As another year approaches 

its end, I find myself both 
thrilled 
and 
saddened 
at 

the thought of making my 
personal 
“Albums 
of 
the 

Year” list. It’s a time of 
contemplation and discourse, 
with myself and my peers. It’s 
a time to hash out our guilty 
pleasures and undying loves 
that 
blossomed 
throughout 

the past 365 days. Music has 
an intrinsic connection to 
time, history and memory, 
and regardless of how great a 
track or album might be, every 
individual who gives them a 
listen will naturally tie the 
emotional experience to their 
explicit memory at the time.

Every year, I create a new 

note on my phone where I jot 
down every album I at least 
enjoyed listening to, and I can 
always tell which ones most 
greatly affected me by the 
power of the memory tied to it. 
Lorde’s masterful Melodrama, 
an obvious entry, calls to 
mind the night I literally 
ran back to my apartment 
at midnight to rendezvous 
with my friends and listen to 
it for the first time; my jaw 
hit the floor during the sonic 
transition in “Hard Feelings/
Loveless,” 
and 
“Supercut” 

brought tears to my eyes due 
to its pop perfection. Brand 
New’s Science Fiction knocked 
me on my ass as the longtime 
fan in me devoured every nook 
and cranny of the album, only 
to have my heart shattered by 

sexual misconduct allegations 
against the band’s frontman. 
As the new year approaches, 
this rollercoaster of emotions 
has become an occurrence as 
natural as the changing of the 
seasons.

The worst part of it all is 

finding out which releases 
were 
heinously 
overlooked 

by major music publications 
(Rolling Stone, Consequence 
of 
Sound, 
Pitchfork, 
etc.) 

whose lists can range from 
frustratingly 
comical 
to 

almost 
perfect. 
Beautiful 

albums that were destined 
for major attention include 
Paramore’s After Laughter and 
St. 
Vincent’s 
Masseduction 

— they’re artists who have 
deservingly made a name for 
themselves to wide audiences 
— but my heart can’t help but 
break for The Menzingers’s 
After 
The 
Party, 
a 
damn 

near perfect reflection on 
adulthood and aging. I ached 
alongside the humanism of 
Mt. Eerie’s A Crow Looked 
at Me and Phoebe Bridgers’s 
Stranger in the Alps, albums 
whose lyrical content is as 
intimate as their compositions 
are astoundingly unique. The 

Maine’s Lovely Little Lonely 
and Oso Oso’s The Yunahon 
Mixtape were two of the best 
rock albums I’ve heard in 
recent memory, only to be 
overlooked in lieu of bigger 
names.

Despite their lack of critical 

attention, these are albums 
I’ll cherish for years to come, 
affecting 
me 
in 
different 

ways throughout the course 
of this year. As I write this, 
I fondly reflect on the music 
that made 2017 special for 
me: screaming along with my 
friends to “Black Butterflies 
and Déjà Vu” at The Maine’s 
headlining show in Pontiac; 
watching Oso Oso play to 50 
kids in a basement; moshing 
to “Tellin’ Lies” during The 
Menzingers’s 
set 
at 
Riot 

Fest. Without regard to their 
media attention, this music 
will indelibly mark the way I 
experienced the past year.

Every year has its highs 

and lows regardless of the 
music released, and 2017 has 
undeniably been a tumultuous 
year politically and socially. 
But it’s also a blessing to be 
saturated with such incredible 
music over such a short period 
of time. Music that keeps 
us grounded and nostalgic, 
comforted 
and 
thoughtful 

— music that ranges from 
powerfully 
political 
to 

emotionally groundbreaking. 
So 
every 
December 
I’ll 

continue 
my 
ritual 
of 

reflection 
and 
growth, 

staying thankful for all the 
new releases, both good and 
bad, that carried me through 
another year. 

6A — Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

FILMRISE

A tag team of Nickelodeon and Disney Channel stars in a not-too-bad film
‘My Friend Dahmer’ both 
an origin story & biopic

The adaptation craftily unveils a tale of murder and horror

There is something morbidly 

fascinating about getting inside 
the mind of a serial killer, about 
plunging into a twisted psyche 
of macabre impulses. Trying 
to 
understand 
something 

completely beyond the moral 
scope of most people is an 
impossible task, but “My Friend 
Dahmer” attempts to do just 
that. The film works as both 
an origin story and an eerie 
portrait of Jeffrey Dahmer, 
chronicling his last year in 
high school as it attempts to 

understand how his early life 
contributed to his infamy as a 
serial killer and cannibal.

