The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
b-side
Thursday, October 11, 2018 — 5B
The greatest social currency in
my life circa 2011 was the amount
of likes and comments I got on
my Facebook profile. Looking
back on it now, social media of the
early 2010s is sort of a prehistoric
wasteland, but to my tween self,
it was fertile terrain rife with
possibility. My first post was an
unmistakable splash, more striking
than a David Hockney canvas.
“If you think I’m cute, like my
status.” It got six likes. I rode that
high for just as many days.
I had established a clear brand
with hits such as “English. Boring.”
and an automated announcement
that my new occupation was
“Pokémon Master” at “Kanto
Region.” This was a time when
people would take the sans serif
inquiry of “What’s on your mind?”
at the top of their feeds to heart,
but there was an unspoken social
contract that one’s thoughts had to
be sublimely curated to entertain
the masses. For personal and
unchecked raw emotion to seep
into one’s status updates was a
character assassination. And when
I first downloaded Spotify, an
attempt on my life was made.
This article has no concern
with establishing primacy in the
great music streaming service war,
because I only want to establish
for context I was a relatively early
adopter of Spotify (and have a
starred playlist dating back to 2012
to prove it). Back in those naïve
years, when the three curves on
the Spotify logo were still white,
the app had a sneaky feature where
it could publish your listening
activity to your Facebook profile
in a rash of pathogenic posts. Like
most embarrassing things, I was
notified of it through the teasing
of my friends who reported to me
that their feed was plagued with
undying notifications all prefixed
by “Robert Mansuetti listened to.”
I ran to the family computer
when I got home, typed my troubles
into Google with the fastest fingers
in the west and triple checked that
the “feature” had been turned off.
I pleaded to the most convenient
higher power that my mom had
not been online recently enough to
prompt a conversation about how
I’ve been “rotting my brain” with
2Pac, J. Cole and other explicit
rappers.
However, I discovered a terrible
tool that day. Two deadly words:
“Private session.” It was a foolproof
way
to
prevent
any
further
ridicule for my musical tastes
from my peers. Little did I know
that clicking the off button was
tantamount to curling the index
finger of a monkey’s paw.
My Spotify history has mostly
remained private since then. The
rare occasions when I went public
were in service of haughty masters;
I wanted to flex on my friends
my
superior
(i.e.
superficial)
knowledge of classic rock or the
golden age of hip hop. For a brief
time I was a card-carrying member
of “the wrong generation,” a period
of my young idiocy I look back on
with shame. Ironic, because shame
was what I was trying to hide when
I switched out of a private session.
I was afraid people would
think I’m lame for listening to
the Jupiter movement of Holst’s
“The Planets” or songs off the
“Les Mis” soundtrack. I was
afraid people would think I’m
queer for listening to the likes of
Lady Gaga or Katy Perry or any
other “girly” popstar. I was afraid
people would think I have no
taste if I listened to “Pumped Up
Kicks” or “Somebody That I Used
to Know” non-ironically after
trashing its popularity at school.
I had slowly built up a reputation
as a knowledgeable source of
music recommendations for my
peers, one who went against the
popular status quo of 14-year-olds
and thought he could blow your
world right open. The last thing my
anxious self wanted was for that
cool part of me to crumble.
The common thread that made
me question my fears was that they
were focused on how I perceived
other people’s opinions of me. I
asked myself, “Besides the middle
school teasing, has anyone ever
negatively commented on my
choice of music?” The answer was
a simple no. Plus, the fact that the
number of connected friends I
have on Spotify is comparatively
lower than my count of Facebook
friends and that most everyone
listens to music on their phone
nowadays and can’t even see their
friends’ history was enough for me
to make my Spotify history public,
from now until the heat death of
the universe.
The private session is a paradox.
Many people swear by it and equate
accidentally forgetting to click
the option to social suicide. Yet in
hiding behind this digital wall, the
enriching social aspect of music —
sharing recommendations, geeking
out over your faves, finding new
common ground with new friends
— is completely obliterated.
Many a time I’ve accidently
stumbled upon great music by
simply clicking on the various
songs my friends were listening to.
If I love you as a person, what’s to
say I won’t love your favorite music?
Although my musical perception of
the world was quite myopic in my
early teenage years, it was slowly
expanded by sharing it with others.
It’s criminal to not to pay attention
to the suggestions of others and
only listen to the same handful of
artists for the rest of your lifetime.
So, if you’re up to it, make a
vow to only break out the private
session in case of emergencies.
Sure, people may see you’ve been
listening to “Still Into You” for the
past 15 minutes, but c’mon: In 2018,
everyone likes Paramore. Instead
of both listening to After Laughter
ashamedly in the confines of our
bedroom and our headphones, let’s
dance to it together.
On spending time alone
INTERSCOPE RECORDS
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
How I stopped worrying &
loved my Spotify history
ROBERT MANSUETTI
Daily Arts Writer
PERSONAL NOTEBOOK
Ann Arbor & the terrific,
feel good, very great day
It’s mid-Oct. in Ann Arbor, a
crisp Saturday morning in the fall.
