So last week, the band R.E.M. — most people know them for such songs as The One I Love, Losing My Religion, and It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine) — broke up. As they posted on their website:
“To our Fans and Friends: As R.E.M., and as lifelong friends and co-conspirators, we have decided to call it a day as a band. We walk away with a great sense of gratitude, of finality, and of astonishment at all we have accomplished. To anyone who ever felt touched by our music, our deepest thanks for listening.”
Two thoughts struck me as I scrolled through the online reports of the band’s proverbial ride off into the sunset. First, they were together 31 years, which is longer than many friends of mine have been alive. Second, I would also one day like to have a sense of astonishment at all I have accomplished, and actually be self-confident (or -aggrandizing) enough to say that online. Right now it just sounds weird in my head.
I won’t pretend that I’ve been listening very carefully to R.E.M.’s output since “Reveal,” their album from 2001, which was quite good (a “return to form,” as critics say about every album a major artist releases after they’re past their acknowledged peak), but I do mourn their passing, and not just because the haunting, thrilling “Automatic for the People” (1992) served as my soundtrack for many a night of feeling sorry for myself.
They were one of the biggest bands in the world once upon a time, despite having a sound — and songs — that were never very easily identifiable. They encompassed Byrds and Beach Boys influences and tossed them together with evocative and obscure lyrics; crafted odes to strange comedians and currencies, delivered vague and alluring laments and sang of universal sorrows.
I would never have written, as an acquaintance did on Facebook: “Who cares? They haven’t had a hit since the ‘90s.” As if hit-making were the sole gauge of a band’s worth. As if it were not astonishing enough that they had hits at all, given their uncompromising and often quirky nature. As if that acquaintance were not an idiot.
The day I learned of their demise as a band, I made an eight-song R.E.M. mix for the commute to and from work. Ignoreland from “Automatic,” a raucous break from the melancholy of most of that record; Catapult and Harborcoat, earlier gems I had not re-listened to in years, still sounding fresh today; Fall On Me, a transcendent musical moment that affected me so much I once stole one of the lyrics for a short story title; E-Bow the Letter and Leave from “New Adventures in Hi-Fi,” a pair of darknesses that still send pleasurable thrills down my spine; and Near Wild Heaven and Texarkana, two glorious pop thrills from their big breakthrough album, “Out of Time.”
Rest in peace, R.E.M. And thanks, for everything.