Reckoning With Reckoning

by editor Michele Catalano

There’s something about being 21 that changes you fundamentally. All of a sudden you’re old enough to know better. What was a charming part of your personality just a few months earlier is starting to look pathetic.You’re an adult, but you still get carded in every bar. You’re straddling a line between self-awareness and self-doubt. You feel as if you just graduated high school but in actuality you are an adult now, and you are being dragged kicking and screaming into the “real world.”

Being 21 in 1983 felt a little different than being 21 now. It was still an age in which women weren’t encouraged to go to college and find good jobs. Rather, we were encouraged to find a man who had gone to college and had a good job—to fall in love, get married, have kids.

So there I was at 21, working in Record World and contemplating my future. I was engaged at the time—a normal thing for my people my age at that time—but I knew that relationship was over. I just had to figure out a way to end it that would bring the least amount of shame to my entire family. Meanwhile, I was working 12 hours a day, six days a week, trying to save up enough money to go to college.

I was late on continuing my education, but I had an epiphany while listening to R.E.M.’s Murmur on the stereo in the store. There wasn’t a particular song that did it for me, but “Radio Free Europe,” “Pilgrimage,” and “Talk About the Passion” all invigorated me. The music was fresh, new to me. I sank my teeth into it. There was something about it that made me want to do things, to move forward with my life. That association, which would stay with me forever, made me buy Murmur and a 7” import of “Radio Free Europe,” which had a slight warp that I came to love. I don’t know how I got “break up with your fiancé and go back to school” out of Murmur, but I got one of those things done by the end of November.

By the time April 1984 rolled around, I had pushed going to school to the back of my mind, while I worked my ass off to save money. I had also started dating a coworker. And R.E.M. had put out a new album. The day it came in, I scrambled to get it onto the store stereo. I’d already heard “(Don’t Go Back To) Rockville” on the radio and had a feeling Reckoning was going to be special. I didn’t want to wait to get home with my fresh copy. I wanted to listen to it now.

Three others gathered with me by the cash register, anticipating this album: my manager, Ed; my boyfriend; and Kevin, the guy in charge of imports. We stood there, listening, in our blue Record World vests, ignoring customers. It was, for all of us, love at first listen.

I was particularly taken with “So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry).” Michael Stipes’ plaintive, emotional refrain of “I’m sorry” played in my head for hours. I purchased Reckoning, finished my shift (playing the record three times in the process), and went home for a good headphones listening. Communal listening was fun, but I really wanted to engage with “Time After Time” and “Letter Never Sent.” The album had its way with me; I knew it would be an all-time favorite. I knew I’d carry it with me forever.

At 21, I developed a somewhat debilitating anxiety disorder. I had always been sort of anxious, but this was something else. Out of nowhere, I started having panic attacks. It took me a while to understand that this wasn’t an emotional response to anything in particular. I couldn’t predict the attacks; I couldn’t stop them. Sometimes I would do the eight times table (I find that difficult) to bring my mind back into focus. It didn’t always work.

My boyfriend did not understand my panic attacks, or the generalized anxiety that sometimes kept me from going places. I had no idea what I was afraid of. I just knew that I was living in fear, and no one I talked to about it had any empathy or desire to hear about it.

Reckoning grounded me. It became a fixture in my life, a companion that hung around me when no one else would. It replaced the eight times tables in my brain; when a panic attack started, I would immediately recite “Harborcoat” out loud. At home, I would sit quietly in my room, where the members of R.E.M.—Stipe, Bill Berry, Peter Buck, and Mike Mills—would form a circle around me, protecting me from harm. When I was lost in Reckoning, I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t afraid. The music centered me, healed me.

And so it came to be that R.E.M. was touring in support of Reckoning. We missed them when they came around for Murmur, and we were determined to get tickets to their Beacon Theatre show in July. My boyfriend waited in line at a record store (not our record store; we didn’t have a ticket machine) and came away with two tickets. I was elated.

