C O M M E M O R AT I N G

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2019

University of Michigan Law School, 1225 Jeffries Hall

4:10–5:30 p.m.

Sponsored by U-M Office of the Provost

A CONVERSATION WITH
U.S. REPRESENTATIVE
JUSTIN AMASH

46000 Summit Parkway
Canton, MI 48188
734-394-5460
www.summitonthepark.org

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One
Edith Wharton’s second novel, “The House Of Mirth,” depicts a
world that I knew almost nothing about before picking it up — the
New York “fashionable” society of the late 19th century, a world that
mirrors the European aristocracy in its social aesthetic but is made up
of industrialists, real-estate magnates (like Wharton’s parents), Wall
Street speculators. That every rich person in America is nouveau riche
when compared to the European aristocracy means that participation
in high society has more to do with taste, refinement, manners and
other immaterial, vague qualities. It’s interesting that this is the social
formation that accompanied a period of intense income inequality — in
the Gilded Age, the very rich are mostly concerned with being better at
being rich than their friends and acquaintances.
Awaiting women in this world is a system of rigid control structured
around marriage, and Wharton’s novel is a depiction of the viciousness of
this system. Her protagonist, Lily Bart, was born into “fashion” but, being
an orphan, doesn’t have the means to stay there without marrying a rich
man. She is nearly thirty and is reaching the point where her youthful
beauty is just beginning to fade — she starts to notice circles around
her mouth and wrinkles on her forehead — but her problem is really
more psychological. Having been raised in an environment saturated
with opulence, she is hesitant to leave it, even as she finds its trappings
intolerable. The beginning of the novel has her faced with the prospect
of marrying Percy Gryce, a man so dull she nearly can’t stand spending
several afternoons with him at a country house. She vacillates between
feeling incapable of marrying Gryce and feeling like she needs to charm
him, win him over, so she can at least avoid falling into the “dinginess”
that surrounds her charmed circle. She is of two minds, on the one hand
needing to stay in the presence of money at any cost to her mental life,
and on the other hand fully aware of how ill-suited she is mentally for life
among the leisure class.
This aspect of the plot rests on what amount to vague judgements
about social aesthetics — it’s possible that Wharton’s intended audience
would have a good awareness of what Lily means in her subtle judgements
of the habits of the wealthy. For a reader in the 21st century, what comes
across most readily is the mutability of Lily’s judgements, her propensity
to change her mind not just about her own role in this “social tapestry,”
but about the entire nature of the thing itself. Lily’s simultaneous
attraction and repulsion, not just from single men or situations, but to the
entire situation of her life, expands the novel of manners into something
resembling a psychodrama.
Wharton is also very deliberate in creating a character who is entirely
dependent on the money of these people to maintain her lifestyle, which
is the only one she has ever known. Over and over again, Lily comes
close to repudiating her cruel, petty friends before remembering that
she also lives in terror of having to make a life for herself outside of this
context. Usually she repudiates for just long enough to miss important
chances — she spends an afternoon in the country with Lawrence
Selden, a charming lawyer just outside the circle of “fashion,” and when
she returns to the house finds that Percy Gryce has gotten upset and left.
Money saturates the social system Wharton depicts — there’s a gift
economy for “tips” on Wall Street, newly rich families try to display their
wealth to each other in banquets and parties. Every act of consumption
is conspicuous. This doesn’t mean that restrictive social codes no longer
exist, though, it just means that they are overlaid with an intensely
marketized logic. Money mixes with everything else. Lily falls into a
debt in the first half of the book to an investor, Gus Trenor, which quickly
turns into an implied sexual debt that Lily flees from in horror. Later,
she receives a marriage offer from Simon Rosedale, a man she finds
repellant, who says “I’m just giving you a plain business account of the
consequences. You’re not very fond of me — yet — but you’re fond of
luxury, and style, and amusement, and not having to worry about cash.”
As time goes on Lily becomes more and more desperate, she finds this
proposal more and more appealing, even as she shrinks from it.
The cruelty of “The House Of Mirth” lies in its reduction of everything
to value — every bit of social behavior, every signifying piece of clothing
or jewelry has a vector that ties it to money. Wharton’s novel reveals, as
Lily says, “the cords at the back of the social tapestry,” the identical image
of society with all the material workings visible.
Two
There’s something about the structure of indecision that makes
caricatures of the objects under consideration. Writing indecision, then,
often requires stating the patently ridiculous. The titular character
of Adelle Waldman’s 2013 novel “The Love Affairs Of Nathaniel P” is
performing a kind of lower-stakes version of Lily Bart’s social weighing;
instead of two distinct, relatively fixed systems, Nate is evaluating
a string of women for compatibility, never quite being able to settle
on what he actually wants from them. He is instead afloat in a sea of
atomized social and sexual characteristics that never quite settle into
preferences or opinions. Essentially, he is of two minds as well — one
desiring company and one seeing himself as akin to Mailer and Roth,
the mid-century writers who were able to view their sexual gratification
as akin to the fulfilment of their intellectual wills, independent of
romantic involvement. He has inherited a lot of misogyny from his
ambient encounters with masculinity, represented by his friend Jason
who frequently regales Nate about his softer side. Nate frequently finds
himself judging women on Jason’s metric of one to 10 before stopping
himself. But he does have a genuine tender streak that occasionally and
unpredictably finds its way to the surface.
This pendulousness makes his behavior in relationships strange and
erratic. He is not a jerk; he is in fact sensitive when he wants to be, but is
still capable of being unfeeling and even cruel. He entertains moments
of “embarrassing tenderness” and refers to the feeling of having a
girlfriend as having an “an alien presence” in his bed with him. He is
unable to face these contradictions, because it seems like his mind is
only capable of entertaining one set of feelings at a time. Nate’s emotions
are always described with fluid words — affection comes over him in “a
wave,” resentment “flows” through him. Nothing can be pinned down
or reversed in a wave, it has to be followed. Nate is at the mercy of his
emotions, wherever they may lead him.
The novel occasionally feels like it simplifies everything in life to
writing and sex, but in that I feel like it represents how a sizable contingent
of people in the contemporary era of overwork and individualism think.
As much as his social life is tied up in his work, he sees work as completely
distinct from the rest of his life, and is prone to seeing anything else as
a distraction. Nate has a hard time having a dignified relationship
with anyone because he sees, essentially, a dignified relationship as
compromising his working ideal. This does not stop him from pursuing
relationships, though. He is unable to fully settle on this ideal, unable to
fully commit to it.
Maybe this tug-of-war settles on a synthesis in the way that Nate tends
to value women. No one in this book seems particularly intellectually
rigorous, instead drawing from a hodgepodge of reference points to make
ad-hoc arguments over drinks for the fun of it. Similarly, Nate judges
women based on a bewildering array of overlapping social cues and
codes, some of which have to do with writing and some of which have
to do with simple attractiveness. He judges women the way a bad book
reviewer judges a book, succinctly and based on surface characteristics
— he’s giving a recommendation, more or less.

