Nate Tramdaks, Staff Writer

In late September 2011, R.E.M. announced they were finished. After 31 years of musical dominance, Michael Stipe, Peter Buck and Mike Mills decided they had enough and amicably disbanded. R.E.M., for 15 years, have stood by that decision to call it quits. The four original members (including drummer Bill Berry, who left the band in 1997) have made only two brief exceptions, performing “Losing My Religion” at the 2024 Songwriters Hall of Fame ceremony and “Pretty Persuasion” at the 40-Watt Club in 2025. Beyond those isolated performances, they have refused to record, tour or formally reunite. 

In the 15 years since they walked away, it has become evident that R.E.M. was the last truly great American band, and we now live in a culture where another R.E.M. cannot exist. The America that birthed them is gone. They came up in an era where independent music was plentiful on localized college radio stations, which were the primary engine for underground exposure. Moreover, the landscape they sang about now feels like a foreign entity. Their contribution to Americana, and their use of Americana, was unlike any other. As a band from Athens, Georgia, they did not approach the South as an image or musical style but rather explored the world of the Deep South. 

During their early I.R.S. Records run, which lasted from their first album, Murmur, to their fifth, Document, they expanded on the genre of American alternative rock. The groundwork for this was laid by The Velvet Underground in the ‘60s, who had a massive influence on Stipe and R.E.M. 

Musically, they had a unique guitarist in Buck, who played with a southern twang and jangle sound; Mills who played the bass as a lead/melodic instrument; Berry, who played tightly arranged drums. Collectively, this provided a nest for Stipe to produce haunting and melancholic lyrics with a one-in-a generation voice. 

These first five albums are as R.E.M. as they’ll ever sound, and they will spend the back half of their careers trying to escape those masterpieces. All five fall under the genre “Southern Gothic”. Murmur is simply about decay and the loss of childhood in the South. It is the nadir of their coherence. They tightened it up with their next album, Reckoning, which is an examination of isolation. Reckoning was their defining breakout moment, which leads into arguably their best, Fables of the Reconstruction. Fables is their most put-together album, telling the story of the Deep South through fables from the post-Civil War era. This album marks the shift to when Stipe moves into high gear with his songwriting and he starts using his platform for political advocacy. Life’s Rich Pageant is a cautionary album about the threat of ecological disaster and calls for political awakening. This album parlays well into Document, which is a retrospective commentary on the Reagan administration, and Cold-War Era U.S.

R.E.M signed with Warner Bros. in 1988, which at the time seemed like the beginning of the end for a band that represented independence. Fortunately, it was not. In ‘88 they released Green, with the self-referential opening song Pop Song 89 and included a song speaking out against the horrors occurring in Vietnam. They then released the mandolin driven Out of Time in 1991, their commercially most successful album, and backed it up with the acoustic masterpiece of Automatic for the People. Their story starts to end in 1994 when they released Monster, which was a wrong-place, wrong-time album and a bit of an overcorrection from Automatic. In 1996, they released New Adventures in Hi-Fi. It is evident by this time that they have no more juice. Berry calls it quits, and R.E.M. spends the next 14 years making good, not great, albums. 

Accelerate, their second-to-last album, is a critique of the W. Bush presidency and their final album, Collapse into Now, struggles with the idea of aging. Collapse mirrors Murmur in the sense that it deals with this idea of growing old and aging out of your surroundings. 

What makes R.E.M. the last great American band was their refusal to waver to mainstream trends. Their ability to never become caricatures of themselves. Most importantly, their ability and willingness to capture America as it is.

Samantha Richards, Staff Writer

You suffocate it.

And I want to go with you

Oh God, please let me suffocate with you!

Let me feel it.

Let me feel you.

I want to drown in it.

Please let me go with you.

We’ll go with the wavelength of it.

Its frequency will harmonize us.

Let us ring the bells!

It’s all jolly out there.

Let us speak with each other.

We’ll take away all the feelings.

You won’t feel a thing.

But I could,

And I can go away with you.

Please.

You don’t have to do a thing.

We can just be,

And we’ll rejoice.

Let’s make some angels.

