Monster’s Ball: R.E.M. Turns It Up to Tune Out
September 26, 1994: A Date with Distortion
You could argue Monster begins with a misdirection. Released in the UK on September 26, 1994 (and in the US the next day), R.E.M.’s ninth album arrived trailing the ghostly echoes of Out of Time and Automatic for the People, two acoustic-heavy masterpieces that helped redefine college rock into elder-statesman art. But Monster was neither hushed nor polite. It was, from the feedback-drenched opening of “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?”, a big, glam-stomp reset.
After the Murmurs, the Growl
This wasn’t R.E.M. chasing grunge. This was a band that was preemptively bored with themselves. The whispery textures that won them Grammys now felt like a trap. So they grabbed distortion pedals and leaned into the absurd. Think: David Bowie via thrift-store fuzz boxes, with Michael Stipe’s lyrics trading mysticism for mischief.
Producer Scott Litt, who had helped make their quiet sound sparkle, now helped it snarl. The result was Monster, less about melody, more about volume, velocity, and performance. It’s a rock album by a band remembered for everything but.
Frequencies That Hit Like Warnings
Lead single “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” dropped earlier that September, name-checking the bizarre 1986 incident in which Dan Rather was assaulted by a man repeating that same nonsensical phrase. R.E.M. turned the phrase into a generational shrug. It peaked at No. 21 on the Billboard Hot 100, not their biggest hit, but easily one of their most mythic.
The follow-ups were even stranger: the sneering “Crush with Eyeliner”, the confessional “Strange Currencies”, the Prince-channeling “Tongue”, and “Bang and Blame”, a bass-heavy slow burn that gave the band their last top-20 US hit.
Chart Killers with a Ghost Inside
Despite, or because of, its about-face in sound, Monster was a commercial juggernaut. It debuted at No. 1 on both sides of the Atlantic, moving 344,000 units in its first US week. It was the kind of success that made the album’s underlying grief easier to miss.
Because buried under the sonic camouflage is “Let Me In”, a dirge for Kurt Cobain, written just after his suicide in April 1994. Stipe’s delivery on the track is raw and near-unintelligible, a deliberate haze of emotion. He famously tried to mentor Cobain, seeing in him a creative ally. The song, built around echo and distortion, doesn’t just mourn Kurt; it mirrors him.
Monsters on Tour, and in the Mirror
The tour that followed was ambitious and cursed. Monster pushed the band into an arena-ready aesthetic just as internal cracks started to show. Drummer Bill Berry suffered a brain aneurysm mid-tour, bassist Mike Mills needed surgery, and Stipe battled a hernia. They finished the dates, but not without scars, physical and otherwise.
The chaos bled into their next LP, the sprawling and uncertain New Adventures in Hi-Fi, recorded largely on the road.
Resurrection Mix
In 2019, Monster returned for its 25th anniversary with a Litt-led remix that stripped away some of the original murk. The box set unearthed demos and a full 1995 concert, revealing a band at war with its own instincts, and somehow better for it.
Listen Again, Louder
R.E.M. never made another album like Monster. Maybe they couldn’t. It’s all sinew and static, a glam-rock séance for ghosts still living. At its best, it made alienation sound electrifying. At its most moving, it turned noise into a form of prayer.
If you only revisit one track: “Let Me In.” It’s the heart inside the howl.