“My Friend Dahmer” doesn’t 

necessarily probe the mind of 
Jeffrey Dahmer as much as 
follow him around. His most 
intimate 
desires 
are 
alien 

to us, but are hinted at in a 
slow and eerie progression of 
moments. Dahmer is largely 
a tragically lonely figure who 
is ostracized at school and 
neglected at home. We see him 
spending hours on end in his 
lab, dissolving roadkill in acid 
and indulging his fascination 
with bones. We also see him 
trying to get the attention 
he craves by “spazzing,” or 
imitating bouts of epilepsy in 
disturbingly prolonged scenes. 
Dahmer’s place as an outcast 
humanizes him, and while 
his foray into the grotesque 
is unsettling, he appears as 
a 
misunderstood 
character 

deserving of sympathy.

The film is an adaptation of 

the graphic novel of the same 
name by John ‘Derf’ Backderf, 
the 
real-life 
character 
that 

befriends 
Dahmer. 
Played 

well by Alex Wolff (“Patriot’s 
Day”), 
Derf 
is 
intrigued 

by 
Dahmer’s 
spazzing 
and 

welcomes him within the ranks 
of his prankster friends group, 
heralding him as the class 
clown. 
With 
Derf, 
Dahmer 

finds the companionship he 
desperately 
needs. 
But 
the 

film is careful to sprinkle in 
red flags that shatter Derf’s 
innocent view of Dahmer and 
hint at something more sinister 
and dangerous. The film does 
an incredible job at navigating 
moments of implicit tension, 
coloring a sixth sense where 
you know something isn’t quite 
right and creating fear from that 
tension. “My Friend Dahmer” 
explores the dynamics between 
people and the gravity behind 
the social scene of high school.

The 
undeniable 
backbone 

of the film is Ross Lynch’s 

(“Teen 
Beach 
Movie”) 

portrayal 
of 
Dahmer. 
The 

former Disney Channel star 
is wholly unrecognizable as 
the 
shuffling, 
hunch-backed 

and hooded-eyed outcast who 

moves like a clunky shadow. 
Lynch communicates Dahmer’s 
bottled 
homosexuality 
with 

grace, 
showing 
his 
lustful 

fantasies 
of 
the 
neighbor 

with just the right dash of 
eeriness that hints at his later 
masochistic 
sexual 
desires. 

There’s a sense of entropy 
to 
Dahmer’s 
existence; 
his 

impulses and fantasies escalate 
uncontrollably, and he cannot 
find his way back to the simple 
reality of the other boys. There’s 
a sense of relatability there, in 
fighting to quell desires that 
ultimately win, but there is an 
overarching mystery that the 
film doesn’t try to explain.

The 
movie 
doesn’t 
make 

excuses for Dahmer, who would 
go on to infamously murder and 
eat seventeen people. Many 
scenes feature him excessively 
drinking, butchering animals 
and rubbing their bones. “My 
Friend Dahmer” isn’t trying 
to argue that he could have 
been saved had his friends and 
parents paid more attention. 
The movie merely wants to get 
inside the mind of a serial killer 
and humanize him, exploring 
the factors that contributed to 
the actions of one of the world’s 
most infamous killers.

PAX AM

Yes
The thrills and pains of 
‘Albums of the Year’ lists 

The trouble of consoling commercially successful albums with 
smaller, personally important albums as 2017 comes to a close

DOMINIC POLSINELLI

Daily Arts Writer

MUSIC NOTEBOOK

BOOK REVIEW

SYDNEY COHEN

Daily Arts Writer

Every year has its 

highs and lows 
regardless of the 
music released

Recent ‘They Can’t Kill Us’ 
explores music & identity 

Hanif Abdurraqib’s essay 

collection “They Can’t Kill 
Us Until They Kill Us” is as 
expansive in scope as it is rich 
in content. Abdurraqib is a 
music writer, but his subjects 
— sonic landscapes, fandoms 
and 
performance 
— 
are 

only his starting points. His 
writing is alive and breathing, 
criticism infused with stories, 
lived experience and emotion. 
For Abdurraqib, it’s never just 
a song, never just an artist; 
music is a lens through which 
he sees the whole world.

