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