4B — Thursday, January 22, 2015
the b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
ADAM
THEISEN
O
ne of the best records
of 2014 was completely
absent from many “Top
Albums of the Year” lists. From
Pitchfork to the young passion-
ate writers here at The Michigan
Daily, this stunning, singular,
fantastic release got way less
acknowledg-
ment than it
deserved.
That
may
seem like a
relatively
minor
slight
to
write
a
whole column
about — obvi-
ously, music is
a very subjec-
tive experience, and arguments
rooted in personal taste rarely
go anywhere productive. But this
album, while certainly incred-
ible from a purely technical point
of view, needs and deserves as
much exposure as it can possi-
bly get — not just because of its
musicianship, but because it truly
has something to say. This record
carries a message that we all need
to keep in our heads as we enter
this year, and it sets the bar for
what music should be in 2015.
It’s inexcusable to me how
many
publications
omitted
Against Me!’s Transgender Dys-
phoria Blues from their year-end
lists. True, the album (released
almost exactly one year ago now)
earned solid rankings from Spin,
Time and Rolling Stone (not to
mention serious praise from
Vice), but I think it’s a real shame
that Transgender Dysphoria Blues
couldn’t make it onto The Daily’s
best-of list, and only squeaked
into Pitchfork’s “Honorable Men-
tions” category. This is an album
that you cannot praise enough,
and it’s an extraordinarily rel-
evant example of courage and
individuality that should set the
template for 2015’s crop of new
music.
I first came across Against Me!
when I was in early high school,
when the band’s primary song-
writer/lead guitarist/singer was
known publicly as Tom Gabel.
Against Me! had a few catchy
songs that got occasional airplay
on alternative radio (“Thrash
Unreal” and ” “I Was a Teen-
age Anarchist”), but they were
little more than a blip on my
music radar. When Against Me!’s
leader took the name Laura Jane
Grace and came out as a trangen-
der woman to Rolling Stone, I
thought it was cool that alt-rock,
a genre sometimes lacking in
diversity, suddenly had much a
much more visible LGBTQ pres-
ence.
It wasn’t until a year and a half
later, when Transgender Dyspho-
ria Blues was getting buzz in more
mainstream spaces, that Against
Me! became prominent in my
musical consciousness. I listened
to the record and immediately
knew that Laura Jane Grace was
on a higher artistic plane than
she had ever been before. Track
One, the title track, starts off like
pretty much any other pop-punk
Against Me! track — a prominent,
marching drumbeat, some guitar
riffs and a “Hey!” — but as soon
as Grace’s vocals enter the mix,
I knew this album was a game-
changer. The singer, presum-
ably singing to her younger self,
berates herself, screaming, “Your
tells are so obvious / Shoulders
too broad for a girl” and, with
shocking force, “You’ve got no
cunt in your strut!” “You want
them to notice / The ragged ends
of your summer dress,” she tells
herself. “They just see a faggot,”
she angrily admits.
Ironically, it’s difficult to be
different in a genre that prides
itself on non-conformity, but
Grace’s lyrics don’t just tear
apart punk rock norms: they are
radically different from anything
I’ve heard in music. Transgender
Dysphoria Blues is the most pas-
sionate burst of catharsis I’ve
ever experienced. Like so much
great writing, it’s heartbreak-
ingly specific but universally
relatable for anyone who’s ever
been a teenaged outcast of any
gender or sexuality. There’s pain,
rage, depression and alienation in
Grace’s vocals, but there’s also tri-
umph. While the timespan of the
record isn’t wide enough in scope
to explicitly include this, implicit
in all of her songs is the idea the
Grace has fucking made it past the
seemingly infinite darkness that
so many young transgender peo-
ple have to experience. She’s done
it. She makes awesome punk rock
and gets interviewed by hugely
influential journalists and makes
a living doing what she loves
despite living in a society that’s
still extremely prejudiced against
who she is.
I’ve been thinking even more
about
Transgender
Dysphoria
Blues since I heard about the sui-
cide of Leelah Alcorn, a 17-year
old transgender girl from Ohio
whose parents oppressed her
identity, her alienation eventually
leading her to end her life.
Rock stars aren’t role mod-
els. They’re human, they’re fal-
lible and they’re bound to do some
things that fans don’t want to hear
about. That said (and I’m abso-
lutely speaking from personal
experience here), teenagers will
always idolize musicians. Wheth-
er it’s tragic figures like Kurt
Cobain and Jimi Hendrix, abra-
sive geniuses like Bob Dylan and
Kanye West or punk-rock mold-
breakers like Kathleen Hanna and
Laura Jane Grace, kids who fall in
love with these artists’ works will
inevitably comb through the lyr-
ics and watch plenty of interviews
so they can imitate their heroes’
styles and life philosophies.
