PERFORMER: R.E.M.
ALBUM: AUTOMATIC FOR THE PEOPLE
LABEL: WARNER BROS.
THE BOTTOM LINE: The once alternative rock band retreats from stardom with a downbeat, ruminative album.
It's lonely at the top, and really depressing too. At least that's the inescapable impression conveyed by Automatic for the People, R.E.M.'s follow- up to its 1991 critical and commercial smash, Out of Time. The record gets off to a somber start with Drive, a dirgelike number featuring lyricist and lead singer Michael Stipe, and continues its downward spiral with a string of songs that meander into a morass of hopelessness, anger and loss.
The disc reaches its emotional nadir with Sweetness Follows, in which Stipe ponders the death of loved ones, and Everybody Hurts, an anti-suicide lullaby. Clearly ambivalent about his and the band's new status as pop icon, Stipe seems to be mourning nothing less than a loss of innocence. "I'm sure all those people understand/ It's not like years before," he sings in Nightswimming. "The fear of getting caught/ The recklessness of water/ They cannot see me naked."
Yet R.E.M. is too resourceful a band to bog down totally in such melancholy musings. Proving that a so-called alternative band can keep its edge after conquering the musical mainstream, Automatic for the People manages to dodge predictability without ever sounding aimless or unfocused. Buoyed by a lush weave of chiming guitars, muted strings and oboe, Stipe's moody vocals float over the music like leaves drifting across a dark pond. The songs, which tend to start slowly and build momentum, shimmer and swirl with bittersweet melodies and riffs that gather rather than hook. Nightswimming, which circles around a cascading piano part, and Find the River, which resonates with a yearning for primordial purity, have the wistful gravity of old snapshots, fleeting moments frozen in the amber glaze of memory.
The band's continued ability to put a sharp point on its sentiments is evident on two other tracks: the relatively upbeat rocker Ignoreland, which backs up its political conviction with grinding, discordant guitars, and the sardonic Man on the Moon, in which Stipe for once breaks free of his bonds and takes flight on a larky lyric: "Let's play Twister/ Let's play Risk/ See you in heaven if you make the list." By then, though, it's impossible not to hope that next time out Stipe will lighten up a bit and leave the weight of the world on someone else's shoulders.