Instead of waking up to tailgate
music
pounding
outside
your
window, it’s the soft autumnal
glow through your shades and the
rustling of a strong wind through
dry leaves that brings you out of
your sleep.
It’s 10:00 a.m. and you climb out
of bed, feeling physically worn but
mentally rested from the activities
of Friday night. In your phone are
texts and photos from your friends
— stories, jokes and moments
captured from another late night
out.
You throw on your softest top,
the one you may have spent too
much money on, but you swear is
worth every cent. Stepping outside,
you head down State St. You pass
your old dorm, where you met your
best friend for the first time in a
tipsy bathroom stupor. You pass
a family of three taking pictures
on the grass. You wonder if the
bouncing toddler with them will
find as much love here as you have.
As you turn the corner onto E.
Liberty, you see the mural you’ve
seen a thousand times over. You
muse on whether you’ll ever figure
out who each person is. It has been
two years and at this point, you’re
too afraid to ask. Or maybe you just
like the mystery.
Walking further and further
down
Liberty,
the
bustle
of
backpack-clad
20-year-olds
and athletes on mopeds fades to
30-somethings with dogs and
elderly couples linking elbows.
They smile at you, nod their heads,
remembering the times when they
were that young. You keep walking.
As you hit Main St., Ann Arbor
comes alive. You smell cherries,
candles, old books, the unwavering,
underlying scent of freshly-cooked
breakfast food. As you turn the
corner you stop into your favorite
book store. Alongside the scent of
espresso and ink, you discover new
books, new ideas, new journeys to
embark on. A young woman sits
on a bench twiddling her glasses
and flipping through a book about
France. You hope she makes it
there. You exit the store.
You continue to walk as the sun
breaks through the morning fog.
You close your eyes as it hits your
face, its warmth washing over
you like a sip of hot tea. As you go,
the smells and sights of Main St.
dwindle. Coffee and lamp posts are
replaced with apple cider and brick
roads.
You walk into the Farmer’s
Market and feel as though you’ve
walked into a field ripe with
harvest. A toddler reaches out for a
sugar-coated donut. His dad turns
him away, but the vendor smiles
and sneaks him a piece. Your walk
down the aisle is a mirage of color,
a new shade hitting your eyes as
you go table to table. You stop at a
woman who reminds you of your
grandmother. She hands you warm
cider and a sense of comfort. You
continue.
On your way back home you
don’t notice what’s going on around
you. An old dog plays fetch with his
young owner. Neighbors greet each
other at the grocery store. A second
date starts off at brunch. You keep
going.
That night you’re resting on your
couch. There is a knock at the door
and your friends tumble in before
you can even stand up. They’re
chattering and laughing and in the
middle of a trifling fight that started
on the way over. Wine is poured,
games are played and memories
are recounted. You’ve heard these
stories a million times before. You
don’t care. You’re happy.
SAMANTHA DELLA FERA
Daily Arts Writer
PERSONAL NOTEBOOK
COLUMBIA RECORDS
Playing alongside John
Mayer, night after night
Two pops start the evening
session: One comes from my
guitar’s connection with its
amplifier, the other from the
record player’s needle settling
onto the vinyl. The record
starts spinning with its silent
preamble while I tune my guitar
and adjust the volume. John
Mayer’s guitar sounds, and all
is well. Its classic tone wades
through the speakers to make
it to my ears. Mayer’s guitar
has been heard by millions, but
when I play his records, it’s just
the two of us.
Like most ’90s babies, I
had heard John Mayer’s hits
through childhood: “Your Body
Is a Wonderland,” “Waiting on
the World to Change” and so
on. It wasn’t until the summer
before coming to the University
that I really started to connect
with Mayer himself.
Mayer’s
2006
album,
Continuum,
resonated
with
me
that
summer.
I
found
myself listening to the album
all the way through, several
times
a
day.
Continuum
included Mayer’s own lyrical
masterpieces in addition to a
cover of Jimi Hendrix’s “Bold as
Love.” I loved each song on the
record and ended up buying it
on vinyl to add to my collection.
Continuum led me to retrieve
the dusty acoustic guitar from
the basement and teach myself
how to play guitar — that was
one of the greatest decisions of
my life.
That grew into a passion for
the instrument and a greater
love for the blues. I invested
in a used Fender to try to use
the electric guitar for voicing,
like I heard John Mayer do.
All because of my love for
Continuum.
I was playing guitar every
morning and every night.
I found myself returning
to Continuum as I started to
drown in my first semester at
the University. I tried teaching
myself a few of the songs on the
record, but it was more difficult
than I thought it would be. I
didn’t know how to play each
song note for note, but I could
find the particular song’s key
and play my own rendition
as the record was playing. I
had discovered for myself an
entirely new way to experience
music.
The G chord that introduces
“Gravity” sounded the same
as the G chord on my guitar.
I could mirror the melody of
“Slow Dancing in a Burning
Room” in conversation with
Mayer through my Fender. I
could echo the somber notes of
“Stop This Train.” The two of us
could speak the same language.
The more that I listened to
and accompanied the album, the
more that I felt as though Mayer
and I were on the same page.
