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Arts
Friday, December 2, 2016 — 5
My grandmother’s apartment
in Tehran has a balcony overrun
with various herbs and tomato
plants. It runs across the back
of the living room, a cozy white
platform
that
overlooks
the
patchwork quilt of the rest
of the city. I like to escape to
it right at sunset, when my
grandmother and mother are
usually in the kitchen, cutting
open pomegranates to eat as a
snack before dinner. Their voices
tumble around green bowls with
seeds as red as the sun as it begins
to sink beneath the line of the
city.
From
my
vantage
point
thirteen stories up, the constant
blanket of dust that floats above
Tehran makes the entire city
flicker like a golden mirage. It’s
my favorite place in the world,
this balcony right before dusk,
when my toes curl around the
edge of the terrace between the
pillars of the railing as I crane my
neck up and observe the world
around me collectively hold its
breath. We wait, for this: a call to
prayer.
It comes in the form of music.
Bare, haunting vocals released
from local mosques into the
open air flow between buildings
and plead to the bruising sky, to
the women hanging wet clothes
from clotheslines, to the men
selling fresh kabobs. It is both a
reminder that the time for prayer
is fast approaching and also an
invitation for all to join.
Although I don’t consider
myself to be a religious person,
let alone a devout Muslim,
whenever I have the chance
to visit my grandmother, I am
still inexplicitly drawn to the
same spot on her balcony at the
same time, day after day. There
is a paradoxical intimacy in
the recitation, in the way I feel
connected to something I barely
understand. It is the same feeling
I get when I skim my fingers over
the pristine pages of my father’s
dense Qur’an like I’m skimming
my fingers over a lake; I’m aware
of the inky depths that disappear
beneath the surface, I just have
yet to find out what they hold.
When the music disappears
with the sun, I slip back inside
the apartment and pass my
grandmother as she makes her
way to her bedroom, to where
I know her prayer rug is sitting
at the foot of her bed. Her call
is to prayer. I’m on the way
to the kitchen. My call is to
pomegranates, and the fruit, as it
breaks open in my mouth, tastes
like sweet familiarity. I suspect
her prayer tastes like somewhat
of the same thing.
I haven’t had a chance to visit
my grandmother or her balcony
in years, a fact that is a constant
weight on my chest. I can’t
imagine what it must be like
for my parents, as immigrants
in a foreign world. My mother
holds tight to the music of her
childhood, playing traditional
songs as she sashays around
the kitchen in the evenings. My
father holds tight to a different
kind of music: the rhythm of
tradition. Every year, during the
fasting month of Ramadan, my
father breaks his fast two times a
day. During both times, the sky’s
pre-dawn or post-dusk blue black
sky watches from the window:
while my mother commanders
the main course on the stove,
he
assembles
bread,
yogurt
and cheese on the table and
waits with one eye on the clock,
counting down the seconds until
he can eat.
During both times, he plays
a prayer from his phone, and
the dua as it comes through the
tiny speakers fills our kitchen
with peaceful reverence. The
quiet words unfurl like flowers,
revealing petals upon petals of
history, with roots that slip down
my father’s chair like ivy, turning
into ley lines that connect him to
the family he left behind.
My old friend’s house in
Rochester Hills, Mich. has a
balcony bereft of any decoration
except for a few wooden chairs
haphazardly scattered around.
It runs along the entirety of the
back of her house, a bleak wooden
ledge that overlooks the rolling
expanse of her lawn. It was here
that I found myself sitting one
day in the middle of the summer
between middle school and high
school with my friend sitting
opposite, pressing a small bible
into the palm of my hand. I took
it with reluctance, because the
edges were unfamiliar and bit
into the creases of my fingers. She
took out her own copy and held it
easily, worn down edges molding
perfectly to the cadence of her
grip. It was here that I received
my first lesson of Christianity, an
idea born through the marriage
of her constant desire to talk
about the religion that meant
so much to her family and my
endless boredom of repetitious
summer days.
I was sure that the day would
be taken up by extensive lectures
and readings, but instead she
pulled out an iPod shuffle from
her pocket, which, according
to her, was filled with different
Christian songs of worship. We
spent the rest of the afternoon
going through the entirety of her
collection, and while many of the
songs went over my head, glossy
with a decadence I wasn’t used to
hearing from religion, I focused
instead on how my friend listened
to those songs: eyes closed with
her head tilted up towards the
sky, like the sun and songs she
knew by heart had come together
to form a perfect harmony, a call
to home.
