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Dreams run fast for R.E.M.. Just like the "Rapid Eye Movement" of their acronym, the rapid movement the eye makes during the sleep phase of highest dream density. From the very beginning, amid the unruly college-rock parties of Athens, Georgia, Michael Stipe and his bandmates were well aware of being standard-bearers for that new rock nation that would overhaul the American scene of the '80s and '90s from the ground up. A squadron of alternative and independent bands operating against the grain of the era's glossy trends, keeping a safe distance from the spotlights of the music business and the screens of MTV. Unrepentant rebels like Sonic Youth, Hüsker Dü, Minutemen, Dream Syndicate, Replacements and co., spreading a new musical gospel across America. Totally dissonant with the decade's dominant sounds, yet directly connected to what was to come in the next one. The four Georgians felt part of this nouvelle vague and could feel on their shoulders the weight of a success that was exploding right in their hands.

Deep down, though, R.E.M. were traditionalists at heart – much like the Smiths on the other side of the Atlantic – and let themselves be drawn to the essential lesson of (post-)punk, filtering it through a typically pop melodic sensibility. Unlike their fellow travelers in America's new "Alternative Nation", in fact, the Athens boys already possessed every weapon needed to break through the narrow banks of the underground and reach a mass audience. A rapid, unstoppable progression. Just like Rapid Eye Movement. From the glorious era of college radio, crucial in amplifying the underground myth from the debut "Murmur" onward, through intense records like "Reckoning" and "Lifes Rich Pageant", to the "graduation diploma" of "Document", which would ferry them into the multimillion-dollar harbor of the majors as early as the following "Green", all the way to the era of global bestsellers, inaugurated by a record out of time: "Out Of Time".

Launchpad

"This record confirms R.E.M. as true fossils. If I die tomorrow, I know my voice will be immortalized forever, and no one can do anything about it." So spoke a sardonic Stipe, swept up in an unusual fate of success in the wake of the breakthrough of "Green" (1988), the debut album under the Warner Bros. banner, the label that had just signed them for the tidy sum of ten million dollars. With that major step, they had already set off down the road to worldwide stardom, helped along by high-impact singles like "Stand" and "Orange Crush", as well as the invectives against Ronald Reagan's American politics tucked into the lyrics of "World Leader Pretend", the first song by the band to have its full lyrics printed in the album sleeve.

But, in the end, it had only been a fortunate transitional record. Because – as producer Scott Litt himself admitted – "it had some nice things going for it, but it wasn't fully developed". Now R.E.M., buoyed by a now-global following and technical resources unimaginable back in the days of the glorious parties on Oconee Street, faced the toughest test of their career: a triple jump (a fatal one?) into rock's mainstream, without squandering the wealth of their identity or losing their longtime fans.

A miracle was needed. They had to step into a new dimension. Out of time. "Out Of Time". Three words that – according to Buck – summed up the band's whole philosophy: "We feel completely out of time and out of fashion. We're a case apart, deliberately on the margins of the record industry's trends. It's music unto itself, with no temporal boundaries, even if it undoubtedly contains elements that can be traced back to the Sixties".

"Out Of Time" isn't a radical revolution. After all, the signs of that evolution were already clear in the grooves of "Document" and "Green". Now, though, the wave that would sweep everything away was arriving, remarkably putting the Georgian band back in play on another field, where glory was guaranteed, but pitfalls lurked around every corner. And what better place than Woodstock – rock's sacred topos – to record the album that would mark the turning point? On March 12, 1991, the album that would forever change the story of the Athens boys was released.

Musically, the transformation is felt above all in a sound that goes from spare to almost baroque, with the arrival of keyboards, organ, horns, harpsichord and a full string section, alongside the now-familiar mandolin. Joining R.E.M. were also old friends, such as Kate Pierson, singer of the B-52's, and Peter Holsapple, former leader of the dB's, who alternated between bass and guitar. "It was a much more finished work than 'Green'", says Scott Litt. "You can see the needle shifting from records full of guitars to albums with more complexity, more production, more arrangement. 'Out Of Time', in fact, had arrangements with real strings, with 12, 14 or 16 parts on many of the songs, and violins, violas and cellos". Litt's production, though ever more meticulous, still manages not to overload the songs' framework, which retains all the best of R.E.M.'s melodic flair.

