I Saw a Secret R.E.M. Show Thanks to a Rockstar Crush

About 500 of us were in the right place, at the right time — the Crocodile Cafe on October 23, 2001 — for the show of a lifetime.

R.E.M. at the Crocodile Cafe in 2001, still shot from YouTube. This is what cameras could do in 2001.

Back in 2001 I had a big, bad, and short-lived crush on a local rockstar. He briefly made my knees all wobbly until I learned he was a local Lothario, and thanks to my low-key demisexual proclivities, I extricated myself unscathed. Years later, a frightening number of women would come out with sexual assault allegations against him.

But this was 23 years ago — before Seattle collectively realized what a creep this guy was — and he appeared, if not eager, at least interested enough in me to invite me to his show at the Crocodile Cafe. He was playing on a Tuesday night, and encouraged me to come out on a work night to watch him play.

“I’ll put you on the guest list,” he offered.

How could I say no? I was giddy from a misguided crush; of course I’d be there. I headed down Second Avenue, arrived at the club, told the doorman my name, and said I was on the guest list.

“That’ll be $15,” he said.

“But… I’m on the list?” I asked.

“Everyone pays tonight,” he replied.

Huh. My crush was Seattle-famous and was playing with another popular indie northwest band that night, the Minus Five. They were well-respected, but not crowd-pleasers in an “everyone pays on a Tuesday night” sort of way.

I shrugged and paid. I liked this guy and figured it was an oversight on his part. But then as I entered the club, I stopped dead in my tracks. The venue was packed. Capacity was around 500 people and I think maybe I was number 498, or possibly 501 (don’t tell the fire marshal). Puzzled, I scanned the room for clues as to why the Croc was at capacity, and also for a place to sit. I didn’t find the former, but managed to score a bar stool off to the side of the back room.

I didn’t yet know that the next month, I’d meet Imaginary Liz. In June the following year, we’d launch our music website, Three Imaginary Girls, and the Croc would come to feel like a second home. I’d go on to spend countless nights at the venue, sometimes by myself. I knew I’d always find a friend there, or make new ones. But on this night, on October 23, 2001, my Imaginary life was still eight months away, and sitting in a club alone felt a bit awkward.

I sipped my drink, watched the crowd, and awaited the show.

That’s me in the corner.

Consider this the hint of the century.

I’m choosing my confessions.

After awhile my ears perked up as I overheard the couple next to me at the bar. They kept saying “secret show.” Piqued, I asked them what they meant.

“You know who’s playing here tonight, don’t you?” the man closer to me asked, clearly excited both about the show, and about imparting his knowledge.

“Yeah, the Minus Five,” I answered.

“They’re the openers,” he said.

“The headliner is…” he paused dramatically, “R.E.M!!!”

My brain couldn’t quite process his words. “Wait, what??!” I asked in disbelief. I knew R.E.M. guitarist Peter Buck lived in Seattle and that he and his then-wife owned the Crocodile. But R.E.M. is an Athens, Georgia-based band. How could they be having a secret show here in Seatt…

WAIT.

Oh. My. God.

My brain remembered: R.E.M. had played a stadium show at Key Arena the night before. The band was in town. My heart raced a bit faster. Could this be true, I wondered? Was I really about to see one of my all-time favorite bands at an intimate rock venue??

I’d read stories about people being in the right place at the right time for the magical musical experience of a lifetime.

Perhaps tonight I was that person?

I came to R.E.M. a bit late, with their fourth album, 1985’s Life’s Rich Pageant. I credit this record with setting me on the path of musical righteousness, for taking me beyond the world of the stale AOR radio stations of my youth and opening me up to a world of musical possibilities, weirdness, and wonder. It’s still a desert-island disc for me, and I’m certain always will be.

If I’d managed to catch the band on the Life’s Rich Pageant tour, I’m sure the venue would’ve been smallish. But I didn’t. Then the next release was Document, which spawned the massive hit “The One I Love” and took R.E.M. from a college radio station mainstay to full-on mainstream radio stardom. I was happy for them — the song and the record are both extraordinary, as were their subsequent releases — but it meant I’d never have the chance to see them perform up-close and personal.