Because of this undeniable fact
of growing up, I’ve been wishing
that every single outcast teenager
could listen to Transgender Dys-
phoria Blues. It’s unlikely, because
of societal oppression and the
band’s relative obscurity, that
even a majority of kids will ever
get to experience this record, but
that’s exactly why we need more
of this kind of music. By no means
do I want to say Against Me! is the
cure-all for every form of teen-
aged alienation, and I definitely
have no idea if Leelah Alcorn
would’ve even liked the album,
but I couldn’t help remember-
ing when I was in my early teens
(circa 2010) and struggling with
identity issues and how happy I
felt whenever I found a musician
who seemed to understand me
(even though I never found any-
one more significant than straight
play actors like David Bowie, indie
artists with small followings like
Rostam Batmanglij or Lady Gaga,
whatever genre she is). Anytime I
could find an artist even slightly
willing to acknowledge that there
are non-straight sexualities, or a
song that channeled those other
identities (say, Franz Ferdinand’s
“Michael” or Bloc Party’s “I Still
Remember”), it was an oasis of
validation in what felt like the
straightest suburb in Michigan.
If I was a couple of years younger,
Laura Jane Grace would’ve easily
been the dominant LGBTQ role
model of my iPod.
I realize not everyone expe-
riences life through the lens of
music like I do, but I know how
much of a difference art can make
in anyone’s life. Movies and TV
shows that represent more than
just the straight, white male
experience, music created by
artists like Laura Jane Grace or
Frank Ocean who don’t fit “tra-
ditional” notions about gender or
sexuality, writing by people with
diverse points of view, these are
all immeasurably important to
inspiring young kids who perhaps
don’t fit the standard representa-
tions they see in the media.
While 2014 was somewhat
lacking from a music standpoint
(Igloo Australia and some Cana-
dian-Reggae group dominated
the charts), Sleater-Kinney has
already released an album in 2015
and D’Angelo caught us all at the
tail end of last year with the mind-
blowing complexity and power of
Black Messiah. Here’s hoping that
even more mold-breakers (Kanye?
Kendrick?) will give us something
truly special this year. I remember
being 14 and kind of different and
searching so hard for other artists
who were truly different in ways
I could relate to and that could
make me more comfortable. For
2015, let’s pledge to elevate those
artists who dare to be unique, and
let’s see them at the top of our
year-end lists come December.
Theisen is listening to the new
Sleater-Kinney album. To chat,
email ajtheis@umich.edu.
Car and train
crashes inspire
University student
printmaker/poet
By ALEX BERNARD
Daily Community Culture Editor
As I walked out of my inter-
view, through studios filled with
paintings, sculptures and the kind
of art you can’t describe if you
don’t study it (I think they call it
“abstract”), I passed a small rect-
angle of white paper tacked to the
wall because the tape, clearly, was
not holding. (You’d think if any-
one had the right tape, it’d be the
art school). The sheet sat above a
tiny blue bucket – not much wider
than the size of my fist – nailed to
the wall.
On that slip of paper, written in
blocky, red marker was:
“IF AT ANY POINT TODAY
YOU THOUGHT ‘I NEED TO
KNOCK ON WOOD,’ DIP YOUR
HAND IN THE BUCKET &
KNOCK ... IT WILL WASH
RIGHT OFF.”
I looked inside. Four nails rest-
ed on the bottom. Hm. Art School.
I carried on, away from the per-
sonal studios, through the glass
doors, past a girl in a scarf who
gave me an aren’t-you-a-little-tall-
to-be-an-art-student look, and out
into the cold. As I huddled at the
bus stop, I mentally reviewed my
interview with Visual Arts stu-
dent Margaret Hitch.
Margaret is a senior BFA stu-
dent in the Stamps School of Art &
Design. She is a printmaker and a
poet. Notice I don’t say “or a poet.”
Margaret matches her prints with
her poems and her poems with
her prints to tell stories, many
of which are autobiographical.
Sometimes the poems inspire the
drawings, and sometimes, the
other way around.
“For this project,” Margaret
said, “I just kind of picked a selec-
tion of poems and made work off
of that. Or there was images that
I made and then I kind of wrote a
poem after ... I knew that I wanted
to work with poetry and images
together.”
Drawing since eighth grade,
Margaret has fallen in love with
printmaking, from its subject
material to the process to the rath-
er unambiguous final product.
“I love the physical work you
have to do ... There is a yes or a no
answer with something, so there’s
technique that you have to learn,
which is kind of nice.”
