“What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” music video, directed by Peter Care.

September 27, 2019 marks the 25th anniversary of R.E.M.’s album, Monster. There will almost certainly be articles, interviews, listicles and essays published to accompany the deluxe edition reissue, but I thought I’d use mine to discuss something I became aware of three years ago: the links between R.E.M. and comedy.

In addition to their creative output, part of R.E.M.’s appeal is that, from Day 1, they played by their own rules, made music they wanted to make, refused to do things simply because “That’s what you do.”

They didn’t care if their politics and social concerns alienated more conservative fans, they wore their hearts on their sleeves (front of shirts, baseball caps). They released not one but two of the biggest records of their lives — Out of Time and Automatic for the People — and didn’t tour.

When they returned to the studio, they followed those records, and consequently “Losing My Religion” and “Everybody Hurts,” with Monster: a big, loud, crunchy, borderline-glam record that sounded like the sight of confetti exploding out of disco balls.

The video for “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” was our first glimpse at the new incarnation of R.E.M. Gone were the suits, pressed white button-down shirts, the piano, the mandolin. The video opens with a shot of Michael Stipe from the neck down, in front of unmanned drums and amps, in a loose-fitting t-shirt (with a now-relatively-iconic single star printed on it), arms dangling by his sides. His initial movements? His feet part for a second. He scratches his belly. He hikes up his pants.

All of this while strobe lights flash and Peter Buck’s wide-open, fuzzed-out intro riff slashes through the silence like a half-drunk broadsword.

It looks like nineties’ slack personified about to nervously interpret David Bowie. More precisely, it looks like a band that doesn’t give a shit if someone will hear or see this and say “I like their older stuff more.”

There are countless interviews with the members of R.E.M. talking about not taking themselves too seriously, not caving to industry pressure of “sounding/looking perfect” or catering to pop trends. Their casual, just-some-dudes-talking-about-work demeanor while being one of the biggest bands in the world, along with refusing to be afraid of fallout as a result of shape-shifting, has long been commendable. And, as I hit my five year anniversary of doing stand-up comedy, R.E.M.’s sensibilities and, in fact, own words started reminding me of a pack of comedians as much as a group of rock stars.

I remember the moment I started considering this. I was listening to “Disappear” (Reveal) more or less on repeat following a devastating event in my life.

There is a calm I haven’t come to yet.

I spend half my life figuring what comes next.

I telescoped in,

I’ll finally win,

I’ll finally win the prize

that now my eyes see

a comic’s perfect timing squeezed,

I’m headfirst fighting everything,

the crushing force of memory

erasing all I’ve been.

I thought the word was “comet’s” until I looked it up. Then I started recalling other nods to comedy in R.E.M.’s lyrics.

Lenny Bruce makes an appearance in “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” (Document).

Andy Kaufman more or less is the “Man on the Moon” (Automatic for the People).

“The Great Beyond,” written seven years later for the film Man on the Moon (which borrowed its title from the R.E.M. song) feels more like a eulogy than a sequel.

Around the Sun has a song on it literally called “The Worst Joke Ever.”

Monster gave us “King of Comedy,” a title very probably lifted (based on its lyrics) from the 1982 Martin Scorsese film.

Since comedy’s been around forever, every musical artist exists in the same universe as comedy, but R.E.M. took it a step further, mentioning not only “punchlines” and “jokes” in their lyrics, but actual comedians and a film about a comedian.

I can’t pretend to know how much R.E.M. enjoys comedy, but it’s obviously an art form they’re intrigued by, full of characters they recognized for the strides they made, what they told us about ourselves, and the legacies they left behind.

“It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)”

The title of the song itself is funny. It’s a feet-kicked-up, sunglasses on, sipping on a fancy drink middle finger to the apocalypse.

Stipe claimed the references to Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce, Lester Bangs and Leonard Bernstein came from a dream he had in which he was at a party surrounded by famous people with the initials L.B., which is also very funny. But one of those L.B.s being comedian and satirist Lenny Bruce works on a whole new level.