I am not a religious person.
But I still have the Bible my
friend gave to me all those years
ago resting in a drawer. I like to
take it out sometimes and rifle
through the pages. It reminds me
of the absolute joy she found in a
chipped blue iPod Shuffle.
I am not a religious person. But
some days at sunset I like to lean
my head against the glass of my
apartment window as the familiar
call to prayer echoes through my
speakers into the empty corners
of my room. It transforms into
my grandmother’s balcony and
instead of the city of Ann Arbor,
I am looking at mountains that
stretch up from the horizon
like earthy heart lines. I still
don’t understand why my feet
constantly bring me to the same
spot on the same balcony. I don’t
understand, but maybe I don’t
need to.
Maybe all I can do is quietly,
simply, listen — to a friend as
she sings the church hymns her
mother taught her, to a father as
he breaks his fast to a prayer he
remembers his father reciting a
thousand times in the past, to the
music in religion because it can
sometimes be the music of home,
wherever that may be, whatever
that might sound like.
SHIMA SADAGHIYANI
Daily Arts Writer
The sounds of faith can provide comfort even to the nonreligious
How to find home in the
sacred music of religion
TV REVIEW
Maybe
you’ve
sworn
off
dystopian
thrillers.
“That
was
so
middle
school,” you say.
The genre had
its
renaissance,
after
all,
and
now you’ve put
your Mockingjay
pins to rest. But
with a brilliant
cinematographer,
a fresh setting and a punchy
eight-episode arc, Netflix’s new
original series “3%” sucks you
into the craze all over again.
The streaming giant’s first all-
Brazilian production breathes
new life and energy into the
genre, perfect for the older,
more intellectual you — and not
just because you have to read
subtitles.
In a futuristic society, the
vast majority — the 97 percent
—
live
a
poverty-stricken
existence.
Each
year,
the
population’s 20-year-olds have
a chance to elevate their status
by going through the Process,
an
elimination
procedure
characterized
by
mental,
physical and emotional tests
(think “The Hunger Games,”
but less gory). Only three
percent will be chosen to live
out the rest of their lives on the
Offshore, a mystical, utopian
land of progress, safety and
wealth.
The series opens on the 104th
year of the Process, as 20-year-
old hopefuls make their way
from their torn-down favelas
to the cold, empty evaluation
facility, which acts
as
the
primary
setting
for
the
show’s first season.
Sci-fi gadgets and
gizmos set up the
futuristic feel as
the series paints
a
stark
contrast
between
the
progress achieved by the elite
and the poverty endured by the
rest of the society.
Despite “3%” ’s relatively low
production
costs,
especially
when
compared
to
recent
releases in the genre on Netflix
(like
“Black
Mirror”),
the
minimalistic setting still works.
Although
visually
bare,
it’s
always intriguing, as Oscar-
nominated
cinematographer
César Charlone (“City of God”)
lends his genius to “3%.” The
camera has impressive range,
moving so uncomfortably close
to a character that you can
see every pore, or flying out
to show an impressive view
of the broken city below. The
viewer’s experience is more
than engaging: it’s exhilarating.
As the audience tries to figure
out the rules and constructions
of the dystopia, the camera soars
to make them want to live it
themselves.
Perhaps what makes “3%”
so captivating for a mature
audience is the depth of its
characters.
The
candidates
the series focuses on are both
collectively and independently
compelling,
establishing
intriguing relationships as their
own stories, motivations and
secrets surface.
Primarily, the series tells
the story of Michele, a strong,
vengeful young woman played
by
Bianca
Comparato
(“In
Treatment”). “3%” also features
a
captivating
performance
from João Miguel (“Cinema,
Aspirins, and Vultures”) as
the deceptive leader of the
Process, who has a few secrets
of his own. At times, like the
dystopian-thriller
genre
in
general, the show can venture
into soap-opera territory —
due to the life and death of it
all, perhaps. But paired with
well-developed and intriguing
characters, the overly dramatic
acting is not so much a turn-
off, but rather another step in
establishing the intense and
binge-worthy feel of the series.
