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

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