5 — Friday, March 9, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Rhye’s show at El Club an organic expression of art
For Rhye, it has always
been about the music. Initially
starting as a joint project of
singer/songwriter Mike Milosh
and producer Robin Hannibal,
the band fell completely under
the command of Milosh due to
the quiet exit of Hannibal after
their debut album Woman.
The years that followed were
tumultuous; Rhye’s relationship
with
record
label
Polydor
crumbled and, as a result,
Milosh bought out his band,
touring Woman relentlessly in
order to ensure Rhye still had
a future. His dedication and
perseverance in continuing his
craft is visible in every careful,
measured note of Rhye’s most
recent release, Blood.
It was also visible in El
Club on Mar. 6, as Rhye took
to the stage for the Detroit
stop of their tour. Under the
dim stage lights, the focused
concentration
on
Milosh’s
face as he played songs from
both Blood and Woman was
barely
discernible,
yet
the
message was clear: This was
an artist who was completely
surrendering to the art he had
produced. Sincerity sweetened
every
melody;
intensity
strengthened every chorus.
Rhye is a band meant to
be seen live. Their normally
muted, stripped-down tracks
were injected with new energy.
The opening song — “3 days,”
off Woman — set the mood for
the rest of the night: Hazy blue
spotlights added a dreamy tint
to every rise and fall of the
keyboard, every pulse of the
drum, every trembling detail
within Milosh’s vocals. He
crooned, “We got three days to
feel each other / We got three
days to sing this song,” and the
tempo swelled, developing a life
of its own.
The rest of the show was
equally as dynamic. The funky
rhythms of more upbeat songs
“Phoenix,” “Count To Five”
and “Hunger” were drawn
out,
backing
instrumentals
often veering off into elaborate
solos that do not appear on the
albums themselves and turned
the audience into a pit of waving
limbs. The slower tempos of
quieter songs “Waste,” “Song
For You” and “Please” were also
extended — the delicate pull of
the accompanying live cello
and violin drawing attention to
the hushed release of Milosh’s
voice.
For someone who prefers to
largely remain in the shadows
of anonymity, Milosh had a
surprisingly personable stage
presence. Weaving around on
stage, he danced to the beat of
his own songs, moving in sync
with the crowd and, like the
rest of us, seemingly entranced
with
the
music’s
hypnotic
sway. In between songs, he
cracked jokes, politely told
some audience members off
for being a little too loud in
the back and complimented
the vibe of the venue. The last
place Rhye played had been too
big; El Club, he remarked, was
just small enough, fostering a
distinct intimacy. As always,
his voice was smooth, measured
— melodious even in speech.
It reverberated around the
expanse of the venue — soft,
yet still compelling — as Milosh
asked for the stage lights to be
dimmed to the point of near
non-existence before launching
into the aching expanse of
“Open” during the last half of
the show. Unable to be seen, the
band grew larger-than-life and
painfully personal, each note
delivered with a distinct caress.
“I’m a fool for that shake in
your thighs / I’m a fool for that
sound in your sighs,” Milosh
murmured
into
the
dark,
and the string arrangement
responded.
Somewhere
out
of the gloom, various brass
instruments mournfully began
their
serenade.
The
song
shuddered on, and as you stood,
gutted and vulnerable in the
shadows, you almost felt like
Rhye was speaking directly to
you.
‘Flint Town’ spotlights the
daily struggle of the town
SHIMA SADAGHIYANI
Daily Music Editor
UNIVERSAL MUSIC GROUP
CONCERT REVIEW
UNIVERSAL MUSIC GROUP
Rhye is a band
meant to be
seen live. Their
normally muted,
stripped-down
tracks were
injected with new
energy
TV REVIEW
For most of the country, the
city of Flint is associated with one
thing: a water crisis. Whenever
the Mich. city is mentioned, it
is often accompanied by shots
of brown water bubbling out
of fountains, parents begging
for proper help and politicians
exploiting a city in turmoil. Yet
trouble in Flint was brewing
before the water crisis ever hit;
that was just another unfortunate
problem piled on top of a city
already crushed under the weight
of crime and poverty. In “Flint
Town,” an eight-part docuseries
premiering on Netflix, viewers
are offered behind-the-scenes
footage of the broken city of
Flint, and the police department
doing everything in its power
to hold the city, and its citizens,
together.
“Flint Town” has no time for a
soft opening. The series opens up
on a black screen, with an audio of
a police radio giving details about
a shooting that has just occurred.
As the audio continues, the black
screen fades into an aerial shot of
an abandoned street, dusted with
snow — the only sign of life being
a single cop car driving through
the darkness. Soon after, a
motionless hand is shown resting
in the snow, lit up by blue and red,
as a woman is heard desperately
pleading and sobbing: “Save my
son, please. You have to save my
son.”
These
disturbing
scenes
and high emotions permeate
consistently throughout “Flint
Town.” The once vibrant city is
crumbling, and the documentary
does not sugarcoat that. At
first glance, it may seem like a
hyperbolized “cop show,” used
as a vehicle to push a pro-police
agenda in a time when the
relationship between police and
the people, especially African-
Americans, is so strained. But
truly it is much more than
that. The emotions are raw, the
frustrations are relevant and the
danger that every single person
in the town faces is very, very
real.
And while the stories are
being told from the eyes of law
enforcement, the show does not
feel politicized. Rather, there is
an apolitical aura of desperation
from the police department
low on resources and from
citizens who feel abandoned and
betrayed. Every episode of the
series builds upon the last, from
veteran police officers to new
recruits, many coming straight
from the streets of Flint ready to
reclaim their city.
