The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Friday, October 13, 2017 — 5
Arts
FLORIAN KOPPE
Future Islands authentic,
exciting in Royal Oak show
In 2014, after the release of
their fourth album, Singles,
Baltimore-based
Future
Islands were propelled from
relative obscurity to immediate
relevance in the wake of their
performance
of
“Seasons
(Waiting On You)” on the Late
Show with David Letterman.
Three years later, their fifth
album — second with indie
behemoth 4AD — was released
to considerably less pomp.
Nevertheless, The Far Field
(2017) built on the success of
Singles and confirmed the
band’s status as the best synth-
pop revival act in the business.
A longtime fan of Future
Islands,
I
was
somewhat
unsure of what to expect going
into their show at Royal Oak
Music
Theatre.
Frontman
Sam Herring (a.k.a. Hemlock
Ernst) has gained renown for
his absurd energy and oddly
acrobatic dancing and having
seen the band once before,
in 2015, I knew what he was
capable. I wondered, however,
how Far Field, a less vocals-
driven album than Singles or
On the Water (2011), would
translate to the stage.
Much to my delight, Future
Islands seemed only to have
become
better
performers
in
the
time
since
Singles
was released. Show openers
“Beauty of the Road” followed
by “Ran,” along with several
others from Far Field, were
tight and forward-moving, with
a sense of urgency even more
palpable than possessed by
their studio versions. In front
of the caricatured calmness
of straight-faced keyboardist-
synth master Gerrit Welmers,
bassist
William
Cashion
and (considerably less stoic)
drummer
Michael
Lowry,
Herring’s
passion
had
no
difficulty asserting itself as
the most alluring aspect of the
performance.
Indeed, fewer than three
songs in, Herring — looking
more
like
your
typical
lumberjack
than
a
touring
musician — had already sweat
completely through his plaid
button-up. Throughout the set,
he would occasionally smack
his chest with the fist not
holding the mic, and the wet,
slapping sound could actually
be heard through the speakers.
When the light was just right,
you could even see the droplets
of sweat violently flung from
the fabric over his heart,
an
unexpectedly
poignant
reminder of the immediacy of
the show and the emotion it
encapsulated.
In
some
ways,
a
Future
Islands
show
is
straightforward.
With
just
drums,
synth
and
bass,
there’s not much room for
improvisation, nor do the songs
themselves allow much space
for deviation. At the same
time, though, most of Future
Islands’ albums — Far Field
and their debut, Wave Like
Home (2008) — were recorded
without drums, but played
with them on tour. The result
is popular favorites from 2010’s
In Evening Air (“Long Flight,”
“Vireo’s Eye”) and On the
Water (”Balance”) originally
winding
and
unconcerned
with reaching a destination
transformed
into
pounding
anthems. Highlights of the
show were almost all cuts
from In Evening Air, at once
atmospheric and driving.
“Inch of Dust,” in particular,
stood out among the rest, as
did the devastating combo of
“Seasons” directly into “Tin
Man” and then “Spirit,” three
of their most earnest and
melodic songs across all five
albums. Though likely among
their less well-known tunes,
“Inch of Dust,” off the backside
of
In
Evening
Air,
found
Herring at his most beastly.
He howled, a furious ball of
passion bouncing off the walls
and down to the floor as the
lights strobed, while Cashion
and Welmers harped on the
same chord, each time louder
than the last until it crashed,
all at once, like a dam finally
overtaken by the incessant
pounding of the river at its
back.
In addition to his now-
signature dance moves, another
of
the
delightful
surprises
of a Future Islands show is
Herring’s voice. After no more
than a song or so, it’s clear that
he has something special. His
range and natural, emotive
rasp lend themselves well to the
band’s generally melancholic,
if energetic, songs. Live, he
takes it to another level, calling
on the ghosts of punk’s angry
past to conjure up a hearty,
grating shout. On Thursday, he
peppered in his invigorating
growl wherever he saw fit,
drawing
at
first
stunned
silence, immediately followed
by applause and a chorus of
“whoop”s.
As a band, Future Islands
boast an impressive energy
that
both
contrasts
and
complements
the
nostalgia
innate to their genre quite
well. More than that, though,
they are honest, unassuming
and real, through and through.
They are performers, no doubt,
but they aren’t putting on an
act. I remember reading a
quote somewhere about how
Herring looks like the guy
checking out next to you at
the grocery store, and there’s
something really powerful (not
to mention true) about that.
Not only does he look like your
average 33-year-old — with an
endearing,
quickly-receding
hairline — but he acts like one
too, a quality that bolsters
his image as, in a sense, the
everyman’s poet.
Before playing certain songs,
Herring gave quick backstories
— “North Star,” for example,
was written about a long
evening he spent trapped at the
Detroit airport — one of which
was
particularly
striking.