Backed by this show of force and emboldened by his growing personal success, the once-shy Stipe finally steps fully into the open. And he bursts into the Nineties laying bare all his anxieties and uncertainties. Personal ones, for the most part, but also tied to the fate of the planet. After all, he had already openly proclaimed his challenge to the world in the lines of "These Days" (on "Lifes Rich Pageant"): "We are young despite the years we are concern / We are hope despite the times" ("Siamo giovani nonostante gli anni, siamo la preoccupazione/ Siamo la speranza, nonostante i tempi"). Now, in the middle of the Gulf War, with George Bush Sr. in the White House, there was nothing left to do but return to the apocalyptic tones of "It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine…)" to turn a new dark page of American history: “The world is collapsing/ Around our ears/ I turned up the radio/ But I can’t hear it” (“Il mondo sta collassando/ Intorno alle mie orecchie/ Ho acceso la radio/ Ma non riesco a sentirlo”). A line that sounds like a sentence, the one that sets the tone for "Radio Song" (the third "song" placed at the opening of the record, after "Finest Worksong" and "Pop Song '89"). "Hundreds of thousands of Americans protested against that war, but no one talked about it", Stipe would later recall. After a very sixties-sounding guitar intro, the song takes shape over sturdy funk rhythms, with an organ and a string section from the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra building a powerful sonic scaffolding, and Stipe engaging in an unexpected duet with Kris Needs, aka KRS-One, the booming rapper from Boogie Down Productions. And while Morrissey in "Panic" went so far as to threaten to hang the DJs ("hang the blessed dj") because their music said nothing about his life ("The music that they constantly play/ It says nothing to me about my life"), Stipe doesn't stray too far from that Smiths invective, railing against the homogenization of music pushed by radio, which locks kids into a logic of conformity and obedience to someone else's dictates (the music industry?). An excusatio non petita from a band that would soon be dominating every FM radio station, or simply a proud reaffirmation of their own unchanged difference? Either way, it's a bold incipit, one that only serves to set the stage for the next track. Namely, the quintessential "radio song" of R.E.M.'s career, and perhaps of the entire Nineties.

The ultimate hit

How is an immortal hit born? Perhaps all it really takes is the right melody, well framed by the arrangement. Then everything else helps. Even a universally misunderstood lyric. Because "Losing My Religion" – as Michael Stipe himself would explain – has nothing to do with atheism or losing one's faith. It's simply an idiomatic expression, popular in the American South, meaning roughly "to lose one's patience" or "to have had enough". In this case, because of a desperate, obsessive love affair. Although, of course, the word "love" never appears (R.E.M. evidently don't care for the word). A dejected Stipe sings lines like “That’s me in the corner/ That’s me in the spotlight/ Losing my religion/ Trying to keep up with you/ And I don’t know if I can do it” (“Eccomi nell’angolo/ Eccomi sotto i riflettori/ Mentre ho perso la pazienza/ A cercare di starti dietro/ E non so se posso farcela”).

The song opens, in short, like the most classic of declarations of powerlessness. A story of unrequited love, despite every possible attempt. Stipe reworks the vein of one of his favorite songs, "Every Breath You Take" by the Police, to comment on a new kind of romantic affliction, one that also blends in his own (uncomfortable) condition as a star "under the spotlight". And there's no doubt that this is the song's true meaning, even though, as it goes on, the author can't resist slipping in more religious language, as if playing on the ambiguity of the title – an ambiguity further fueled by the "hieratic" quality of the accompanying video, directed by Indian filmmaker Tarsem Dhandwar Singh, who would even be accused of blasphemy and have the clip censored in Ireland. The final line, admitting that the romantic illusion was only a dream ("just a dream"), restates the song's conceptual core: a song brimming with despair over a love that was never returned.

The melancholy of the lyrics pairs beautifully with music that ranks among the most poignant the Athens band ever wrote. Carried along by a wave of strings (synthetic, in this case) and a driving rhythm, with Buck's mandolin weaving through the embroidery of Peter Holsapple's acoustic guitar, "Losing My Religion" soars on an enveloping melody, which Stipe delivers with a contrite, desolate air. Waiting for a chorus that will never come.

