That wasn’t just a dream. On Thursday night, for four-and-a-half glorious minutes, R.E.M. was back onstage for the first time in 15 years.
At the Songwriters Hall of Fame induction ceremony, Michael Stipe, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, Bill Berry had the room in a collective gasp as they performed one of their biggest hits, “Losing My Religion.” You could hear each instrument as clear as a bell, and it highlighted the primitive chemistry between four unlikely friends from Athens, Georgia, who invented indie rock and created a body of work burrowed into the souls of generations of artists they inspired.
For everything R.E.M. gave the world, Stipe told the crowd in his speech, he’s most proud of how they “remained friends, dear friends, friends for life.” Even if that meant ending the band in 2011.
One of those artists is Jason Isbell, who honored his southern rock heroes with a rollicking rendition of the band’s 1987 hit “It’s The End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine),” sparking the biggest singalong of the night. Even Stipe was surprised: “I can’t believe you chose that song to cover.” But as Isbell explained, songwriters are a peculiar breed, always pushing themselves to confront their fears and limitations in the name of “serving art’s highest calling to remind us what we have in common, even if it’s just for five minutes with a mandolin and no chorus.”
“I don’t know if humanity will make it another thousand years,” Isbell mused, “but if it does, a weird kid in a tiny town will hear ‘Nightswimming’ and feel less alone.”
Every year, the event brings artists together to celebrate the mystery of their craft. There’s no physical museum, no coveted statues, no campaigning, no voting, no judges, no genres, and no long standing grievances to be found tonight. As Irving Azoff said when inducting Steely Dan, it all comes down to great songs.
Daniece Williams, who sauntered onstage with her heels already off, kicked off the event with her 1984 smash “Let’s Hear it For The Boy,” which had Carrie Underwood rocking out in her seat like she was at a cruise dinner musical. Trey Anastasio wandered in later as if he’d taken a wrong turn and launched into a cascading solo tribute to Steely Dan, covering “Kid Charlemagne” and “Reelin’ in the Years.”
This is the wild vibe that makes the event feel like sacred space, where stars get real about their anxieties and their paths to success. The crowd laughed as Missy Elliott recalled the first time she came across DJ Timmy Tam — later known as Timbaland — in high school. “He had these big hands and this little keyboard,” she recalled, adding that while she was amazed by his inventive rhythms, his truck-driver father would tell them to take their “boopity bop bop” elsewhere.
Timbaland’s speech was, in turn, an ode back to Elliott. “She gave me courage when I was always doubting myself,” he said. Humbling words from the megaproducer who just went full-on Lydia Tar, conducting a medley of his staggering hits from Jay-Z and UGK’s “Big Pimpin’” to Elliott’s “Get Ur Freak On” to Beyonce’s “Drunk in Love” to Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous.” (To think if Elliott hadn’t intervened, we would be living in a world without “Pony.”)
SZA, the “starlight star child” as dubbed by Nile Rodgers, gave a frank and endearing acceptance speech, singing “Snooze” with an acoustic guitar and inviting the audience to join in. “I feel like this means the most to me,” she confessed. “For the longest time, I’ve been a lot of different people. But writing, I could show that I was smart. This validates my entire career. Thank you for seeing me.”
And in the end — in songwriting, as in life — there was Warren. While R.E.M. were inventing indie rock with their supernatural streak of landmark albums— Murmur, Document, Out of Time, Automatic for the People, Monster, New Adventures in Hi-Fi — Warren was on the other side of the dial, creating the mixtape of the 1980s and Nineties with radio juggernauts like “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and “Rhythm of the Night” (which El DeBarge was on hand to perform as the night’s rousing closing number.) But when it comes to songwriting, there are certain immutable truths, and Warren said it best:
“You just need one believer.” She looked into the crowd, made the point that summed up the night. “I’m everything I am,” Warren paused, gesturing down to Clive Davis, 92, seated near the lip of the stage. “Because you loved me.”
