The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Friday, March 11, 2016 — 5

Kendrick proves his 
legitimacy yet again

By MATT GALLATIN

Daily Arts Writer

Now 
approaching 
its 
first 

birthday, To Pimp A Butterfly, 
Kendrick Lamar’s masterful soph-
omore album, 
remains 
as 

gripping 
as 

ever. As is 
the mark of 
a classic rap 
album, 
its 

knots contin-
ue to unfold 
with 
each 

new 
listen, 

and it’s doubtful that an album 
of such richness and density — in 
any genre — will eclipse it in the 
near future. untitled unmastered., 
a release of demos from that 
album, is a natural extension for a 
project with such grandeur.

That role is important to 

remember with this release — 
this is not a standalone Kendrick 
album. It’s perhaps his first offi-
cial project that can be played 
as effectively shuffled as front-
to-back. Indeed, lacking unique 
titles, many of the tracks can blend 
together like a single burst of jazz-
inspired spontaneity. Each, save 
“untitled 07,” are labeled with 
specific dates. Whether the tracks 
were completed in full on those 
dates or not, the sense of rapid, 
prodigal improvisation is never-
theless obvious on this release. 
Take the final part of “untitled 
07,” dated vaguely “2014-2016.” 
For nearly four minutes we hear 
Kendrick playing with spontane-
ous lyrics and tongue-in-cheek 

jokes, a look into his process of 
creation. Audio that closes out 
“untitled 02” sees Kendrick cor-
ralling his band together: “Who 
doing the drums?”

But along with the playful, 

tangential saxophones and the 
free-form jam sessions, untitled 
unmastered. above all underscores 
the meticulous perfectionism that 
has increasingly come to define 
Kendrick’s 
projects. 
“untitled 

03,” dated May 28, 2013, debuted 
on “The Colbert Report” over a 
year and a half later in Decem-
ber 2014. That version differs 
from the version here, released as 
“untitled 03.” The intro is absent, 
a drum pattern added, a saxo-
phone interlude replaced. Parts 
of the fourth verse from the live 
version of “untitled 08,” origi-
nally performed on “The Tonight 
Show Starring Jimmy Fallon,” 
are moved to an entirely differ-
ent track, “untitled 02.” For a col-
lection of demos, it’s an unusual 
attention to detail.

That attention to detail and 

Kendrick’s undeniable rap genius 
produces an “unmastered” work 
that is far more effective than 
most rap albums could ever hope 
to be. “untitled 02,” a standout, 
is a characteristically TPAB-era-
dreamy track, with a one-liner 
that will surely be repeated con-
stantly over the next few months 
— “get Top on the phone!” The 
marathon of a second verse is 
one of the most impressive here, 
though it has plentiful company 
on this release.

“untitled 01,” the project open-

er, is another example of Kendrick 

rapping at the top of his game. 
Flying in after a lengthy inter-
lude, he wastes no time getting to 
business, describing at a dizzying 
speed a world of apocalypse and 
sin. “No more running from world 
wars, no more discriminating the 
poor,” he warns with an immedi-
acy reflective of our current state 
of affairs.

Kendrick’s enormous preoccu-

pation with the state of the world 
has exalted him above the lowly 
pettiness that’s sometimes com-
mon among rappers. “You n****s 
fear me like y’all fear God” he 
spits on “untitled 07,” a tease more 
than an actual insult. While much 
has been made of the apparent 
cold war between him and Drake, 
Kendrick hovers at a level that 
mainstream rap can’t touch.

Kendrick’s track record of con-

sistent excellence acts as both a 
testament to his skill as well as 
a warning to the previous rap 
kings. One can’t help but men-
tion Kanye West’s botched The 
Life of Pablo release. It’s no doubt 
a great album, but the separation 
between it and untitled unmas-
tered. is telling. Where TLOP 
is unusually messy for a Kanye 
West album, untitled unmastered., 
despite its off-the-cuff nature, is 
yet another measured and cohe-
sive release by Kendrick. Where 
TLOP was at times misguided 
(yes, that Taylor Swift line), Ken-
drick has yet to make a misstep.

Plenty of rappers jostle to sit at 

the high throne of rap. But when 
the rhetoric subsides and the talent 
sits alone, it’s Kendrick’s claim that 
holds the most legitimacy today. 