It's "the song" of R.E.M. by definition, the trait d'union between their "alternative" origins and their destiny as rock stars, the anthem that – like it or not – will represent them forever, with that opening line "life is bigger" that sounds almost like a prophecy: indeed, starting with "Losing My Religion", the lives of the four Georgian boys did become bigger. As Mike Mills explains: "There have been very few epoch-making events in our career, because it's progressed very gradually. If we really have to talk about one historic turning point, I think the closest thing to it is 'Losing My Religion'. I get chills just thinking about it now, because there was so much joy... By writing and playing that song, we made a lot of people happy".

It would also become their biggest hit single (No. 4 on the US charts) and win two MTV Music Awards. Paradoxical, for a band that, only a few years earlier, had declared war on music videos.

Dell'amore e di altri demoni

A funereal organ drone, a bass clarinet, the tick-tock of congas and a grim string section, backing Stipe's mournful vocal. "Low" heightens the pathos even further, sliding into a sepulchral liturgy in the style of Velvet Underground, culminating in a fine crescendo. It's a song about lost love, one that's almost embarrassed to be that. Because for Stipe – as we've seen – it's always been hard to say the word "love": "I skipped the part about love/ It seems so silly and low". "It's the song that represents my feelings about love songs, about pop music," the singer would explain. "Apart from 'The One I Love,' which isn't exactly a love song, 'Low' was the first time I used the word love in a song." But the track wasn't new: it had long been present in live setlists, without ever finding the right arrangement to be recorded. A wait fully rewarded by the final result. And not just for the effectiveness of the arrangements. Stipe, in fact, unleashes new enigmatic, image-laden lyrics, like a relentless parade of images, in a self-shot documentary filmed with a handheld camera. An existentialist, autobiographical song, in the end, hidden behind the usual meta-narrative vocabulary.

"Country Feedback" is the other gut-punch you don't expect. An abyss of lyricism, wrapped in grainy trails of feedback. Buck's pedal steel guitar sobs around a simple country chord progression, creating just the right mood – evocative and aching – for another magnificent performance from Stipe, who sings almost in a trance, letting rivers of free-associated words pour out. It's no coincidence that he calls it one of his "vomit songs," songs "thrown up" by unconsciously pouring out thoughts and images floating through the mind. But never has he been as satisfied with the result as in this case: "'Country Feedback' is my favorite REM song, among those we've recorded," he would reveal, pleased with himself. They're just words scrawled on a page, in no particular order. And yet, they seem particularly heartfelt, judging by how Stipe performs the track, with an intensity that borders on being overcome with emotion, and by how he would later perform it live, with his back to the audience, to hide his feelings, just as he'd done six years earlier with "You Are The Everything." What the lyrics are actually about, the author himself explained clearly – for once: "It's a love song, but love seen at its worst. It's basically about when you've given up on a relationship." Another romantic obsession, then, one that wears down body and mind ("you wear me out"), pushing toward self-destruction and madness. In the end, though, all that remains is regret for what could have been and never was: "It's crazy what you could've had/ I need this." This time it's not a game of doubling and ambiguity. It's Stipe himself, laid bare before everyone, digging into the darkest recesses of his mind. Hence, probably, the emotion that comes through so vivid and palpable. Extraordinary too in a famous live version, "Country Feedback" is, in effect, the forerunner of that "E-Bow The Letter" which, a few years later, would reunite the now-mature Michael at the microphone with his teenage muse, Patti Smith.

"Out Of Time" is entirely played out on the ridge between joy and melancholy. A crossroads made literal in "Texarkana," an actual junction between two American states, Texas and Arkansas. "Texarkana" is its ideal contraction (but also a real Texan city, right on the border between the two states). A name that evokes desert-like, dusty imagery. Like that of a long journey in search of something, or perhaps simply of oneself. A journey that, by definition, can never end, and one that can be read as the clearest metaphor for the human condition. Mills reworks an original sketch left unfinished by Stipe, and turns it into one of the album's finest achievements. A dreamy, aching western ballad, sung by the bassist himself with vibrant pathos: “20,000 miles to an oasis/ 20,000 years will I burn/ 20,000 chances I wasted/ Waiting for the moment to turn/ I would give my life to find it/ I would give it all/ Catch me if I fall” (“20.000 miglia a un’oasi/ 20.000 anni brucerò/ 20.000 possibilità ho sprecato/ Aspettando il momento giusto per una svolta/ Darei la mia vita per trovarlo/ La darei tutta/ Afferrami se cado”). The initial twenty thousand miles keep growing throughout the lyrics, becoming thirty thousand and then forty thousand, like "40,000 stars in the evening," the reasons for living ("40,000 reasons for living") or the tears in his beloved's eyes ("40,000 tears in your eye").