Life, 
death, 
music, 

loneliness, 
media, 
politics 

and 
love 
are 
necessarily 

intertwined 
in 
his 
work, 

because 
he’s 
striving 
for 

something bigger than a book 
of thinkpieces. He weaves 
together personal narrative 
and rigorous critical thought 
so 
naturally 
you 
almost 

forget that these ideas are 
ever 
considered 
separate 

methods of writing. His book 
does the extraordinary work 
of capturing a moment in 
time, piecing together the 
fragments of life and death in 
modern America.

“They Can’t Kill Us Until 

They Kill Us” is itself a phrase 
from a sign plastered to a 
Michael 
Brown 
memorial. 

The title serves as an informal 
thesis to Abdurraqib’s work, 
which grapples intently with 
what it means to be Black and 
alive in 2017. A lot of the time, 
it comes down to this: “It’s 
summer and there is a video 
again,” he writes. “A black 
person is dead on camera 
again.” For him, survival is a 
delicate and precious thing, 
not a given.

Abdurraqib isn’t able to 

separate his love of the music 
from this fundamental fact 

of his life, and it shapes his 
perspective and his criticism 
because, as he puts it, “Once 
you understand that there are 
people who do not want you to 

exist, that is a difficult card to 
remove from the table ... there 
is no undoing that knowledge.”

There’s a piece about a 

Bruce 
Springsteen 
concert 

Abdurraqib attended the day 
after seeing Michael Brown’s 
memorial, 
he 
contemplates 

the way Springsteen’s music 
operates on a narrative of 
survival. He writes: “What 
it must feel like to imagine 
that no one in America will be 
killed while a man sings a song 
about the promise of living.” 
It’s a harrowing observation, 
but it’s evocative of the way 
Abdurraqib 
so 
precisely 

articulates 
the 
nuance 
of 

the 
intersection 
between 

identity and experience. It 
lends credence to the idea 
that 
Abdurraqib’s 
Bruce 

Springsteen is not my Bruce 
Springsteen is not your Bruce 
Springsteen. 
But 
that 
just 

makes 
Bruce 
Springsteen 

better — and more interesting.

His range is impressive: 

He writes about everyone 
from Carly Rae Jepsen to 
Prince, Schoolboy Q to The 
Wonder Years, Future to My 
Chemical Romance. It’s clear 
he has a wholehearted love 
of the music, in all the times 
it’s pulled him back from the 
brink. Music isn’t a catch-all 
cure for the heartbreak and 
the fear, but it’s powerful 
nonetheless. 
“The 
great 

mission of any art that revolves 
around place is the mission of 
honesty,” he writes. For him, 
music and art exist with the 
purpose of being as honest as 
possible — so they’re a way of 
making sense of the world, his 
life, his very survival.

Abdurraqib uncovers some 

truths of his own in “They 
Can’t Kill Us Until They 
Kill Us,” peeling back the 
layers of a performance, a 
moment in time or a feeling 
to find the core of it, what it 
really means. It’s a beautiful, 
carefully layered book, full 
of sharp insights, carefully 
realized emotions and stories 
told with a gentle voice that 
grows ever more important in 
these times. And in the vein of 
complete honesty: I hope he 
never stops writing. 

ASIF BECHER
Daily Arts Writer

“They Can’t 
Kill Us Until 
They Kill Us”

Hanif 

Abdurraqib

Two Dollar 

Radio

November 7, 

2017

His range is 
impressive: he 

writes from Carly 

Rae Jepsen to 

Prince, Schoolboy 
Q to The Wonder 

Years, Future 
to My Chemical 

Romance

FILM REVIEW

The movie doesn’t 

make excuses 
for Dahmer, 

who will go on 
to infamously 

murder and eat 17 

people

Abdurraqib’s new essay collection meditates on their intersections 

“My Friend 
Dahmer”

FilmRise

Not Playing 

Locally