FILM REVIEW
A charming, sweet 
caper in ‘Zootopia’

By RACHEL RICHARDSON

Daily Arts Writer

Most college students crave 

Spring Break because it’s a hiatus 
from the heavy class load and per-
mits countless 
hours of sleep. 
But 
for 
me, 

Spring 
Break 

is that marvel-
ous time when 
I finally have 
companionship 
for my moviego-
ing. Ever since 
the 
trailer’s 

release, I anticipated my nine-
year-old brother and 11-year old-
sister’s fondness for the big-eyed, 
floppy-eared creatures of “Zooto-
pia,” but I didn’t foresee it as being 
anything other than “cute yet pre-
dictable.” I was wrong. 

The story centers on an ambi-

tious and intelligent bunny, Judy 
Hopps (Ginnifer Goodwin, “Once 
Upon a Time”), whose big dreams 
of becoming a police officer are 
constantly crushed by both her 
parents and the rest of society. 
Being a petite female, she’s not 
favored to survive working as 
a cop. Despite these odds, Judy 
makes it to Zootopia, the land of 
opportunity, where she starts out 
as a meter maid but soon finds 
herself working the case of a life-
time when once friendly preda-
tors start turning into “savages.” 
Of course, she gets assistance 
from her perceived enemy, the sly 

yet surprisingly faithful fox, Nick 
Wilde (Jason Bateman, “Arrested 
Development”). 

The romantic subplot thrives 

on its realistic qualities. Nick 
and Judy smoothly transition 
from adversaries to compan-
ions; however, as in many human 
relationships, Judy’s ignorance 
temporarily destroys the bond 
they share. Now, while this really 
is Judy’s tale, Bateman’s vocal 
work proves Nick to be the more 
intriguing character. Bateman 
maintains a smooth voice, pro-
viding an essential believability 
to the slyness of his character. He 
also does a great job evolving Nick 
through his tonality. Initially, 
Nick’s endearing tone dupes Judy 
into thinking he’s an innocent, 
loving dad just trying to buy an 
ice pop for his young son, but the 
moment he leaves the ice cream 
shop he reveals his hustling 
ways. Gradually, this tough exte-
rior crumbles, revealing a humble, 
caring friend.

Directors 
Byron 
Howard 

(“Tangled”), Rich Moore (“Wreck-
It Ralph”) and co-director Jared 
Bush (“Big Hero 6”) make Zooto-
pian society incredibly believable 
by presenting human frustra-
tions, such as the slowness of the 
DMV, in a way that makes sense 
for animals to be experiencing 
them, i.e. having the DMV’s staff 
be composed entirely of sloths. 
There’s also more subtle humor 
found in a shifty weasel’s collec-
tion of pirated DVDs and a mono-

rail that has three different doors 
to accommodate for the varying 
animal sizes (tall, average and 
tiny). To mimic our heavy reli-
ance on technology, all the ani-
mals carry smartphones — even 
the evil henchmen (who use the 
devices to take selfies with their 
captives). 

On a more serious note, “Zoo-

topia” demonstrates how danger-
ous stereotyping can be. Many 
“little guys” are regarded as 
inefficient and thus deprived of 
power in the workplace, which 
often leads to their involvement in 
illegal endeavors, namely drugs. 
This issue is one that’s heavily 
sanitized, but easily understood 
by the older audience. Don Cor-
leone’s appearance is easily one 
of the best moments of the entire 
film. (I’ll let you guess which ani-
mal they use to portray him.) If a 
“Godfather” reference in an ani-
mated Disney movie doesn’t leave 
you flabbergasted, just know that 
there’s a “Breaking Bad” refer-
ence too.

An almost flawless combination 

of film noir, comedy and romance, 
“Zootopia” plays against viewer’s 
expectations to keep all ages 
entranced to the very end. But, 
don’t just take it from me, take it 
from the words of my observant 
brother: “Well, Rachel always 
tells me that movies I enjoy are 
so predictable so it was hilarious 
when she basically yelled, ‘I can’t 
believe they did that!’ like every 
ten seconds.”

TDE

Oh my God, is that Welvin da Great?

ALBUM REVIEW

T

here’s this song on the 
“Hamilton” soundtrack 
called “Who Lives, Who 

Dies, Who Tells Your Story” 
that I’ve been listening to 
obsessively 
since I saw 
the musical 
last Friday. 
(This will 
not be the 
last time I 
openly brag 
about having 
seen “Ham-
ilton.” With 
the original 
cast. The 
room where 
it happens! I’m done for now.) I 
listen to the song in line at Chi-
potle, or in the shower; I belt 
it at pregames for Kerrytown 
house parties like I’m running 
out of time.