Except.

Except this strange, short-lived crush happened.

Except he happened to be in the opening band, and happened to want me there, not even knowing how much I happened to adore R.E.M.

Sometimes, magic happens.

I leapt out of my seat and into the band room. I wanted to stake my spot next to the stage, in case the rumors were true and I was about to see my longstanding musical crush in the performance of a lifetime.

They say one can’t recall the pain of childbirth and “they” are correct. One can only intellectually remember that it’s excruciating. But the pain itself is abstract; you can’t recall the sensation of pain into one’s body. Similarly, I can’t recall the elation I felt at this show as a muscle memory. I can only share that it was a nearly indescribable joy; even I, the writer who loves modifiers, lack words to describe the rush of it all.

I grew up feeling I was frequently just-too-late for things, arriving tardy so I didn’t experience joys till too late, or at least past the cultural moment I’d wanted to witness. This feeling was (and remains) especially true for music. I was a late adopter to many bands and even whole genres of my youth. R.E.M. wasn’t the only band I’d missed the chance to see in a small venue. Countless others I either never got to see, or I saw them from a stadium seat, because I’d missed the chance to see them when they were new and scrappy.

So when Michael Stipe took that stage from mere feet away — in my favorite rock show venue of all time — it was like time undone, a wrong, righted. I was transported back in time to a frenzied teenager, screaming with unabandoned joy at the power of music to enervate and delight.

I wish I had photos and videos to share with you. The beauty and tragedy of shows from 2001 is that you couldn’t easily document them. I had a flip phone and no camera. That meant my entire body and mind were present in the moment, attention undivided, which is beautiful. I wish I had photos and videos now, but they would’ve distracted me from the experience.

22.5 years later, here’s what lingers about the show…

• My crush played with R.E.M. The original four band members — frontman Michael Stipe, guitarist Peter Buck, bassist Mike Mills, and drummer Bill Berry — played with supporting musicians, including my rockstar crush. I didn’t realize till then that he was a touring musician for R.E.M. No wonder he wanted me at the show! I’m sure he had a bevvy of us there to watch him — but I’m pretty sure I was the most front and center of the bunch, and I defended my spot the entire night.

• My rockstar crush was the least of the special guests onstage. Eddie Vedder — yes, of Pearl Jam! — surprised us and sang with R.E.M. on multiple songs. A highlight was his duet on “Begin the Begin” from Life’s Rich Pageant; that song’s got a lot of lyrics and he nailed every one. Watching Stipe and local legend Vedder at spitting distance as they relished singing to such an elated crowd? A serious musical dream come true for me.

• They played great covers. This included Pearl Jam’s “Betterman” (with Stipe amusingly messing up some of the lyrics) and “Long Road,” as well as a final encore of Patti Smith’s “People Have the Power,” again sung with Vedder.

• The original band got back to basics. At one point, all the musical guest stars left the stage, leaving just the four original band members. I wish I could tell you which songs they performed, but nearly 25 years later and I can’t recall. I do remember the transformation that occurred. Energy emanated from the stage as those four who’d played countless club shows in their early days, before they knew what a lasting impact they’d make to music and to countless lives, returned to their roots and simply rocked out with all of us for the joy of it. It was perfection.

• I’m pretty sure Michael Stipe sweat on me. By then, I was drenched in my own, but I’m pretty sure a few of his molecules touched my skin because I was just that close.

I figured this show had disappeared into the annals of time, but no. The internet is miraculous. One quick search and I found the entire show on YouTube. Sadly, it’s just a still photo for the entire one hour, 47 minute, 22 second of video.

But still. It was rare. And I was there. Here’s auditory proof it all happened…

You can also find the full setlist over at setlist.fm.

It was delightful to find these artifacts after all these years, to remind me of how incredible that night was.

That was me, in the corner. And that was them, in the spotlight.

Oh no, have I said too much?

I haven’t said enough.

The Crocodile Cafe. Photo By Chris Brown.

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Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

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