oh, life, it's bigger

this is a newsletter about R.E.M.

**Housekeeping note: I am hoping this summer to get back to some more regular posting, I have a bunch of newsletters started but have been on perpetual deadlines for a few months now, working on some pretty fun stuff—including a forthcoming book about Taylor Swift! Thank you for your patience.**

Tonight, R.E.M. was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame—an honor that’s caused me to reflect on what the band and their music have meant to me. (And full disclosure: I have a pretty massive thing on R.E.M. due to publish this summer once I sit down and do a whole bunch of edits, so I’ve also been reflecting on the group quite a bit.)

According to the Billboard report of the night, Michael Stipe said this while accepting the award:

“Writing songs and having a catalog of work that we’re all proud of that is out there for the rest of the world for all time is hands-down the most important aspect of what we did. Second to that is that we managed to do so all those decades and remain friends. And not just friends, dear friends.

“We are four people that very early on decided that we would own our own masters and we would split our royalties and songwriting credits equally,” he continued. “All for one and one for all.”

Very unexpectedly, the band then performed together(!!!). Billboard said Stipe prefaced it with a simple but very in-character intro: “Here’s what we did.” (A knowing nod to his common stage banter: “We’re R.E.M. and this is what we do.”) But more on that later!

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Prior to the induction, the band appeared on CBS Mornings for the first sit-down interview with all four original members in decades. Charmingly, the interview felt like R.E.M. were continuing a conversation they had put aside back in the ’90s: everyone noted that Peter Buck wanted to make records faster, Stipe expressed wonder at being called a “melodicist,” Mike Mills was pragmatic about legacy, and Bill Berry (who left the band in 1997) became rather emotional. You should watch; I won’t spoil it for you.

R.E.M. has been my favorite band for more than 30 years now. (Let’s begin again!) My freshman yearbook photo is me sporting a terrible haircut and an Automatic for the People T-shirt. I collected bootleg tapes, had posters on my bedroom walls, lurked on message boards, bought their albums for a pittance from the BMG/Columbia House record club. And I was lucky enough to grow up with the band: following tours when I could finally rent a car or hop on a bus, hitting midnight sales, writing about them at length (including liner notes for the deluxe reissue of Out of Time) after I became a journalist. I once even memorably had my car battery die in the middle of Illinois while on the way to an R.E.M. concert in Chicago. (You better believe I replaced it and still made the show on time.)

Why did I gravitate to R.E.M. above all bands? Certainly because of their songs. The band’s music was always striving and curious—a bit melancholy about the state of the world, but yet still awed by life’s possibilities. There’s an R.E.M. album for every mood, season, emotional state, and situation: glammy debauchery, rain-streaked fall afternoons, the first warm weeks of verdant spring, dusky summer twilight, agonizing late nights, shiny happy afternoons. And their lyrics exude a mix of mystery and optimism, underpinned by restless energy. Stipe’s use of imagery and metaphors was as inventive as that of Sylvia Plath, his inspiration for songs transforming into elaborate, elegant poetry.

Outside of music, R.E.M. was also a band with plenty of depth. As a kid, I learned so much by being a fan—starting with politics and social issues, of course, and the importance of voting and making your voice count. But I also learned so much about art and photography and music, creative integrity, remembering your roots, queerness and fluidity, following your muse and instincts, the word “realpolitik.” I have so many friends, both online and off, because of R.E.M.; there’s an understanding between fans. As an adult, I hear more nuances in the music and new wrinkles to familiar lyrics. And R.E.M. connects me to my younger selves: When I listen to the band, I remember being a rough-around-the-edges teenager, the twentysomething finding her way in the world, the thirtysomething trying to settle into a groove, and then the ever-evolving person I am today.

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Now, I’ve also always respected R.E.M. for breaking up in 2011—and sticking to it. It’s very in character: Post-split (or, in Bill Berry’s case, post-departure) everyone in the band has followed their passions and done other things. And they’ve remained friends, which has always felt more important. In a breakup, R.E.M. continued teaching a rather instructive lesson: Don’t be afraid to walk away from something that’s not working anymore, even though it might be the difficult move.

With all that being said, it was still a thrill to hear Berry, Buck, Mills and Stipe unexpectedly perform together publicly for the first time since (I believe) their 2007 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction. It was certainly a surprise: During the CBS This Morning sit-down, Mills said it would require “a comet” for them to perform together again. Over the years, various band members have performed in various permutations—a personal favorite is everyone but Stipe backing up Vanessa Hay on a cover of Pylon’s “Crazy”—but never the elusive four-person R.E.M.

The quartet performed an acoustic version of “Losing My Religion,” with Berry playing bongos, Buck on mandolin and Mills on acoustic guitar. The song was certainly an unlikely hit back in 1991—a top 40 staple with mandolin!—but its gifts have continued to be revealed over time. And this unexpected “Losing My Religion” was lovely and marvelous, like a falling star streaking through the sky. Stipe’s voice trembled with emotion, hunger and longing—and it grew stronger as the song progressed—as the rest of the band cushioned his performance with lovely, ornate instrumentation, including the occasional Mills backing vocal. It felt like an absolutely lovely moment of closure—the true epilogue and farewell R.E.M. both needed and deserved.

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After watching the CBS Mornings interview, I cycled through spins of some R.E.M. songs and landed on “Second Guessing,” one of my favorite songs from 1984’s Reckoning. It’s a defiant, buoyant song critiquing people who doubted R.E.M.’s sound or approach and those swayed by trends. The defining motif is a repeating cry where Stipe and Mills sing the following:

Here we are
Here we are
Here we are
Here we are

Their voices convey hopefulness and confidence—a firm statement that R.E.M. are asserting that their instincts are sound and they know what they want. They’re here if you’re ready to hear what they’re saying. Forty years later, all of this still rings true. R.E.M. are here—no second guessing needed.

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