During
the
show’s
encore,
before the only song they
played from Wave Like Home,
“Little Dreamer,” he spoke
about a 10-year-old love that
still haunts him, the beauty of
it and the pit of sorrow that
wells up within him. He spoke
with a candor, tears welling up
in his eyes, that made his words
incapable of being dismissed.
That raw emotion, from the
highs of “Seasons” or “Spirit”
to the goosebumps-inducing
melancholy preceding “Little
Dreamer” is ultimately why
you go to a Future Islands show
and why there is no doubt in
my mind that they are one of
the best touring bands today.
At times I could feel my
bones
reverberate
with
the sound of the music last
Sunday at the Masonic Temple
in
Detroit.
Sitting
there,
surrounded by thousands of
other people who were all
experiencing the same thing
as me, unable to hear anything
but the baritone strains of
Matt Berninger’s voice, the
pounding of the drums and the
strumming of guitars, I took
in an event unlike any other I
have experienced. Certainly it
was louder than most anything
else I’ve come across, but not
in a bad way. When I left the
concert I was feeling too much
of a rush to think of much of
anything, but after letting it
settle for a few days, I have a
few things to say.
The National is an indie
rock band (whatever exactly
that
means)
which
was
founded some 18 years ago in
Cleveland, Ohio. Made up of
vocalist Matt Berninger and
two sets of brothers, Bryce and
Aaron Dessner and Scott and
Bryan Devendorf, the band is
a staple of what could perhaps
be best described as Very Sad
Rock™. Over the course of
their seven studio albums and
years of concertizing, the band
has established a large and
committed fan base. They have
performed at political events
for President Barack Obama,
appeared
on
“Late
Night
with Jimmy Fallon” and been
featured on such hit TV shows
as “Game of Thrones” and
“Boardwalk
Empire.”
Their
latest album, Sleep Well Beast
— the promotion of which was
the raison d’être of the concert
I attended — features a single
which currently tops the U.S.
Adult Alternative Songs chart,
“The System Only Dreams in
Total Darkness.”
Yes, this is the classical
music column. Be patient.
I
first
learned
of
The
National because I heard a
piece of classical chamber
music. Specifically, a piece
called
“Murder
Ballades,”
which was featured on the
2015 album Filament by eighth
blackbird, one of the most
talented and interesting new
music
chamber
ensembles
active today. At the time, I was
listening rather exclusively to
classical music (a mistake), and
had no idea who the composer
of “Murder Ballades” was, a
man named Bryce Dessner.
A
quick
bit
of
Googling
established
his
identity
as
a guitarist “best known as
a member of the Grammy
Award-nominated band The
National.”
I
really
hadn’t
expected that.
That was perhaps the start
of my unlearning of several
misconceptions I held about
the nature and identity of the
people we call composers.
Often
times,
there
is
something about the word that
we tend to sanctify. There’s
some part of the label that
has to be preserved, a latent,
exclusionary aspect that says
that a composer can be this but
not that. A composer can be a
violinist but not a rock star. A
composer’s music can be played
in an opera house but not in a
stadium. And because of the
way that the term is viewed,
many people who ought to be
thought of as composers are
left out.
This isn’t necessarily the
case
with
Bryce
Dessner.
While his fame certainly is
due to his role in The National,
he also fulfils the traditional
definition of composer in his
other work. First off, he has
the pedigree for it, having
earned a master’s from Yale
School of Music, one of the
most
prestigious
graduate
programs
in
the
country.
Beyond that, he has plenty
of music composed in what
would be termed the classical
tradition — that is, notated on
paper and given to performers
for
interpretation.
His
compositions generally sound
vaguely post-minimalist, if you
wanted to know (and can bear
to hear music pigeonholed like
that). In addition to eighth
blackbird, he has written for
some of the most prestigious
classical
ensembles
in
the
country, including The Kronos
Quartet and the Los Angeles
Philharmonic. So most anyone
would
agree
that
he’s
a
composer.
The same can largely be
said
of
Radiohead’s
Jonny
Greenwood, who wrote the
marvelous
score
to
Paul
Thomas
Anderson’s
2007
film “There Will Be Blood.”
But there are others whose
activities aren’t so straight-
forward. Some are electronic
musicians,
artists
who
compose
and
relay
music
on their own and with their
own tools. In her marvelous
podcast “Meet the Composer,”
violist Nadia Sirota discussed
this particular subset in depth:
“We’re as apt to call a composer
who works with technology,
who composes without pen
and paper, inside the box of
a computer, a producer,” she
said. “A producer. Is that fair?
Is that apt?”