With multiple arrests for obscenity and trials that would blaze trails for protecting freedom of speech in America, Lenny Bruce was the human version of the title of the song, laid back in a lounge chair, margarita by his side, gazing up at the sky, hands clasped behind his head, falling bombs reflected in his shades, smiling.

“Man on the Moon”

I feel like this is less about Andy Kaufman and more about our willingness as people to wonder, after growing up zaps most of the magic out of everything, to allow ourselves to continue to be surprised. Which was basically the story of Andy Kaufman anyway.

Kaufman made a living toying with our emotions and perceptions of reality so well that, when he died, many believed (and still believe) he faked his own death.

In the 1996 concert film, Road Movie, Stipe intros the song this way:

“This is a song about a journey, it’s about a beautiful journey, and it’s one we’re all gonna take. And we had to pick somebody to go on this journey for this song, so we could understand it all the better. And we chose, in my opinion the greatest comedian of the 20th century, Andy Kaufman. This is how it goes.”

The song opens with a laundry list of nostalgia

Mott the Hoople and the game of Life,

Andy Kaufman in a wrestling match,

Monopoly, Twenty-One, Checkers and Chess,

Mister Fred Blassie in a breakfast mess.

Let’s play Twister, let’s play Risk.

before dropping a gut-punch:

I’ll see you in Heaven if you make the list.

It’s its own sort of dark punchline, following a setup of innocuous words gently bouncing along like a nursery rhyme.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“A bunch of shit from our youth.”

“A bunch of shit from our youth who?”

“We’re all gonna die.”

The pre-chorus is Stipe’s one-sided conversation with Kaufman, acknowledging that Kaufman himself was often the joke and wondering if he’s taken it too far.

Now, Andy did you hear about this one?

Tell me, are you locked in the punch?

Andy are you goofing on Elvis? Hey, baby.

Are we having fun?

Throughout the song, the last line of the pre-chorus seamlessly shifts from “Are we having fun?” to “Are we losing touch?” Later, Stipe delivers “Hey, baby” in his own subtle Elvis voice (far more pronounced in Road Movie, complete with sweet dance moves), which begs the listener to decide if we’re having fun or losing touch. I prefer to answer the question with a question: “Why not both?”

The chorus may be one of the most effective two-line choruses of all time:

If you believe they put a man on the moon,

if you believe there’s nothing up his sleeve, then nothing is cool.

This couldn’t be more perfect. For one, it’s super meta: a bunch of people think the moon landing was faked, a bunch of people think Kaufman faked his own death.

Then it kind of turns on itself and feels like a sort of riddle.

If you can believe they put a man on the moon, surely you can believe Andy Kaufman is dead. But, if you believe there isn’t even the slightest possibility you’ve been fooled — that maybe the moon landing was faked, maybe there’s still something up his sleeve — well, what’s the fun in that?

No one wants to sit next to the guy at the magic show who leans over and says “There’s a trap door,” or the guy at the comedy show who ruins the punchline before the comedian can get to it, or the guy at either who says “I’ve heard that one before.” For that guy, being right means so much more to him than being entertained, he feels the need to prove it, sucking all the joy out of the room as he tries to. He’s un-fool-able. He’s a fucking buzzkill.

In many ways, Andy Kaufman was a magician. If Lenny Bruce punched at walls of oppression, Kaufman punched through walls of perception. He loved Howdy Doody and he loved pulling our strings.

“There’s no way he’s going to read all of The Great Gatsby at us.”

No, he is.

“There’s no way he’s going to wrestle women.”

No, he is.

“There’s no way he’s not also Tony Clifton.”

Then how are they both onstage at the same time?

On Letterman in 1980, Kaufman appeared disheveled and talked about being broke before asking for assistance and walking into the audience for handouts.

