6
Thursday, June 28, 2018
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
ARTS
“That’s tight. It’s A$AP Rocky,
yeah?”
Pressed up against us, shoulder
to shoulder, for the entirety
of two performances, Danny’s
thin white shirt was almost
translucent with sweat by the
time he finally decided to speak.
It was, indeed, A$AP Rocky
that had been blaring through
our iPhone speakers, as the sun
began to set over the woodlands
of Dover, Delaware, and we
desperately tried to stave off
the ache of our blistered feet.
Instantly charmed by Danny’s
British accent, we threw Testing
to the wayside in order to focus
on the “Skins” archetype that had
manifested beside us.
“I told myself that I would be
at the very next Arctic Monkeys
show. No matter where or when
it was, I would be there. So when
it was announced that they
would be headlining Firefly…,”
Danny smiled slightly and turned
toward the empty stage, as if he
could already see the phantom
image of Alex Turner crooning
into the mic.
Firefly Music Festival, like
most
other
music
festivals,
has the particular quality of
attracting people from various
pockets of the world and forcing
them to coexist semi-peacefully
in one enclosed area. Unlike
most
other
music
festivals,
however, Firefly stretches over
the course of almost five days,
which, surrounded by miles of
empty cornfields and barricaded
by rows upon rows of nylon tents,
can seem to bleed into infinity.
Time unravels to become as
distant as the outside world itself.
In this bubble of perfectly
contained chaos, there is more
than just music. A community
begins to form amid the dust and
the turmoil. A strange, off-kilter
community
—
where
bottles
of Gatorade 95% filled with
Everclear are treated with the
same amount of reverence as holy
water and the neighbors won’t
stop playing the same shitty
EDM remix at 4 a.m. — but a
community, nonetheless.
— Shima Sadaghiyani, Daily
Music Editor
Foster the People
“Pumped Up Kicks” was the
“Ring Around the Rosie” of early
High School. Hear me out: just how
there was always one preschooler
loudly announcing “Ring Around
the Rosie”’s connection to the
Bubonic
Plague,
there
was
always one adolescent upstart
loudly announcing “Pumped Up
Kicks”’s connection to a school
shooting. I know this because
I was that adolescent upstart,
desperately clutching at any way
I could put both middle fingers
up at authority without actually
having to put any middle fingers
up. Foster the People arrived at
an integral moment; their music
a perfect blend of indie rock with
a little bit of edge, hard enough
to feel appropriately rebellious
when blasted out of rolled down
windows on the drive to school
but still pop enough to fit with
the quiet lanes of suburbia.
Their Firefly set was much of
the same balance, interpersing
mellow
crowd
favorites
like
“Houdini”
and
“Don’t
Stop
(Color On the Walls)” with more
experimental
performances
based
off
of
the
moody
psychedelia
of
their
newest
album Sacred Hearts Club, a
phrase which was emblazoned
in larger-than-life neon script on
the back wall of the Firefly stage.
As lead singer Mark Foster stood
in front of the words, ripped
sleeves
and
scrappy
tattoos
backlit by reds, blues and yellows,
before launching into a cover of
the Ramones’s “Blitzkrieg Pop,”
I felt a familiar sense of preteen
angst rise up from the pit of my
stomach.
Someone next to us said that
the set gave them “major Tame
Impala vibes.” While the synth-
heavy, spiraling light show of
songs “Pseudologia Fantastica”
and “Loyal Like Sid & Nancy”
were reminiscent of tracks out of
Lonerism, the Foster the People
that caused me to rip my jeans
at the knee and black out my
white converse with permanent
markers in the 10th grade was
still alive and well. They closed
their set with the familiar beat of
“Pumped Up Kicks.”
— Shima Sadaghiyani
Eminem
Uh.
— Matt Gallatin, Daily Sharts
Writer
Mom’s spaghetti.
