The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Friday, February 19, 2016 — 5

In praise of SWMRS

By DANIELLE IMMERMAN

Daily Arts Writer

On the rare occasion that I 

actually did the reading for my 
Women’s Studies class, I read 
something interesting about punk. 
In the context of feminism, punk 
is more significant than you might 
think. According to Milestone and 
Meyer (or to anyone capable of 
observation), before punk, the only 
involvement girls had in music 
was as members of the audience. 
If women ever did make it in the 
music industry, they made it in 
wholesome pop, never provocative 
rock. Once punk came along, how-
ever, gender relations in the music 
industry 
completely 
changed. 

Punk disrupted all preconceived 
stereotypes — it inspired youth 
cultures, it lacked the manufac-
tured nature of the music industry 
— its origins were underground. 
As a result of this organic music, 
according to my Women’s Stud-
ies reading, women were able to 
express anger. Yay.

Now, obviously it’s hard for us, 

in 2016, to really see the profound 
effects of punk, but they’re there. 
The problem is the lack of OG punk 
bands existing today, which led 
me to wonder if any modern band 
could really reflect the same sound 
and eventual change as past music.

The issue I encountered as I 

pondered is that no band is real-
ly pure punk. Green Day’s Billie 
Joe Armstrong has expressed 
frustration in this dilemma — 
most modern bands are slapped 
with 
the 
label 
“pop-punk” 

which, even if this label isn’t 
necessarily accurate, constricts 
bands to a certain image, effec-

tively diluting their potential 
punk persona.

I’m sure there are bonafide punk 

bands out there, but there’s really 
only one new-age punk band that 
came to mind: SWMRS. Originally 
known as Emily’s Army, SWMRS 
is a four-piece garage-rock/punk 
band from Oakland, CA. I first 
stumbled upon the band a year ago 
when I saw Green Day perform at 
the House of Blues Cleveland — 
my position pressed against the 
barricade to the stage enabled me 
to have an excellent view of Bil-
lie Joe’s son, Joey, standing back-
stage. Now here’s the thing — Joey 
is quite attractive, so after the 
show I was like, yeah, let’s google 
Joey. When I googled Joey, I found 
his band. The problem was that 
SWMRS had no music under its 
current name until now. With the 
album set to be released on Febru-
ary 12th, Rolling Stone released the 
single “Drive North” early and it’s 
fucking incredible.

The entire album is clearly 

garage-rock, but there are com-
plex and flagrant punk under-
tones that give SWMRS a unique 
edge. They aren’t just any old rock 
band — they’re young, they’re bold 
and they encapsulate a new sound 
— a new punk sound. Describ-
ing their genre as “Hawaiianage” 
and showing a Facebook interest 
in feminism, their album reflects 
everything they claim to be.

“Uncool,” the same name of 

their self-run record label, is the 
epitome of SWMRS. The song 
is angsty, punk, Californian and 
accessible, despite being so dif-
ferent from any other music out 
there. All of these elements shine 
through on each of the 12 tracks 

on the record, but in entirely dif-
ferent ways. For example, “Miley” 
is angsty yet simple to let the lyrics 
stand-out. An ode to Miley Cyrus, 
SWMRS sing their praise for the 
“punk-rock queen.” While songs 
like “Drive North” and “Harry 
Dean” are the most traditional 
punk on the album, “Silver Bul-
let” and “Hannah” are more mel-
low, “I’m going to drive from LA to 
San Francisco in my convertible” 
tunes. Personally, my favorites are 
“Miss Yer Kiss” and “Turn Up,” 
but truthfully that’s not saying 
much because I love every song on 
this album. “Miss Yer Kiss” is great 
though because the solid beat and 
unique rhythm counter most of the 
fast-paced songs comprising the 
album — “Turn Up” is just a jam.

