The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Friday, December 9, 2016 — 5

At the end of my penultimate 

semester at the University of 
Michigan, and in the final days 
of my editing career at The Daily, 
I’ve found myself turning to songs 
that I used to hate — the kind of 
tearjerking, stereotypical goodbye 
songs that always seem tailormade 
for these moments in life so that 
anybody who even mildly connects 
with the sentiment can feel 
understood. I’m not proud.

The 
tune 
I’m 
particularly 

focused on is one of the most 
cliché songs I can think of, an out-
of-character two-minute ballad 
from 
America’s 
most 
famous 

punk band that has probably 
soundtracked a million graduation 
slideshows. “Good Riddance (Time 
of Your Life),” if you don’t have an 
immediate visceral reaction to 
its iconic opening guitar notes, is 
actually a pretty great composition.

“Good 
Riddance” 
is 
an 

extraordinary simple yet brilliantly 
efficient megahit, a no-frills punk 
song that just happens to be played 
on acoustic instead of electric 
guitar, with a quickly recorded 
string section thrown in for radio. 
Billie Joe Armstrong’s lyrics are 
intended to be sarcastic, as the 
narrator basically tells his ex to hit 
the road, because it’s over and you 
have to move on — his “I hope you 
had the time of your life” chorus is 
supposed to be a biting riff on the 
famous song from “Dirty Dancing.”

“Good Riddance” soon became 

the song that defined Green Day. It 
played over a scene in “Seinfeld” ’s 
final season, which probably more 
than anything is what catapulted 
it into the public consciousness. 
After it was seen by millions on 
TV, the song became a hit at proms 
and graduations, understandably 

losing its edge as kids and adults 
alike took Billie Joe’s words at face 
value and interpreted the song as a 
nostalgic, sort of “Auld Lang Syne”-
esque jam (in the public’s defense, 
Billie Joe doesn’t actually sound 
especially sarcastic as he sings — 
“For what it’s worth, it was worth 
all the while” is a decently sweet 
thing to sing).

This exposure turned “Good 

Riddance” into the worst thing 
a song could be in the eyes of the 
public: sentimental. Quote-unquote 
“real” Green Day fans didn’t like 
the people who only knew the 
band’s biggest, least representative 
song, and even among the general 
public, the song hit that saturation 
point where any use of it anywhere 
felt totally unoriginal, greeted by 
eye-rolls and sighs. It turned into 
“Over the Rainbow” or “What 
a Wonderful World” or, more 
recently, “Hallelujah.”

But, in a moment of maybe 

weakness or nostalgia or just a 
desire to connect with music on 
an emotional level, I looked up 
“Good Riddance,” listened and 
really 
enjoyed 
it. 
Admittedly, 

I’m a bigger fan of the alternate, 
demo version that ended up as the 
B-side to “Brain Stew,” with its 
faster, strummed guitar, stringless 
arrangement and lack of that self-
conscious false start intro.

But either version showcases 

Armstrong’s 
strength 
as 
a 

songwriter, emphasizing his ability 
to make a point in the most efficient 
and catchiest way possible. If it 
were played at the volume of, say, 
“Basket Case,” “Good Riddance” 
would likely be an uncontroversial 
top tier Green Day hit among its 
fanbase, with its harder sound 
keeping it out of TV and high 
schools’ reach.

I think it helps the song’s 

reputation, too, that Green Day 
is no longer “the band that sings 

‘Time of Your Life.’ ” They’ve 
been lucky and talented enough to 
have an incredible second wind as 
artists, and now they’ve gained a 
wider audience and deeper catalog 
of good songs than they ever did 
in the ’90s. “Good Riddance” is no 
longer the song that misrepresents 
Green 
Day, 
but 
rather 
one 

composition in a deep arsenal of 
punk and arena rock. They can pull 
it out for the encore sing-along if 
they want, but at this point, with 
all the band’s other hits, they’re not 
even obligated to play it.

I get that “Good Riddance” is an 

easy song to get sick of, and if you 
heard it constantly from the late 
’90s into the 2000s I completely 
understand why you’d never want 
to hear it again. It’s repetitive, 
simple and seems to have a 
cloyingly lame message (“the past 
was good!”). I’m totally fine with 
the moratorium we seemed to be 
placed on the song in pop culture, 
but if it makes some kind of “Don’t 
Stop Believin’ ”-type resurgence 
after being used ironically in a 
prestige TV show (or even just 
something zeitgeisty and young), 
I think that would be a well-
deserved fate.