We were both struggling with
anxiety, regret and uncertainty
about the future. We were
communicating
through
the
blues scale.
In a way, John Mayer was my
therapist; my guitar could voice
what my vocal cords couldn’t
muster.
Every now and then, I will
return to Continuum to calm
my anxieties, even if it is only
to remind myself that the first
strums on “Stop This Train”
still sound that way.
After my fingers tire and
several
records
have
been
flipped, I call it a night. Mayer
and I might have talked for
hours, or just a few minutes.
Expressing myself with John
Mayer, someone who shares my
love for blues guitar and over-
analysis, clears my head and
calms my nerves.
ZACHARY WAARALA
For the Daily
I love to be alone.
Headphones
in.
Blankets
tucked up to my chin. Air
conditioning on high. A book
in my hands, with a spine
that cracks. A vanilla-scented
candle, or pumpkin (if it’s
Oct.), burning on my bedside
table. Maybe listening to Vance
Joy. Drifting in and out of an
uncommitted sleep. Just me
and my thoughts. Just me and
my words.
I like to go shopping alone.
Browsing in and out of stores
with nobody urging me to go
from one place to another, to
hurry up or slow down. Just on
my very own time. Bookstores
are the best for solo browsing.
Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t
have too many distractions if
I happen upon a bookstore,
unsure of what I’ll select as
my next literary adventure. I
need time in my own mind, to
browse and mingle with the
characters on the pages. I can
only make a selection if all my
attention is on the shelves in
front of me.
I like to get coffee alone —
watching the people cycle in
and out of the cafe — on their
phones, with a lover, on a first
date. I jot down what I notice,
and all I worry about is the ink
of my pen, my almond milk
cappuccino and this flaky,
chocolate croissant. It is much
easier to people watch alone.
It’s much easier to write poetry
alone. It’s much easier to make
my cappuccino last for hours
when there’s nobody there to
tell me they’re bored of sitting
and overhearing conversations
about baby showers and car
accidents and expensive trips
to Whole Foods.
This is what it means to me:
to recharge.
I digress. I love to be around
people — I thrive off of lovely
conversation, a dining room
table set for dinner with five
chairs too many and long drives
as the leaves change with
my brother in the passenger
seat, talking the whole way as
the scenery molds and shifts.
But having time for myself is
essential in my day to day when
I sometimes feel as though
the walls of my own mind are
caving in on me. It is a rarity to
get more than a few moments
of alone time each day. I never
realized how much I took alone
time for granted until I was
thrust back into the routine of
college life after my summer of
solitude.
In St. Louis this past summer,
I spent most of my time alone. I
went on long, dragging, hot and
procrastinating runs — going
for as long as my legs would
allow, just to kill the time.
When I was let off work early
I walked around Forest Park,
as the Midwest heat beat down
on my sunburned shoulders
and sunburned cheeks and the
sweat dripped from my hairline
down my face. St. Louis is
dangerously hot in July, but I
learned to love the feeling of
walking by myself in the heavy
heat. I would walk through the
free zoo, slowly, noticing and
wondering. I would stare at
the elephants and hang around
the giraffe exhibit. I would
smile at the little kids tugging
on their mother’s shorts and
squealing with delight. I’d
wonder about when I was their
age. I’d walk from the zoo to
Jeni’s for ice cream, and I’d sit
on the bench outside, all alone,
and lick my butter cake ice
cream cone that melted down
my fingers and hands. I went
on bike rides when I needed to
clear my head, happened upon
the art museum when I was
bored and spent hours in the
coffee shop at the intersection
of Skinker and Forest Park
Parkway, tucked in the corner
that was always vacant.
ELI RALLO
Daily Arts Writer
I always ended up in the
bookstore, on the floor, with
my legs tucked under me,
paging through the novels
to
decide
what
was
next
to read. The hours flew by
in the bookstore, whereas
they
dragged
whenever
I
was anywhere else. When
I challenged myself to stop
spending money on books, I’d
venture downstairs and sort
through the $1 used books,
buying any collection of poems
that had a nice title.
I learned to enjoy eating
alone — dining in and eating
out,
tacos
and
breakfasts,
hamburgers
and
oatmeal
bowls
and
anything
with
bell peppers. I spent a good
amount of time in the aisles
of Trader Joe’s thinking of
how I’d be able to master my
next unexpected and original
recipe. I always ate against the
ceiling to floor windows in my
kitchen, watching the sunset
bleed through the peaks in the
trees.
Even when the sun goes
down on a St. Louis summer
day, it’s still too hot.
But now, here in Ann Arbor,
as the seasons change and
my entire life seems to be an
unfinished to-do list, I long
for the heat, its lasting burn
through the mindful, peaceful,
quiet days. The way it felt on
my shoulders and back as I
strolled alone and unfettered
through the lush green park
— nowhere to go, nobody to
answer to, not a deadline in
site. Just me, my mind, the
lone bench in the zoo near
the giraffes and a Jeni’s ice
cream cone waiting for me —
promised to myself in the near
future.
MUSIC NOTEBOOK