— Shima Sadaghiyani
Arctic Monkeys
The first line of Apple Music’s
description
of
the
Arctic
Monkeys’s newest album after
five years, Tranquility Base Hotel
& Casino, reads “In 2016, Alex
Turner received a piano for his
30th birthday.” It’s about the
only description you need to
understand the album’s brooding,
introspective corridors. And as
you wander throughout quiet
jazz undertones and lounge-
pop bursts, it’s easy to imagine a
mustachioed Alex Turner in the
casino basement, plunking away
at a grand piano with a glass of
scotch in one hand, ready to tell
you about his past exploits as a
smooth-talking, aviator-wearing
rock star. The album is muted,
bittersweet and filled with a
melancholic sort of appeal. Yet,
these are songs for late hours
spent alone — solitude mixing
with the slow crawl of a dying
cigarette — not for the sweaty,
beer-drenched animal farm of
Firefly. The crowd that had been
waiting hours in order to see the
Arctic Monkeys did not come
to watch Alex Turner cry over a
piano. We came for the Whatever
People Say I Am, That’s What
I’m Not, for the Favourite Worst
Nightmare, for the Who The Fuck
Are The Arctic Monkeys?
Thank God Alex Turner seemed
to understand that, bursting out
on stage with a rousing rendition
of “Brianstorm,” and instantly
turning the first 20 rows of
the crowd into a pit of flailing
fists. Dressed to impress in a
monochromatic suit, hair slicked
back, every inch of him was the
same man who used to break the
hearts of Tumblr fanatics left and
right. And damn, did he put on a
great show.
Playing only a few songs from
Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino,
which became welcome breaks
from the moshing, most of the
set was a trip down memory lane.
There was something for every
Arctic Monkeys fan here, from
more popular songs like “Why’d
You Only Call Me When You’re
High” and “505” to tracks pulled
from the shadows of old EPs,
like “Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve
Moved Your Chair” and “Pretty
Visitors.” No matter how far back
the Arctic Monkeys reached, Alex
Turner was on top of every note,
every minute. Over-exaggerating
his gestures and postures to play
along with the lyrics of the songs,
he brought them, as well as all the
memories of crowdgoers to life.
The set closed out with “R U
Mine?” and as “All I wanna hear
her say is are you mine,” echoed
around me, bumping along the
hoarse edges of a throng of
gleeful voices, I looked over to
where Danny, my boy from across
the pond, was being thrown from
side to side. We locked eyes, and
I could tell he was feeling what
I was feeling in that moment:
perfect, harmonious catharsis.
— Shima Sadaghiyani
Lil Wayne
There was so much Lil Wayne
slander at this festival that I
almost
developed
a
twitch.
Pusha-T warned us on DAYTONA:
“He see what I see when you see
Wayne on tour / Flash without
the fire / Another multi-platinum
rapper trapped and can’t retire.”
I disregarded these bars before
the show because Lil Wayne
is without question a legend, a
rapper so important to the game
that any conversation about rap
in the 2000s isn’t only incomplete
without mentioning him, but
nonexistent.
It
was
simply
incredible to think that he had
somehow lost the fire.
Yet
Firefly
festival
goers
seemed completely unaware of
the greatness they stood below;
called his set “disappointing”
when he performed “A Milli” in
pink getup, could hardly shout the
chorus of “Mrs. Officer.” Concerts
are symbiotic, requiring energy
from both the performer and the
spectators, and while Wayne still
had the flash (how could someone
who wrote “Georgia Bush” come
without it?) there was a creeping
sense that the fire was slowly
extinguished by this disrespect.
I felt a sadness as people merely
laughed at his height and said his
voice sounded “strange” during
“Lollipop.” At the age of 21, I
already felt old, upset at these
teenagers who didn’t understand
the importance of what they were
seeing, couldn’t possibly know
the absolute joy of screaming “she
licked me like a lollipop” at age
12 in the minivan, right before
mom and dad switched the radio
channel. It seemed like Wayne
could sense the loss too.
— Matt Gallatin
The Killers
They brought up a kid named
“Brian” from the crowd to play
drums. The frontman looked
like a glam rocker from the ‘80s.
Never before have I seen so many
people turn into suburban dads
right before my eyes. I guess they
played “Mr. Brightside”?
— Matt Gallatin
His name was actually “Ryan.”
He was from West Chester,
Pennsylvania and he was doing
his best.
— Shima Sadaghiyani
Somewhere in the middle
of the Delware woods...
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