I
f I have two things to
thank for introducing
me to the heavenly spir-
it that is Connie Converse, they
are Spotify’s Discover Weekly
algorithm and The New Yorker.
Last summer, deciding to
throw caution and typical career
paths to the wind, I packed my
bags and flew to Dehradun,
India. There I worked for Anku-
ri, a women’s rights non-prof-
it that teaches high school
English. In a foreign country,
hundreds of miles from friends,
family and any modicum of
Midwestern security, I craved a
sense of familiarity. Before class
on a balmy Monday in August, I
let my eyes scan my laptop case,
relishing the elements of home my
laptop stickers attempt to encapsulate
— stickers from my friend’s clothing
line, a tantalizing pizza restaurant on
Vernor Highway in Detroit (if there’s
one thing India lacks, it’s good pizza),
The Michigan Daily.
I open my laptop, immediately
throw earbuds in and open Spotify.
As I’m wont to do, I fall back on music
as a coping mechanism for change. By
diving into Spotify’s Discover Weekly
playlist — a personalized mix of music
based on user listening habits — I feel
like I’m better prepared to embrace
new challenges and experiences in
the same manner I would embrace
new genres and sounds. With it being
a Monday, my new playlist is ready for
consumption and I am starving.
I hit shuffle to wet my appetite. A
few songs roll by — one sadboi moan-
ing into a compression-soaked micro-
phone, one B-side by a Canadian alt
group, one ’90s Queen of Rap wring-
ing out syllables like a wet towel.
Then, I hear a muffled male voice
some 20 or so feet away from the
microphone:
“Well she has one that she hasn’t
sung yet.”
Another voice inquires:
“Have you?”
Then the real subject, the one
behind the mic, the object of this per-
sistent questioning, pushes back on
the previous two:
“Well I’d rather not try that, actu-
ally. I haven’t tried it enough more to-
to do it well.”
Devilishly, another far
away female voice proposes a
solution to the singer’s appre-
hension:
“Why don’t you just sing it
and we won’t record it?”
However, I know she’s
lying. Otherwise the con-
versation wouldn’t be in my
headphones, funneling into
my brain. Mischievous, to
say the least.
Unbeknownst to her, the
musician
acquiesces
and
begins to perform. She clears
her throat. A bass note is
plucked. Then the first beat
of a four beat bar is heard on
an acoustic guitar. As a gui-
tarist myself who has plenty
of songs he can’t remember,
the action is familiar. She’s
getting herself started, firing
the engine in hopes of head-
ing somewhere. She then
interrupts herself for a spe-
cial announcement:
“This has a biblical text.”
And what comes next
could have been handed
down to Moses by what my
grandma believes to be an
old, white-haired, white guy
in the sky. The guitar intro
screams ’60s folk record-
ings, probably an old Martin
acoustic guitar rendition of
an early 20th century folk
song. I remember growing
up, two or three years old
in the townhouse on Starr
Road, building cities using
Thomas the Tank Engine
tracks, Legos and alphabet
blocks and listening to The
Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan on
my dad’s turntable. Being
inculcated with the ’60s folk
Wednesday, January 23, 2019 // The Statement
4B
WORDS BY MATT HARMON, STATEMENT DEPUTY EDITOR
ART BY BREE ANDRUZZI, CONTRIBUTING ARTIST
”
On Connie Converse, considering the lilies