From Cradle to Stage

MARIANNE STIPE

Mother of Michael Stipe (R.E.M.)

SEVERAL MILES OUTSIDE ATHENS, GEORGIA, in a rural area where houses sit far back from the road, I drove through the blazing autumnal canopy that surrounded the home of Marianne and John Stipe. There I was greeted by a woman with a slightly familiar face framed by curly gray hair. The resemblance to her son, Michael, was instantly apparent.

The house is small and cozy with an inviting screened-in back porch, a place to cool off on a hot Georgia day and look at the pond below. Antique church pews and an old merchant's table line the wall. It's a charming, relaxing spot, the one Marianne and John chose after years of moving from one Army base to the next.

Marianne and I headed for the kitchen table, where she poured mugs of hot coffee and served her delicious homemade coffee cake with Georgia pecans and crème fraiche. You just can't beat Southern hospitality. I had brought a copy of a 1992 Rolling Stone magazine with R.E.M. on the cover and placed it on the table.

"Oh my gosh," Marianne gasped as she saw the young faces of her son, Bill Berry, Mike Mills, and Peter Buck. "Look at them! They were like brothers."

She smiled affectionately at the memories that surfaced as I read aloud the Rolling Stone Music Awards Critics' Picks featured in that issue. "Best Album, R.E.M.; Best Single, R.E.M.; Best Band, R.E.M.; Best Singer—oh, he didn't get that."

"Van Morrison got it," she recalled instantly.

(And then, an interesting addition: the Best New Band award that year went to Nirvana, the band my son played drums for.)

Marianne told me the story of her family, from her childhood days in Washington, DC, to her teenage years in Georgia, when her father's job as an auditor took the family to Atlanta. She recalled her college days at the University of North Georgia, where she met her husband, John Stipe, who was one of the six hundred ROTC cadets enrolled there. She laughs when she confesses her good luck at being one of the ninety-seven coeds in their midst. "I got a good one," she brags. "Fifty-eight years later, and here we are!"

From that point on the Army determined their destinations: Virginia, New Jersey, Georgia, Texas, Germany. The three Stipe children, Cyndy, Michael, and Lynda, were "Army brats" (though none lived up to the pejorative term) and spent their childhoods moving from base to base. "That's just the way life was," Marianne stated matter-of-factly. "They were normal kids who moved around a lot."

Sometimes Army life was challenging, especially during times of crisis, when world events created disruptions that Army wives had to deal with. Marianne learned to live with uncertainty, with fear, worry, and anxiety. But she accepted those aspects of the life she and John had chosen. There was no time to complain. She had children to look after. When Michael was three weeks old, John was sent to Korea for sixteen months. The man who returned was a stranger to his son, and there was a period of adjustment, of father and son getting to know each other. No long-term effects resulted, though. Michael and his father had a close relationship throughout the years that followed. When I met Marianne, Michael was fifty-five and spending most of his time in New York. She said he still spoke with his father on the phone almost every day.

The Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 affected all the families stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, where John was posted. For thirteen days the tension between the United States and Russia was heightened as the two countries came closer to nuclear war than at any other time in history. As it happened, I was also in Georgia then, living just off the Fort Benning post where PFC James Grohl was assigned to the Army newspaper. I taught English in a high school that had a mix of military and civilian students and teachers. Before news of the crisis broke, we had all witnessed trucks, tanks, jeeps, and railcars moving out of town. It was obvious that something was afoot, yet we weren't being told anything. When Marianne asked John if he would be leaving, he said, "If my toothbrush is gone, you'll know I've gone."

The confrontation between President Kennedy and Premier Khrushchev stemmed from the Russians' placement of missile facilities in Cuba, confirmed by an American U-2 spy plane. Khrushchev refused to remove them unless the United States agreed to take similar missiles out of Turkey, and the head-butting by two stubborn sovereigns began. It culminated in a tense naval blockade deployed to deter Russia from sending additional missiles to Cuba. As the enemy ships moved closer together, the Columbus High School students in my charge headed to our assigned bunker area, a janitor's room, to await the "all clear" on the intercom. Meanwhile, Marianne, at home a few miles away with young Michael and the girls, had to face the reality of an official "full alert." There were moments of panic when the question "What will we do?" had no answer. She was a military wife, learning how suddenly, how completely her life could be affected by world events.

The most difficult tests would come when John was sent to Vietnam—twice. Marianne was in Texas then, far from family, and she often felt alone. The children were in school, so they had busy, active days that weren't ruled by the constant television coverage the Army wives were drawn to. Military protocol required that Marianne serve as leader of the women in John's group, so she had to be there for them, offering support while meeting her own family's needs. It was a weighty burden. The worst days followed news of casualties, deaths, or the conferring of MIA statuses. Every day was a challenge.

