6A — Monday, January 14, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Country
has
a
distinct
sensibility,
one
capable
of
evoking
specific
landscapes
and brands of sorrow, joy and
attraction. In After All, Rob
Baird directs this sensibility
toward the emotional journey of
a breakup. He follows the classic
trajectory
of
other
breakup
albums of this ilk, tracing the
stages from denial to despair to
anger and betrayal to eventual
resolve and acceptance. It’s
a familiar path, so it’s saying
something for Baird that After
All
still
sounds
completely
fresh,
original
and
genuinely
heartfelt.
A
notable
component
of
the
album’s
effectiveness
is
Baird’s skill as a
lyricist, which is
evident from the
very
beginning
of
the
album.
On the opening
title track, Baird
sings about the
feeling
that
a
relationship
isn’t
going
to
work
out.
He
illustrates
a
sense
of
directionlessness
and waning hope
with lines about
“All these long
nights, all these
street lights / [Bleeding] into the
fog.” This sure-handed poeticism
keeps up throughout the album,
from contemplative songs like
“I Tried” (“Everywhere I go it’s
pouring rain / Shouldn’t have to
hold on to try to stay sane”) to
despairing tracks like “Burning
Blue” (“Like the desert rain /
Sunday silence / And the choices
I’ve made”) and the eventual
resolution of “Best That I Was”
(“Silver lake skies / Make no
reason why”).
After All brims
with
unbridled
emotion, from the
guitar-riddled,
electric
street-
lamp alertness of
“Losing
Hands”
and “Ain’t Going
Back to You” to the
hurt mingled with
resignation in “Devil Woman
Blues.” Each song feels like its
own pocket of a
story, totaling a
whole that looks
like
a
dream-
fueled road trip
around America.
The
effect
of
the songs is that
of driving past
familiar scenery
and feeling like
something about
your relationship
with it is shifting
before your eyes.
This
changing
vision
is
the
crux of After All,
exemplified
in
songs like “Give
Me
Back
My
Love,”
which
lands somewhere
between a plea
from the former
lover
and
a
desperate longing for a sense
of love in general. When Baird
sings, “Gonna pick me up some
silver lining / Gonna turn these
nickels into dimes,” and later,
“Give me back my love,” one can’t
help but relate to the notion of
love itself as one’s own happiness
and
contentedness,
whatever
this might demand from another
person.
A large part of what makes
After All a skillful album is the
way
in
which
Baird
uses
raw
emotion
as
a
starting
point,
rather
than
imagery or classic
lyrical traditions.
Country
music
— which, when
measured by its
masters, is truly
a vast collection of variety,
creativity and heart — is so often
superficially pigeonholed as a
genre defined by dusty roads,
dimly lit bars and pickup trucks.
Specific images and phrases,
in other words, that are all too
easy to toss into a song under the
thinly veiled guise of thoughtful
songwriting.
But there is very little of this
affectation in After All, as Baird
sets himself apart from some of
these pitfalls using a masterful
command of poetic devices as
he himself defines them. He still
orients his stories — because,
again, that is what each of the
songs on After All is, a unified,
emotional little story within
itself — around traveling open
roads and wandering empty
streets. One gets the sense that
this journey for which he has
invited us along is only one of
many he’ll take, each of which
has its own kind of wisdom to
impart. Amid these familiar
landscapes, Baird writes from his
experiences first, unconcerned
with figures outside of the unique
relationship he is personally
navigating,
wandering
those
empty streets as only he can.
‘After All’ is a thoughtful
exploration of a breakup
LAURA DZUBAY
Daily Arts Writer
MUSIC REVIEW
HARD LUCK RECORDING COMPANY
‘After All’
Rob Baird
Hard Luck
Recording
Company
Baird sets
himself apart
from some of
these pitfalls
using a masterful
command of
poetic devices
as he himself
defines them.
Everywhere I have lived
in my life, people have told
me their state’s weather is
uniquely unpredictable. As a
result, I have come to think that
weather is weird in general, and
this principle doesn’t vary too
much from state to state. But
as a senior, I have now spent
nearly four years in Ann Arbor,
meaning
four
consecutive
winters, which is the longest
amount of consecutive winters
I’ve really spent somewhere
(excluding smaller visits) since
I was very young. And of those
four, this has to be honestly the
strangest one yet.
When
I
make
poetry
playlists, I often try to make
them seasonal and relatable.
I’ve done a Halloween one, a
Valentine’s Day one, one for the
end of the semester. I thought
about doing something along
those lines for this, the first
poetry playlist of this winter
semester, but the weather has
been so strange lately that it’s
been hard to land on a unified
theme. It was unseasonably
warm for unseasonably long,
and now it’s cold again. It’s
January, and yet it feels and
looks like late fall (or early
spring?). If I share a bunch of
poems focused on the cold,
I’m almost sure it will become
warm again instantly, and vice
versa.
In a way, maybe this is
appropriate. It’s a new year —
2019! A new year is a time for
changes, even really sudden
ones or ones that we don’t
immediately understand. As
a result, I’ve decided to share
three of my favorite poems
that celebrate nature in all its
seasons, and most of all that
celebrate
change.