I feel as if I could go on for end-

less paragraphs about how incredi-
ble SWMRS and their debut album 
is, but for your sake and mine, I’ll 
quit my digression. Essentially, 
SWMRS is about to blow up. Their 
massive headlining US tour kicks 
off on February 12th, they just put 
on a music festival (“Uncool Fest”) 
and their record label is still a thing. 
This, in addition to appearances in 
magazines like Rolling Stone and 
Alternative Press, is foretelling 
of what’s to come, especially con-
sidering their debut album hasn’t 
even been officially released.

My message to you: listen to 

SWMRS. Love SWMRS or at 
the very least pretend to love 
SWMRS, because at the rate 
they’re going they could very 
easily be the next Nirvana meets 
Green Day meets something more 
tropical and you’re going to want 
to say you knew them when they 
were rookies.

ALBUM REVIEW
‘Pablo’ illustrates 
the life of Kanye

Yeezy’s career-
defining latest 
shows us exactly 
why we need him 

By SHAYAN SHAFII

Daily Arts Writer

In 2002, Kanye West totaled 

his Lexus and almost died in a 
car accident. Fortunately for 
all of us, he 
survived, had 
his 
mouth 

sewn up and 
continued 
to 

work through 
the wire. The 
accident is an 
often-over-
looked catalyst 
for his career, 
and there’s no guarantee that 
we would be hearing the same 
Kanye West today had he not 
almost died at 25.

Near-death experiences have 

a funny way of realigning pri-
orities; you exit the other side 
more conscious of your privi-
lege of just being here. You 
take your pursuits more seri-
ously, because you know you 
almost had the opportunity 
taken from you. You fight your 
oppressors more aggressively, 
because the force that almost 
took your life is the great equal-
izer. You express yourself to the 
fullest extent, because there’s 
a heightened awareness that 
the same force will inevitably 
return, and next time it won’t 
miss.

Records about self-actual-

ization are always difficult, 
because no one wants to be set 
on their ass. No one wants to 
be reminded how much work is 
left, or hear a Black man from 
the Southside of Chicago bridge 
the gap between actual self 
and ideal self. The Kanye West 
Experience 
inherently 
pres-

ents a challenge, and though 
the packages have varied over 
the course of his sprawling 
seven-solo-album discography, 
the message has remained the 
same.

On Late Registration’s “Gone” 

he rapped “They say you don’t 
know what you got ’til it’s gone 
/ I know I got it, I don’t know 
what y’all on.” Fast-forward 
eleven years, and on “Freestyle 
4” he drunkenly snarls “Y’all 
motherfuckers only live like 
half of ya level, half of ya life.” 
He considers the prospect of 
“fucking right now in the mid-
dle of this dinner table” and 
whether or not everyone else 
would follow suit. Kanye is con-
fident that they would, and he’s 
right. Where most are hesitant 
to act on impulse, what Pastor 
’Ye ultimately preaches on this 
“gospel album” is to live fear-
lessly. When someone address-
es the elephant in the room, it 
opens the floodgates.

The biblical tone of the 

album seems a natural develop-
ment for an aging West. We’ve 
seen so many artists grow more 
reflective as they get older and 
produce 
increasingly 
auto-

biographical works; much of 
Pablo juxtaposes a return to 
traditional 
Midwest 
values 

with the Blackness of South-
side ’Ye. We get gospel, but we 
also get a reminder he’s “from 
a tribe called ‘Check-A-Hoe.’ ” 
Beware of the culture vultures 
who laugh along when he jokes 
as “ghetto Oprah” at the end of 
“Feedback,” but call him crazy 
when he wilds out at the end of 
an SNL performance.

Pablo is as Black and unapol-

ogetic as West himself — divine 
album 
opener 
“Ultralight 

Beam” makes way for a sermon 
from a Black toddler. Even gos-
pel singer and choir director 
Kirk Franklin makes an appear-
ance on the intro. Clunky, 
mechanical drums pound away 
at growling synths while Kelly 
Price howls a melody as soulful 
as anything else you’ll find in 
Kanye’s discography. And then, 
there’s that Chance feature.

