The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, March 13, 2019 — 5A
In the next week, the Book Review
will be featuring works from Gimmick
Press, a independent publisher of niche
literature and art based in Detroit,
Michigan. Gimmick was established
in 2015 by Josh Olsen and Katie
MacDonald with a commitment to
diversity and inclusion of both subject
matter and voice throughout all aspects
of their work. Gimmick publishes
digitally through “Worthless Treasures”
and calls for printed chapbook and
anthology submissions throughout
the year. They’re currently accepting
submissions for an anthology of
creative nonfiction about pop culture
obsessions.
I find it necessary to preface
this: I don’t have much experience
reviewing poetry. I’ve spent most
of my time with nonfiction, the
remainder with fiction and poetry
only when a particular poet has been
introduced to me within a larger
academic context or a stroke of luck
brought me their way. So I enter this
reflection on Mark James Andrews’s
“Motor City is Burning” by defining
it as exactly that — a reflection,
not a review. Which is fitting, in
the end, because this collection is
much more about evoking a sense
of place rather than challenging and
advancing the contemporary canon.
And that place is the grimy, Beatnik
basements
scattered
throughout
Detroit during the ’60s and ’70s. It is
the rock ‘n’ roll, blues-laden scenes and
rioting in the streets that lit Detroit
on fire during a tumultuous era in our
country’s history.
We identify and recall beat poetry
based on its distinct, mythologized
features and the lifestyle it inspired: a
dirty and progressive use of language,
the flagrant abuse of drugs and alcohol
and a privileged assumption of anti-
materialism and counterculture ideas.
Andrews’s collection is reminiscent
of the beat style, and self-aware in its
endeavor: In the poem “Words Can’t
Describe,” Andrews writes “I lifted
my pages off the green felt and began
to chant / my own personal Howl /
derivative to be sure but I was pure and
sincere / and the young crowd was with
me.” Most of the poems unfold like this,
following a stream of consciousness
rhythm, written as if Andrews couldn’t
get the words out of his mouth and onto
the page fast enough. They all contain
this performative air, meant only to
be read to an audience at Dick’s Bar or
Samsara Lounge — settings for many of
these poems.
Often enough though I find that it’s
easy to confuse good poetry with a
confident speaker. And much of a beat
poet’s allure is in their delivery, their
undeniable style. This is what I think
about when I read Andrews’ poetry,
how, were I seated before him at Dick’s
Bar listening to him perform in a daze
of smoke and a cloud of alcohol, I could
be swayed by it. But on the page, in
2019, these poems seem anachronistic.
Even when he’s talking about current
events, a suicide on Belle Isle Bridge,
the language harkens back to a style
and demographic from which poetry
has distanced itself. And it’s one reason
I cringe when reading some of these
poems.
I’m not sure sincerity is enough to
compensate for the derivative nature
of them, the feeling that, because I’ve
read Ginsberg and Thompson and
Burroughs, I’ve read Andrews before.
And I’m not sure sincerity makes the
heady sexual imagery of some of these
poems any easier to swallow. Perhaps
one of the most explicit examples
of this is an excerpt from the poem
“Rusty Cage,” which seems to take
place in a strip club or cabaret: “I’m
waiting for the next one / a stunning
amazon / lanky, goofy, sneaky pretty
/ bare midriff top. / I hope her gig is a
belly dance / or anything with a little
bravery.”
Given the opportunity to briefly
glance over the collection, anyone can
notice the prefuse objectification of the
female body employed in many of these
poems (I gave it to a co-worker and
they commented on it, unprovoked).
Because, of course, with the tradition
of this era and its poetry comes the
tradition of extraneous sexual imagery,
often to the detriment of the female
body (The poem “Revolution” opens
with the statement that “Revolution
was about pussy / more pussy / strange
pussy / better drugs”). The narrator
dismisses the ’60s revolutionaries in
this poem, as he gazes upon the Occupy
Detroit protesters in the park. But with
the employment of over-sexualized
language and a kind of bebop
rhythm, he still romanticizes this
era and draws us back to it.
“Satan bebopped into Detroit /
with a wad that would choke / The
Four Horseman of the Apocalypse
/ with a Saturday Night Special,”
begins the poem “Boom Boom.”
Each poem in the collection is
dedicated to a different rock or
blues musician. “Boom Boom,”
dedicated to John Lee Hooker,
is more straightforward in its
dedication than the rest, seeming to
narrate a bit of Hooker’s importance
in the Detroit jazz scene. But this
connection between dedication and
content is hard to locate in many of
the poems. Most serve a symbolic
purpose, anchoring the poem in
time and memory, making them only
accessible for those familiar with
the musician or a specific historical
instance. His use of allusions do this
as well, especially in “Boom Boom”
where the substance of the poem is
weighed down by references lost on me
and, I’m sure, other readers.