Maybe I get too caught up in 

the idea of canons, of songs being 
good or bad not based on the 
actual recordings, but on whether 
they’re over- or underrated by 
the general public. Not all music 
has to be cool or accepted as great 
or 
undiscovered 
by 
licensing 

agencies. Sometimes, the most 
obvious, true statement of feeling 
is the best option. If some people 
listen to “Good Riddance” and 
think, “Yeah, I did have the time of 
my life,” that’s still pretty cool.

Theisen is watching “Dirty 

Dancing.” To re-enact that iconic 

scene, email ajtheis@umich.edu.

A reevaluation of Green 

Day’s biggest hit

REPRISE

Who face-swapped with Billie Joe?

MUSIC COLUMN

LAUREN THEISEN
Daily Music Columnist

MUSIC NOTEBOOK

There’s 
something 
about 

traveling while listening to music 
that always affects me. It’s hard 
to say what it is, whether it’s the 
scenery around me, the people I’m 
with or the activity I’m doing, but I 
am always in a certain state when 
I’m listening to music and moving. 
And it changes all the time.

As someone who takes 10-hour 

car rides home from college, doesn’t 
leave 
her 
apartment 
without 

headphones, drives multiple hours 
to swim meets, etc., I seem to find 
this emotional state happening 
often. As most people do, I put on 
my favorite playlists and albums to 
pass the time.

But what I’ve noticed about 

“music in motion” is that there 
seems to be some sort of exterior 
impact. 
Example: 
the 
movies 

where there is a girl riding the bus 
while she stares out the window 
and some sappy The Fray song 
comes on. Even though in real life, 
nothing would be heard, there’s 
music playing in the moment, 
and thus the entire scene makes 
the viewer feel a little teary-eyed. 
Setting and melody combines into 
a state of thinking, of listening and 
of feeling, and I often get into that 
state of mind when I travel.

I’m the type of person to listen 

to music when walking around 
campus and when working at my 
job. Yes, there is a sense of seclusion 
when I do this, but it also affects 
the way I see the community 
around me. I observe the actions of 
people hustling through the Diag; 

I pay closer attention to the trees 
and how they change. I notice the 
architecture, and I’m more aware 
of the thoughts that are being 
applied when I view this kind of 
environment. Music gives me a lens 
that I couldn’t assume if I wasn’t 
listening to it.

There’s walking, though, and 

then there’s driving. I distinctly 
remember my first road trip with 
my current college roommate. We 
were going to Cedar Point for fall 
break, and we decided to play some 
of our favorite songs. Whether that 
be alternative, rap or even country, 
my friendship with Perie was built 
upon music.

In the car, she would play a song, 

explain how it reminded her of a 
past boyfriend and then we would 
stare off into the Ohio sunset. Then 
it would be my turn, and I’d put on 
a song, explaining how it reminded 
me of a friend that passed away, 
all while we were going 75 mph. 
There was a feeling of content and 
closeness that I had with Perie on 
that five-hour adventure. However, 
the confines of the car made no 
impact on our vocal and auditory 
freedom.

And it’s not just our sad-girl 

songs that make us feel emotional 
— it’s belting “Shot at the Night” 
by the Killers and feeling like rock 
stars, or harmonizing to “Roses” 
by the Chainsmokers and feeling 
like we’re at tailgates again. It’s the 
moments when we introduce songs 
to one another as if they have been 
a longtime friend of ours; we have 
such a connection to the song, and 
with that, we have a connection to 
each other.

To this day, I listen to the songs 

that Perie introduced to me on that 
road trip. No matter where I am 
or what I’m doing, I always know 
that those specific songs were 
first listened to in my Jeep with 
someone who is now my best friend 
at college — that construct itself 
holds such a strong sentiment.

Nowadays, this emotional state 

varies. With two more roommates 
from the East Coast, we all drive 
home together, make a collaborative 
playlist and listen to everybody’s 
unique music tastes. It ranges from 
Perie’s Kanye to Lauren’s Frank 
Ocean to Emily’s Stevie Wonder 
and to my Fleetwood Mac. One 
minute, Bon Iver puts us to sleep, 
and the next minute Lauren and I 
are freestyle rapping.

Then I’ll look ahead at each 

white dash of the highway as it 
disappears under the car. We 
remind ourselves that we have been 
driving this entire time during our 
makeshift concert. It’s these kinds 
of communal experiences that 
enrich the bonds I have with my 
roommates, and it goes beyond the 
moments in the Jeep. We go to a 
cappella concerts together, share 
our party playlists before going out 
or even look up holiday trap music 
to get hype for winter break.