Two years ago I was in the 

crowd with Chance at Kanye’s 
2014 Bonnaroo performance, 
and I remember watching him 
spaz to every cut from The Col-
lege Dropout. The intro to his 
breakout mixtape, Acid Rap, 
even samples a soulful trumpet 
melody from an early Kanye 
tape. Point being, Chance is 
a “real soulful dude,” and his 
fingerprints are all over the 
feel-good soul of “Ultralight 
Beam.” He drops an absolutely 
show-stopping verse (arguably 
the best of the album), where 
he even intertwines his narra-
tive with Big Brother: “I made 
‘Sunday Candy,’ I’m never going 
to Hell / I met Kanye West, I’m 
never going to fail.” You can 
practically hear how giddy he 
is to share the stage with ’Ye, 
and it’s great to see “Lil Channo 
from 79th” make the most of 
the occasion.

The 
intro 
segues 
direct-

ly into two-part whirlwind, 
“Father Stretch My Hands.” 
The song moves at breakneck 
speeds, 
transitioning 
from 

stretched-out soul samples, to 
Metro Boomin tags, to lyrics 
about “bleached assholes.” By 
the time it doubles in tempo for 
“Pt. 2,” Kanye frantically drops 
pixelated raps about his 2002 
accident, his mother’s death 
and his father’s financial losses 
in the market. Oh, and the song 
completely 
transforms 
into 

Brooklyn-emcee 
Desiigner’s 

“Panda.” Yes, a totally different 
song, which ’Ye had no affili-
ation with until now (though 
it should be noted that Desii-
gner has just signed to G.O.O.D. 
Music). No rules. In the first 
10 minutes of the album we’re 
completely sucked into the 
schizophrenia that’s driven so 
much of West’s most dynamic 
and troubling work.

While Kanye has a lengthy 

repertoire of music that raises 
red flags for mental health con-
cerns, there’s something about 
his recent public behavior that 
has an element of genuine, 
bona fide craziness. In just one 
week he’s publicly defended Bill 
Cosby, begged the founder of 
Facebook for funding via Twit-
ter and turned his Madison 
Square Garden album listening 
session into a Kanye & Friends 
Show and Tell.

There’s an overall air of 

incompleteness 
and 
sloppi-

ness about the album that just 
doesn’t seem to matter. He 
answers a goddamn phone call 
while recording “30 Hours” and 
yet nothing feels out of place. 
He stitches together samples 
on the latter half of “Pt. 2” with 
the seams uncharacteristical-
ly showing. Most interesting, 
though, is how he simply decid-
ed that the album rollout is an 
indefinite window. The track-
list grew 80% in length the day 
after the scheduled release, and 
he’s just announced that the 
album will never be for sale. 
The rollout itself has become a 
performance art piece.

The general consensus in 

America has been that this 
“New Kanye” is crazy, and that 
the “Old Kanye” is the one we 
all know and love. The Old 
Kanye rapped about stealing 
khakis from The Gap, called the 
president racist and interrupt-
ed Taylor Swift at the VMAs. 
The New Kanye just announced 
that he still thinks he and Tay-
lor will have sex. He has been 
stepping on our toes for over a 
decade; there’s nothing “new” 
about this Kanye.

If you approach this album 

expecting Kanye West to be 
your Lord and Savior, and are 
disappointed to find elements 
of humanity, perhaps you need 

a moment of self-reflection. 
His 
shameless 
transparency 

has defined the zeitgeist of the 
past decade precisely because 
of his willingness to broadcast 
his flaws. He’s already told us 
that everything he’s not makes 
him everything he is. He is, 
and always has been, the life-
affirming 
car 
accident 
you 

never had.

Pablo is cluttered with evi-

dence that his cultural mar-
tyrdom will outlive him. He 
looks around and sees “so many 
Kanyes,” and some of them are 
even recruited for the album. 
On “FML,” The Weeknd makes 
an appearance to let us know 
that all the hate isn’t help-
ing his already self-destruc-
tive lifestyle: “Even though I 
always fuck my life up / Only 
I can mention me.” Synths jerk 
around asymmetrically, making 
the song feel like one of those 
violent 
bathroom-meltdown 

scenes; Kanye even recalls a 
specific episode he had in Mex-
ico while “off his Lexapro.”

