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WHEN I was in high school, I had a slightly older friend who was eccentric, brilliant, and obscure. He had a minor speech impediment, so I couldn’t always tell what he was
saying, but whenever I could make it out, it was fascinating and perceptive. I met some very cool and smart people through him
A few years after I left for college, I heard he got heavily into drugs and petty thievery. We lost touch for a few years. But then a bit later, he went to law school, cleaned up his act, and became really beloved and successful. Some of his old edge was gone, and I missed that side of him. But I was grudgingly glad he was happy.
Still, we drifted apart significantly, and were each on our own respective trip for two decades or more. We each fell in and out of love with various other passions. But we saw each other at a 25th reunion, and weirdly, I was reminded how great he was. And how that dude who went straight was a lot more substantial than I’d thought at the time. We reconnected in a big way and I was reminded of how much I’d missed him.
Oh hold on — that isn’t a high school friend, that’s R.E.M. 1991 album Out of Time. (The drugs/ thievery was a not-terribly-accurate reference to my least favorite of their records, Green.)
The acoustic stuff on Out of Time‘s second disc will remind you why you fell in love with music in the first place. And most of the rest sounds so resonant. End of metaphor. But get the anniversary reissue; it’s quite lovely.