DIARY OF T.H.O.M [ TERMINALLY HOMESICK OR MANIC ]
Sunday,
July 30th (Milton Keynes)
First gig with REM.
Mr Stipe says hello,
“Hi, I’m Michael, I’m really glad you could do this. I’m a very big
fan.” Wonder how many times I will run this through my brain after today.
I’ve never believed in hero worship but I have to admit to myself that I’m
fighting for breath. I’ve had moments in the last 2 years when time has
completely curved and space became a Hitchcock camera trick. At these moments,
barriers seem to break in my head and I will never see anything in the same way
again. And for days and I will never see anything in the same way again. And for
days and days all I want to do is run around jumping into peoples earshot,
waving my hands up and down like Bjork and pulling faces. This is one of those
moments.
Monday,
July 31st (London)
Video shoot for
‘Just’. It’s being directed by this guy called James Thrave. He just sent
us this idea on an A4 piece of paper. It’s about a character who collapses in
the street and then all these captions appear on the screen as if the songs been
translated. Apparently. But there are 3 days of shooting and we’re only for
one much out of our hands. That’s cool. Go stand on film set strut around like
a peacock making faces. Not a pig in sight. Good therapy.
Tuesday,
August 1st (Berlin)
We’re playing in
this beautiful amphitheatre built as part of the 1936 Olympic Games for the
boxing; I lie down in the sun. REM arrives. We say hello. I’m cool. This
happens all the time. Bertis Downs, their lawyer, comes up and says, “hey man,
you got the stuff!” I have no idea what he’s talking about. After the show,
REM basically has this record company thing in an old army barracks set on the
hills. The entrance is lined with inflatable dinosaurs. They get awarded with
all this specially commissioned bonkers discs. Just for being REM, basically.
They all pose and smile a bit and do the whole political bit and are extremely
nice. I’m shocked. It seems you have to be a nice to people forever. I may as
well get used to my cracked smile now. I’m just completely hyper in the
presence of all this. Find myself gurgling like a baby who is being tickled.
Kick an apple around the floor garden until I can string a sentence together
again. Feel 50ft tall. Shit, shit, shit, this is REM and they really like us.
No, I mean they REALLY like us, they’re not just being nice. When someone you
really admire gives you something you like that, your shoulders get a little
lighter, you feel a little stronger, forever.
Wednesday,
August 2nd (Oslo)
Realise that I
haven’t seen nothing of Berlin except for the statue from Wim Wenders Wings of
Desire. And I only glimpsed that from the van window. Even the gig was
surrounded by trees. Typical. On the flight to Oslo, Mike Mills shows me a note
he’s received from Bill Clinton offering sympathy for his recent stomach
troubles. Both of us are too hung over to know quite what to make of it.
Thursday,
August 3rd (Oslo)
See Kurt Cobain
suicide letter on the back of someone’s T-shirt for the first time. Follow the
girl around various shops trying to read it. Something about being moody.
Everybody here is blond and good-looking. And all they were is orange, my
favourite colour. I’m really proud of the way we played tonight. There is a
new song called ‘Lucky’ and I think it’s the best we ever played. The room
has this immense sound and the words just bounce around. I get the shivers
virtually all the way through the song and just grin like an idiot.
Watching REM tonight made me think how huge they are and how much they
have gone through. Now, of course,
Bill Clinton writes them letters and they play stadiums. Not that this is my
definition of an idyllic future. Briefly consider how much longer Radiohead can
last. I still get days when I want to clock in all my zillions of utterly
useless executive air miles and fuck off forever to a shack of Kare. Kare in New
Zealand with its Alen Plant life, but then what? The REM machine is astounding.
How is it possible to redress the balance in your head between all this stuff
and being some guys with drums and guitars and a coupla mikes? I guess the
answer is songs like strange currencies and or a brand new one called
‘Undertow’. Songs that would make me jam on the brakes in the middle of the
motorways and veer into a hard shoulder until they had finished. What else is
there to life except moments of honey like this? Listening to the Finest Work song makes me feel like I’m
10ft tall and can crush anything in my path. I play everyone a new song in the
dressing room (which is a toilet). It’s called ‘No Surprises. Please.’
Colin goes nuts. Afterwards, I try not to get blind drunk but fail miserably. Go
out dancing and locate my aggressive streak on encountering a couple of Nordic
males who are flexing their impotence in tracksuits. Dance it out to the Beastie
Boys Root Down. Feel much better.
Friday,
August 4th (Oslo/Stockholm)
I buy a toy
helicopter with “ambulance” and “emergency service” on it. When I see it
in the airport, it reverberates in my head and I just had to have it. The show
is fine. I get hugged a few times by people who have come to see just us. A
journalist here apparently believes it’s his mission in life to tell everyone
how ugly I am, but that’s OK, at least it beats being called suicidal. After
the show, I play the role of a popstar with bigger popstar. I have been
deliberately avoiding Mr Stipe because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.