What’s also nice is that Marga-
ret will have a chance to get her
yes or no answer. At the end of the
semester, all senior art students
are required to present their work
in a show, either through the Uni-
versity at one of two exhibits or
through another off site location.
Margaret, however, had another
idea.
“I’m going to have a solo show
in my bike shed in between my co-
ops. I’m just taking all the bikes
out and then I’m gonna convert it
into a gallery space.”
The name of the show is
“American
Dreamboat”
and
focuses on Margaret’s version of
the American Dream, with spe-
cial emphasis placed on death,
human-to-human dynamics and
travel.
I asked Margaret about how
travel operates in her work, but
something else cropped up, some-
thing out of nowhere it seemed.
Well, not nowhere exactly.
“I have this poem,” Margaret
said, “about being on Highway
One in California and thinking I
was gonna die, ‘cause I was in car
crash freshman year and then ever
since, I’ve been really connected
to ‘I could possibly die whenever
I’m in any form of transportation.’
Wait. A car crash?
“It was weird. It was just slip-
pery road and I flipped the Trail-
Blazer three times. Yeah but ...
everyone gets in a car crash.”
Well. That was matter-of-fact.
While I tried to catch up, Marga-
ret calmly explained to me that
the car crash plays just as much of
a role in her art as anything else.
“Yeah it was definitely really
affecting. (I) definitely have a
greater appreciation for life. I was
really not thinking about my mor-
tality at all and now I think about
my mortality all the time. In a
good way, in a good way.”
I breathed, rubbed my sweaty
palm against my interview note-
book, and asked Margaret about
her other inspirations. You see, her
work isn’t only about car crashes
and travel, per se, but about rela-
tionships and how we choose to
spend our brief, finite allotments
of days. Margaret’s tone might be
casual, but her work is anything
but. It’s a serious examination of
the tissue-thin division between
life and death.
So, a car crash. Of course.
Makes sense. I was beginning to
understand her nonchalance.
“And then I almost got hit by a
train, so I’m gonna work on some
woodcuts that–”
Oh good God!
“How did you almost get hit by
a train?” I asked, interrupting.
“I was on a train bridge, like
over a frozen lake, and then a
train came. It was like this typical
‘Stand By Me’ situation, and we all
just, like, ran. But the train was
small enough that it stopped, so it
was good.”
Me
(incredulously):
“What
were you doing up there?”
“Just
exploring,”
Margaret
said. “You know, being a dumb
kid. That’s kind of what (my nar-
rative’s) about. It’s about how we
wanna have this search for adven-
ture and we wanna travel, but
that’ll just inevitably bring us clos-
er to death and danger. And stuff.”
Yes. Stuff, indeed.
Margaret’s show, “American
Dreamboat,” will be April 18th in
the bike shed between 307 and 315
N. State Street – or, “between the
blue and purple co-ops.” There
will be music, prints and an print-
maker with a proclivity for near-
death narratives.
After
graduation,
Margaret
plans to attend graduate school,
teach at a university and work
in her own studio creating more
prints, poetry and stories.
“I’m looking for a print studio
to live and die within. That’s my
goal ... I love doing it. It’s just too
much fun.”
Hopefully, one day, Margaret
will get her own studio and fill it
with stories about death and mor-
tality and ... stuff. Hopefully. We’ll
just have to knock on wood. Or
rather, you will. My bucket’s filled
with nails.
ARTIST
PROFILE
VIRGINIA LOZANO/Daily
Margaret Hitch matches prints with poems.
IN
MUSIC COLUMN
What we need
from music in 2015
Men’s style is vastly
underrated in fashion
By ANDREW MCCLURE
Daily Arts Writer
I like to read, and I like the fact
that you don’t care that I like to
read because you’re reading this
right now. Bret Easton Ellis says
of one of his novel’s protagonists,
Patrick Bateman: because he
wants to fit in. Bateman, the narra-
tor, spends 50 percent of the book
deconstructing other characters’
getups, from cut to designer to
color-ways and patterns, in obses-
sive detail — detail that makes you
want to Cliff-Notes the rest of an
otherwise good book. “He wants
to fit in.” This reasoning doesn’t
just capture the essence of the
entire book but also why most
men dress the way they do, which
is, ironically, like boys, because
boys wear what their mom lays out
for them. Men, however, choose
their own shit based on important
things, like the ability to make
choices independent of what your
trusty friend thinks. Men, unlike
boys, have agency, they have sar-
torial swag and they have back
hair.
The New York Times, a newspa-
per that still matters, announced
this week it will launch a “month-
ly, dedicated men’s style section.”