We both know how lonely heaven is,

And how much they long for company.

As winter comes,

teal cries its last tear.

Shadows overcast

With an indigo and midnight hue,

Surrounding it.

Where it crawls and lays in the snow,

Just know that it’s where we slumber, everlasting.

Watch it all fall down.

We’ll be frozen in time.

Just you and me. 

Sean Musial, Managing Editor

Postmodernist literature is a style of experimental writing that rose to popularity in the late 1950s and 1960s. It rejects what modernism created and embraces confusion, irony, and the idea that the reality we live in is made up of multiple points of view rather than just one singular truth/identity. The stories that fit into this category tend to consist of these key features: metafiction, fragmentation, unreliable narrators, intertextuality and pastiche. 

To get a better understanding of what a postmodern novel actually is, here are seven of the best novels that fit this description: 

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace 

One of the defining novels of the 90’s, the 1,097-page thrilling epic with 388 endnotes and around 300 to 350 named characters has been labeled one of the hardest books to read. With that intimidating overview, Infinite Jest is a deep dive into addiction, depression and entertainment that is presented in a darkly philosophical yet humorously absurd tone. Do you dare to be one of the few to pick it up and finish the entire book? A book that seems mandatory to have at least two bookmarks to keep up with the main plot and every single endnote you have to flip back-and-forth to get to? 

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. 

Published in 1969, it is a semi-autobiographical anti-war novel about a man named Billy Pilgrim: a WWII soldier who becomes “unstuck in time,” captured by German troops, and eventually abducted by aliens, so it goes. It’s a satirical novel that reflects Vonnegut’s PTSD and the experiences he had in war at the destruction of Dresden, but with a twist that makes the novel fight against the public perception of war through a time-jumping plot that makes you question if the main character is in his right mind. 

Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon 

A counterculture book set in WW2 that embraces the paranoia of the late 60’s and early 70’s in a tale that revolves around V2 rockets and a man’s bizarre erections that seem to interlock with where the bombs land next. Don’t let this strange synopsis fool you. The book is a story with around 400 named characters, a clustered narrative that makes it hard for some to grasp or understand in spots, and a journey through war-torn Europe. 

Underworld by Don DeLillo

Regarded as DeLillo’s magnum opus, this epic spans the second half of the 21st century and starts at an iconic 1951 baseball game. It’s an exploration into pop culture, the politics of the Cold War and forgotten history, with most of the narrative moving backwards from the 1990s, leading back to the 1950s where it had initially begun. The story is a master class in some of the nonlinear elements that make a postmodern novel and is arguably one of the best for someone to try to explain the genre of writing to someone else. 

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 

The grandiose story of the seven generations of the Buendia family living in a fictional town called Macondo. It seamlessly blends magical realism with the everyday lives of the family members as the reader experiences their evolution through time. The novel transcends language with multiple translations and the tens of millions of copies that have been sold since its publication in 1967. 

2666 by Roberto Bolaño

The latest publication in this list, Bolaño’s 2004 novel, is divided into five very distinct parts that are interconnected through a Mexican border city. Throughout the novel, we are given an examination of 20th-century violence, evil, art, literature and the search that lies with the fragmented truth that life and history have provided since the dawn of time. Each part of the novel brings each theme to a different light, but never resolving as clearly as some may hope—a reflection on what some parts of history have given us, or haven’t provided. 

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

Considered to be one of the first postmodern books ever written, this satirical war novel ponders a troublesome rule with no real form of escape. Against the backdrop of WWII, if a pilot asks for a mental evaluation to stop flying life-threatening missions, he proves to his commanding officers that he is, in fact, sane, because he understands the gravity and risk of what he is doing in the sky. He must fly! Every page you read makes you understand the absurdity of war and the rules that come at the risk of soldiers. 

Postmodernist books can be difficult reads for the average reader and even incoherent for those who don’t read at all. For an avid reader, postmodern books can challenge someone to truly read between the lines rather than being handed every fact and detail. These types of novels aren’t meant for us to be handed everything on a silver platter. Instead, we are asked to think. No matter how hard it is to get through, in my opinion, we become smarter individuals with every page we get through. We bring together our own understanding of the novel and its message. We finish and flip over that final page, letting our minds become enamored with something complex and out of the ordinary, allowing it to sit with us weeks or months after the book is shut. 

