Vince

My R.E.M. story begins in Toronto in April 1983, when I was 16 years old and in Grade 11. I was sitting in math class reading a review of Murmur in Trouser Press magazine. The review mentioned that the band’s sound was reminiscent of the Byrds and Jefferson Airplane. I couldn’t stand Jefferson Airplane, but my brother Vern loved them, so I showed him the review. He was curious enough to go out and buy the record, and that ended up opening the door to something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

The moment it truly clicked came that summer in the family car on vacation. Vern had taped Murmur onto a cassette, and we were playing it while driving. After the first three or four songs, I realized this was something special. These were wonderful three-minute pop songs—in the best sense of the word—with deep, murky vocals, great melodies, melodic bass playing, jangly guitars, and no-nonsense drumming that all worked perfectly in service of the song. Every time I listened, I seemed to hear something new. It felt layered and mysterious in a way that kept pulling me back. To this day, Murmur remains my favourite record.

One image that perfectly captures that chapter for me is the album cover itself. Somehow it mirrors the sound and the feeling of that time in my life. It feels like a snapshot of that era. The album art means so much to me that we actually have it framed on the wall in our basement.

R.E.M. also became woven into my relationship with a pink-haired, confident, cute girl named Dee, whom I started dating in 1985 (and who is still my wife). When I played their music for her, she immediately got it. We went on to see them in concert together, and eventually we started a band together called Sour Landslide, taking our name from “Moral Kiosk” on Murmur. Choosing that name was our little nod to R.E.M. and the record that meant so much to us. We also liked the idea that if someone recognized where the name came from, they were one of us. They got it. R.E.M., along with the Beatles, had a huge influence on my desire to write songs and play music.

Looking back now, R.E.M. represented endless possibilities at that time in my life. That record helped spark something in me—it led to starting a band, writing songs, playing shows, and later on making records. Murmur was more than just an album I loved; it was a deeply inspirational moment that set a creative path in motion.

VINCE NICHOLSON is a Toronto-based singer & songwriter & leader of Sour Landslide — “purveyors of speedy pop mayhem!” — since the 2nd half of the 1980s.  The cleverly-named Benvereens feature less speed, less mayhem and all of the great songwriting.

Dee

1985 in Toronto.  I was turning 15 and had a crazy crush on an older rogue character in high school.  He was different than the rest.  Vince walked to the beat of his own drummer and didn’t really seem to give a shit what anyone thought of him.  When I got the invite to hang out with him and some other friends in his basement rec room, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  I remember descending past wood-panelling into a time capsule of late-70s/early-80s décor. At the bottom sat a battered boom-box perched proudly on top of a 1950s refrigerator that, against all odds, never stopped working.  Blasting through the room was “Auctioneer.”  Loud.  Fast.  Mysterious.  Unapologetic. I didn’t know it then, but that song was the pivot point—the moment my life took a sharp left turn toward the road that eventually led me here.

The music that followed was raw, dark, and beautifully underproduced. It felt different from everything else I’d ever heard.  Like Vince, the music had this feeling that it didn’t give a shit what anyone thought.  R.E.M. existed in its own strange, magnetic orbit. I devoured Murmur, then Reckoning, playing them until every crackle felt like a secret language.

A few months later, there I was—sitting on the sidewalk outside the Concert Hall, hours before the doors opened to see R.E.M live.  Waiting for the moment I could slip inside and wedge myself against the front of the stage.  I needed to see the band up close.  To feel it.  What happened in that room that night remains one of the most influential performances of my life.

Music had always been my refuge.  I listened to it constantly.  I learned to read it, to play it.  At the time I didn’t play guitar, bass, or drums…until I did.

When Vince asked me to play drums in his new band, I felt two things at once: honoured and panicked.  I’d played exactly one rock show at sixteen—just a four-song set—and I’d completely choked.  This time would be different, though.  These were Vince’s songs.  We were building something of our own.

All we needed was a name.

We tossed ideas back and forth until we landed on Sour Landslide—a small, thoughtful nod to a lyric in “Moral Kiosk.”  (Though to this day there’s still a debate about whether the lyric is actually “Dour” landslide.  But that’s another argument for another time.)

From there things began to move.  We played shows.  Made recordings.  Went on tours.  Found ourselves part of a vibrant community of artists that still shapes our lives today.

R.E.M. wasn’t the only band that mattered to us.

But they were the beginning.

DEE NICHOLSON is a Toronto-based drummer and all-around badass.  She has played with husband Vince in Sour Landslide, the Benvereens and other musical endeavors.  Sour Landslide remains one of the very few bands ever to take its name from an R.E.M. lyric.