Its currently thriving Style sec-
tion, which is female fashion dom-
inated and runs every Sunday and
Thursday, will make room for The
Men by occupying only the Friday
spot going forward. So what’s at
stake besides maybe pissing off the
three living NYT print subscribers
over this change? And why is this
just now happening, in 2015, when
the Prince of Wales has been drip-
ping with swag since the twenties;
in other words, men have given a
shit or two about threads for some
time, so why does it seem today
that so many men care so little?
Let’s first address the elephant
in the room (that is, to anyone who
has ever read a business article
with no accompanying pictures):
NYT is doing this to maximize
advertising revenues. More copy
space for Brioni suit and John
Lobb shoe ads means more $$$ for
NYT. Money moves. Word? Word.
Let’s also consider the his-
tory of menswear for a minute.
Between the two World Wars,
i.e. 1920s and 1930s, men dressed
better than any other time in
American history because, despite
economic chaos, all sectors of
menswear worked hand-in-hand
to deliver style and taste. Even the
Average Jack looked good during
these years because there was an
abundance of credible role mod-
els (see: Prince of Wales, Fred
Astaire), bespoke optionality (see:
Savile Row in central London) and
accepted standards of taste (see:
Esquire and Apparel Arts mens-
wear publications).
I know what you’re think-
ing: We have all three of those
today, in spades. And you’d be
right, except today the role mod-
els are less defined and apparent,
bespoke clothing is something
seen as only for the ultra-rich (not
true) and Esquire/GQ are packed
with more ads and fewer action-
able insights and reflections.
Everything has been watered
down, leaving the menswear con-
sumer to rest on bad blends of
norm-core ickiness and outfits so
bad, they’re almost creative.
To steal, without shame, from
legendary menswear designer
Alan Flusser, “Back in the thir-
ties, stylishness was an exten-
sion of himself, not a designer in
a store, like today”.
So, if you own a black-as-night
Canada Goose down jacket and
you don’t live in subzero towns
that are mostly white in color,
hmm. If you own one and can’t
explain what “down” is, you
know, the stuff that keeps you
warm inside that monolith of
a parka, then I likely hold an
unfair opinion of you. Sometimes
— nah — always I think about
how green that company’s bal-
ance sheet would appear if that
circular left-arm patch wasn’t
there, or if it was shaped like a
penis, or if it was instead just a
gaping hole in the product itself.
Look, I still fuck with mall
staples, on occasion, like J.Crew.
But I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if
I told you I was ever remotely
impressed by an employee’s take
on anything menswear-related,
notwithstanding gender and/
or age. Why? Because retail by
and large fucking sucks. It sucks
big and it sucks small. High and
low. By extension, what are most
retail owners actually paying
their employees to do outside
of shelve clothes atop unsold
clothes and mask their sarto-
rial ignorance with slow, breath-
before-every-word, indoor-voice
vocal register? Nada.
You can thank the invention
of shareholder dick-sucking and
the relegation of quality for the
fact that you need to spend at
least $200 for a fair pair of boots.
There is, however, one thing that
gives menswear hope and it par-
allels the recent rising popular-
ity of craft beer — some clothing
makers still hold conviction in
craftsmanship like the old farts
almost 100 years ago. Believe it
or not, good clothiers still take
pride in their product. You just
have to know where to look and
be prepared to spend a bit more
cheese to find something that’s
dope and will last. Like every-
thing in life, according to some
old Boomer lecturing me when-
ever, a sound investment will
lead to solid returns.
So, in the main, are we dudes
all fucked? I do realize the world
has more pressing problems than
eschewing $175 Timberlands and
tapered sweatpants from the cur-
rent menswear smog, like, for
instance, deciding whether Woody
Allen’s movies are still Oscar-wor-
thy and whether or not Frankie
Muniz’s hairline is receding. Run-
ning the risk of being pegged a
millennial blind-optimist, I think
we sit at an interesting crossroads:
one stretched between the pre-
eminence of the 1930s (see: Brooks
Brothers douchebaggery) and the
1960s Peacock Revolution (see:
high-end streetwear labels like
Hood By Air and Rick Owens).
We are getting there. Sort of.
But until we stop cowering to the
immense force that is popular
(albeit, bullshit) opinion, we’ll
stagnate in the tall-grass marsh-
land of tacky tackiness and lazy
indifference. No one cares that
you “don’t” care. And guess
what? Usually it looks pretty
gross. Deal with it. And if you
really, really still want to fit in,
after your inevitable sartorial
transformation, grab lunch at
Revive. It works.
STYLE NOTEBOOK