Seasonal
changes
are
my
favorite
kind because they’re quiet,
unsuspected and unassuming,
very reliable (whatever we say
about them) and often beautiful.
This might sound cheesy, but
it’s my final semester here, so
I’m allowing myself to lean
into the sentiment. Here’s to a
new year; may we all be in the
mindset to welcome whatever
strangeness it brings.
“Two Seasons” by Galway
Kinnell
Expertly straddling the line
between fond reflection and
self-aware, wistful presence,
“Two Seasons” demonstrates
Galway Kinnell’s talent for
precision
in
language.
His
choices of words are not only
meticulous, but also sonorous,
with lines like “As on the low
lake shore stood you and I” and
“Saying you felt afraid but that
you were / Weary of being mute
and undefiled” contributing to
a seamless overall portrait of
love and mutual appreciation.
“Love’s Seasons” by Paul
Laurence Dunbar
Paul Laurence Dunbar is a
master of rendering the natural
world through language, and in
“Love’s Seasons,” he maneuvers
through the seasons of the year
with an interesting choice of
order (spring, winter, summer
and then fall), devoting a
stanza to each. The enduring
sentiment of the poem is one
of sure serenity in the face of
change, as contentedness at its
core is deep and true in every
season.
“Changing Of The Seasons”
by Shel Silverstein
“Changing Of The Seasons”
is
peculiar
among
these
selections in that it is actually
a song. I’m including it here
nonetheless because it is still a
poem and beautifully written,
and because few people can dig
straight to the heart of a feeling,
especially a specific feeling, like
serenity in the face of seasonal
change, in quite the same way
as Shel Silverstein. Between a
few repetitions of the line, “It’s
blowin’ in Chicago,” Silverstein
remarks upon the peace that
this natural phenomenon can
bring: “There’s some men need
the winter and there’s some
men need the sun / And there’s
some men need the changing of
the seasons.”
A playlist for every in
between, finicky season
DAILY LITERATURE COLUMN
LAURA DZUBAY
Daily Literature Columnist
To be from the upper Midwest
is to be in a kind of bemused
purgatory. Everything you say
sounds like a question. People
wonder if you’re Canadian, unless
of course you’re also from up
north, because then you know
how
real
Canadians
sound.
Boredom is a state of mind you’ve
never left.
“That ’70s Show” is one of
the
best
representations
of
Midwestern life ever aired on
primetime television. Even the
title operates a joke wherein, like
the Midwest, it is not specific
enough to convey something
of significance, capturing the
dismissive mirth that peppers
our sense of humor. And out of its
eight seasons, no episode captures
our region’s sentiments, legends
and troubled relationship with
our northern neighbor as well
as the 23rd episode of the third
season, “Canadian Road Trip.”
Firstly, a brief apology to all
Canadians — the Midwest only
jests. Contrary to the numerous
jokes made at your expense, we
find you Canadians quaint and
charming. We are sorry though,
and we want you to know that if
we were not already the laughing
stock of the continental United
States, we would probably go
much easier on you. We simply
adore you — your beavers, your
maple syrup, your Inukshuks and
Tim Hortons. We wouldn’t have
you any other way, Canada. But I
digress.
In
the
infamous
episode,
Eric
(Topher
Grace,
“BlacKkKlansman”)
and
the
rest of his gaggle of guys head
to Canada for beer. A seemingly
simple task until Fez (Wilmer
Valderrama, “NCIS”), a foreign
exchange student, misplaces his
green card. The guys attempt
to smuggle him back across the
border, to no avail. Before they
know it, they have been turned
over to the Mounties.
As an upper Midwesterner, a
trip to Canada is commonplace.
I’ve crossed the St. Clair and
Detroit, I’ve seen the hinterlands,
yet everytime I’m faced with the
same nasally clipped question:
“What’s your business in Canada,
eh?” Each of my experiences at
the border have mirrored the
experiences of Eric Forman and
his friends — Mounties, drunk
with power and holding baseless
suspicions against Americans,
making
even
the
simplest
checkpoint a production.
In fact the episode would
be
incomplete
without
the
Mounties, who just as sternly in
their encounters with me, grill
Eric, Michael and Hyde on their
attempt to smuggle Fez back into
America. The entire exchange
the guys have with the Mountie
is accurate, the boys treating him
as indifferently as someone your
age attempting to assert an elder’s
dominance over you.
It’s the dumb tension of the
Canadian border — in turn
for our uniquely Midwestern
impertinence towards everything
Canadian, the Canadians only
double down on their protections
of their country. It is the perfect
recreation of this tension that
makes the episode so enjoyable to
watch time and time again.
Which brings attention to why
these young rapscallions were in
Canada to begin with. It can be
summarized in the three profound
words shouted by Michael Kelso
(Ashton Kutcher, “The Ranch”):
“Wooh! Canada! Beer!” If you are
from the upper Midwest, since
turning 19 you have likely been
on at least one trip to Canada with
the explicit purpose of attaining
Canadian beer.
‘That ’70s Show’ and the
experience of the Midwest
MAXWELL SCHWARZ
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