2-BSide
Whatever
someone
may
think
about
his
humor,
a
person’s reaction to an episode
of “The Eric Andre Show” is a
surprisingly effective way to
gauge their personality. I won’t
quite go so far as to judge you
based on your reaction, but I
can, in a way that’s difficult
to articulate, get to know you
beyond
a
superficial
level
(although I will say if you
guffaw the same way I do after
watching a specific segment for
the 10th time, we will probably
be friends). Borrowing from
a rich tradition of absurdist
humor ranging from Monty
Python to “Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern are Dead,” Eric
Andre’s work is the most
successful form of absurdism
in the internet and pop culture
age.
There is a wealth of options
for the discerning late-night
viewer. Too many options,
really. While each variation
of the format has their own
unique
“made-for-Youtube”
segments, they are really all
too similar. The tropes of
straight white men making
just barely witty jokes, offering
milquetoast interviews with
celebrities who would rather be
anywhere else and squandering
opportunities
with
actually
interesting guests make for
a steady stream of cash for
networks, but offer little in the
way of substance
for
viewers.
Every once in a
while, you might
just
become
completely
fed
up with the self-
importance of it
all.
Enter
Eric
Andre.
Perhaps
the best way to
describe
“The
Eric
Andre
Show”
is
a
deconstruction
of
this
tired
format. It’s like
watching Jimmy
Kimmel,
except
you just flipped
on the new TV in
the Red Room in
“Twin Peaks” while tripping
on acid. It lies in an uncanny
valley of late night talk shows.
For the first five seconds or
so, everything seems normal.
Eric
Andre
himself
seems
charming
enough,
sitting
behind a desk holding note
cards. There’s a live band. The
audience is clapping (well, kind
of). There’s the straight man
played by Hannibal Buress who
seems funny enough to riff off
the host’s jokes. So far, so good.
And usually, it all falls
apart in a glorious, symphonic
trainwreck.
Every
single
aspect
of
the
show
is
designed
to
make
the
guest
as
uncomfortable
as possible. At
this point, there
are either two
reactions:
You
either feel as
uncomfortable
as the guest, or
you decide that
this is the best
thing you have
ever
watched.
Reportedly,
the studio has
a
conspicuous
lack
of
air
conditioning. There might be
a musky smell permeating the
place as well, or even “heat
ducts in (the guest’s) seats.”
Andre
might
strip
naked,
puke over his desk or suspend
a man with hooks over the
desk — whatever it takes to
completely horrify the guests.
Even Hannibal is in tune with
him, whether he is shouting at
Christina Applegate or getting
verbally assaulted by a woman
from the crowd (before getting
slapped by said woman’s wig).
For
the
most
part,
the
guests seem to end the show
contemplating
firing
their
publicists. Unlike the usual
round of late night shows,
guests are never coddled or
worshipped.
It
makes
you
wonder what exactly would
happen if some of the truly
repulsive
figures
who
end
up on the normal talk shows
appeared with Eric Andre (à
la Sacha Baron Cohen in “Who
is America”). But every once
in a while, a Tyler the Creator
shows up — that is, someone
who
understands,
embraces
and completely flips the shows
format on its head, reducing
Andre to be more akin to
Jimmy Fallon than his usual,
irreverent self.
But
maybe
the
true
brilliance of the show is that
I am completely wrong. There
may be no method whatsoever
to Eric Andre’s madness, and
if so, more power to him. I just
hope that in a world where
reality seems just as absurd
as the wildest fictions ever
conceived, he can find ways to
continue shocking us.
6B — Thursday, September 13, 2018
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
You are about to begin
reading
the
latest
edition
of the B-Side on absurd art.
Or, depending on the layout,
maybe this is the last article
you came across. At the time
this article was written, it was
only a flood of pixels, one trip
down the waterfall of edits
away from print. The author
was aware that according to
convention, usually the lead
article reigns supreme from
the upper left of the first
page.
Nonsense
like
what
you
are
currently
reading
would be lucky to be shuffled
between
the
intermediary
pages. The author still leaves
the possibility open for you
to fatally flip to page three
on your first read. It is also
possible that the chiefest of
nonsense
takes
precedence
in an insert dedicated to
nonsense.
Take a moment to take
in your surroundings. The
classroom chatter is enough
to
slightly
obstruct,
forcing you to
make a choice:
Finish reading
this
article
or
prepare
yourself
for
class with the
one
minute
you have left.
You
opt
for
the
latter
(a
smart decision,
as
reading
a
crinkly
newspaper
is
complicated
to do covertly)
and
your
professor
suddenly
manifests into
the
cramped,
windowless
room.
How,
you
ask?
Your
questions
remained
unanswered as the lights dim
and the projector whirs.
“I have eaten the plums”
is all you can make out. You
crane your neck around the six
feet of human in front of you to
read the text that has spilled
onto the blackboard. It seems
orientation has been thrown
out the window. But there is no
window, thankfully, because if
there was a window, the birds
would sing tempting songs
of
self-defenestration
from
their unimpeded pedestals.
You, the prisoner pawn, sit
flanked
by
that
unusually
tall bishop and fellow fodder,
while the opposing queen plots
unflinchingly.
The
invisible
hands
controlling the standoff begin
to budge, albeit apathetically.
The
presentation
on
the
absence of convention and form
in literature switches slides
slowly in the background.
You find it funny that this
theoretical warden has the
gall to confine you when they
have
never
been
confined
themselves.
Intrinsically,
they are free. You are not.
Your professor, the eightfold
master of the checkerboard,
initiates her strike. Ramble of
how abandoning form is form
itself soundtracks this scheme.
Fell swoop. 12:51. You and your
monochromatic
compatriots
lay prostrate on the battlefield
of irony.