José A. Bruno Feliz, Staff Writer

Our parents can tell you where they were when the second plane crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. They can tell you where they were when the Pentagon was hit. They can tell you where they were when the towers fell. But I can’t call 9/11 a memory because there is no memory to tell; I was  born into it. It’s normal for me to walk down my local train station and read a Homeland Security sign that says, “if you see something, say something,” to listen to a TSA agent yell at you to take off your shoes and put all electronics in the plastic bin, to watch a news clip of the FBI warning that terrorist attacks on American soil were a possibility. It is the norm. 

Seeing the events through a historical perspective gives us a moment to reflect on how it became the tipping point in the current climate of the United States, a climate that is deeply rooted in the erosion of trust. It was clear that the government took advantage of the situation and exploited it for political purposes; the Bush administration used 9/11 to launch a series of failed wars that destabilized the Middle East and killed four million people across the planet. And the posterior Obama, Biden and Trump administrations have used a security apparatus, initially designed to stop terrorists, to terrorize migrant families, to persecute political enemies and to suppress our constitutional rights. 

The understanding as to why 9/11 became more than just the patriotic symbolism that is preached to us becomes more understandable through the eyes of the aftermath. When the towers fell and those in danger needed help, it was our own citizens who stepped up to lend a helping hand, not worrying about political views or affiliations. But ask yourself this: if 9/11 happened today, would your fellow Americans take a flight to New York City New York to help with the rescue efforts? Would President Trump take the shoulder of a weary firefighter to announce another war? Would you donate blood if it meant it would end up in the veins of an undocumented migrant?

Samantha Richards, Staff Writer

What a beautiful sight!

The sky is in mourning 

And the stars have shared their condolences

Why, cry?

I love to be sinking to the bottom

There’s nowhere to go

But remain here

 For a little while

The cold hugs me in a deep, warm embrace

And the snow kisses my skin

It’s never felt more sincere than this.

As I  lay down and let everything sink below me,

I am full of clarity and understanding

It’s time for death

And a timely one, at that.

Not me, by any means.

I will remain through and through.

You will feel me, but never see me.

And I will linger in all you surround yourself with

Because that is just me…

I am no distant lover

And I am never letting you go.

I am the season that watches you grow up

I am the watch that keeps you going

And I am the motivator for you to keep striving.

Paint me every syllable you can imagine me

Slash me!

Tear at me!

Kick me!

And I will use your colors to paint your tears

For tears, as they fall

They just know how to paint your face well

And make you a beautiful sculpture of the night’s 

agonizing memory

I will cling onto you until death embraces you

And I will be in mourning too

But, know this.

I have forever loved you

And let love forever be with you.

Nathalia Peralta Duran, Staff Writer

Rick Grimes is one of the many main characters in The Walking Dead series. In the pilot episode, we learn he is a deputy for the King’s County Sheriff’s Department. He is also a husband and father. But before we get to learn more about Rick, he gets shot and falls into a coma. In later episodes, we get to see different characters and how they survive the zombie apocalypse before his return. It’s interesting because it shows the psychology of other characters and how each interaction changes and shapes Rick as the story progresses. 

When Rick finally wakes up from his coma, he isn’t doing so well, but he quickly gets up and manages to get out of the hospital despite feeling dizzy. He encounters zombies along the way, but gets lucky and is not infected. When he finally reunites with his family and his friend Shane, things become awkward between Lori (Rick’s wife) and Shane, as it’s later revealed in the show that they had an affair (and Rick is not aware of this yet). The falling out between him and Shane added to his grief/loss when he had to choose between killing Shane for the sake of his group, as he later became the leader of it. 

Another thing I noticed about Rick is that he is a people-pleaser, and this is very clear in the first seasons of the show. He tries to accommodate and please everyone anytime he can. However, this sometimes does more harm than good, as he will put himself in harm’s way for the betterment of the group. It’s not bad, but considering the situation they are in, he can’t afford to always dive head first to solve a problem, as he still has a family to take care of. 