Did he honestly have them convinced he’d fallen on hard times and needed help? Did they know he was kidding and were just playing along?

Who knows?

More importantly, who cares?

“The Great Beyond”

If “Man on the Moon” warns us what it’s like to lose our sense of wonder (“nothing is cool”), “The Great Beyond” reads like a plea from a comedian (or any performer) for us to find it again, leading with one of the most satisfying of all comedy devices: the callback.

I’ve watched the stars fall silent from your eyes.

All the sights that I have seen.

I can’t believe that I believed

I wished that you could see.

There’s a new planet in the solar system,

there is nothing up my sleeve.

The pre-chorus is basically every comedian’s bio, stripped to the essentials.

I’m pushing an elephant up the stairs,

I’m tossing out punch lines that were never there.

Over my shoulder a piano falls,

crashing to the ground.

It’s goofy, slapstick-y, with more than a hint of “What more do you want from me?!” and the first one leaves us hanging, diving back into a verse rather than exploding into a chorus or finding any sort of resolution. Comedy doesn’t work without

suspense.

When we do get to the chorus, there’s a new element in the bio, something metaphysical or spiritual in terms of what the narrator hopes to achieve.

I’m breaking through,

I’m bending spoons,

I’m keeping flowers in full bloom,

I’m looking for answers from the great beyond.

Almost every comedian will tell you, comedy’s about connection, about finding exactly the right delivery to reach a roomful of strangers with your bizarre thoughts and moves. It’s an escape for oneself and, if all goes well, an escape for the audience.

A pie in the face is funny, but the laughter it elicits, or rather the science and chemicals as a result of that laughter, is so much more.

“The Great Beyond” is a mission statement from a professional daydreamer wanting to give us more than we already have. Not money or stuff, but something we’ll almost certainly, desperately need at one time or another: a break, a breather.

Comedians know how hard life can be (there isn’t exactly a shortage of “Comedians Are Actually Really Sad People” articles) and want to do whatever they can to be happy. Oddly, selflessly, what makes them happy is making others happy.

Why can’t we pantomime,

just close our eyes

and sleep sweet dreams?

Me and you with wings on our feet.

“The Worst Joke Ever”

The only (I think) R.E.M. song that has an actual joke in it

You see, there’s this cat burglar who can’t see in the dark.

He lays his bets on 8 more lives, walks into a bar,

slips on the 8 ball, falls on his knife,

says, “I don’t know what I’ve done but it doesn’t feel right.”

even if it is the worst joke ever.

The chorus conjures images of an older person sitting at a bar, drinking away regrets, excited to bend the ear of a bartender or nearby stranger.

Give me a minute and I’ll tell you the setup for the worst joke ever, I never.

I’ll tell you my version of the greatest life story.

Don’t bore me.

I always hear “Don’t bore me” from the perspective of whomever they’ve convinced to listen. Like, “This better be good, old man.”

Later, the song seems to comment on society as a whole. It came out in 2004 but still feels very, sadly relevant.

The crime of good men who can’t wrestle with change

or are too afraid to face this life’s misjudged unknowns,

you’re not hurting anybody else’s chances

but you’re disfiguring your own.

This reeks of everything from Jim Crow laws to opposing gay marriage, the gender bathroom and immigration debates. And, in comedy, it touches on a few common sentiments:

It’s funny because it’s true. It’s funny but not haha funny. The joke is on them.

Comedians often use humor to talk about the darkest parts of their lives and parts of life affecting all of us. A joke about the Catholic church covering up molestation isn’t simply a joke at the expense of the kids, or even the priests, it’s a reminder that these things are happening.

“King of Comedy”

Here’s the thing, this song isn’t about comedy, but neither was the Scorsese film of the same name. The film uses fictional stand-up comedian, Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro), to explore the idea of celebrity, delusion, the media, power, inferiority, mental illness. The song does something similar, with a focus on people using positions of power to manipulate, steal, abuse, and then maintain those positions of power.