Traveling with music creates a 

state of ecstasy for me, one where 
I can be overjoyed or nostalgic or 
pumped up. It’s a secure feeling 
even though I am not grounded. 
Memories can be made when I’m 
in that car with my roommates or 
when I’m flying by myself or simply 
when walking to class. The way 
one’s surroundings can change, but 
the tune in her ears does not, is a 
moment I find to be truly ineffable. 

ERIKA SHEVCHEK

Daily Arts Writer

The ecstasy of traveling with music

STYLE NOTEBOOK

I’m great at sharing food. 

Want a piece of gum, a bite of 
pizza, a sip of my drink? I’m your 
girl. Sharing trends, however? 
Eh, not so much. Who wants to 
look the same as everyone else? 
What’s the fun in that? Nothing 
drops an anvil on your mood 
like discovering the world has 
latched onto what used to be 
your personal favorite.

But the gut-punch of seeing 

three other students wearing 
your favorite shirt is doubly as 
awful as, say, spotting what you 
thought was a cool indie find 
on Billboard’s Top 100. Fashion 
is an expression of self, be it 
conscious or not. The clothes 
you choose communicate facets 
of your personality to everyone 
who throws you a wayward 
glance. When you purchase a 
piece of clothing, you are adding 
to your external narrative. When 
the masses adopt the same trend, 
it fundamentally changes the 
message.

So just don’t wear it — it’s an 

easy solution, no? Except you fell 
in love with that piece. You saw 
it worn by that it-girl whose life 
you secretly covet and wondered, 
while scrolling through pages 
upon pages of online shopping, 
whether you could pull it off. 
Finally, after a week of leaving 
it sitting hopefully in your cart, 
anxiously checking it regularly 

to ensure that your size hasn’t 
sold out, you pulled the trigger 
and 
lessened 
your 
already 

dwindling bank account a little 
more.

You sunk your heart and 

about 30 coffees’ worth into that 
purchase. Leaving it in a heap 
in the back of your closet never 
to be worn again isn’t a feasible 
option. But then again, can you 
put a price on sartorial pride?

I struggle internally whenever 

I wear Adidas Superstars.

Buying them was another 

story. As I rode the escalator 
up to the third floor of the 
Adidas flagship store, as Mary 
J. Blige’s “Family Affair” loudly 
echoed throughout the premise, 
I was buzzed on egoism. I was 
surrounded by the hip, the 
sporty, the cool, and I felt like 
the shit. Did I flip my hair and 
pop my hip? Possibly; that’s what 
M.J. Blige and copious shoes do 
to a girl.

I beelined to the men’s section 

— Ooo, I’m buying from the 
menswear section, how cool — 
where the triple-striped sneaker 
was proudly displayed. They 
called to me like harmonious 
cherubs, as if they were haloed 
in soft, golden light. I slid my foot 
into the rubber-soled slipper, 
and I was sold.

I wore them with pride, often.
But then, so did everyone else. 

To my horror, I found myself in 
elevators where every girl was 
wearing a pair. I stared down at 
their white sneakers, imploring 

them with all my might to 
dematerialize. I do not own the 
style; I was not the first to adopt 
the style; I know I don’t have 
the right to plunge a flag into 
the shoe, and claim it as mine, 
and mine alone. But if I could, I 
would.

My predicament worsened. 

My 
beloved 
sneakers 
faced 

character 
assassination 
via 

meme. Basic Bitch Starter Packs 
everywhere featured the shoe. 
Call an item basic, and I’ll 
embody the “X” armed emoji 
girl and scramble away from it 
with the same franticness and 
urgency as if it were a venomous 
spider. And yet, I could not bring 
myself to chuck my pair.

I continued to wear the 

shoe, but became increasingly 
paranoid. Was everyone noticing 
my choice of footwear? Did they 
care? Did they think less of my 
outfit, or me, because of it?

I can’t stop wearing them; 

they’re perfect. My closet is 
cluttered with stunning shoes, 
but time and time again I go 
with my Superstars. My heels 
hinder my ability to make it 
across campus in the University 
of 
Michigan 
time 
window. 

And my flats give me blisters. I 
need a sneaker. The neutrality 
of Superstars enables them to 
dissolve into any outfit, and their 
orthopedic support keeps my 
feet from crying mutiny. So label 
me as basic, if you must, but I 
won’t be retiring them anytime 
soon.

