This is roughly my #100 blog post on Coil (Woohoo!). It's either this one, my previous one, or my next one. Here's to the next 100 eh? Chin-chin!
Counting's never been my strongest point. I'm much better with letters than numbers.
And I'm taking my own lockdown advice, to make some time just for me, by being incredibly self-indulgent and writing about three letters that have meant a great deal to me since 1991.
I'm sure you've already guessed them.
R.E.M.
I'm talking about the band that hail from Athens, Georgia, USA – not the normal state of nightly sleep characterised by Rapid Eye Movement.
At some point in our formative years, we hear a song that touches a part of our brain that nothing has ever reached before. Until that moment, we are unaware that part of our brain even existed.
And at that moment, on hearing that song for the first time, you feel changed somehow. Like you've shed a skin and become something different.
Like a sailor hearing the sweet call of a siren, you feel an inescapable pull, not towards jagged rocks, but towards a melody you feel like you've always known and lyrics you swear you know, yet they escape you.
I am vibrating at the speed of light
I heard a song once that literally stopped me in my tracks. I could feel my head – light, swimming with its beautiful melody.
It was a curious sensation, but I knew there and then I would somehow be bonded to this music for the rest of my life.
It was MY music. It belonged to me. It imprinted on me like nothing I'd ever heard before.
It was glorious. It was Losing My Religion.
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I bought the cassette single (remember those?) in 1991 and wore it out on my Walkman (look it up kids, it's somewhere between gramophone and CD player).
But what does Andy Dufresne say? “That's the beauty of music. They can't take that from you.”
It didn't matter. I heard every mandolin note, every drum beat, every soaring word in my head. I didn't need a physical device to listen to it. I'd absorbed it – ready to throw the 45 on my mental record player at the drop of a hat.
Even at that time – I was 13 years old – it felt like R.E.M were a one hit wonder band who would dine out on that song forever. They seemed kinda geeky. Folksy. Not someone you'd see on MTV. They weren't like rock stars, you know?
But what did I know. I was still forming my musical thoughts. Shaping my musical ears. I heard mention of my new favourite band in the dark corridors of my high school – and with some well-timed winks and nods – found myself hanging with some of the bigger kids, who threw me a couple of tapes.
With Out Of Time already in my pocket, the tapes opened up an historical door for me (they were poor copies of Eponymous and Dead Letter Office) – and answered some questions about where this band had been on their musical journey. Starting 11 years previously – R.E.M had thrown Radio Free Europe at the world, and the world said thank you.
When I realised Eponymous was a collection of songs that existed on a number of different records – I was in my element. Each song was an auditory clue, a branch towards another blossoming sonic flower waiting for me to experience its colour and sound.
In my local music store, I remember walking towards the counter holding Murmur, Fables of the Reconstruction, Document, Life's Rich Pageant and Green, walking past the cool kids with their copies of Nevermind, Blue Lines, Cypress Hill and Blood Sugar Sex Magik.
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The store owner smiled and nodded approvingly at my choices. He bagged the CDs for me and said “You're in for a treat here, mate. These are some of the best records of the last ten years you've got here.”
I felt a little shiver. I was holding musical history in my hands. I got home as quickly as I could, made my excuses and hid in my room. Headphones on. Press play.
Each record was like a musical photograph album. You could see a progression. Similarities and differences from one year to the next.
My, look how they've grown.
I rang the church bell til my ears bled red blood cells
Michael Stipe has talked about listening to Patti Smith's “Horses” when he was 15 years old. He says “it tore my limbs off and put them back in a whole different order.” Then he threw up.
I couldn't claim this experience for my own – but the effect of this music was profound. There was post-punk, college-rock, folk, country. Precisely plucked arpeggios overlaid with cryptic, extraordinary, soaring half-mumbled vocals.
I went out of my way to find out more about the band. I read books, saw all their videos and the MTV Unplugged session to support Out Of Time. Everything I saw and heard brought them closer to me.
In my teenage years, I related to Michael Stipe's shyness and how he had recorded in different rooms, away from the band, not always sure of his voice and his lyrics.
Peter Buck was the musician that made me want to learn how to play the guitar. His style felt completely unique to me. I wanted to learn how to play his songs – leading to my 16th birthday purchase of a cheap black and white Rickenbacker copy.
Mike Mills – an incredibly talented multi-instrumentalist – and Bill Berry – provided the drum and bass rhythm on most songs. Often beautifully backing Stipe's vocals with gorgeous melodies.
I liked what I read about the individuals in the band. I loved their music. I liked what they they stood for.
They spoke frequently about improving the environment, about making the world a better place, about holding the US government to account.
They had a vision for the band they wanted to be. They didn't chase a popular look or a sound. They just kept doing what they wanted to do and they let the world catch up with them. And catch up the world did.
I've tried really hard to embody those values throughout my life. I wouldn't say I live my life according to the gospel of R.E.M, (Mike, Michael, Peter and Bill), but time and memory have often collided in just the right places. The music and me go hand in glove, with no sign of the grip loosening. Something tells me we'll have more memories to make together.
For subscribers, there's a deeper dive into how R.E.M have provided the soundtrack to my life. If you're not a subscriber, you can sign up now for just $5 a month.
Come and talk to me on Twitter and tell me what's the music that provided the soundtrack to your life?
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