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