An existential journey, then, one that pairs the euphoria of movement with anything but a serene reflection, aware that one could "fall" at any moment. "Texarkana" is one of those gems of humble craftsmanship that only REM know how to put together. It takes so little: a lovely bassline, swelling strings, nostalgic harmonies in the bridge. Simple and beautiful. Breathtaking.

On an album that treats love almost as a pathology, "Me In Honey" turns out instead to be the sweetest possible farewell, telling of the love for a child about to be born, though still in a surreal key. Stipe, in fact, conceived the track as an ironic, affectionate response to his friend Natalie Merchant of 10,000 Maniacs, who had just recounted her wait for motherhood in "Eat For Two." In the lyrics of "Me In Honey," the perspective shifts: pregnancy is seen from the father's point of view, with all the anxieties and uncertainties that come with it: “Baby’s got some new rules/ Baby says she’s had it with me/ There’s a fly in the honey/ And baby’s got a baby with me/ That’s a part of me” (“La mia piccola ha stabilito nuove regole/ La mia piccola dice che ne ha abbastanza di me/ C’è una mosca nel miele/ E la bambina ha avuto un bambino con me/ È una parte di me”). The framework is once again minimal: a repeating, subtly psychedelic riff, a handful of chords circling around, dry drumming setting the pace. But Stipe, once more dueting with Kate Pierson, manages to build on top of it another world-class performance, moving sinuously to sketch delicate new melodies.

Shiny happy band

But – as noted – "Out Of Time" is a two-faced record: half lost in the chiaroscuro haze of melancholy, half lit up by bursts of unbridled euphoria. One of the most famous is the bouncy "Near Wild Heaven," with its festive harmonies and a catchy chorus straight out of Beach Boys. The contrast with the preceding track ("Low") is jarring, to say the least, and therefore, in all likelihood, deliberate. Especially since the lyrics express something else entirely. And closeness to the "near wild heaven" of the title remains a mirage. It's another song about betrayed feelings and disillusionment, then, entrusted to Mills's voice, with Stipe stepping back and sticking to backing vocals. "It sounds like the happiest song in the world, but it's actually very sad," Mills himself would clarify.

For "Shiny Happy People," on the other hand, there are no excuses. This time, REM simply wanted to have fun. Just like Cyndi Lauper's famous girls. Except that, in place of the sassiest pop star of the Eighties, there's the more seasoned but no less flamboyant Kate Pierson of B-52's, another of the decade's iconic voices. The result is a duet that's both enchanting and disconcerting at once, with that brilliant waltzing string intro and that uncontrolled explosion taking off on a guitar riff and cartoon-party harmonies. Goofy, as befits the best tradition of the Athens band B-52's, and doubly underlined by the video, in which Stipe sings with a fake grin plastered on his face, a scarlet-clad Pierson writhes about in caricature-like fashion, and the rest of the band look almost dazed by the incredible commotion of men, women and children jumping and dancing. Perhaps too rich a dish for die-hard fans to swallow, but tasty enough for those who, amid that kitschy free-for-all, could still catch the band's old nonsensical wit applied to the age of stardom. But, of course, there's not much to expect from lyrics that seem simply tailor-made for that gaudy sonic patchwork, which bursts onto the record like a punch in the eye, right after the orchestral composure of the semi-instrumental "Endgame."

