ARTIST
PROFILE
IN
What is nostalgia, exactly?
Rooted in the past, this feeling
of longing can often bombard
us when we’re watching old
shows (“Kim Possible,” anyone?),
flipping through old photos or
even just taking a bite of a chicken
nugget.
In
2016,
Scientific
American
reported
on
the
positive effects of reminiscence,
stating that nostalgia “boosted
self-continuity by increasing a
sense of social connectedness.”
In other words, remembering a
common past, whether with our
family, our friends or a complete
stranger, is reassuring — it
shows us we weren’t alone in our
strange childhood obsessions or
moments of vulnerability at any
point in time.
It makes sense, then, that
NPR’s “The Moth” has remained
so popular over the last 20 years.
Starting in 1997 New York, “The
Moth” has captivated audiences
at events around the country,
drawing all kinds of people
together by sharing both stories
and intimate experiences. The
show should be the poster child
for nostalgia — the stories that
hit the stage are rife with the
feelings and connection that
so many of us are missing,
especially in today’s digital age.
Jennifer Hixson, a senior
director at “The Moth” for
almost 20 years, discussed this
need when she said “it’s just fun
to hear something straight from
a human being — unfiltered,
unmessed with, unedited and
just straightforward. Right from
a person, I guess that’s it, just
human
connection.”
Hixson
speaks from experience: She has
worked with “The Moth” since
the beginning, producing the
beloved “Moth” story slams that
its audience has come to know
and love.
Hixson helps storytellers take
their experiences and turn them
into entertainment. Nostalgia
as a raw emotion is something
powerful, but when crafted into
a story and weaved throughout
other
feelings,
it
becomes
a
tool
for
connection
and
understanding. Instead of simply
being a means of entertainment,
it becomes a piece of art.
When asked about the role of
“The Moth” when it comes to
spreading these stories, Hixson
said,
“We
certainly
provide
people with platforms all over
the country and I hope that we
have contributed to storytelling
being an art form … There have
always been stories … but then
the thought that wow, it’s kind
of an artform and look I can do
it. It’s an equal opportunity art
form.”
Pursuing
this
equal
opportunity art form, though, is
still a journey. While storytellers
may have an intense experience,
they have to learn what details
to include and how to end it.
So, what actually makes a good
story? Hixson emphasized the
need for vulnerability within
a story when describing its
connective nature and how,
despite the individuality of each
of the stories showcased in “The
Moth,” people everywhere can
empathize and relate to the
storyteller’s experience.
What does it say about us that,
in order to connect with people,
we need to see their weaknesses?
Maybe it’s the age of social
media and our constant need
to compare ourselves to others.
But stories have been around
for ages, way before Instagram,
Twitter and the like. What is it
really about stories that makes
us keep telling them?
In Hixson’s words, “it feels
intimate to have someone tell you
a story.” Stories are an unedited
version of ourselves, oftentimes
highlighting some of our lowest
moments. The comparisons we
make listening to these stories
aren’t the same thing as scrolling
through post after post after
post. Instead, stories become “a
really rich way to understand
somebody else’s perspective. It’s
much easier to picture yourself
in someone else’s shoes when
you hear the story coming right
from them, you see what you
have in common. They can take
you places.”
And take you places they will.
On Feb. 19, Ann Arbor hosted its
own Moth event and people from
all over the city came to watch
and enjoy the stories. But we
didn’t stay in Ann Arbor, nor did
we even stay in the 21st century
— the audience traveled from
1997 Paris, following Princess
Diana’s death, (almost) all the
way to the astral plane and to a
Texas lawn on a Sunday morning
where wedding rings flew.
If you’ve never been to a Moth
event, the basic breakdown is
ten stories, from ten people
(obviously). Each person, in
theory, has five minutes to
tell their story that in some
way or form connects to the
night’s theme (ours was flight).
Afterwards, a set of judges
(audience volunteers) give scores
to each story, with the end goal of
crowning a “winner” who will go
on to tell their story at a “Grand
Slam” with other winners from
other events in various areas. Jim
McCargar told of his experience
riding high in the Goodyear
blimp; the stakes weren’t terribly
high (unless you count the very
real possibility that he wouldn’t
get the chance to go up), but his
story carried that air of whimsy
that we all seem to lose in the
midst of midterms, job-hunting
and other “life” things.
Joanna
Courteau
recalled
her time at the University of
Minnesota and a certain lab
assistant who got a little too
comfortable with a little too
many students. She lamented
“the wonderful love that might
have been” but also recognized
her escape from a “seduced and
abandoned” fate. Kari Styles, on
the other hand, brought us back
to Texas, 1991 and a world where
a woman’s duty was to have her
husband’s baby. A gripping story
with the vulnerability and stakes
to match, Styles had captured
the room and the tension was
palpable. Courteau and Styles
both told stories of relationships
gone awry, but while the first
was an endearing tale of her
brush with “what might have
been” the second story was the
gold standard for what it means
to take your life back.
