Author: Chris Bickley

I’ll Take the Rain

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Release date: 19/11/2001 | Length: 5:55 | Release: Reveal | SuE: #127 | UK: #44

I used to think
As birds take wing

I think of I’ll Take the Rain as the last time that R.E.M. consciously tried to write a beautiful song. It’s written in the same vein as Everybody Hurts and Strange Currencies, built around a big chorus that’s designed to move mountains. It’s a good job that this refrain is incredibly affective, as the rest of the song is indicative of a tired band.

Were this song on Automatic for the People, it’d be rightly lauded as a classic. The narrator finds themselves in the doldrums, looking around at nature to inspire their next decision. “I used to think, As birds take wing, They sing through life so why can’t we” bemoans Michael Stipe, “If this is what you’re offering, I’ll take the rain”. Being deserted is a damn sight more preferable than what they currently have. By the end of the almost six-minute long song, the sprinkling of piano and little guitar licks render this a stone-cold classic.

But it’s not though is it? The song failed to chart in the US, and became the first song since 1993’s Find the River to not crack the top 40 in the UK. I’ll Take the Rain has left no legacy in the R.E.M. canon. It was not included on any subsequent compilation albums, and the lack of reverence for Reveal means that it’s almost been lost.

The issues with I’ll Take the Rain are symptomatic of what plagued its album, as everything feels underworked. Stipe seems genuinely tired as he sings this song, croaking his way through certain words without any real meaning. Peter Buck’s guitar solo is a forgettable detour, adding an unnecessary minute to proceedings, and the music of the verses is wholly flat. It feels harsh to say that the band were dialling it in at this point, as I do think that the songs themselves are very, very good. But it’s this weariness that holds back the song, a problem that culminated on 2004’s nadir Around the Sun. The song is a classic. The execution is not.

I’m Gonna DJ

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Release date: 31/03/2008 | Length: 2:07 | Release: Accelerate | SuE: #189

The music could provide the light
You cannot resist

For an album that proved to be a minor resurgence in R.E.M.’s career, it’s expected that Accelerate ends on a party tune. R.E.M. have always been a self-aware band, rarely putting a foot wrong and embarrassing themselves, but I’m Gonna DJ does feel like the group misjudging their age here. They were almost (or were) in their 50s by the time Accelerate came out, and this song comes across as Michael Stipe shouting “Hey look at us! We’re cool, we like vinyl, see!”

The use of ‘vinyl’ as a replacement noun for records always niggles me, so it’s doubly frustrating to witness it thrown out with aplomb in the opening line: “If death is pretty final, I’m collecting vinyl”. And then after that we have the group singing along to “I’m gonna DJ at the end of the world!”. It’s just all a bit…lame?

One could see this song as a riposte to the stagnant Around the Sun, an album that saw many permanently turn their backs on R.E.M., as in many ways it’s the antithesis of that record: fun, lively, and short. “I don’t wanna go until I’m good and ready” oozes Stipe, a defiant statement that says only he can proclaim his death.

The duff notes are forgivable though, as Mike Mills grooves through this song without a care in the world and as with most of the record, it’s over before you know it. The snappy, rocky sections are where the song lives most comfortably, as it’s one that thrives on stage.

Radio Song

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Release date: 4/11/1991 | Length: 4:15 | Release: Out of Time | SuE: #73 | UK: #28

The world is collapsing around our ears

R.E.M.’s mid-career music wasn’t without its divisive songs, though Radio Song tends to avoid the backlash that Stand and Shiny Happy People attracts. I’m going to pin my colours to the mast right now, and say that I like Radio Song. It wants to be a stupid, goofy song, and it succeeds in being a stupid, goofy song. It’s incredibly melodic and only fails when taken seriously.

The opening guitar chord chimes like a quintessential R.E.M. tune; it sparkles and shines. And then comes the funk. Radio Song is two worlds combining. The shimmer and sheen of Peter Buck’s riffs meets the bagginess of the organ-pounding funk and it’s…fun? It is fun, but it’s horrifically dated. I was not around in 1991, so I can’t say whether it sounded dated at the time, but this was perhaps the first occasion that the year of release was so imprinted into the DNA of an R.E.M. song. 