Seeing R.E.M. live meant the world to me. I couldn’t wait to be wrapped up in the songs that had comforted me so much, to see them performed in front of me, to sing along with the band and thousands of people. I spent the days before the concert listening to Reckoning and imaging what it was going to be like to see them perform “So. Central Rain” right in front of me. I thought I might cry.

The day of the show was a sweltering July day, probably the hottest day that summer. I woke up with a headache, annoyed at the heat, annoyed at the pounding in my head, feeling out of sorts. I thought for a minute that I might be sick. But that wasn’t it. I recognized what was going on. I was having a bad mental health day. This was in the days before practicing self-care was talked about as it is today. People didn’t really understand anxiety and depression and panic attacks. I was told so often to suck it up that I stopped talking about my mental health.

So here I was, basically unable to get out of bed, panicking at the thought of just existing in front of anyone but myself. My anxiety was full-blown. Labored breathing, shaky hands, the feeling that I was underwater or dreaming. I had no sense of reality. I did the first thing I could think to do and put on Reckoning. The music soothed me, Michael’s voice comforted me. Yet the panic persisted, a low-grade manic fever that was making me feel insane.

How could I go to a show in this state? I got upset at the thought of missing R.E.M., but I couldn’t imagine being in a darkened theater with thousands of other people. The thought made me gasp for air. I immediately called my boyfriend to let him know what was going on, to give him time to find someone else to go with. His reaction was to tell me that he was disappointed in me, that I should face my fears head on and stop being such a baby. He was incredibly irritated that I no longer wanted to go to the show. On the one hand, I couldn’t blame him; but on the other, could you have a little empathy? I got annoyed with him and hung up, leaving unspoken whether or not I was going to “suck it up.” I already knew my answer. I was going to remain in bed, listening to Reckoning and feeling sorry for myself.

My boyfriend gave my ticket to Kevin, the import guy. I didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. I thought he’d call to see how I was doing, but he didn’t. My “imaginary” anxiety disorder and I spent the day and night alone, spinning Reckoning, imagining myself at the show, listening to Stipe croon about not going back to Rockville, feeling the magic in a tangible way. It was the first of many shows I would miss over the years because of anxiety. I’m kinder to myself about it now.

I recently looked at the setlist for the show I missed and realized what a great concert I passed up. I’m not going to feel bad about it, as it was 40 years and several relationships ago. A lot has changed. I accept my mental shortcomings now. I know how to deal with them. I’m a much better me than I was at 21, but who isn’t? Nobody knows what they want or need at that age. Well, aside from music that embraced me, as Reckoning did.

I finally got to see R.E.M. on October 7, 1995, at Nassau Coliseum on the Monster tour. I was there with that same boyfriend, who was now my husband. I was excited to see this show and put the missed Reckoning concert out of my mind. It was an incredible night. We heard everything we wanted to hear, the band sounded tight, and Stipe was totally on.

As we left the Coliseum after the show, we found out that the Yankees had lost their playoff game to the Mariners, to which my husband remarked, “Another R.E.M. concert ruined by circumstance.” I immediately thought back to the missed show ten years earlier. He was still angry about it. I felt a deep sense of shame. But I pulled myself together and instead felt a deep sense of shame for him. He was being petty and childish, and he knew what he was doing, ruining my good night (as if the Mariners hadn’t already done that). It was payback time.

It would be another year before I got up the courage to tell him that I didn’t love him anymore. I made sure to tell him that it was his fault. When he left the house on the day we agreed to separate, I immediately went to the record player and put on Reckoning, something he forbade me from doing, out of pettiness, while he was home. I settled onto the couch where my kids were reading and let Stipe’s voice wash over me. I was at ease. I was with friends.

Reckoning has remained my favorite R.E.M. album, partly because of everything that ties me to it, from remembering that day when I first heard it to seeing “So. Central Rain” performed live. It’s an important detour in the lore of my life. If you want to get to know me, you should know that Reckoning will always be my best friend, as it has been since I was an unsure and anxious 21-year-old. Forty-one years later, I’m still unsure and anxious, and Reckoning still centers me.

I Have That on Vinyl is a reader supported publication. If you enjoy what’s going on here please consider donating to the site’s writer fund: venmo // paypal