In a recent conversation with Michael, I asked if he recalled that time. He was just a little boy then. Did he know how difficult the deployments were for his mother? He described himself as a very sensitive kid with "an antenna" that could read emotion. Not only did he understand his mother's fears, but he learned to respect the difficulty his father lived with as he went from war zone to family life and back to combat again. He guessed that the horrors his father witnessed would never be spoken about. And in a family that prided itself on open communication, they never were.

John's second "hardship tour" (a deployment that required the family to stay behind) to Vietnam was the most difficult. He was in hard combat every day, flying a helicopter that Marianne could identify by its insignia as she watched the interminable news tapes on television. The children were also aware and informed, although they didn't know at the time that John doubted he would make it out alive.

They watched growing demonstrations as the mood of the country became fractured and dissension replaced patriotism as a subject for reportage. Marianne is sure Michael was hurt to see the anti-Vietnam marchers' disdain for those serving in the war. "The children knew Daddy's boss ordered him to go because he was a serviceman doing service," she said. There were no major debates or discussions in the family then, just unease and the disquieting fears they had about whether and when they would see their father again.

Michael could sense the anxiety that silently blanketed them. Hoping to spare his mother, he recalls asking other adults around him to explain what was happening. His youthful empathy seems remarkable. He worried about both parents.

As it turned out, John defied all the odds. Despite flying into and out of hot zones every day, he was not injured. He came home with a knee injury from a volleyball game, his only painful physical reminder of that time.

Could the nomadic life of a military family have been significant to Michael's choice to become a touring musician? The life of a military "brat" meant constant challenges in the form of new cities. New countries became the next stopping place, the next home. Marianne says that as time went by they all got used to it, even enjoyed it. She got better at it. At first she found the task of packing and unpacking for a family of five a daunting exercise. "And then I got to the point where I just let the Army come in and do it for me." As a result, she recalls her surprise at unpacking a kitchen box that revealed a half-eaten, month-old birthday cake that had been left on the counter. The movers, instructed to pack everything, had not forgotten a crumb.

In the mid-1960s the Stipe family moved to Germany, where they were posted in Hanau, outside Frankfurt. Visiting the Saturday markets, eating and learning to cook German specialties, and exploring their environs in a vintage VW fostered many family memories. On day trips the kids clamored to play their favorite game. "Mama, let's get lost! Let's get lost!" Ah, those nostalgic pre-GPS days when one could set out to bravely conquer untrodden roads. The kids were at just the right ages to appreciate all they saw, and the German people were welcoming. Marianne loved shopping there. Her husband teased her that "Wie viel kostet das?" ("What does that cost?") was the only German she mastered.

It was in Germany, at the home of a babysitter, that Michael recalls his first musical memory. It was the Beatles song "Michelle" playing on an old radio on a tall shelf. His memory is visual; he watched the radio dial as the song played. It didn't change his life.

Michael hadn't seemed destined to become the unique, charismatic rock star that we know. His mother says he was "high activity, maybe what is labeled hyperactive now." He was curious about things and channeled his energy by applying himself to tasks creatively and with determination. He wouldn't stop until he had finished something. He and his sisters liked to sing together, but their songs were from musicals or children's shows, not rock anthems. Michael took piano lessons and when he was in third grade learned to play the accordion as well.

When Michael was in high school, though, he began to listen to and read about the new sounds emanating from the New York music scene. At the age of fifteen he bought Patti Smith's first album, Horses, on the day it came out and stayed up all night listening to it. He "decided then and there that that was what I was going to do," he said.

That was life changing.

A life change was also in store for John and Marianne. After twenty-six years of Army life, John retired, and they were finally able to choose where to live. They chose Athens, home of the University of Georgia, and Michael joined them there when he decided to transfer from his Illinois college. That decision became the preface for this entire story. On that Georgia campus, where hundreds of bands formed and disbanded at an astonishing rate, R.E.M. was born.

In the 1970s the University of Georgia in Athens was emerging as the home to a unique music scene. Students were thirsty for beer and hungry for music, and nobody was stopping them from sating those appetites. The warm Georgia nights drew kids to outside shows, where hundreds gathered around kegs and listened to groups that may have formed that same week. It was open season all year round.

The B-52s were the first notable group to come out of the scene. Their fresh take on song styling was just what their young audiences wanted: catchy tunes that invited wild, energetic dancing.

It was during this time, between 1978 and 1980, that R.E.M. "happened." First Michael Stipe met Peter Buck, who was the manager of the record shop Wuxtry Records, a popular Athens gathering place for lovers of all kinds of music old and new, even some not yet getting radio play. It was the old-fashioned kind of record store where collectors and fans congregated to listen to albums they dug out of racks. Michael and Peter became friends and decided to start their own band. When a friend introduced them to Bill Berry and Mike Mills, the rhythm section completed the group—as yet unnamed. Michael was the singer, Peter Buck the guitar player, with Mike Mills on bass and Bill Berry on drums.