When writing the song, R.E.M. would not have known that they were about to become the biggest band in the world, which is odd when you consider that Radio Song sounds like the kind of song written by a band who had already become globetrotters, their mindset slightly warped by the fame. This fact then gives Radio Song some credibility, that it prefaced their radio dominance rather than observed it. Obviously R.E.M. were well-known in 1991, but they still had further to climb.

At the time, the crossover of a white rock band and a black hip-hop artist was novel, and further adds to this song’s cache of credit. KRS-One delivers the coda, a mostly improvised scat concluding in the faux-ominous line: “Now our children grow up prisoners, All their lives radio listeners”. Throughout the song he complements Michael Stipe as he sing-raps through the verses, with just enough self-awareness for the song to avoid becoming a lame pastiche.

I think the reasons for disliking Radio Song are valid, though if you can see through the irony then it’s a rewarding, pretty song. It suffers in that it’s tied to 1991, but perhaps it should then just be seen as a relic. They couldn’t have released a song like this before or after their fame, so R.E.M. escape with their reputation intact.

So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry)

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Release date: 15/05/1984 | Length: 3:11 | Release: Reckoning | SuE: #4

These rivers of suggestion are driving me away

It’s slightly daunting to write about a song that’s held in such a high regard, particularly when I make it known that it isn’t a favourite of mine. It’s good, it’s great, it’s all the superlatives, but to me So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry) is just one of the R.E.M. classics that hasn’t transcended into my personal catalogue of sensations.

The opening hook is vintage R.E.M. and amongst their most well-known openings. It’s like a bell chiming to let everyone know that R.E.M. are playing before composing itself into a steady rhythm to allow Mike Mills’ bass to really groove. In contrast to a lot of songs on early albums Murmur and Reckoning, So. Central Rain is actually intelligible. “I just sing a song the way I think it should be sung. Something like So. Central Rain to me is so clear,” said Michael Stipe in a Blender feature. Clarity is indeed the key here: “I’m sorry” repeats the frontman over and over, in a slightly anguished and sorrowful tone.

The origins of this song are shared with Reckoning‘s previous song 7 Chinese Bros., and deal with the aftermath of a collapsing relationship that Stipe played a conclusive role in. The refrain is him flatly taking responsibility for this, whereas the rest of the song is littered with mitigations: “Did you never call? I waited for your call”, “The oceans sang, the conversation dimmed”. The enigmatic title seemingly refers to the torrential floods that hit Georgia in 1983 and as the rain roared, diminished the possibility of Stipe contacting the couple that he was now irrevocably intertwined with. In this song, the rain is both a physical and metaphorical entity: “These rivers of suggestions are driving me away”.

For many, So. Central Rain was their introduction to R.E.M., as it gave the band their television debut performing the song on Letterman in 1983, before the song was even titled. It lacks the opening jangling hook that is the song’s calling card, but still bears all the hallmarks of the tune, with an added bonus of some fancy Peter Buck footwork. The music video is a no-frills affair, but does have the quirk of having a new vocal recording, as Stipe refused to lip-sync.

As with so much of the group’s content, ambiguity abounds. The song title is officially So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry), but the So. has been truncated and lengthened respectively to S. and Southern on some releases. As it is, the title suggests to me that the protagonist is making excuses for his actions by blaming the weather, however this added parenthetical remark (I’m Sorry) shows that he is aware of this (however this was only added at the behest of the record label, who felt that a song that didn’t contain any lyrics in the title wouldn’t get that precious airplay).

The ending of the song is slightly dark, as a monotone piano note tolls in and conjures up a gloomy and sinister scene, evoking visions of a dull and unrelenting rainfall.

Make It All Okay

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Release date: 05/10/2004 | Length: 3:43 | Release: Around the Sun | SuE: #231

You made your ultimatum, too big to ignore

Didn’t you now?

Let’s address the elephant in the room. Around the Sun is R.E.M.’s weakest album. I’m loathe to use the term ‘worst’, because that implies that they have multiple bad albums, which is not the case. But ultimately, Around the Sun is unequivocally their nadir in an otherwise stellar discography. So sadly, most of the entries on this album’s songs will be fairly…uneventful.