Considering today’s extreme
political and social climate,
fantasizing about another world
is not so crazy. So whether you’re
seeking full-bodied escapism or
just an hour-long distraction,
the
gorgeous
Portuguese
dialogue and the vision of a
brilliant cinematographer begs
“3%” to be your next break from
reality.
DANIELLE YACOBSON
Daily Arts Writer
Netflix’s ‘3%’ transcends its YA roots
B+
“3%”
Episodes 1 & 2
Netflix
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
The first time I tried composing,
I severely underestimated the
difficulty of the task at hand.
My fellow seventh graders and
I had been tasked with creating
personal melodies that were to be
performed in front of the entirety
of the middle school orchestra,
and I jumped at the opportunity
to display my self-proclaimed
musicality and artistic prowess.
I wanted to make something
beautiful, some sort of never-
before-heard chord progression
that would latch onto heart and
soul, tracing shudders into the
spines of all who heard it.
But
no
matter
what
combinations I tried, I couldn’t
spin my sky-high expectations
for my composition into reality.
My beginnings fell flat, clattering
to the ground in soft puffs of dust
instead of blooming into sparkling
life like I’d hoped they would.
Notes that I’d never paid attention
to before my musical tinkering
took on ominous visages of their
own, radiating a stubborn aversion
to any sort of cooperative union
despite my pleading. Everything
I tested sounded awkward and
out of place, as if I’d somehow
managed to discover the musical
representation of a gracelessly
gangly calf.
Even more paralyzing was
my acute fear of accidentally
plagiarizing music that already
existed. In the rare instances
when I thought I had the start
of
something
even
remotely
acceptable, it didn’t take long
for me to realize that the reason
the tune seemed familiar was
because it was similar to a long
forgotten television jingle or, in
one instance, the theme song to
“Mr. Bean’s Holiday.”
I don’t know how I settled
on a final version to perform. I
remember going back to my seat
with my cello in tow, filled with
an all-consuming dissatisfaction
with my piece and what I once
considered
to
be
a
natural
musicality. When the grades came
out, I was surprised to have gotten
full marks on the assignment, but
even that didn’t do much to dull
the slight bitterness I still had at
myself for being unable to meet
my own standards.
I haven’t tried to compose in
the years since, mainly because
I’m more focused on writing for
my artistic outlet now. However, I
still encounter the same dilemma
whenever I’m stuck with writer’s
block.
There’s
nothing
more
frustrating
than
feeling
like
your creativity has been trapped
behind a very thick, very tall and
very concrete wall that exists for
no reason at all.
For people like my parents,
who appreciate my writing ability
but are immediately dismissive
of anyone who chooses to pursue
a career in the humanities,
writer’s block is laughable, even
more evidence that there’s barely
any distinction between those
who study the art of the word
for years and mere students.
They
don’t
understand
the
indescribable,
thriving
nature
of creating, because it has never
played much of a role in their
lives. The problem is made worse
by the fact that creativity is not a
definitive subject with specific
rules and regulations; the concept
of creativity itself heavily relies on
its immeasurability.
I think of creativity like a rice
paddy — the more rice you plant,
the richer the soil gets. Being a part
of an environment that actively
encourages creativity not only
has a positive effect on my mental
state but also my productivity
overall. Writing is a very personal
activity that I take a lot of joy in,
and it’s not only hurtful but also
disheartening to have something
extremely meaningful to me
treated so indifferently.
The problems that I faced when
I first started out with my seventh
grade composition still pop up
every now and then when I sit
down to write. Sometimes I can’t
get my sentences to flow the way I’d
like to, and they’ll sound as wispy
and formless as an unrosined bow
over clean strings. Other times,
I’m simply unable to convey the
exact picture I’m trying to paint
no matter how many phrasings
I try. Worst of all is when I can’t
even fit sentences together. I’ll sit
in front of my laptop for hours at
a time, feeling the exact same way
I did six years ago when I was
cramming random notes against
each other, desperately hoping
that the sharps and flats would
assemble into some semblance of a
satisfactory song.
