Like everyone else with an Internet connection, I listened to R.E.M.'s forthcoming Accelerate this week, and after several spins, I find myself ambivalent, hopeful and occasionally inspired.

This will be called R.E.M.’s angry album, or its rock album, or its Monster redux, or its obvious attempt to wash away the bad taste of the tepid Around the Sun with an album of short, sharp blasts of rock. Whatever, after a few spins I can safely aver that it is better than Around the Sun, but I can’t think of another album in the band’s catalog that it bests. Even Reveal, previously notable as the band’s second-worst album, is more accomplished and original than this.

That said, it’s a fun disc that’ll stay in the rotation for a while, and might even spawn a couple of iPod-worthy tracks (in comparison, Around the Sun contributes only one to that collection: “Leaving New York.”).

The most striking thing is how this recalls the band’s past work, as if the trio tried to recapture the spark of the past by actually plucking moments from its older material. Some of this is overreaching on my part: Michael Stipe ought to be able to use a word like “pageantry” in the song “Man-Sized Wreath” without me thinking of Lifes Rich Pageant and the subsequent Pageantry tour. I wouldn’t have thought twice about that if it wasn’t just one of many such mirrors, both lyrical and musical.

The first instance is during “Hollow Man,” where, for a fleeting moment, Peter Buck’s guitar solo seems like a note-for-note lift from the intro to “Second Guessing” from Reckoning. Next is “Until the Day is Done,” which, thanks to its acoustic guitar strum and mid-tempo beat, seems to echo any number of latter-day R.E.M. tracks. That one, at least, is saved by a gorgeous Stipe vocal. “Sing for the Submarine” is the most direct offender, name checking “Electron Blue” and “Feeling Gravity’s Pull.” And of course, album closer “I’m Gonna DJ,” with it’s “I’m gonna DJ at the end of the world” chorus perfectly echoes Document’s closer, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.”

Even the first B-side, “Airliner,” feels like a throwback, a snaky instrumental that feels like a mashup of “Windout” and “Rotary Eleven.”

Beyond all of that, the most disappointing thing about Accelerate is how pedestrian it sounds. When I hear a new album from a long-loved band, I try to listen as if it’s new work from a previously unknown group. Without the preconception, would it stand up? Sad to say, this doesn’t pass the test. Where Stipe’s lyrics were once playfully obtuse, here he is obvious as a sledgehammer. Yes, this is the guy who penned “Everybody Hurts,” but some things here are a bit too adult contemporary for my tastes. Add to that the somewhat hamfisted admonition of Michael Richards, “Mr. Richards,” which takes the actor to task for his 2007 racist rant, and you’re left with plenty of food for thought, but one crafted largely from empty calories.

There are nice touches. The angrily mournful organ bellow that punctuates “Houston” says more about its subject (New Orleans and Katrina) than Stipe’s lyric, a perfect little musical moment, while the sheer muscularity of many of these tracks show how a talented group of musicians can still create a catchy, compelling album from the classic guitar-bass-drums-keyboards arsenal.

Plus, most of the songs are three minutes long or less, which means even the most banal track, thanks to Stipe’s gift for crafting a memorable melody no matter the song’s deficiencies, bears repeat spins. All that and the fact that Mike Mills is actually audible throughout (his wavering held note at the end of “Man-Sized Wreath” is a gem) means the band seems to be willing once again to play to its strengths rather than labor to subvert them.

If all of the above seems contradictory and conflicted, that’s because the album isn’t a clear winner or loser. OK, strike that. It’s not a loser; just not a clear winner. It’s a perfectly fine album from a band that, thanks to its past few years of bland music and seemingly endless reassessment, seemed to be nearing an end. That it still has this much left in the tank at this point is heartening, but I can’t help but fear it took everything they had to crank this out and that we’ll be left with the equivalent of coasting on fumes from here on out. Until that is borne out, however, we might as well enjoy the ride.

Labels: music, R.E.M.