Make It All Okay suffers from lethargy, despite being fourth on a 13-track record. The percussion is the most disappointing aspect, sounding like an incredibly basic backing track rather than something to drive the song’s rhythm, though Mike Mills’ bass is barely a grade above.

The piano melody is slightly warming as Stipe repeats “Didn’t you now, didn’t you”, but that’s about it sadly. Religion has cropped up in numerous R.E.M. songs, usually as a cryptic guise that serves as a gateway to so many layers of meaning, but here it just feels really simple? “Well, Jesus loves me fine, And your words fall flat this time”. It’s fine to do simplicity but they need an ounce of elegance, which Make It All Okay simply lacks.

Departure

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Release date: 09/09/1996 | Length: 3:28 | Release: New Adventures in Hi-Fi | SuE: #171

A hailstorm brought you back to me

On an album that certainly takes its time, it’s nice to have a few songs that just get straight to the point. Departure is one of those, coming in at a brisk three minutes 28 and drastically picking up the pace of New Adventures in Hi-Fi.

It’s a guitar riff of intent from Peter Buck followed by some killer Bill Berry drum rolls that makes the song one of the rock ‘n’ roll highlights from R.E.M.’s vast tenth album. It’s ostensibly loud but still sounds quite flat, perhaps a by-product of this album being recorded whilst on tour for Monster in 1995, with Departure being done in Michigan.

The song debuted in early 1995 in Spain, and referenced in the opening line: “Just arrived Singapore San Sebastian Spain 26 hour trip”. After a long touring hiatus during their commercial peak, R.E.M. returned to the road with aplomb, hopping from country to country and continent to continent. I believe the band wanted to challenge themselves by writing on the road, rather than the traditional studio sit-in sessions, so much of New Adventures in Hi-Fi has themes of travel and burn-out. Michael Stipe’s delivers rapid verses of disconnect (“A hailstorm brought you back to me”), destruction (“A bus plunge avalanche RV vinegar cider”) and despair (“But there is so much that I can’t do yeah”), in contrast to the calmer simplicity of the chorus.

For a band usually dabbling in the intricate, Departure is one of R.E.M.’s greatest no-frills rock songs, but it’s still a long way off the top.

Hope

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Release date: 27/10/1998 | Length: 5:02 | Release: Up | SuE: #161

You want to climb the ladder

You want to see forever

Ah Hope. The album gambit that never was. Up doesn’t have the grandest of legacies amongst the R.E.M. collective, but I feel that it’s unfairly overlooked as being the masthead for the band’s commercial decline and popularity. Objectively, I don’t think that’s all that incorrect. On the contrary though, I believe that Up represented R.E.M.’s peak in creativity against adversity.

Even before Bill Berry retired from the group, this album was always veering towards electronics, but his departure undoubtedly amplified this. The result was an unfamiliar sounding cacophony of loops and synths and drones, sprinkled with the familiar R.E.M. touch when necessary. Unsurprisingly, the Losing My Religion fans of R.E.M. were not happy, and sales of the album were merely modest. But that’s a moot point. Up was still a terrific album regardless of whether the hit-chasers liked it or not.

I mentioned at the top that Hope should have opened the album, and without wanting to dwell too much on the actual opener Airportman, Hope was the antithesis of this. After an overlong preceding record, the last thing R.E.M. needed to do was kick off another mammoth album with a slightly turgid and subdued song. It may have ushered in a new sound for the band, but Hope would’ve done exactly the same, but with added vigour. Instead, we’re left with the song coming in at #4 on the album. Like much of Up, it never saw a live outing post-1999, but criminally Hope only received a Stipe solo performance in the encore. But in fairness, if they could never figure out how to play The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite live, then I’ll let them off with Hope.

