Murmur by R.E.M. is older to my high school son than the Beatles were when I was his age. Released in 1983 it doesn’t sound the least bit dated to me. Perhaps that is what I responded to as a 17 year old in the midst of rapid change. Murmur was not like anything I had ever heard. Stipe claims in the opening song (Radio Free Europe), “this isn’t country at all”. It wasn’t “like” anything at all. It wasn’t like the outlaw country that my dad listened to. It wasn’t like the jazz and midwest rock that my mom listened to. It certainly wasn’t like anything else I was listening to. As diverse as my tastes were even at the age of 17, everything else I listened to (with the exception of New Order) was defined music. It had borders, it had clear direction, it had intention and agenda. This sound coming out of the speakers of my ‘76 Nova was not rock, blues, folk, techno, jazz. Lyrically it was not about love, politics, change, anger or passion even though it hinted at all of them. No, this was my first encounter with music that was concerned with truth and that recognized that truth was somehow transcendent.

And, as central and influential as R.E.M. has been, I don’t think it sounds like anything I listen to today. Which is why both my kids always ask me, “who is this?” everytime I play it. It is not haunted like Reckoning but there is still a solemnity present. And it is a debut album. How did 20 somethings from Athens, Georgia create a work of art this powerful, this resonant, this grounded? I cannot answer, disect, or even pursue that question. To do so would be foolish. Art that lasts is always surrounded by mystery. That is why it lasts. For me, mystery is the handmaiden of the Divine. It exists by grace to give us a glimpse into the eternal.

See the original post: We Call This Friday Good