Seeing what Hixson talked
about
in
person
was
an
unparalleled
experience.
Not
only did I hear hilarious and
fascinating stories, but I also
received three business cards
in one night. If I was there to
network, I would have been
proud of myself. I talked to all
ten
storytellers
(some
more
than others) and while each
interaction left me a bit more
drained than the one before, it
was exhilarating to see these
people up close and hear more
about their life and their stories.
Technology is great, but if I
hadn’t left my laptop at home
or turn my phone off during
the event, I never would have
learned:
1) Never play hide-and-go-
seek with demons.
2) There’s more to life than
masturbating.
So, maybe saying we’re all
starved for human connection is
cliché, but does that make it any
less true?
CARTER FOX / DAILY
Capturing memories with
‘The Moth’ in Ann Arbor
EMMA CHANG
Senior Arts Editor
CARTER FOX / DAILY
Art is steeped in nostalgia.
One piece of art can have a
million different memories for a
million different people. Bruce
Springsteen, “The Boss,” may not
be the artist you’d expect to see in
a student newspaper in 2019, but
here he is. Springsteen is a rock
‘n’ roll legend, one that is beloved
and cherished — in vastly different
ways — by two Daily Arts writers.
Bruce Springsteen and the
spring of 2011
I’m Black. I’m female. I’m
under 40. I have no ties to New
Jersey other than an unwavering
allegiance to Teresa Guidice, and
yet I hold a strong passion for The
Boss. As I compose this love letter
to my favorite unexpected liberal,
I am listening to “Hungry Heart”
and being flooded with memories
from the spring of 2011. Sixth
grade … good times. I already
know
what
you’re
thinking:
What buffoon listens to the Born
in the U.S.A. album, an album
explicit in its analysis of the
struggles of Vietnam veterans,
to be reminded of middle school?
Especially when said buffoon did
not attend middle school in 1984,
but in 2011?
The answer is the buffoon
whose piece you’re reading, and
my justification is Pandora.
Although
universally
clowned now, there was a point
in time when Pandora was the
premiere music streaming app,
and, arguably, an entire sub-
generation’s (1997-2000 babies,
stand up!) musical sherpa. In fact,
I attribute most of the foundations
of my current musical tastes to
Pandora’s all-knowing algorithm
— which may or may not suspect is
my guardian angel. How else can
you explain being pointed in the
direction of testosterone-fueled
Springsteen from “Material Girl
Radio,” a station overwhelmingly
populated by the likes of queer
and feminist icons like Donna
Summer,
Barbra
Streisand,
Culture Club, Joan Jett and
Madonna? Yes, you could make
the argument that the algorithm
recognized I had an affinity for
’80s music, and aptly suggested
one of the biggest albums of the
decade. BUT. Wouldn’t it be more
fun to imagine a guardian angel
working tirelessly to introduce
11-year-old me to the discography
of Bruce Springsteen?
I cannot remember exactly
which Bruce Springsteen song I
heard first chronologically, but I
can remember the first song that
made me stop and take notice of
the weird album cover with some
man’s tight ass on it: “Working on
the Highway.” Again, odd that my
gateway song into fandom was
not even one of the many singles
on Born in the U.S.A. that cracked
the Billboard Top Ten, but then
again, Bruce and I are not a
conventional match — why would
we would have a conventional
meeting?
“Working on the Highway”
appealed to me then because
it reminded me of summer,
specifically the music I would
hear on my day-long excursions
to Six Flags Over Georgia. It was
bright, cheerful, poppy and most
importantly, had an overload of
synthesizer. I didn’t yet have the
language to express that I was a
ho for synth-pop, but dear God,
was I. It was only a matter of time
before I found “Glory Days,” (a
song with even more synthesizer),
then the remaining singles off the
album, then “Born to Run,” and
soon, Bruce had a new fan.
My sixth grade summer was
still the best time in the universe,
and the last spring months of
school leading up to it were a close
second. The days were longer,
field day was on the horizon and
by this point, parents and teachers
had long-since given up the
control they held in September.
Also during this time, my club
soccer team had practice. So
three days a week, my father and
I made the long, sun-soaked drive
to the complex and the sweaty,
grass-scented drive home. In the
moment, I hated these drives, but
of course, in hindsight, I have to
appreciate them for providing
me the time to be glued to
Pandora and ultimately shaping
my musical tastes. Excuse the
tired platitude, but I would give
anything to go back to our beat-
up Jeep Cherokee and hear
“Hungry Heart” for the first time.
That’s the beautiful thing about
nostalgia. One song or one artist
can completely bring you back to
an entirely different time in your
life that may not seem significant,
but once you open Pandora’s box
(pun fully intended), the obscure
memories begin pouring in.