What had happened to those four rigid guardians of American indie-rock intransigence? The question would haunt them for a long time, amid a wave of scathing attacks from every direction. From disappointed fans to envious peers, all the way to MTV itself, which had always coddled them and now, with Denis Leary's monologues, took delight in mocking the song. The band itself would gradually tend to "erase" it from its repertoire, at best only joking about it, as when they turned it into "Scary Furry Monsters" in a bizarre performance alongside the Muppets. And yet, "Shiny Happy People" would be the first REM single to crack the UK Top 10, much to the dismay of its detractors. Perhaps, after all, it wasn't so silly, at least musically: "It's a good song, quality work," Mills would defend it, "a beautiful song that I never want to play again!" And Stipe would go even further: "Sometimes it feels good to do something simple, and that's the feeling we had making this song. It's the happiest song we've ever written. The guitar line is the greatest melody I've ever heard. And the video... it's the most joyful thing I've ever seen." A hymn to joy, in short, to be taken as such, without asking too many questions, letting yourself be lulled by those cheerfully sixties vibes. Even though Stipe himself would later reconsider, admitting that the song has "little appeal" and that he can't stand it anymore. Not surprisingly, it would be dropped from concert setlists. "It was a song written for children," the frontman would later return to the subject, "in fact it's very popular with elementary school kids all over the world." But they may not be the only ones to appreciate it...

"Out Of Time" is the breakthrough album, the one that finally makes the REM phenomenon explode across the entire planet. It shoots to the top of the charts on both sides of the Atlantic and in several European countries, including Italy. It's the first to crack the Top Ten with two singles ("Losing My Religion" and "Shiny Happy People"). It earns 4 platinum certifications, selling a staggering 18 million copies worldwide (an absolute record for the Georgians). And, last but not least, it wins three Grammy Awards in 1992.

It's thanks in part to this LP that Stipe and co. consolidate their status as rock icons, by now recognized as champions of another America, forged across three crucial decades of history. In their songs, in fact, was first reflected the restless youth of post-punk, grappling with the yuppie careerism of the Reagan era and the last ghosts of the Cold War; then the "Generation X" of the Nineties, suspended between the mirage of prosperity of the Clinton era and the military-corporate drift of the Bush administrations; the outraged "anti-globalization" community; and, finally, the wounded, stunned nation of the post-9/11 years. Culturally distant both from the protest-driven, ideological spirit of the '70s and from the destructive nihilism of punk and the iconoclastic fury that later resurfaced in grunge, REM would continue to voice civic commitment with a strongly constructive spirit, fighting against the hatred and ignorance that too often turned America into an Ignoreland, to borrow the title of one of their songs.

"Out Of Time" remains, even looking back, an excellent record, among the best of REM's Warner era. But such a mass phenomenon couldn't please everyone. Among the earliest fans, there would be those who'd turn up their noses, and even some who'd turn their backs forever on the four former Athens students. "We hugely expanded our fan base," Buck would observe, "and if we lost some longtime fans, so be it, that's just the way things go... It's something that happens, after ten years in the business. Those who don't love us anymore after the success of 'Losing My Religion' can go screw themselves. Time has changed REM's energy. Now we enjoy playing quieter songs. We're not interested in going back to being a cult rock band."

It wouldn't always be like that in the future. Just think of the rock'n'roll flare-up of "Monster." But the coordinates of REM's new season had been definitively drawn. An evolution, certainly, but one rooted in continuity. That of a band that had always been, above all, skilled at writing great songs, melodies, choruses. And one that hadn't lost its identity along the way, giving in to the lure of showbiz. Instead of moving to New York or Los Angeles, as any other rock star in their place would have done, Stipe and co. had always stayed loyal to their Athens and to the Southern provinces. Songwriter Billy Bragg, who happened to be in Georgia at the time, would recall how the news of "Out Of Time" hitting number one on the Billboard chart hadn't upended the four musicians' lives all that much: "Honestly, they were thrilled about it, but they were more worried about getting to Athens in time to attend a city council meeting discussing whether or not to tear down the old fire station. They went to the meeting and invited all these wonderful Southern women, who'd come to town to defend that historic building, back to a party."

Perhaps this too was part of the secret behind R.E.M.'s artistic longevity. A band that marched forward united like a family, even when faced with drummer Bill Berry's departure, becoming - in Stipe's droll description - "a three-legged dog." Right up to that fateful September 21, 2011, when an announcement on the band's official website closed the "perfect circle" of a thirty-one-year story. An exit almost on tiptoe, for one of the most beloved bands in rock history.

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07/03/2026