Starting college the year Murmur came out, it was impossible not to get swept up in all that R.E.M. represented. Throughout high school in western Massachusetts, my musical tastes hadn’t drifted far from what was on the radio, so I was well-versed in .38 Special, Pat Benatar, Asia, Billy Joel, Toto, and Men at Work. Sure, there was some Police and some Clash, but even that was mostly Combat Rock, which I later realized paled in comparison to their other work.

It was fall of 1983 when I first heard the opening guitar riff of “Sitting Still” — and then Michael Stipe singing something I couldn’t fully decipher but still knew I loved — and I was hooked. They were accessible, yet enigmatic; alternative, yet melodic. My brother in all things musical, Parker Fennelly, was equally enamored, and we absolutely wore that record out.

In 1984/’85, we were fortunate enough to see R.E.M. in a small club in Albany, and then again at UMass Amherst. Both were epic shows that only deepened how much we loved them. The irony is that we didn’t get a chance to meet them at those smaller venues. But when they played the Centrum in Worcester in 1987, we were offered backstage tickets by a scalper for a ridiculously low price. We thought we were being scammed, but threw our $20 to the wind and took our chances.

After the show — which was incredible — we walked to the designated area, where about 100 of us were being ushered through the bowels of the Centrum, out a back exit, and down to a local bar. There we waited for the band’s arrival, which came about an hour later. I honestly had no intention of meeting any of them, getting an autograph, or really anything at all. It was enough just to be in the same room and observe.

Bill, Peter, Mike, and Michael entered and dispersed to different areas of the bar. By total chance, Michael Stipe ended up in my general area, with a small horde hovering around him, barking questions or asking for signatures. This went on for about 30 minutes, and all the while the group inched closer to where I was standing.

I could now hear some of the conversations, which were mostly what you’d expect. But what I remember most is that people kept referring to him as “Mike,” to which he would politely respond, “Michael.” This probably happened half a dozen times, and I was struck by how no one seemed to listen, or notice that it genuinely bothered him. I was also taken aback by how thin the line seemed between admiration and failing to treat someone like a real person. It was odd: people who clearly admired both the art and the artist, yet treated him more like an object than a human being. Through it all, he remained nothing but polite.

At one point, Parker stepped forward to ask a question about a song, and as he walked away, I realized the crowd had shifted such that I was now essentially face-to-face with Michael — maybe three feet separated us. I hadn’t planned for this, so I found myself taking a small step toward him, putting out my hand, and saying:

“I don’t really have anything to say to you other than I really like your music. It moves me, and I can’t wait to hear what you do next. So — thank you.”

As I went to walk away, I heard him say something. I turned back and said, “Excuse me?”  “You have a very warm handshake,” he said.

I looked at my hand and replied, half-joking, “Well, it’s been in my pocket all night.” He smiled, and it seemed to invite something more.

For whatever reason, I suddenly remembered a Henry Rollins book of poetry I had recently read. “Henry Rollins mentions you a few times in his latest book,” I said.

He smiled again. “Henry Rollins is one of the gentlest men I’ve ever met,” he replied. This surprised me, given how few people would describe him that way.

Michael was wearing an old, oversized suit jacket, with a chain coming out of the lapel pocket — like one attached to a wallet — except it seemed to be connected to a toothbrush. “Is that a toothbrush in your pocket?” I asked.

Without looking, he reached in, pulled it out, held it between us, and twirled it in his hands. Then he grinned and said, “I’m a travelin’ man, you know.” We both laughed as he tucked it back into his pocket. He then pulled a beer from the side pocket of the jacket, took a slow, deliberate sip, and placed it back without so much as a glance.

I put my hand out again, and as we shook, I said, “Thank you, Michael.” He looked at me with those expressive eyes and said, “No… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, as I walked away. I’ve thought about that interaction quite a lot, and what has always stayed with me is him saying thank you. I think he was thanking me for something really simple. I didn’t want anything from him other than what he had already given. We simply had a genuine human interaction that lasted all of two minutes. Just being in that bar and watching things unfold for an hour or so, it seemed to me that kind of interaction was probably a real gift for him in some way. Or maybe not, but that’s where I landed with it.

It was strange. It was unique. It was genuine. It was perfect. And it was exactly how I would have imagined meeting him might be.

It was just one of thousands of interactions like this for him — no doubt one he would not remember at all. But I remember it like it was yesterday, and it still brings a smile to my face. Sometimes meeting someone whose art you revere just makes you love them all the more.

ALAN HOUGHTALING is a dad, husband, music lover, long-time R.E.M. fan, and sometime writer who lives outside of Boston, MA.

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