However, if writing were easy, I
probably wouldn’t enjoy it as much
as I do. Part of the allure of writing
is the uncertainty surrounding the
end result; even when I have a clear
idea in mind of what exactly I want
to create, I have no way of knowing
precisely what’s going to show
up on the page. I’ve changed and
grown in countless ways since that
20-measure composition, and one
of the most important things I’ve
learned is that obstacles such as
writer’s block never truly go away,
even as you get older. The only
thing you can do is keep on trying.
SAMANTHA LU
Daily Arts Writer
The beautiful frustration of creating
If making art were easy, we wouldn’t enjoy it as much as we do
Thrilling Brazilian series breathes new life into old tropes
Looking back to 2014, the
year brought us Vince Staples’s
Hell Can Wait. In the years
following, 2015 gifted Kendrick
Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly and
2016 brought, uh, 21 Savage’s
Savage Mode? Yeah. And Kodak
Black, D.R.A.M., Lil Yachty and
the like.
Socially conscious rap seemed
to have peaked in 2015. Lamar
warned us of political divide
in the form of “DemoCrips and
ReBloodicans,”
Lupe
Fiasco
talked of “watching Gazans
and
Ashkenazis
ride
roller
coasters” and Vince Staples
questioned
“Black
sellin’
crack for the white man.” For
a genre arguably founded and
bolstered early on by the moral
implications of its content, such
lyricism marked the final stages
of a healthy evolution.
That being said, objectively
“good” rap doesn’t need to be
socially conscious. Listening
gratification certainly comes
from a nuanced perspective on
a type of American life foreign
to the majority of the audience,
but it’s possible and likely more
plausible to derive pleasure
from purely enjoyable music.
Important
rap,
however,
does need to have substance,
and
substantialism
hasn’t
exactly
defined
this
year’s
releases. For instance, “Black
Beatles,” Rae Sremmurd’s hit,
has
gained
more
notoriety
for its accompaniment of the
viral “Mannequin Challenge”
than for its actual musicality.
Not even a Gucci feature can
save the rest of the track’s
underwhelming flow. It now
seems like singles earn their
mainstream badge based on
meme-ability.
Put into more collegiately
relevant
terms,
everything
popular, everything “playable”
from this year, would make
for an unbelievable pregame
playlist. You know, not the
type of stuff you listen to for
fulfillment (or enlightenment
for that matter) but the boiled-
down bangers, songs like Yo
Gotti’s “Down in the DM” and
Yachty’s “Minnesota.” Jump
on a table, maybe throw some
shit, do some funny dances.
This mood necessitates a basic
criterion: a vibey beat, an
infectious hook and a chant to
mouth along so as to not look
stupid. 2016’s offerings pass
that test, they just might not
pass a more enduring one.
This may sound completely
old, crotchety and pretentious.
Hell, it pretty much is old,
crotchety and pretentious. Not
to mention, to function within a
generalization, especially when
it comes to music, is bad. It’s just
that increasingly, “meaningful”
music seems like an exception.
Indeed, rap as a whole seems
comfortable
on
its
current
trajectory toward a singularly
“bumpable” genre, and 2016
helped solidify that. While
the virtuous persevere — A
Tribe Called Quest’s We Got It
from Here... Thank You 4 Your
Service, Vic Mensa’s There’s
Alot Going On, Isaiah Rashad’s
The Sun’s Tirade and even
Schoolboy Q’s Blank Face LP, all
releases from this year, expand
upon
Lamar-esque
tensions
— to an increasing extent,
we’re listening for fun and not
fulfillment.
To be sure, the visibility is
what seems different. Last year,
emotionally-charged anthems
like “King Kunta” and “Alright”
got airtime, whereas this year,
nothing remotely related to the
public affairs of this country
has successfully crossed over
into
the
mainstream.
And
it’s November. There’s a mix
of
guilt-free
bangers
and
meaningful statements filling
out the landscape of rap at this
moment, but the imbalance in
exposure is what defines its
current climate.
Maybe that’s the point. Trap,
drill, bounce, cloud, whatever
— they’ve always coexisted.
Variety gives the genre its most
potent flavor. Ultimately, it’s
our obligation to find our own
happy medium.
EARDRUMMERS
“Hey! You! Give us our shirts back!”
JOEY SCHUMAN
Daily Arts Writer
The most iconic hip-hop songs of the year had memes, lacked meaning
The state of rap in 2016: A need to
balance the style and the substance
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
MUSIC NOTEBOOK