“Highlights” 
features 
the 

premier weirdo-rapper of the 
moment: 
Young 
Thug. 
You 

can’t help but feel that the post-
verbal rap we’re seeing from 
Thugger wouldn’t be so widely 
accepted had ’Ye not kicked the 
door in with 808s & Heartbreak. 
Unsurprisingly, Thug sounds 
right at home in the middle of 
the orchestral accompaniment, 
triumphantly shouting “Tell 
my mama that I want my whole 
life to only be mine!” Their 
public respect for one another 
shouldn’t be surprising given 
that Thug “goes motherfuckin’ 
viral” every time he redefines 
what a rapper looks like. Ten 
years ago that was ’Ye in a pink 
polo and backpack.

Away from his fledglings, the 

realest moments on the album 
have Kanye noticeably shaken 
and rattled — like when he con-
fesses to paying his cousin a 
quarter of a million dollars to 
get his stolen laptop back, on 
“Real Friends.” Ty Dolla $ign’s 
voice cracks and eventually 
breaks under the weight of the 
occasion. Kanye pauses to col-
lect his thoughts, and the beat 
leaves him behind.

He used to be so proud of 

his animalistic work ethic, 
shamelessly 
boasting 
the 

months spent locked away in 
his room. Yet even after gain-
ing the family he yearned for 
on spiritual-prequel “Welcome 
to Heartbreak,” the intensity of 
his aspirations has left much of 
Life still elusive to the “num-
ber one rockstar on the planet.” 
Brother Kanye obviously prac-
tices what he preaches, but on 
Pablo he comes to terms with 
being human.

Even if Kanye never releas-

es another album again, he 
can rest easy knowing that his 
canon of work will be revis-
ited as the definitive arbiter of 
our time. His public obsession 
with emulating Michael Jack-
son brings to mind a specific 
quote of his that could have just 
as easily belonged to Mr. West: 
“Music has been my outlet, my 
gift to all of the lovers in this 
world. Through it — my music, I 
know I will live forever.” Root-
ed in the Black Experience of 
being denied the human right 
to express, the inherent per-
manence of Kanye’s art is more 
than enough justification for 
him to scream at us.

Kanye’s 
screaming 
is 
as 

imperative for us as it is for 
him. Just as Kirk Franklin 
says on the prayer that closes 
“Ultralight Beam”: “Father, this 
prayer is for everyone that feels 
they’re not good enough. This 
prayer’s for everybody that feels 
that they’re too messed up. For 
everybody that feels they’ve 
said ‘I’m sorry’ too many times. 
You can never go too far when 
you can’t come back home again 
… That’s why I need faith!” 

We need each other as much 

as Kanye West needs God; we 
need to listen as long as there 
are muffled truths. We need 
to love one another like Kanye 
loves Kanye.

TV NOTEBOOK
‘House’ of nostalgia

By MEGAN MITCHELL

For the Daily

When I was in the fourth 

grade, there were two things 
that assured your status in the 
“it” crowd. One: You had to own 
a remarkable collection of Bobby 
Jack apparel with accompany-
ing flare capri yoga pants. Two: 
You had to be well versed in all 
of the current happenings of 
“Full House.” And let me tell you, 
fourth grade Megan was very, 
very in the “it” crowd.

If you’re a millennial, chances 

are this all sounds vaguely famil-
iar. The original “Full House” 
came and went before most of us 
were born, yet it’s a staple of the 
later millennial generation due 
to the daily reruns during our 
more pivotal years. Personally, my 
childhood revolved around “Full 
House,” crowding the television 
with friends at sleepovers and 
clutching our bowls of macaroni 
during elementary school days 
when we went home for lunch. 
Keep in mind that this exposure 
to “Full House” occurred during 
a pre-Netflix era, when our par-
ents had to tape the episodes on 
the VCR for us to enjoy later, or we 
had to plan to watch the show live. 
There was no binge-watching or 
hitting the “rewind” button if we 
missed the punch line, so much 
like “Friends,” every episode was 
unique in its own right. Between 
the years 1987 to 1995, the Tanner 
family was America’s family.

