Talk About The Passion

I wrote this as one of two entries in the contest,

ID: 1204459   (Rated: ASR) Title: Truth and Lies: A Short Story Contest  Description: CONGRATULATIONS TO THE WINNERS! OVER 175,000 IN GPS WERE AWARDED! By: Ms Kimmie

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It was the true entry. And a high point in my life.

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         The sign on the wall in the student center read simply: “R.E.M. Graham Chapel, October 6, 1984. Tickets on sale at Mallinckrodt Center this Friday.” Just those few words caught at my heart as none had since the Who concert almost two years ago.

         R.E.M. had become one of my favorite rock groups in just a few months’ time. This was all the more amazing since almost no one else I knew had a single clue as to who they were. I’d read about them earlier in Rolling Stone, where the critics had raved. One of them had said something like “When I get to heaven, the angels will have Rickenbackers, and they’ll be playing R.E.M. songs.” Sounded wonderful, but I’d heard hype before. So I’d gone that summer to my local record store, Streetside on Delmar. “Which R.E.M. album would you recommend?” I asked the clerk after looking through the racks. They only had two.

         “Reckoning is probably more commercial,” she answered. So I bought it and took it to my dorm, where I promptly fell in love. The guitars chimed, the backing vocals were gorgeous, and the lead vocals were…well, inaudible most of the time. But it didn’t matter. What words I could hear were suitably dreamlike and mysterious, and the singer’s tenor vocals were warm, enveloping me in the songs. It was fantastic.

         I quickly learned more about the band: their names, their history and the like. I managed to see “South Central Rain” on MTV, thus getting a better glimpse of their faces. R.E.M. quickly became my group, the ones who were just regular guys making music, not rock stars. This wasn’t a teenage crush; this was my personal secret treasure.

         So I knew I had to see them. I forget how much tickets were, but it wasn’t a fortune. I lost no time that Friday in buying one. That was when I learned the other big news. “They’re signing autographs at Streetside that morning.” Oh, my God, I thought as my heart stopped. To actually meet this incredible group? And get their autographs? I must be dreaming. And it was just a twenty-minute walk away on a Saturday. I’d be there if I had to crawl on my hands and knees.

         Fortunately, I didn’t have to do this. I was there early that Saturday, my copy of Reckoning in hand, joining an already long line of others in the know like me, mainly college students like myself. The line wrapped all the way around the inside of the store from a table set up at the back. I envied the lucky souls at its beginning. They must’ve gotten there first thing that morning.

         I don't remember much of the wait in line. I probably talked to some people about R.E.M., but I'm not gregarious enough to say much. Finally the moment came when we all stopped chatting and applauded as they came out from the back and sat down at the table. This was it, they were here! My heart sped up and my hands grew clammy on the record. I jiggled up and down as the line inched forward, watching them. They really did look like normal, everyday guys. And they were talking with the fans and everything! I couldn’t believe it.

         After what seemed like hours but was probably only forty minutes or so, there I was, at the table. Bill Berry, R.E.M.’s drummer, was the first one I came to; he smiled at me, his long brown hair tousled and his eyebrows prominent in his face. “Hi,” I said, dragging the words out of my throat with difficulty. “You guys are great.”

         “Thanks,” he said, taking my record. “What’s your name?”

         He wanted to know my name? Jesus. I thought I might melt, not with adoration, but with admiration. “Lynn McKenzie.” He scribbled something next to his picture and handed back the record, smiling again and saying something like “Good to meet you, Lynn.” I moved in a trance to the next seat.

         There sat Peter Buck, the guitarist. His hair was shoulder-length and unkempt, too; I think he had a mustache, but I’m not sure. “Was that you playing piano on the album?” came out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying.

         “Me?” He looked puzzled as he took the record.

         “Rolling Stone said that was you playing piano on Reckoning.” Oh, God, I couldn’t believe it; he didn’t know what I was going on about. I was making a fool of myself in front of R.E.M. I wanted to sink through the floor.

         He shook his head, signing the snake on the record cover’s front. “No, sorry.” Then he smiled at me, and I felt a little better. These guys were really nice.

         Mike Mills was next. He was the cutest one, I thought, with his Beatle cut of reddish-brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. The handsomely geeky type that I always fell for. And he played bass. “Hi, what’s your name?” he asked, smiling at me.

         “Lynn McKenzie. I love your music. You guys are amazing.” I babbled on in this vein as he signed the front near Peter’s sig with a blue marker, then handed the record back.

         “Thanks. Glad you like it.” This was so incredible. I’d met the group, and I was going to see them that night. I moved to the last one in line, the lead singer. A guy named Michael Stipe.

         As I moved in front of him, my “Hi, I love you guys” faded out toward the end. He wasn’t smiling. He sat there, his wavy brown hair hanging in his eyes, as if he wished he were on another planet, one a long way away from this line of fans. My own smile vanished and all my shyness took over.

         He took the record, signed it on the back under his photo, and handed it back. If he spoke to me, I can’t remember what he said. He probably mumbled it. The entire exchange took about ten seconds.

         Then I was out on the sidewalk, gazing at my newly signed album. Berry’s signature read, “To Lynn/Bill Berry”. Mike’s read, “Hello Lynn/love Mike Mills”. Buck and Stipe had merely signed their names. Stipe’s was almost unreadable, a scrawled wavy line.

         I took a deep breath, my mind whirling, and then began drifting back toward campus. The whole thing had been so strange—exciting and disappointing, too. Three of the guys were obviously cool; but what was up with the lead singer? He was so distant, and he’d acted like he hated us all. What was that all about? Maybe R.E.M. wasn’t as wonderful as I’d thought. Maybe they weren’t the best band of the Eighties. I hoped the show would still be worth seeing.


         That night was everything I’d hoped for, and more. Graham Chapel was packed to the brim; I could barely see the group, up on the front platform dimly lit with colored lights. They played song after song after song, first from Reckoning, then songs from their first album, Murmur, and then cover songs. And what cover songs! They played “In The Year 2525”, “Paint It, Black”, “Born On The Bayou", “Moon River”, and more and more, hardly pausing between numbers. Their set went on for at least three hours.

         More importantly, Stipe proved to me that he was a real member of the band that night. He sang his heart out, giving a performance that touched everyone there. Whether he was belting out an obscure rock number or crooning on “Talk About The Passion”, he was putting everything he had into each vocal. I sensed it, and I knew R.E.M. would be going places, with that much passion for their music.

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         Addendum: I still have that record. And I realize now, after reading extensively about R.E.M., that Michael Stipe was probably every bit as shy, if not more so, than I was. So I forgive you, Michael.