One example of this group
of composers, and one which
Sirota talks about extensively,
is Matmos, an electronic duo
from Baltimore who record and
manipulate their own samples
to create music that is unusual,
complex and compelling. Their
latest
album
in
particular
is a brilliant contribution, a
work called Ultimate Care
II, named after the washing
machine
which
resides
in
their
basement.
For
this
composition, the pair recorded
sounds
entirely
from
this
washing machine, and through
their
artistic
choices
and
electronic manipulation, they
created something wonderful
and without compare.
But are they composers? I
struggle to find a reason why
not. After all, if a composer is
simply one who writes music
(and what else could it be?),
then this certainly qualifies.
They and countless others
write music that never sees the
inside of a concert hall, never
finds itself in the hands of an
orchestra, but is nevertheless a
composition.
So what is it that makes
Mitski or Sufjan a singer-
songwriter and Kendrick a
rapper, while Augusta Read
Thomas gets to be a composer?
Is it the fact that the music
has words? Composers write
songs, too. Is it that they wrote
the words themselves? Didn’t
Wagner also? Is it the fact
that it’s rap? Is rap not music?
At its heart, perhaps what it’s
all about is simple clarity, an
effort to differentiate between
genres: Part of it doubtless
stems from the inescapable
human compulsion to arrange
things in little boxes and
shut the lids, the drive to
compartmentalize and classify
and draw the boundaries just
so. But innocent as this may
seem, the way in which we use
language goes a long way into
changing how we think about
the world. Maybe Kendrick
is a rapper. But he can be a
composer too. And when we
forget that is when we close
ourselves off to the possible.
Who gets to be
a composer?
CLASSICAL MUSIC COLUMN
DAYTON
HARE
CONCERT REVIEW
SEAN LANG
Daily Arts Writer
At times I could
feel my bones
reverberate with
the sound of the
music last Sunday
at the Masonic
Temple in Detroit
NEW LINE CINEMA
‘Harold and Kumar’ is an
outsized, intelligent satire
FILM REAPPRAISAL
In Reappraisals, Michigan Daily
film writers attempt to defend films
that have been critically maligned.
This week: “Harold and Kumar
Escape from Guantanamo Bay.”
The
“Harold
and
Kumar”
franchise might fall under the
category
of
“stoner
comedy,”
but these films are littered with
clever observations on race and
politics. The second installment,
“Harold
and
Kumar
Escape
from Guantanamo Bay,” received
only mild reviews. It challenges
stereotypes throughout the movie,
however, in a way the first and
third films do not accomplish as
successfully.
Harold (John Cho, “Columbus”)
and Kumar (Kal Penn, “How I Met
Your Mother”) are roommates
planning a trip to Amsterdam as
a romantic gesture. Harold is an
investment banker, while Kumar
purposefully failed to apply to
medical
school.
Unfortunately,
Kumar’s marijuana-related habits
lead to their arrest and sentencing
to Guantanamo Bay. Through a
series of improbable, but hilarious,
fortunes and misfortunes, the two
end up on the run from Homeland
Security.
“Guantanamo
Bay,”
released
in
2008
when
awareness
of
xenophobia was not at the forefront
of popular discourse, examines the
justice system and the way America
treats minorities in a revealing
light. At airport security, Kumar is
subjected to racial profiling through
a “random” search (although he
did make a scene to smuggle in
drugs). Then, on board the plane, a
racist elderly white woman views
Kumar as a turban-wearing, beard-
sporting, evilly-laughing terrorist,
when he is really a goofy Indian guy
in a sloppy outfit. When she sees
him light a makeshift bong in the
lavatory, she screams “Terrorist!”
and sends the flight into chaos.
Harold and Kumar wait in an
interrogation room as an idiotic and
racist Homeland Security officer,
Ron Fox (Rob Corddry, “The Daily
Show with Jon Stewart”), celebrates
capturing a member of Al Qaeda
and a North Korean terrorist. Of
course, these two are actually just
American citizens with bad luck.
Through
its
absurdist
humor,
“Harold and Kumar Escape from
Guantanamo Bay” addresses the
way
obsessed
politicians
treat
suspected
terrorists.
The
two
friends have no right to an attorney,
a trial or, as Fox puts it, “freedoms.”
After
Harold
and
Kumar
miraculously escape prison, the
film questions the stereotypes they
view the world through. They meet
a group of Cubans on their way to
America without documentation
who are kind enough to transport
them to Florida. Later, the pair
interrupts a street basketball game
in
a
rundown
neighborhood,
accidentally destroying the shoes
and jukebox of many muscular Black
men. Harold and Kumar decide to
flee, but their unfounded prejudices
are revealed when the men bring
out tools to help fix the pair’s car.
The only stereotyped group the
film does not spare are some white
supremacists the friends encounter
who are ridiculed without mercy.
MEGHAN CHOU
For The Daily
Read more online at
michigandaily.com