The strongest poems in “Motor City
is Burning” are the ones that both speak
to a unique experience and don’t sink
under the weight of history. “Looking
at You,” dedicated to Wayne Kramer
& MC5, is one of these. Recounting
the night he saw MC5 play The Magic
Stick, Andrews moves from a party
on one end of Detroit to the crowded
floor beneath the stage, and captures
the rush of excitement and adrenaline
that pushes a night forward from one
place to the next before ending, in this
case, “with a mic upper-cut popping
my chin” as the narrator stood in front
of the stage. There are moments in this
poem where the sincerity Andrews
speaks of in “Words Can’t Describe”
break through gauzy descriptions and
reach the surface. Moments like small
children waving “as if our passing was
an event / and I felt foolish just for a
minute.”
‘Motor City’ needs a Tylenol
I really cannot stand Billy
Joel.
Granted, there are a lot of
artists I dislike, but none of
their music is as pervasive and
unavoidable as his. Billy Joel
reaches for both the everyman
charm of Bruce Springsteen
and the campy virtuosity of
Elton John however, he misses
both marks, falling flat on his
face in the middle.
Billy Joel is no stranger to
lukewarm critical reception —
when asked about the critics
in a 1982 interview with
Playboy,
Billy
responded:
“What they say has absolutely
no effect on me! I really don’t
care what they say. It doesn’t
bother me. It’s irrelevant!”
He has been known to rip up
negative reviews on stage
during his concerts, which is a
great way of showing that you
are definitely not mad.
Let’s move to his actual
music, beginning with the
mawkish
piece
of
work
that is “Piano Man”: The
narrative is centered around
the perspective of a dive bar
musician who describes the
lonely
clientele
that
pass
through on a Saturday night.
Like almost all his songs, the
central character, in this case
the “piano man,” is a hammed-
up version of himself. While
masquerading as a portrait
of the common man, the song
does
not
actually
explore
the emotional world of the
patrons in any way, the only
real observation being that
they are lonely and dream
of a better life. Instead, the
narrative turns on how much
they all come together to
enjoy the music of ... Billy
Joel. Likewise, any attempts
he
makes
at
empathy
or
insight are painfully banal;
take “The Stranger”: “Well,
we all have a face that we hide
away forever / And we take
them out and show ourselves
when everyone has gone.”
A lot of Billy’s stories,
much like “Piano Man,” seem
to focus on how effortlessly
cool he is. In the Playboy
interview, he tells this one:
“I was in Turin for this press
conference
and
this
well-
dressed journalist with wing-
tip shoes from a left-wing
paper asked, ‘Why did you
play Israel?’ He was trying to
create controversy. I said, ‘I
played in Israel for the same
reason I played in Cuba — to
play for the people. We wanted
to see what the people in Israel
were like instead of listening
to the propaganda we get in
our country.’ The people at the
press conference stood up and
clapped.” This anecdote could
come straight from a chain
email circa 2005, right down
to everyone in room standing
up and clapping for him. He
tells a very similar story about
a show in Cuba as well — his
self-aggrandizement
is
not
constrained by petty politics!
Let’s also look at the “A
Matter of Trust” music video.
It consists of Billy and his
backing
band
performing
an
open-air
basement
concert
while
onlookers
slowly congregate, the event
eventually
turning
into
an
impromptu
concert.
If
this sounds familiar, that’s
because it’s almost exactly the
same concept as The Beatles’s
famous
rooftop
concert,
except Billy Joel is under the
building instead of on top of
it.
Specifically,
his
feeble
attempts
to
emulate
the
irreverent
and
mischievous
public
persona
of The Beatles
come across as
arrogant.
In
regard
to
his
experience with
The
Beatles,
Billy
says,
“They don’t look
like they were
manufactured
in
Hollywood.
They look just
like me and my
friends. I could
see this look in
John
Lennon’s
eyes
that
told
me
something:
They
were
irreverent, they
were
making
fun of the whole
thing.
It
was
this smirk on his
face. They were
a bunch of wise
guys
like
me
and my friends! That’s when
it all took shape. I said,
‘That’s what I want to do.’”
The problem with this is that
Billy Joel, like most people, is
much, much, worse at being
a wise guy than any of The
Beatles.
He
paints
himself
as
beleaguered by cultural elites
at every turn — he’s just trying
to be Billy and they won’t let
him! And you know what?
He’s not totally wrong. A lot
of the criticism of Billy comes
from a place of condescension
— he is perceived by critics as
middlebrow and uncool. This
is a correct perception, but
such criticism merely feeds
into his desire to be perceived
as the scrappy underdog who
doesn’t care what the haut
monde has to say about him.
Of course, this image does not
square with the fact that he is
one of the best-selling artists
of all time, has five Grammys,
and as of last summer, Jul. 18 in
New York state
is
henceforth
to be known as
“Billy Joel Day.”
Thanks, Andrew
Cuomo.
There
are
plenty
of
musicians
who
don’t
really
offer
much
of
substance
but
are
pleasant
nonetheless
because
they
create
well-
constructed,
consumable art.
There’s nothing
wrong with that!