Extra song-writing credits go to Leonard Cohen here, and anyone with even just a flicker of musical knowledge will be able to observe the similarities between Hope and the Canadian’s 1967 song Suzanne. There was no collaboration here, but the rhythm is strikingly similar and Cohen’s direct, polysyndetic delivery is replicated by Michael Stipe:

And you’re questioning the sciences

And questioning religion

You’re looking like an idiot

And you no longer care

The religious imagery is strong, and follows a common theme in R.E.M. songs where the narrator is torn between faith and fact. It’s been mentioned several times in R.E.M. that the basis of Hope is in a person awaiting surgery and conflicted in what to hope for, and the most explicit this gets is where Michael states “You want to trust the doctors, their procedure is the best”. But as we see later on, this is only the backdrop to the aforementioned dilemma of where to put one’s trust: “And you want to bridge the schism, a built-in mechanism to protect you”. Even amidst this struggle, there’s room for such vivid metaphors of spaceships and alligators.

The singular words of “salvation” and “deliverance” hang so heavy on the mind, both chosen for their inclusive meanings and connotations, allowing the listener to decide whether they sit spiritually or not. There’s a raging debate about whether the person is accepting their fate or not: “You want go forever” or “You want to go out Friday”. With the looming divine mood setting over the track, it’s difficult to read the latter as being anything other than readying oneself to ascend into the afterlife.

It’s a whirling dervish of a song, as the electronic loops encircle the words and dominate the aura. Nigel Godrich of Radiohead fame had a hand in mixing this song, notably before the English band seriously entered their experimental odyssey with 2000’s Kid A. That’s not to say that OK Computer wasn’t experimental, but Jonny Greenwood and Ed O’Brien’s guitars were still prominent. On Hope, you can just about hear an acoustic strum throughout the song, and then later an electric guitar acts as a drone to carry the song to higher places.

It’s the little things that make Hope. The 8-bit noises at 0.44, the stripping away of the drum machine at 1.24, the undulating noise at 2.02, the out-of-tune keys at 2.10, the downshift in tone at 2.20, the wispy backing vocals at 3.47. Then everything comes together in the final minute in a glorious, amorphous blob before poof, it disappears like a current of water cascading down a plughole. This is what an album opener sounds like.

 

Academy Fight Song

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Release date: 25/12/1989 | Length: 3:10 | Release: 1989 fanclub single | SuE: #145

I’m not judging you I’m judging me

From 1988 to 2011, R.E.M. released a limited edition single to their fanclub over Christmas, a nice way of ameliorating the bond between them and their followers. Typically these would consist of two songs, a festive ditty (traditional or original) and a cover. Many fans around the time have said that these felt very exclusive and personal, as the releases were never made commercially available. However over the course of the career, it could be argued that quality began to decline, particularly as these singles became CDs instead of 7″ records, and often included live recordings instead. But that’s for another time.1989a

Their second offering featured a cover of Mission of Burma’s Academy Flight Song, the first single by the Boston outlet. One would expect an R.E.M. cover to strip back the song, rather than beef it out, but the opening bars of Mission of Burma’s 1980 original sound more like R.E.M. than R.E.M. do. It’s the simple but pronounced bass notes that do it, and could easily be mistaken for something from Chronic Town or Murmur, holding a particular likeness to Gardening at Night and Standing Still.

Whilst Michael Stipe comes across distinctively, the music has the guise of their live performances, so it’s no surprise that this song had several outings on tour in 1989. I’m not going to argue too passionately about this, but the raucous element of this takes away what made Mission of Burma’s recording ahead of its time. The piano plonks are a nice chiming addition but on the whole, I don’t think R.E.M. did too much with this cover.

It’s a disservice to Mission of Burma that their two most well known songs are possibly because these have both been covered by other artists. It might just be a coincidence, as R.E.M.’s version was hardly out in the open, but Moby covered That’s When I Reach for My Revolver on his bizarre Animal Rights LP and as a single in 1996, reaching middle ground on the UK singles charts. But the end justifies the means, so more people flocking to their excellent Signals, Calls, and Marches EP the better, right?

