesn’t exist without geeks. Relegated to museums, rock and roll doesn’t exist, period. It has to live, breathe, move, sweat, sing so loud your voice gives out. It can’t just be protected behind glass to stare at like dinosaur bones, it’s a feeling, and in the game of Rock/Feeling/Glass, Feeling smashes Glass. And, any time that feeling gets to let loose, escape into the air, uninhibited, involuntary, chaotic, we take our place among the living history of rock and roll, of art, expression, among the record stores and diners, kudzu vines and railway trestles.
