The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Friday, September 13, 2019 — 5
For as long as music streaming
services have existed, I have resisted
the call to join them. I’ve argued
with friends, family and in this
column that streaming music is bad
for artists, bad for the consumer and
bad for listening. In many a long car
ride I’ve ranted against what I call
“media socialism”: the idea that no
individual should purchase songs or
movies and instead should subscribe
to an ever growing number of media
streaming services. The whole thing
has always made me uncomfortable
and left me imagining a 1984-esque
dystopian future in which there
are only a few conglomerates with
sole control over the distribution
of all media. It would be as if there
were no copies of books outside of
libraries, and all of the libraries
were privatized. That future could
still come to pass and still scares
me. But after two back to back road
trips with friends in which Spotify
was used almost constantly to recall
practically any song one could
think of, I began to feel, at long last,
the allure of the music streaming
service.
The truth is that sticking to my
archaic ritual of manually dragging
songs from my iTunes library to my
iPhone like it was 2006 has become
less and less feasible as time has gone
on. This summer Apple announced
that they were planning to phase
out iTunes entirely and while this
news shocked me at first, when I
looked around and realized I was
literally the only person I knew who
still used the application, it began to
make a bit more sense.
Faced with the death of iTunes
and the increasing feeling that I was
depriving myself of quality listening
time by having to look up songs on
YouTube and listen to ear-splitting
YouTube ads while biking around
campus, I began to think that joining
Spotify might not be the worst
decision I’d ever make. Why had
I fought against it all these years?
Was it really because I hated “media
socialism?” I’d had a Netflix account
all these years, hadn’t I? It’s not like
I was buying every song I listened
to, I was ripping them from CDs or
YouTube videos. I was nothing more
than a stubborn hypocrite, too lazy
to switch from my old ways and
too stubborn to admit I was wrong
once I’d committed to the “media
socialism” bit. I stuck it out with
my archaic ways out of nothing less
than ignorance. All these years I’d
deprived myself of the ability to
listen to whatever music I wanted,
whenever I wanted. And at a student
price of $4.99 a month with Hulu
included? I must have been truly
insane to not sign up the day I
decided to come to Michigan.
So I did it. I got Spotify. I’m one
of you now. I’ve given in to media
socialism and allowed myself to
become just another person in the
crowd. And within just a few short
weeks I’ve found myself wondering
how I ever lived without it. To think
that I was once concerned with
storage space on my iPhone and
whether or not new updates to iTunes
would mess up my sync settings. I
mean, Spotify has practically every
song ever. It’s actually insane. It’s
amazing what the human brain
can compartmentalize and twist
to suit its own purposes. For years
whenever I heard of Spotify my first
thought was just “oh, I don’t use
that,” and I never once considered
why I didn’t use it, what I was
missing or if I was making a big
mistake. But I’ve changed. I’ve fully
converted to the church of Spotify,
and never again will I irritate my
cousins, friends or club members by
insisting that physical media is the
only true path.
And yet there is still something.
A vague discomfort that I barely
acknowledge, save in that liminal
space between waking and sleeping.
Perhaps my intuitions were correct,
perhaps Spotify is in fact the work
of the corporate devil, designed
to entice and entrap. Or perhaps
I’ve simply spent so long decrying
it that I’m experiencing cognitive
dissonance now that I’ve joined. I
listened to Spotify the entire time
I wrote this article. They say that
absolute power corrupts absolutely.
They also say that human beings
struggle to choose when faced with
a multitude of choices. In this new
media landscape, where any song,
film, or television episode ever made
is accessible to us at every minute
and every moment of every day,
do we still appreciate art the way
we once did? In gaining access to
everything, have we lost something
along the way? I wonder about this,
and so many other things, and then
I go ahead and add a few more songs
to my queue.
Ian Harris: It took years, but
I have been seduced by Spotify
ROY / EMPIRE
ENTERTAINMENT COLUMN
Roy Blair wants his new EP Graffiti
in the hands of Timothée Chalamet.
Quite literally, there is no better
project
for
Chalamet’s
personal
narrative. Blair’s second track on the
EP, “Franzia,” fuses synth-pop with
an electronic dance beat that creates
an aura that I would call the “Study
Abroad in France” space. Graffiti
launches listeners into the auditory
equivalent of taking transcendental
humanities classes while Timothee
Chalamet invites you to fall in love
with
the
French
electro-dance
clubbing scene. Blair is a young
heartthrob (despite his claims about
having a punchable face) and with
Graffiti he has shed his sprightly skin,
evolving into a detailed-focused artist
who wants to make music and then
disappear. The Chalamet bells are
RINGING.
Lime green is Blair’s choice for his
newest hair color and for Graffiti’s
cover art; the electricity of lime
perfectly matches Blair’s emergence
into a fusion of synth-pop electronic
rap. The lime green visualizes a
phoenix mentality, a new flair for crazy
syncopation and impressive synths.
Graffiti follows Blair’s debut coming-
of-age album: Cat Heaven, which Blair
released when he was 20 (he is now
22) in an ode to his cat, Gary, who
passed. Cat Heaven was a DIY project
known for its nostalgic happiness
and
appealing,
melodious
raps,
which allowed Blair to score a spot
as Kevin Abstract’s opener. Graffiti
launches Blair out of the fresh-faced
cat mourning phase and into elevated
lyricism with more tricky, embedded
meaning. These lyrics flourish with
the support of producers Slaters and
Sasha Daze, who effectively drag
Blair out of his bedroom rap and into
Pharrell-inspired production.