Man on the Moon

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Release date: 21/11/92 | Length: 5:14 | Release: Automatic for the People | SuE: #17 | UK: #18; US: #30

Now Andy did you hear about this one

Tell me are you locked in the punch

Opening one of the greatest closing triplets of any album, let alone R.E.M.’s discography, Man on the Moon showcases a slightly lighter side to the band in comparison to what haunts a lot of Automatic for the People. Unlike so much of the group’s work that requires reading between the lines, this single was partly biographical, focusing on the perplexing comedian Andy Kaufman. This is not the first time that Kaufman would be linked to R.E.M., as the band soundtracked Miloš Forman’s 1999 film of the same name, most notably with the song The Great Beyond.

Kaufman wasn’t the sort of man to simply tell gags, but to entertain the audience with his peculiar brand, including his Elvis Presley impersonations, referenced by Michael Stipe with an additional impression by the frontman himself: “Hey baby”. Whilst his more mainstream highlights included stints on Saturday Night Live and Taxi, his adventures also led him into wrestling, hence the double entendre “Tell me are you locked in the punch”. Seeing as how his act would go well beyond the usual realms of comedy and into alienation, it was considered by many that what he was doing was not a joke, but just playing himself.

The tendency for Kaufman to goof around and constantly deliver the unexpected meant that upon his untimely death at the age of 35 in 1984, many believed his passing to be an elaborate hoax and yet another joke, and that’s where the title of the song comes into play, drawing comparisons to those who deny the moon landings: “If you believe, they put a man on the moon”. Whilst the song comes in no way close to advocating these conspiracies, there is a little deliberation with the fantasy and romanticism of believing that there is more than meets the eye, even going so far as to reel off a list of now accepted theories that were originally scoffed at: “Mister Charles Darwin had the gall to ask”.

Musically the song has a country tinge to it, opening with its iconic bassline before the guitars slide around. It’s very pleasant, but doesn’t show off on a song where the vivid lyrics take centre stage. The demo (titled C To D Slide 13 on the expanded version of the album) uses Peter Buck’s favourite toy, a mandolin, as the main riff in close harmony with the bass, highly reminiscent of Hairshirt from Green. It’s second nature just to accept Michael Stipe’s “yeah”s as melody, but it was actually a wry nod to friend Kurt Cobain’s habit of inserting a multitude of them in Nirvana songs, specifically in response to Lithium.

Man on the Moon also has the honour of being the last song ever performed by the band, in Mexico City at their final gig in 2008. I recall reading somewhere that they were fully aware that this would be their final ever performance, three years before their dissolution, and exchanged sly glances to one another to say “yep, this is it”. There’s an energy to it that might only be explained with this knowledge in retrospect, especially when Stipe declares “we are R.E.M. and this is what we do”. Bowing out on It’s the End of the World as We Know It would’ve been too cheap. This coda was far more dignifying.

Gardening at Night

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Release date: 24/8/82 | Length: 3:29 | Release: Chronic Town | SuE: #10

Gardening at night just didn’t grow

It’s been said by the band that Gardening at Night was one of the band’s first songs, at least in terms of something they would later commit themselves too and become a staple of their early setlists. You can tell. There’s an incredibly looseness to it, arguably even more so compared to the rest of their output on Chronic Town and Murmur, and the sense that the band are still finding their feet and sound.

Michael Stipe’s voice is remarkably soft here, creating a slightly melancholic tone. There’s no real sadness about the song, but it almost feels like the singer doesn’t quite yet have the confidence that exudes from his mouth on West of the Fields or Talk About the Passion. This is no means a criticism of the song, as this gentleness actually makes it all the more comforting. Unlike the Eponymous (an I.R.S. compilation to cash in on the group’s major label switch) version of this song that featured enhanced and clearer vocals, the mystery remains on the original. The latter recording isn’t quite sterile, but it does feel a bit more standoffish and professional.

It’s got a strong following amongst the R.E.M. community, presumably because it’s one of their first songs put to tape and that it stands up so well today. It’s full of charming nonsense, but unlike 9-9, it’s not esoteric in its words. The title of the track supposedly refers to midnight toilet breaks by the band whilst on tour travelling from state to state, and there’s a nice whimsy to that.

Fittingly, when inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007, Gardening at Night was one of four songs the band played, made all the more special that ex-drummer Bill Berry joined the group for this performance, the final time all four members shared the same stage.