This article has become
crumpled
in
your
hurried
attempts to fashion the insert
back to its virginal state.
You put all your focus into
these words. Except the only
words that can excite you are
“RESTROOMS.” The helpful
arrow indicating their position
extends seemingly infinitely.
The stall door flies open as
fast as your belt unbuckles.
You think to yourself that The
Thinker looks like he’s shitting
and
everything
amusingly
swirls
together.
Lecture
keywords buzz through your
mind, but where to store them
provides a challenge.
The Encyclopedia Of Songs
That You Almost Completely
Know Lyrically But Don’t Bust
Your Pipes Out In The Car
Around Friends Quite Yet? The
Encyclopedia Of Very Basic
Video Tutorials For Everyday
Human Processes (Featuring
Such Hits as, “How To Boil
Water” and “Practicing Eye
Contact”)? The Encyclopedia
Of Life Lessons That Came
As A Result Of Getting In
Trouble With Your Parents?
The
Encyclopedia
Of
Misremembered
“National
Treasure”
Quotes?
The
Encyclopedia Of Menu Item
Numbers At Takeout Places
Within A Three Mile Radius?
You settle on Volume Three
of the Encyclopedia Of Literary
Terms
You
Incorporate
Into Colloquy And Writing
To
Make
Yourself
Appear
Smarter Than You Really Are
(of which the author has a full
set). Metafiction fits in nicely
above metonymy.
With a clear mind and
clearer body, you head home
for your sweet midday nap. You
are at peace. Instantaneously,
your meditative state of mind
is marred when
an ugly stack of
dishes
greets
your arrival. You
angrily
ponder
the notion that
your
roommate
actually believes
you don’t need
soap
to
clean
pans.
Boiling
like a tea kettle,
steam billows out
of your ears quite
cartoonishly.
You need to cool
in the calming
waters of your
most
cherished
story,
“Pierre
Menard, Author
of the Quixote.”
The
author
wonders why you,
someone
who
prefers chess-fueled escapism
over English class, would have
a leather-bound copy of “The
Garden of Forking Paths.”
You and the author share a
common
bond:
Questions
remain unanswered.
Perhaps you like reading
books that aren’t really books
and don’t like listening to
people talk about books that
aren’t really books. You hate
structure anyways, evidenced
by the fact “Pale Fire” and
“Hopscotch” top the pile of
books sandwiched in a corner.
You prefer function over form;
functionally, the corner is a
bookshelf.
Chapters
and
three-
act structure are tools of
oppression.
Liberation,
in
your eyes, is the shirking of
oppression. In absurdity, you
find normality.
You
realize
that
Jorge
Luis Borges found normality
in absurdity as well. So did
Vladimir
Nabokov.
Julio
Cortázar.
William
Carlos
Williams. In your attempt to
subvert normality, a new norm
was established. The walls of
your room are closing in. In
a flurry of motion, you grab
your copy of Italo Calvino’s “If
on a winter’s night a traveler”
from the middle of your stack,
an absurd stack, as infinite as
the Library of Babel housed in
that aforementioned favorite
leather tome of yours. The
balance is upset and its weight
is enough to crush you, if not
for your nimbleness. The world
around you is vanishing, like
the letters on the last page of
that Calvino book you grabbed
after you spilled water on it.
It takes the first word of
“traveler” to realize that your
shackles are drawn in ink.
You are bound to this page of
the B-Side as you were bound
to the classroom. You are the
reader. I am the author. While
these pages are set in type,
the nature of our relationship
is not. Perhaps one day these
roles will be reversed. For
now, you’re still fiddling with
this flimsy paper. Classmates
chatter
closely.
The
clock
strikes noon.
One thousand
and one words
ROBERT MANSUETTI
Daily Arts Writer
Eric Andre and cringe comedy
SAYAN GHOSH
Daily Arts Writer
There may be
no method
whatsoever to
Eric Andre’s
madness, and if
so, more power to
him.
TV NOTEBOOK
COMEDY CENTRAL
BOOKS NOTEBOOK?
SINGLE REVIEW: ‘ELECTRICITY’
“Electricity”
Dua Lipa
Warner Bros.
Records
WARNER BROS RECORDS
Somehow,
we
as
a collective have not
dropped
Dua
Lipa
quite yet.
The English singer/
songwriter first rose
to
attention
with
“New Rules,” a driving
pop anthem that was
made distinct by Dua
Lipa’s curiously husky,
soulful voice. From
there, she remained
steady, always existing
within the public eye
with consistent music
releases — like her “One
Kiss”
collaboration
with Calvin Harris —
but never reaching the
same level of attention
as she did with “New
Rules.”
In a similar sense,
her
newest
single,
“Electricity,”
doesn’t
veer far from her norm.
Teaming up with Silk City — a
music duo consisting of Mark
Ronson and Diplo — she has
created what was created with
“One Kiss,” and what could be
argued was created with “New
Rules”: a dancefloor smash hit,
and nothing more.
With Lipa’s vocals layered
over
Silk
City’s
predictable
pop algorithm, “Electricity” is
unsurprising, yet not terrible.
It does what it’s meant to
accomplish. The tempo is fast
enough to make your hips start
swaying of their own accord. The
piano interspersed throughout
the song adds an effervescent
quality to contrived house beats.
The lyrics, “I wanted to let you
know, I’ll never let this feeling
go” are just catchy enough to
scream in the middle of Rick’s,
the pulsating bodies all around
adding to the electricity of the
song itself.
It does its job well and with
that, I guess Dua Lipa is sticking
around for a little bit longer.
-Shima
Sadaghiyani,
Daily
Music Editor
You are about to
begin reading
the latest edition
of the B-Side on
absurd art. Or,
depending on the
layout, maybe this
is the last article
you came across