TESS TOBIN

For the Daily

My personal trouble with the famed, 
so-called ‘basic’ Adidas Superstars

I struggle internally whenever I wear the sporty, now-popular shoes

The year is 2074, but rather 

than 
robots 
or 
artificial 

intelligence ruling over society, 
“Incorporated” 
entertains 
the 

possibility of big 
business takeovers 
in the aftermath 
of a climate crisis 
that divided the 
world 
into 
two 

parts — the haves 
and 
the 
have-

nots. 
While 
the 

haves 
contribute 

to the new order 
society in return 
for luxurious living 
inside the “Green 
Zone,” the have-nots live in the 
squalor of a decimated outer city, 
colloquially known as the “Red 
Zone.”

However, the chaos that ensues 

in a world overtaken by Big 
Brother is the least concerning 
aspect in Syfy’s newest original 
series, which paints a picture of a 
future too probable for comfort. 

A common characteristic of 

the science fiction genre is the 
mirroring of fragments of reality 
onto a grander scale. After all, for 
what other purpose does the genre 
serve but to highlight our deepest 
fears regarding the unknown? 
Where series such as “The 100” 
and “Firefly” focus entirely on 
the distant future with little ties 
to reality, “Incorporated” shares 
similarities with “Revolution,” 
which 
imagined 
a 
possible 

scenario in the not-too-distant 
future.

What 
makes 
these 
series 

realistic is often the science behind 
the fiction. The settings are close 
enough to put viewers on edge, but 

far enough away to allow for the 
necessary advances to make said 
future possible. Self-driving cars 
and “Iron Man”-esque technology 
are only a few of the amenities that 
this future has to offer.

So while 2074 might be a little 

early 
for 
these 

natural disasters to 
actually occur, the 
technology seems 
to fit; it’s neither 
overwhelmingly 
advanced 
nor 
primitive 

compared to the 
devices 
available 

on today’s market. 
The 
believable 

plot coupled with 
the 
convincing 

setting 
is 
ultimately 
what 

makes “Incorporated” not only 
watchable, 
but 
relevant 
and 

relatable.

“Incorporated” opens on Ben 

(Sean 
Teale, 
“Survivor”), 
an 

executive for the company Spiga, 
which controls the order between 
the white collar “Green Zone” and 
the squalor of the “Red Zone,” 
which is on the brink of an uprising. 
Although life in the “Green Zone” 
appears comfortable and carefree, 
the big brother capabilities of the 
business world put a psychological 
strain on a society where even 
dreams are no longer safe from the 
public eye.

It’s from this prison that Ben 

has emerged as a true protagonist 
— an undercover agent for an 
undisclosed cause. He’s hacked 
his way into the company elite 
to gain access to top secret 
files 
and 
exclusive 
company 

information. The purpose is yet to 
be discovered, but Ben’s ambition 
to single handedly take down 
the new government standard is 

ambitious in itself.

This is a role that Teale portrays 

well, with quiet ties between 
the revolutionaries of the “Red 
Zone” and notable treason against 
the corporate hires he fights 
off in his mission to the top. To 
further his cause, his wife Laura 
(Allison Miller, “There’s Always 
Woodstock”) is conveniently the 
daughter of Spiga CEO Elizabeth 
(Julia 
Ormond, 
“Witches 
of 

East End”), the former of whom 
suffers from PTSD regarding 
an abduction incident into the 
“Red Zone,” which we will later 
learn more about as the season 
progresses.

However, Ben’s relationship 

with Laura, though ruled almost 
entirely by work and less so by 
feelings, only serves to highlight 
Teale’s flaw in his seamless switch 
between home life and spy work 
inside Spiga. The strain of his 
twisted lies only really shines 
through in the most thrilling 
moments of the episode, and his 
switch between the two should 
even out in later episodes if 
“Incorporated” intends to keep 
the audience hooked on Ben’s 
deception.

The 
stunning 
similarities 

between today’s advancements in 
science and technology and the 
technology in the show are the 
basis on which “Incorporated” 
thrives. The show melds present 
and future with stunning quality 
and on point accuracy. However, 
if it wishes to keep up its satire 
— a wall being built around the 
city, for example, has clear ties 
to the impending Donald Trump 
presidency — it needs to work 
on smoothing out its characters 
before 
humanity 
can 
begin 

worrying 
about 
the 
not-too-

distant future.

SYFI

Richard Linklater’s “Before Apocalypse”

TV REVIEW

MEGAN MITCHELL

Daily Arts Writer

The scary realism of ‘Incorporated’ 
separate it from its sci-fi show peers

The new original series shows a future too probable for comfort

TV REVIEW

A-

“Incorporated”

Series Premiere

Syfi

Wednesdays at 10 

p.m.