I believe this adds to his anxiety and the stress that comes with being a leader in a zombie apocalypse. Much of Rick’s trauma comes from losing people he’s close with, such as Shane, Lori and, eventually, his two kids later in the show. He doesn’t have the time to properly process any of these deaths due to the role he plays as a protector and authoritative figure, but we do get to see how these deaths start to impact him through physical symptoms like sweating, paleness, dizziness and mental symptoms like hallucinations and even hearing voices. There are many times in the show when he silently begins to dissociate, adding to the overwhelming feelings he tends to fight through. 

In a sociocultural aspect, Rick’s view of the world begins in a naive sense. At the same time, he does see the situation at hand and how the world has changed because of it. He still, at times, tries to see the good that’s left in people, and that has to do with his identity of being a deputy—he has a duty with values that he follows, as his job is to make sure people are safe and follow the rules. Ultimately because of this, he views the world in black and white instead of a mix of everything. The zombies are not the only “evil” they need to protect themselves from. There are also other humans and groups of them, and at the end of the day, it comes down to survival of the fittest.

Rick tends to feel intense guilt when he can’t help everyone, even when things are out of his control or don’t have much to do with him. After watching a few more episodes and Rick’s dynamic with his group, I think he sometimes has this “savior complex” within him that could also play into his guilt when things don’t end up going as he planned. This also ties into his old role as a deputy, which is a position of trust and power, as well as safety. 

The savior complex, also known as White Knight Syndrome, is characterized by wanting to always change or improve other people’s situations without giving them room to grow. “You must realize that no matter how much you try to change someone, you won’t get your desired outcome. For people to grow, they have to want to make changes for themselves,” stresses Dr. Abraham Ford, a character from the show. Going back to people-pleasing, the savior complex makes Rick sometimes act as though he needs to make excessive personal sacrifices instead of listening to what needs to be done. This need to always want to help comes from a lack of self-esteem and confidence, but I don’t believe that’s the case when Rick tries to help others. It’s more about making sure everything is under control and reducing any attempts at the group falling apart. 

Over time, however, Rick starts to toughen up and grasp the reality of their new world. There are times when his decisions become rash or cruel to others around him, but this is just what he sees as necessary to not only survive but keep his group from avoiding unnecessary troubles. 

From a humanistic perspective, Rick Grimes would be considered the ideal partner and leader. The show’s exploration of his trauma, leadership and morality is a heartwrenching experience when viewing everything from a lawless and upside-down world. Starting as a deputy with clear moral values and responsibility and transforming into a hardened leader willing to make devastating choices, Rick’s evolution from human to survivor to leader reflects how fast he had to adjust to this new environment and get used to leading people he didn’t know, but learned to cherish as his new family. Regardless of the trauma and loss he endures, Rick consistently strives to protect others, finding purpose in upholding a sense of morality even when the world around him has long left those rules behind. His tendencies to please people and save everyone from their problems can be seen as a way to maintain a connection, belonging and sense of control all in one. 

As the story progresses, we get to see how Rick Grimes changes over time, becoming a shell of a man, taken to his limits and tested to the brink of no return, only to return stronger and with a desire to create a better and safer world for future generations. This shows his belief in growth, resilience and the enduring capacity of his compassion. 

Rick Grimes’ journey in The Walking Dead is a powerful exploration of how trauma, leadership and morality intertwine in a world turned upside down. From his initial role as a deputy with a clear moral code, to becoming a hardened leader willing to make devastating choices, Rick’s evolution reflects the brutal reality of surviving in a world where the dead aren’t the only threat. His people-pleasing tendencies, savior complex and intense sense of responsibility often put him at odds with his well-being, pushing him to the edge both mentally and emotionally. Yet, it’s these very struggles that make him such a compelling

character—flawed, human and deeply shaped by the world around him. As the apocalypse continues to strip away the old world’s structure, Rick’s transformation reminds us that to lead, one must sometimes sacrifice certainty, comfort and even parts of oneself.