This past week, the first full-

length trailer for Netflix’s original 
series “Fuller House” premiered. 
And let me tell you, pre-recorded 
laughter never sounded oh so 
good.

The sequel follows eldest sis-

ter DJ Tanner-Fuller (Candace 
Cameron-Bure, “The View”) as 
she struggles to raise her three 
sons after her husband passes 
away. Reminiscent of the original 
sitcom, younger sister Stephanie 
Tanner (Jodie Sweetin, “Walt 
Before 
Mickey”) 
and 
child-

hood best friend Kimmy Gibbler 
(Andrea Barber, “The Skateboard 
Kid 2”) move into the San Fran-
cisco home to lend a hand and 
add to the overstuffed craziness 
that was “Full House.” But that’s 
exactly the dynamic that made 
the show work.

The Tanner family was a 

diverse family that lived under 
one very small roof. The playboy 
and rocker brother-in-law Uncle 
Jesse (John Stamos, “Grandfa-
thered”) and comedian friend 
Joey (Dave Coulier, “Muppet 
Babies”) kept the laughs rolling in 
through domestic circumstances, 
usually with a ridiculous twist. 
(Can we also just mention the fact 
that John Stamos hasn’t aged like, 
a single day??) Changing baby 
diapers turned into a fiasco that 
took two grown men and a roll of 
paper towels to complete while 
bath time called for a “Love Me 
Tender” rendition in the bath-
tub. Overall, Jesse and Joey kept 
Danny Tanner (Bob Saget, “How 
I Met Your Mother”) sane and 
kept the series light and airy in 
a role I can only assume Kimmy 
and Steph will later play into in 
the sequel. Given what is featured 
in the trailer, Stamos and Coulier 
aren’t likely to reprise their roles 
as the caretakers, but rather as 
background leads while Kimmy 
and Steph take the reins and fulfill 
their roles as the obligatory aunts.

In 2013, Pixar Studios released 

their first ever prequel, “Mon-
sters University,” as an accom-
paniment 
to 
the 
childhood 

favorite “Monsters Inc.” The 
release dates between the movies 
were 12 years apart, which unin-
tentionally lined up with the age 
of the original audience. When 
Mike Wazowski went to college, 
so did we.

Now, Netflix producers are tak-

ing a page out of Pixar Studios’s 
playbook with their reboot of 
“Full House”. In fact, I wouldn’t 
go as far as to call “Fuller House” 
a reboot, but rather a continuation 
of the original series. Whereas 
reboots are strikingly different 
and compete for the popular opin-
ion of battling fanbases, this mini-
series will continue the story of 
the Tanner family almost 21 years 
after we left them. By bringing the 
original cast back, they’re speak-
ing directly to the original audi-
ence and relating to the struggles 
that life may have handed some 
of us over the past twenty years. 
They could have chosen to reboot 
the entire series for a new audi-
ence, but they’re providing a 
sequel for our generation and the 
next to equally enjoy. We grew up 
with the Tanners, so it’s only fair 
that they’ve grown up with us.

All I can say for now is that I 

hope “Fuller House” stays true to 
the original. Without the grainy 
picture of the 1990s to revive the 
ambiance of the original, we have 
to rely on the cast to bring us back 
to the Lower Pacific Heights of 
the Tanner residence. As far as 
the trailer has us covered, I think 
we’re all in for a major flashback.

“Fuller House” will be available 

on Netflix starting Feb. 26, 2016.

A+

The Life 
of Pablo

Kanye West

GOOD Music

UNCOOL RECORDS

More like STTRS

MUSIC NOTEBOOK

West’s canon 

will be the 

definitve arbiter 

of our time.