But if I’m listening in public, 

I have to turn off the part of 
my brain that digests the lyr-
ics, because the song is actu-
ally sad as hell. Eliza Hamilton 
sings about her efforts to 
preserve her husband’s legacy, 
to get through the 50 years 
she’s forced to live without 
her Alexander — the love of 
her life, that master of words 
who never ceased to amaze 
her. Fifty years a widow. At the 
end of the song, Eliza hopes 
she has done enough, that she 
has sufficiently preserved and 
curated the life they’d have 
built together if only he’d been 
around to live out that life with 
her. If you see me weeping 
in the Chipot-line, have pity, 
because I am definitely crying 
into my $10 bill.

You have no control who 

lives, who dies, who tells your 
story.

It’s a terrifying thought, hav-

ing your story pulled from your 
own hands, your pen interrupt-
ed. Speaking as someone who, 
like Alexander Hamilton, has 
documented their life through 
copious handwritten plans 
(of weekly TV schedules) and 
affectionate messages to pals 
(typed on my iPhone, at 3 a.m., 
while I wait for the microwave 
to heat up a leftover omelet), 
it’s hard to imagine a future 
where I’m not writing bi-week-
ly, self-indulgent feeling dumps 
about how I love television, 
where all that’s left for people 
to remember me by is a handful 
of TV columns and some term 
papers. Before I started writ-
ing this column, I counted the 
number of weeks left that my 
column will run before the end 
of the semester. It’s only four, 
including this one. I’ve got to 
make my words count, because 
I won’t always be around to 
write more of them.

It seems like all the TV I’ve 

been watching lately is saturat-
ed with goodbyes and endings 
— Shoshanna leaving Japan 
on “Girls,” Coach Taylor mov-
ing to Austin for a hot second 
on “Friday Night Lights,” the 
“Mad Men” finale, which I stu-
pidly re-watched last night in 
an effort to quell the nostalgia 
blues I’ve been feeling lately 
(obviously, this strategy did not 
work). But the most poignant 
of the goodbye parades, oddly 
enough, was on “New Girl.”

Megan Fox’s character, 

whom I praised in this column 
a few weeks back, exited the 
show and moved out of the loft 
in Tuesday’s episode. With 
Nick’s crush on Reagan finally 
consummated, her leaving 
couldn’t have come at a worse 
or more dramatic time. Though 
their time together was brief 
— Fox was only on the show 
for five episodes — Nick felt a 
real connection with Reagan, 
and wants her to remember 

him. He wants his legacy to 
mean something, and he thinks 
the best way to do this is by 
crafting the perfect goodbye. 
He and Schmidt discuss how 
to write the perfect “goose-
bumps walk-away,” “the line 
that haunts her, that consumes 
her, that rings in her ear for 
all eternity, granting you … 
immortality.”

This line, which Schmidt 

murmurs with a murderous 
pitch as he stares into Nick’s 
eyes, is played for laughs. But 
there’s some truth in that state-
ment, in the power of a good 
goosebumps walk-away. Words 
are immortality. Being remem-
bered by the people you love is 
immortality. There’s no death 
or goodbye or sadness if that 
person’s words are bouncing 
around in your brain every day, 
if you can retrieve their words 
and think about them. Words 
are scripts for memories, 
approximations that can tide 
you over when that person is 
not around to provide you with 
new words. They’re what’s left.

When you’re gone who 

remembers your name? Who 
keeps your flame?

Whenever I watch “Ameri-

can Crime Story: The People 
Vs. O.J. Simpson,” I wonder 
what Robert Kardashian and 
Johnnie Cochran might have 
thought of the show. In the 
20-odd years since the real 
trial took place, Kardashian 
and Cochran are the only two 
major players who have passed 
away. They don’t have the 
chance to re-tell their stories, 
and their characterization is 
entirely in the hands of Ryan 
Murphy and the rest of the 
show’s creative team. I won-
der what Kardashian would 
have thought about being 
played, with Ross Geller-esque 
best-friend moping, by David 
Schwimmer, or about how his 
honor is contrasted with the 
fame-hungry personalities of 
the other Kardashians. Would 
Cochran want to be remem-
bered as a cutthroat manipu-
lator, an anti-discrimination 
warrior or a loving father? I 
can’t imagine the real Marcia 
Clark, who actually endured 
the sexism and media attention 
that the show portrays, enjoys 
the TV show’s speculation 
about her romantic involve-
ment with her co-counsel, 
Christopher Darden.