Make your money with a suit and tie.

Make your money with shrewd denial.

Make your money expert advice

if you can wing it.

Make your money with a power ply.

Make your money with a buyout bribe.

You can lie

as long as you mean it.

Make your money with exploitation.

Make it holy illumination.

Say a prayer at every station.

Don’t forget to ask for mercy.

The song concludes by repeating the line “I’m not commodity,” which could either be from the viewpoint of consumers, voters and congregations tired of feeling bought and sold, or a band that knows it’s about to drop a record that might polarize longtime listeners (or, more likely, listeners they picked up with their last two, very popular records).

But … “Why not both?”

Videos, Intros, Cameos

R.E.M. was a band that liked to have fun, push buttons, reinvent themselves. In that way, they had just as much in common with Kaufman as they did U2 or any number of rock and roll contemporaries. And the evidence doesn’t begin and end with lyrics, name drops and references.

Their videos were fun, with actors and extras often lip-syncing the songs. One of my favorites is “Crush with Eyeliner,” where a group of Japanese youths mime the song as though it’s their video, while the band looks on. Essentially, R.E.M. had other people stand in for them and shoot a video in their stead. “I’m the real thing / we all invent ourselves …”

On the Green Tour, Stipe introduced “Orange Crush,” a song about Agent Orange and the Vietnam War, by singing the U.S. Army recruiting jingle “Be all that you can be in the Army,” which is just fucking hilarious.

In March 1991, R.E.M. released career-changer, Out of Time. In September 1991, Stipe appeared on an episode of one of the greatest TV shows of all time, The Adventures of Pete & Pete, as awkward but enlightening ice cream man, Captain Scrummy.

In the Road Movie version of “Man on the Moon,” not only does Stipe goof on Elvis, he cops Kaufman’s arm gesture from his performance of the “Mighty Mouse Theme” on Saturday Night Live.

Stipe pops up on Space Ghost Coast to Coast, where the punchline was “Shiny Happy People.”

The Monster tour saw Bill Berry have a brain aneurysm, Mike Mills have surgery for an intestinal adhesion and Stipe have surgery for a hernia, but the singer maintained his sense of humor.

Three words: “Happy Furry Monsters.”

For thirty-one years, R.E.M. cranked out important and heartfelt material without ever losing sight of who they were, while having all sorts of fun with the very idea that they were superstars.

“I don’t actively lie. Well, the whole thing about nailing two oranges together — that was a quote I gave someone years ago, about what Fables of the Reconstruction sounded like. That was absolutely ridiculous, and I couldn’t believe they printed it. I think it was Rolling Stone, in fact. I had been in the studio twelve hours doing a mix, and to have someone call transatlantic and say, ‘What does it sound like?’ — it’s like ‘Well, I don’t know. It sounds like two oranges being nailed together.’”

- Stipe, Rolling Stone, 1991

“This song was made popular in 1973 when I was thirteen years old by BJ Thomas. We’ve only covered it one time before so please bear with us, but I think you’ll enjoy it, it’s a great song. Here we go.”

- Stipe, intro to “Losing My Religion — Live in Chicago / 1995,” from Monster Live EP

The impetus for Out of Time being a folksy record was guitarist Peter Buck treating himself and buying a mandolin. He stumbled upon the riffs that would become “Losing My Religion” while teaching himself to play it. The band’s biggest-selling single, propelling an album to be nominated for seven Grammy Awards, was born of simply wanting to try something new.

If that’s not funny, I don’t know what is.

It’s also incredibly inspiring.

Comedy relies on surprise. Comedians set up an expectation then pull the rug out from under you. If you know what’s coming, it’s not funny, it’s not interesting.

R.E.M. did this over and over again with music, trying new things, occasionally out of boredom, expectations be damned.

“It’s a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself.”

- Lester Burnham, American Beauty

If you believe there’s nothing up your sleeve, then nothing is cool.