Or get mistaken for a stalker. But tonight, we end up playing with Kinder toys
and talking about when he met Patti Smith so I feel much better about it all. Go
out till morning. Do cartwheels and Elvis impersonations.
Saturday,
August 5th (Stockholm/Sicilly)
Stuck at Stockholm
airport, I find airport lounges traumatic and extremely lonely. Try to use the
time constructively writing letters to fans.( I carry this dejected satchel full
of them around), reading a book on the Situationiste International and the Paris
Riots of 1968 (I’m proud of my pretentious) and the Tibetan book of living and
dying by Soygal Kinpoche. REM has taken the stones private jets, not THAT’S
cool.
Sunday,
August 6th (Sicilly)
Spend the whole
morning displaying my lilywhite body and red hair to gawping Sicilian populace.
The show is at a sports stadium. Utter chaos permeates every corner of the
proceedings. I soak up the burning Mediterranean Sun and wait for the first
murmurs from Mount Etna. Briefly wonder how you say, “fuck me silly but
don’t tell your brothers” in Italian. One minute before stage time, we find
ourselves stuck in traffic. Michael Stipe tells me to “breathe, breathe”
like I’m having a baby while hundreds of police stand around and do nothing.
Police walk in and out of our dressing room all night to use the toilet. And
there’s no vodka. I have to make do and during REM’s set, I lie in a haze
backstage staring at a star—my star—, which comes out when things are bad.
Monday,
August 7th (Sicilly/Tel Aviv)
5.30am, leave hotel
for airport.
9am fly to Rome. Wait
around for 3 hours. Sober up. Pass out. Read a magazine that is now 6 months
since Richey Manic disappeared.
1pm, get on the
plane. Then told to get off plane as there is a 3-hour delay. Throw up in the
toilet.
4pm. Arrive in Tel
Aviv. And hour ay passport control. Drive to stadium for photo shoot and 2 radio
interviews. Shaky, cannot focus.
Tuesday,
August 8th (Tel Aviv)
This is where Creep
first broke. Way before America. That was well over 2 years ago. Fond memories
flood back of being mobbed for the first time. Do a press conference. Usual
stuff. I always feel like a politician. “Do you think you have changed as a
human being since you were last here?” Yes. I no longer feel human. Head off
to main radio station, which is run by the army youth. After the age of 18,
everyone has to join, boys for 3 years, girls for 2. There is a sign stipulating
regulation haircuts. Play some acoustic stuff with Jonny, which makes the day
seem worthwhile. Afterwards, I haggle with mad old woman in Jaffa flea market
over a huge floppy hat and duffle coat. In the end, I buy them both. Perfect for
temperature of 110F. Mean in the evening with REM. One of the most embarrassing
moments of my life occurs when a girl comes up on the restaurant and asks for my
autograph and not Mr Stipe. I hide myself in the napkin for 5 minutes. Then the
Hubble-bubble machine arrives, it’s supposed to help digestion. But it makes
me feel weird.
Wednesday,
August 9th (Tel Aviv)
The Hubble-bubble
machine is still giving me all sorts of pains. Go to the beach and a
heartbreakingly beautiful Jewish woman comes up in a swimsuit and asked if I’m
Thom Yorke. Given the shorts I’m wearing, I consider denying everything. She
looks me up and down and I feel reduced to the size of the sand. I weakly reply,
“Yes” and watch her disappear, curiosity satisfied. Feel even stranger than
when I woke up. So, I scurry back to the hotel fearing sunstroke. Despite the
fears of possible boiled head, however, I feel reluctant to wear my Jewish
orthodox hat purchase yesterday especially at the beach. It IS sunstroke! I now
feel like a very sick old man. I meet Mr Stipe who gives me and Jonny what he
describes as an organic pick-me-up. It’s not speed, he says. He’s pissed off
because some paparazzi guy has been following around and photographing his every
move. Backstage at the gig, it seems like all the friends and families of
everyone who works there have turned up. The security guard demands autographs
from everyone who passes. A long legged blonde woman asked me whether I know the
band. She appears to be angry that none of REM has offered to sleep with her. I
can’t think of an answer and walked off. Suddenly, during the show,
Michael’s stuff starts kicking in. I feel fabulous. I feel like I’ve been
plugged straight into the mains. Then, as I walked off at the end, I realised
that I can hardly move and wonder in mild panic what I’ve done to myself. The
whole world appears to be going in slow motion. The rest of the evening is hell
and I can’t bring myself to do anything but moan. The last thing I remember is
Jonny saying he’s off to the Lebanon in a jeep. Ok, I say.
[ EXTRACTED FROM SELECT '96 ISSUE ]