“American Crime Story” is 

a brilliant and endlessly fas-
cinating show, but in writing 
real people as sensationalized 
characters, the show begins to 
cross into an ethical grey area. 
What’s the real truth? What’s 
written-down evidence — and 
what’s just the TV narrative 
that’s presented for us as view-
ers? The show sparked my curi-
osity enough for me to check 
out the nonfiction book the TV 
show is based on, “The Run of 
His Life” by Jeffrey Toobin. 
Being a journalist, I know that 
there is a version of every story, 
and the closest thing you can 
do to unearthing the facts is 
hearing as many sides of the 
story as possible. I’m excited to 
read the book after I graduate, 
when I’m not so busy writing 
and have more time to read.

It’s a terrifying thought, 

having your story pulled from 
your own hands. I don’t want 
to think about all the free time 
I’ll have to read this summer, 
at home in Illinois or in the 
ghostly Ann Arbor with all my 
friends moving to big cities or 
working dream internships. I 
don’t want to think that this 
time isn’t even guaranteed 
— that my narcissistic youth 
doesn’t take into account 
everything that could change if 
somebody blows a red light or 

challenges me to a duel.

I don’t want to think about 

my words as clues or history or 
imagine someone else reading 
this column the way I some-
times revisit an old friend’s 
published work, desperate for 
a shadow and a memory of 
the way their humor and their 
brain used to work. I don’t 
want someone picking up my 
written tics like I’ve picked 
theirs up, almost subconscious-
ly, like my keyboard is driving 
me to tell their story and make 
new words that might do them 
proud. I like to think of myself 
as being everywhere at once, 
always talking and always 
writing, and it scares me more 
than anything else to think 
that I’m running out of time 
and space on the page. That it’ll 
be someone else’s headshot five 
lines down in the TV column, 
someone else in my favorite 
chair and other people there 
in the moment and talking and 
writing, and me off somewhere 
without a pen and hoping 
somebody’s still thinking about 
me, remembering me fiercely 
and reading the words I’ve left 
as clues, finishing the story I’d 
only just started writing.

You really do write like you’re 

running out of time.

When I saw “Hamilton” in 

New York City last week (I told 
you this wouldn’t be the last 
you heard of it), there was an 
overwhelming power about 
being in a room with hundreds 
of other sniffling, tissue-wield-
ing fans during that last song of 
the show, standing on the prec-
ipice of a moment and watch-
ing time go by from the second 
mezzanine, the very back of the 
theatre with my seat against 
the wall. From the top, I could 
feel the minute hand on my 
watch scraping across its face, 
the night inching forward like 
that progress bar at the bottom 
of the Netflix player screen.

I felt time receding into his-

tory just as everything was 
happening. The show I’d been 
waiting for three months to 
see was ending, the last Spring 
Break of my undergraduate 
years coming to a close, the 
curtain falling over my senior 
year. The performance I saw 
exists now only in the memo-
ries of the people who were 
there — and unless somebody 
recorded the thing on their 
phone, I’ll never see what hap-
pened onstage that night ever 
again.

Isn’t the same true of every 

night?

I thought of the lyrics from 

the Vampire Weekend song I’d 
been listening to earlier that 
day: “I want to know, does it 
bother you? / The long click 
of the ticking clock / There’s a 
lifetime right in front of you / 
And everyone I know.”

It does bother me. I want 

to do enough, to make enough 
memories, and write enough 
stories, that these moments 
might live on even after they 
pass. I hope I’ve done enough.

After the show, at the stage 

door, I looked around — at my 
two joyful friends, the glitter-
ing city rising up before me, the 
other fans begging for auto-
graphs and selfies with Daveed 
Diggs, the “Hamilton” post-
ers in my hands and the great 
swaths of time behind and 
before me, all those opportuni-
ties to write and tell my story. 
There’s so much time, so much 
to say and accomplish.

How lucky I am to have 

three more columns and six 
more weeks to do it all.

Can we get back to TV? 

Please? If you get this reference, 

e-mail chloeliz@umich.edu. 

TV COLUMN

‘Hamilton,’ O.J. and 
running out of time

CHLOE 
GILKE

A-

untitled 
unmastered.

Kendrick Lamar

TDE

A-

Zootopia

Walt Disney 
Pictures

Rave & Quality 16

You have no 
control over 
who tells your 

story.

There’s so 

much time, so 
much to say and 

accomplish.

“Does it bother 
you? The long 

click of the 

ticking clock.”