Graffiti fires up interest in its
impeccable
production,
but
falls
in its lack of cohesiveness, which
is to be expected in a 3 track EP
preceding a full sophomore album (to
be released in 2020). The production
flows seamlessly among the tracks,
but their themes seem to ping-pong
with personal identity quarrels and
ills of relationships. That being said,
the atmosphere created is gripping
in every sense — it seems to move
effortlessly between clubs, liquid
and solitary confinement. The track
“I Don’t Know About Him” uses off-
beat rhythmic stresses to unsettle
the listener, creating a dull feeling of
standing in line, waiting for something
a tad too long. The track closes with
the glory of what seems to be an angel
playing the piano underwater. The
dance scene track “Franzia” is the sort
of song that bounces back and forth
from your right headphone to your
left headphone with a high pitched
autotune that resembles the mocking
SpongeBob meme where EVerYtHinG
SoUNdS LiKe tHiS, a voice-cracking
that embodies vulnerability in every
sense.
Stay awake for Roy Blair’s
electro-rap fusion ‘Graffiti’
FILM NOTEBOOK
SAMANTHA CANTIE
Daily Arts Writer
The main purpose of “After the
Wedding” is to be a showcase for
its three principal actors, veterans
Billy
Crudup
(“Where’d
You
Go
Bernadette”), Julianne Moore (“Bel
Canto”)
and
Michelle
Williams
(“Venom”). Williams plays Isabelle,
an
American
ex-pat
running
an
orphanage in India who travels to
New York seeking funding from
the wealthy entrepreneur Theresa,
played by Moore. Isabelle is invited
to Theresa’s daughter’s wedding, and
a flurry of secrets and family drama
unfold
in
the
ensuing
weekend.
Theresa’s
husband
(played
by
Crudup) turns out to be an old flame
of Isabelle’s. At the wedding, Isabelle
discovers that the young woman
getting married is in fact her and
Oscar’s daughter, who she believed
she had given up for adoption over 20
years ago.
The premise is intriguing, and
the actors all have enormous talent
and impressive resumes. The film
has all the hallmarks of a prestige
drama, the kind that crackles with
tension
and
brilliantly
rendered
screaming matches. And yet, despite
the juiciness of the conceit and the
caliber of the actors anchoring the
piece, absolutely nothing in this film
captures the attention or imagination
of the audience.
“After the Wedding” takes its
time — or rather, it takes too much
time. It stretches languorously like
a cat, puttering around aimlessly
from toothless scene to toothless
scene. It’s a film about uber-wealthy
people who have sprawling estates
just outside Manhattan and work in
glass offices on the 40th floors of
skyscrapers. There’s a minor tension
between Isabelle’s discomfort with
the grandeur of Theresa and Oscar’s
life and the casualness with which
they spend money on hotel suites
and wedding meals. But ultimately,
the film relaxes into the opulence.
I’d estimate a third of the runtime is
spent with the camera slowly roaming
the halls of its sets, lingering on
the gorgeous kitchens and massive
sofas with all the subtlety and
emotional resonance of a Pottery
Barn commercial. The remaining two
thirds of the film are spent watching
people we are given no reason to care
about tearfully clutching shawls to
their chest and arguing their way
through their complicated situation
with dialogue that’s as clunky and
sparsely written as the characters
themselves.
The problem at the heart of the
film isn’t that the story is fragile
(though it is), or that the characters
are thin and poorly rendered (though
they are). The problem is that “After
the Wedding” is bad in the worst
possible way a piece of media can be
bad: it’s bland and inoffensive. It’s
milquetoast, airy, completely free of
any identity, substance or personality.
It was a deeply unpleasant viewing
experience, but not the kind of
unpleasant that’s at all interesting
to unpack or provides any kind of
insight into what makes films tick.
It simply fails at creating stakes,
tension or compelling characters. The
result is a movie that clocks in at just
under two hours but feels like it lasts
anywhere between seven and nine.
But who knows? “After the Wedding”
could very well find a new audience
out of theaters — perhaps it simply
can’t fill the dramatic demands of a
big screen. Maybe it will find a new
life being watched by half-asleep
passengers on planes, or filling a mid-
afternoon time slot on TV, playing in
the background while people clean
their houses. Maybe that’s where it
‘After the Wedding’ is
absolutely middling
ASIF BECHER
Daily Arts Writer
IAN HARRIS
Daily Entertainment Columnist
So I did it. I
got Spotify. I’m
one of you now.
I’ve given in
completely to
media socialism
and allowed
myself to become
just another
person in the
crowd
Graffiti
Roy Blair
ROY / EMPIRE
SONY PICTURES CLASSIC
After the Wedding
Michigan Theater
Sony Pictures Classic
The problem is
that “After the
Wedding” is
bad in the worst
possible way a
piece of media can
be bad: it’s bland
and inoffensive.
It’s milquetoast,
airy, completely
free of any identity,
substance or
personality
FILM REVIEW
YOUTUBE