They lived in a musty old church—drafty and rat infested, according to Marianne. It's been torn down, but the steeple remains an Athens tourist attraction. It was there on April 5, 1980, that the newly named R.E.M. played their first show to an enthusiastic audience of five hundred. Michael, microphone in hand, seemed to come alive, feeding on the energy in the room, whirling, moving eccentrically in bursts of frenetic motion. Suddenly the band was talked about, written about, and asked to play bigger shows—for money!

The rapid success of the band led Michael to invite his parents for dinner at a Mexican restaurant, where "the conversation" took place.

"I want to drop out of school for six months," he said, "to see what this band will do. If nothing happens, I'll go back to school."

Michael remembers how frightened he was to present this scenario to his parents. He knew how hard they had worked and how much they had sacrificed to raise the money to put their three children through college, and he feared that his decision to go out on the road with a new band seemed like a pipe dream. He also remembers that their response was "instantly, incredibly supportive."

"They were almost Buddhist in their reaction, so in the moment," he recalls. "They said, 'Pursue your dream; see where this goes. If you have to go back to school, you can go back to school.'"

So it began. From 1981, when they released their first single, to 2011, when they disbanded, R.E.M. was one of the biggest bands in the world. They sold tens of millions of records and won many awards: two Billboard Music Awards, two Brit Awards, numerous MTV awards, and three Grammys (out of fourteen nominations). In 2007 they were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Marianne and John loved going to R.E.M. shows and joined them on their last European tour, traveling to festivals and arenas on tour buses with the band. This rock mom loved everything about it. She walked from tent to tent at the festivals to hear new bands as well as headliners. She fearlessly went out front when R.E.M. took the stage so she could absorb the full experience, feel the crowd's excitement. Later she would find her safe, comfortable backstage spot.

From these vantage points she gained a true appreciation for her son's gift as a front man. "He's a Southern gentleman," she says. He is genuine in acknowledging that if it weren't for those audiences, he wouldn't have the benefits his amazing success has brought him. She also realized how hard everyone worked onstage and off. To a casual fan it might appear as though a few hours onstage is an easy day's work. To those who understand the stresses of travel, the long periods of preparation, the grueling schedules, and the unending demands of the press and the public, it is clearly exhausting.

Michael was not surprised by the joy his mother experienced on their European bus tour. He describes her as "vivacious, very alive—a thrilling person to listen to, talk to, bounce ideas off." And he loves that she has always been curious and incredibly interested in the world around her, always learning and growing beyond the ideas of the generation she inhabits.

He always felt supported, understood, deeply loved. He wrote an untitled song for his parents that's about their staying up late to watch him on TV performing somewhere halfway around the world. He described it as being "like a beautiful little prayer":

Marianne is touched by other R.E.M. songs, too, including "Leaving New York," "Find the River," and "Everybody Hurts."

John Stipe passed away in 2015, about eight months after I visited Athens. Before he became ill he had finished a series of horticulture classes and encouraged his wife to go through the Master Gardener program, an intensive four-month course. They became committed organic gardeners and spent many hours together defying the stubborn red Georgia clay and producing great harvests of vegetables and flowers.

When I visited them, a Southern-style Thanksgiving feast for twenty-five was being planned. Black-eyed peas, sweet potatoes, greens, and corn pudding would accompany the turkey. "Michael always brings kale and chooses the best cheeses," Marianne said. Perhaps they would recall their greatest food memories, like cooking with Mario Batali on a trip to Venice. Michael's friendship with the famous chef resulted in a Mario-Marianne bond when she helped him prepare tortellini. Now she regularly sends Batali jars of her homemade pear relish, made from a recipe that's been passed down in her family for a hundred years, and she sees him on her trips to New York.

When R.E.M. disbanded Michael began to explore other aspects of his creativity. He made large bronze animal sculptures and revived his long-held interest in photography, a passion he shared with his father. He is currently working on a video installation for an exhibition planned for 2017 as well as on a book of photographs that he says is somewhat autobiographical. He feels "a compulsion, a need" to create; he believes that is the way of the artist. The woman who many years ago inspired him to take this path, Patti Smith, is now a close friend, one whom he still finds "astonishing."

Before I left Marianne and their warm, comfortable home, she and I talked about an event that brought both our sons together, the 2015 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony. She had been proud and I had been moved by Michael's quiet eloquence in the induction speech he gave for Nirvana. He spoke of the band's "indelible legacy," describing it as "capturing lightning in a bottle." He elaborated on Nirvana's importance to their particular time in history "by acknowledging the political machinations of petty, but broad-reaching political arguments, movements, and positions that held us culturally back. Nirvana blasted through all that with crystalline rage and fury." In a somber aside, he made special note of "that voice, that voice. Kurt, we miss you."

It was honest, poetic, moving, philosophical, beautifully true.