What
makes
Billy
so
much
more
offensive
is that a large
part
of
his
brand is based
on a supposed
authenticity,
when in reality
his appeals to
“man of the people” imagery
are a cynical, self-serving act.
When asked how he would
define rock ‘n’ roll, Billy said,
“It’s music that has passion
in it, whether it’s a ballad or
whatever. There’s some kind
of
intensity.”
Aside
from
being a terrible attempt at
defining
rock
music,
that
answer explains a lot of the
lurid melodrama Billy shoves
into his tunes. Billy is keenly
aware
of
what
signifies
“meaning” in music and takes
advantage of these tropes to
create a veneer of poignancy.
It is a hollow imitation. It
is
the
Applebee’s
of
pop
music, a tepid microwaved
repackaging of actual musical
expression, and it deserves
little more than contempt.
I do think “Vienna” is a
good song, though.
I loathe Billy Joel. Here’s
why this is not a problem.
COLUMBIA RECORDS
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
Clocking in at three hours and nine
minutes, “Never Look Away” is an epic
journey through the life of Kurt Barnert
(Tom Schilling, “A Coffee in Berlin”),
a young artist seeking to find his sense
of self through art. His youth was
influenced by World War II — his aunt
Elisabeth (Saskia Rosendahl, “Lore”)
was sterilized and euthanized by a Nazi
doctor due to her “mild schizophrenia.”
When
we
first
meet
Kurt
and
Elisabeth,
he
is
five or six years old
and she is taking
him to the famous
1937
“Degenerate
Art”
exhibition
in Dresden — one
of
the
greatest
exhibitions
of
modern
art
in
history. It is here
where
Elisabeth
tells Kurt to “never
look
away”
as
“everything
true
is beautiful.” Kurt
never forgets these
words,
and
the
loss of his aunt
affects him deeply.
Raised
in
East
Germany,
Kurt
attends art school
in Dresden. There, he meets his wife
Ellie
(Paula
Beer,
“Transit”)
with
whom he ultimately leaves for the West.
Despite rising above his classmates, he
is restricted by the prescriptive nature
of Socialist realism. Kurt desires a
greater artistic freedom, which he finds
in Dusseldorf. Throughout the film, we
see how World War II affected Germany,
personally and societally. Directed by
Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck
(“The Lives of Others”), “Never Look
Away” addresses the war with brutal
honesty, reminding viewers of the
Nazi slaughter of non-Jewish Germans
with mental illness and “undesirable
genetics.” Von Donnersmarck based this
film on the life of German artist Gerhard
Richter. The biographical accuracy has
been debated, but the similarities remain
unquestioned. Kurt’s ultimate artistic
style is very Richter-esque; some of the
works Kurt paints in the movie are direct
references to Richter’s works.
This film is remarkably moving. Von
Donnersmarck’s treatment of the war
is raw. One particularly disturbing
and somber scene, in which mentally
ill women walk into a gas chamber to
be euthanized, provokes a melancholy
feeling of profound disgust. The film
addresses life and death, particularly
how living and dying affects those around
us. Mother and child, birth and loss,
creation and destruction. The viewer
is engaged for every minute of the film;
every scene adds to Kurt’s intricately
layered history.
This is not your
average biopic.
Despite
the
intense
and
artfully
woven
plot,
the
film
would not be as
moving without
its
remarkable
score. Composed
by Max Richter,
the
wonderful
music
elevates
the film. It is
fluid,
powerful
and
engaging.
I
am
always
drawn
to
repeated motifs,
small
visual
moments which
tie
characters
and
scenes
together. “Never
Look Away” features a few of these,
most notably Elisabeth and Kurt’s
separate moments of aural rapture:
An
unexpected
mechanical
chorus
provides the blank canvas from which
Max Richter’s score erupts, sending
chills down the viewer’s spine. In “Never
Look Away,” film meets music meets
painting to create a portrait of human
suffering
and
flourishing.
Growth,
decay, regrowth — this arc emerges in
Kurt and Ellie’s passionate romance,
in Kurt’s art and in the career of Ellie’s
father. I would say Von Donnersmarck
paints a portrait himself, of being human
in the face of inhumanity. This is not
your average World War II film, either.
Von Donnersmarck gives the viewer an
intimate look into mid- and post-War
Germany. It is a film about passion and
perseverance. The viewer is ultimately
reminded to appreciate art and love
wholeheartedly, for how else are we to
cope with life and loss?
‘Never Look Away’ is
a portrait on beauty
FILM REVIEW
ROSS ORGIEFSKY
For the Daily
BOOK REVIEW
NATALIE ZAK
Daily Arts Writer
‘Motor City is
Burning and
Other Rock and
Roll Poems’
Mark James Andrews
Gimmick Press
Nov. 22, 2018
JONAH MENDELSON
Daily Arts Writer
‘Never Look
Away’
Sony Pictures Classics
A lot of the criticism of Billy comes
from a place of condescension — he
is perceived by critics as middlebrow
and uncool
He paints
himself as
beleaguered by
cultural elites
at every turn —
he’s just trying
to be Billy and
they won’t let
him!