Watching
the
rundown
houses,
the
nights
full
of
shootings and the fear etched
into every Flint citizen’s face, it
is hard to believe that the city
is just short of an hour drive
from Ann Arbor, where 18-year-
olds are more concerned about
studying for finals or figuring
out their plans on a Saturday
night than getting shot or finding
clean water. In this bubble of
privilege, Flint’s struggle seems
far removed, like a foreign
country engulfed in civil war. But
this city is our neighbor, and it
too was once lively and affluent.
Flint’s story may be fading from
the news cycle, but that does not
mean that its problems are going
away. Indifference is as toxic to
the city as its water supply, and
the stories of “Flint Town” should
not only shock you, but implore
you to seek change. Highlighting
the cycle of distrust and defeat
between the town’s citizens,
police and administration, “Flint
Town” reaches beyond the city’s
lines as both a call to action and a
cry for help.
SAMANTHA DELLA FERA
Daily Arts Writer
“Flint Town”
Netflix
NETFLIX
Don’t just do art, teach it
COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
For all the self-proclaimed
artists out there, heads up:
Teaching art is a lot harder
than creating art yourself. I’ve
done visual art all my life, but
nothing could have prepared
me for the morning when I first
walked into Mission: City.
Mission: City is the name
of the community center in
Brightmoor, a small town on
the northwest side of Detroit.
Since
many
Detroit
public
schools cut art from their
curriculum, students from the
University, myself included,
lead children from various
Detroit public schools in art
and
music
activities
after
school hours. Visual art has
always been my escape from
reality; I’m happiest when
paints and a blank canvas are
sitting in front of me. Teaching
art to others, especially those
who aren’t fortunate enough
to experience art on a regular
basis,
seemed
immensely
fulfilling.
Before
my
first
trip,
I
subconsciously
dreamed
up
a fantasy where the children
were sitting square in their
seats, huge smiles on their
faces
and
focusing
deeply
on the art in front of them. I
imagined a sweet little girl
raising her hand in the air for
help and a University student
rushing over to help her. I
maintained this fantasy when
we reached Mission: City and
as I set up the materials for the
day’s stained glass art project.
Then the children arrived, the
floodgates opened and all hell
broke loose.
Not long ago, my grandma
told me about the locusts: a
type of grasshopper-like insect,
widely
prevalent
in
Africa
and Asia, that only appears in
swarms of millions. People who
have seen them say that the sky
becomes brown and all sunlight
is shut out while the locusts
fly above. They come, wreak
havoc and are gone. When the
children walked into Mission:
City, I knew they were going
to be like a swarm of locusts.
I looked at the excited smiles
on their faces, watched their
feet bounce up and down with
impatience and my fantasy of
a peaceful Saturday morning
filled with art vanished as
quickly as it had appeared.
When the children, about
25 of them, were crammed
together in the small room, I
started to explain the lesson
plan for the morning. It didn’t
work. One boy had started to
repeatedly fall out of his chair
to draw attention to himself,
but he was dangerously close
to the wall and University
students
were
frantically
trying to break his falls. The
endearing girl in front of me
had given in to temptation and
was eating the neon purple oil
pastel that had been sitting
on the table. She looked up at
me and flashed a smile, her
lips completely purple but her
smile never-ending. Helplessly,
I just stared.
Ten
minutes
of
damage
control
later,
the
other
University
students
and
I
had succeeded in explaining
the stained glass project. I
jumped around from student
to student, trying to help them
brainstorm things to paint.
I
had
overestimated
their
abilities — most of the children
were perfectly content drawing
one big heart on their paper
and calling it a day. If I was
lucky,
they
drew
multiple
small hearts instead of one
for variety. Where was the
rewarding teaching experience
I had come for? I managed to
urge some children to draw
landscapes,
but
halfway
through the lesson, I looked
around the room and dozens
of shakily drawn hearts stared
back at me.
Somewhere
along
the
line, my role had become
less of teaching and more
of disaster prevention. The
swarm of locusts was reigning
in Mission: City, and I had
to
prioritize
safety
before
teaching. For the entire two
hour period, I hustled through
the crowded room cleaning up
messes, distributing paint and
walking endless children to
the bathroom. But honestly, it
wasn’t the worst thing in the
world. At the end of the session,
all of the children had produced
some form of art. I wasn’t able
to teach them anything new, but
they probably wouldn’t have
listened anyway. Disregarding
the rules, they had created
what made them happy. An
older girl of about 10 came up
to me at the end of the session
and showed me her painting:
A large heart in which she had
written the names of all the
people she loved. It filled me
with joy to see the girl draw
something she cared about
and be proud enough of her
creation to share it with me.
Most
of
the
subsequent
trips were filled with this
same kind of chaos, but they
were also filled with similar
moments of happiness. Maybe
this defiance of the rules made
the children more satisfied
with their artwork, or maybe
they
just
didn’t
feel
like
listening. Regardless, I found
peace in the mayhem. Art
can be an incredibly personal
experience, and teaching isn’t
always the best way to produce
a love for the arts in others.
In the calm after the storm, I
knew I hadn’t taught much to
the children, but I’d learned to
let go and allow the children
to find their own path in their
artwork. Rules were rendered
obsolete if they were creating
something they truly loved.
TRINA PAL
Daily Arts Writer
Maybe this
defiance of the
rules made the
children more
satisfied with
their artwork, or
maybe they just
didn’t feel like
listening