So thanks, Bruce — not just
for refusing to let Republicans
use your music — but for the
memories of 2011.
— Ally Owens, Daily TV Editor
I learned more from a three-
minute record than I ever
learned in school
Unlike Ally, I do have ties to
New Jersey. No, wait — more
than ties. I have a visceral, deep,
uncomparable
love
for
New
Jersey. The Garden State. The
armpit of America. The most
disrespected
and
underrated
state in America. My home. I
love everything about my state,
from the near-death experiences
on Route 22 to the fact that it is
literally the only state you can
order Taylor ham on a bagel and
no one even thinks twice about
it. I could write a novel on New
Jersey — a modern Bible that
would easily rival the works of
Mark, Matthew, Luke and John
in both relevance and notoriety.
Instead I will dive into a single
gospel, one that honors my God,
my muse, my surrogate father:
Bruce Springsteen.
I did not fall upon Springsteen
by chance. In fact, it was the
opposite of chance — I couldn’t
avoid being a Springsteen fan
if I tried. Every car ride with
my parents was complemented
by
Springsteen’s
words,
overpowered only by my mother’s
off-pitch
scream-singing
of
them. I came out of the womb
knowing every single word of
his discography, my childhood
soundtracked by the gruff yet
poetic voice of The Boss.
There is not a single memory
I have of New Jersey that
cannot be matched with a Bruce
Springsteen song. From Devil’s
hockey wins punctuated by the
banger-worthy synth of “Glory
Days” to beach trips washed in the
sunny glow of “Sherry Darling.”
I have danced my heart out to
“Rosalita” along with a crowd of
baby boomers on a Jersey shore
rooftop, and I have cried alone to
the aching desperation of “Bobby
Jean.”
My devotion to Bruce has
grown alongside me. While as
a child Bruce was an inevitable
constant in my life, as an adult he
has become a conscious choice.
Listening to Bruce brings me
back to my roots — to long drives
on the parkway, bagel breakfasts
in the morning and dance parties
in the kitchen with my mom.
It would be a disservice to this
story to not dedicate a section
to my mother, for without her I
would not be a Bruce fan. Both
my parents were born and raised
in Jersey, and yes, my father has
his fair share of Bruce clout. But
it is my mother whose devotion to
her teenage idol has been passed
on to me. She’s been to over 10
Bruce Springsteen concerts, some
as a rockin’ ’80s chick sneaking
out of the house and some as
an equally cool suburban mom
staying true to her past. My first
and only Bruce concert was with
my mom in the summer of 2016,
a climatic event we had been
meaning to do together for years.
The show lasted for four and a
half hours in the steamy summer
sun of New Jersey in August,
standing bright and proud above
the open air of Metlife Stadium.
Bruce wove through the classics
and surprised us with some
bluesy deep cuts — all fantastic of
course, but it was the end of the
marathon of a concert that nearly
brought me to tears.
As soon as Bruce brought out
the harmonica, I knew it was
happening. I turned to my mom
and said the only two words
either of us wanted to hear:
“Thunder Road.” And “Thunder
Road” it was. Bruce ripped into
arguably his best song with
intensity, but it was unmatched
by the ecstacy of my mother and
me. If you’ve never listened to
“Thunder Road,” first of all, I’m
sorry. Second of all, please for the
love of Bruce listen to it, and you
will feel changed.
Just as I thought the night was
ending, Bruce decided to slap
me across the face. He played
“Jersey Girl,” a cover that has
stripped Tom Waits of all rights
to the original — this is Bruce’s
song. As he crooned his love for
a Jersey girl, Bruce invited a
couple up on stage to slow dance.
They proceeded to get engaged as
Bruce burst into the final chorus
and fireworks shot into the
Meadowlands sky. If it feels like
I’m vomiting these words up, it’s
because I am — this was literally
one of the best moments of my
life.
All at once I saw my past,
present and future. I saw myself
as a bobbed-hair, wide-eyed child
prancing on the Jersey sands to
“Dancing in the Dark” with my
mom and grandma. I saw myself
as a soon-to-be high school senior
screaming “Born to Run” on car
rides with the friends she might
not see again. I saw myself as
a bride with a faceless groom,
the sweet lyrics of “Jersey Girl”
serenading our first dance. I saw
myself as a mother, carefully
indoctrinating my own daughter
with Bruce’s music to continue
the cycle. All of this came rushing
to me at once, an entire lifetime
composed of lyrics and guitar
riffs and saxophone solos. I could
end this symphony with my own
finale, but instead I’ll leave it to
The Boss.
“What else can we do now?
Except roll down the window and
let the wind blow back your hair.”
— Samantha Della Fera, Senior
Arts Editor
Call him what you want:
Springsteen, The Boss
B-SIDE: MUSIC
COLUMBIA RECORDS
6B — Thursday, February 21, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com