Diptych of value

LITERATURE COLUMN

EMILY YANG
Daily Literature Columnist

Read more at
MichiganDaily.com

Pitch shifting has been around for decades.
It’s the process of raising or lowering a vocal
pitch signal by a set interval. Essentially,
it makes the original signal sound higher
or lower in pitch, depending on how the
artist implements it. Chuck Berry adopted
vocal pitch shifting during his late career to
make his voice sound younger. Kanye West
has used it prominently when sampling to
create his trademark “chipmunk soul” beats.
Grindcore and death metal bands use it to
drop their vocals deeper below the human
register and raise them to be higher than
a screaming banshee. A$AP Rocky uses it
extensively on the introductions to many of
his tracks. It’s a wildly dynamic effect that
has uses across genres, but for some reason,
few musicians within the singer-songwriter
sphere have implemented it. That is, until
(Sandy) Alex G started making waves.
Alex G, who started as a bedroom
musician recording tracks on his laptop
with a shabby, decades old microphone,
has become a veritable indie star, and he
did it using vocal pitch shifting. He doesn’t
overdo it, though. He only uses it when
he thinks he needs it. Sometimes it’s for
an entire song, sometimes it’s only on the
verses and sometimes it’s just sprinkled in
randomly. Alex G has gotten some pretty
prominent placements because of it, too. He
was the one playing guitar all over Frank
Ocean’s Blonde and Endless. He’s worked
with Oneohtrix Point Never, reimagining
“Babylon” in a dazzling, yet somber, way. In
fact, Alex G’s cover of “Babylon” has even
more plays than the original. He has the
ability to create haunting, magical moments
using only his voice, and that’s a special

thing to have.
His newest release House of Sugar is most
similar to a cute but slightly creepy old
fairy tale. It’s both captivating and a little
repelling at the same time. Beginning with
“Walk Away,” each song takes listeners to
another realm, one where time stands still
as Alex G’s vocals and guitar wash over
everything. “Walk Away” is like the gentlest
vice grip, with plush pillows taking the
place of clamps. The song is stifling, but in a
comforting way. The use of downward pitch
shifting on the lines, “(S)omeday I’m gonna
walk away from you / Not today, not today /
Not today, not today / Not today, not today,”
is unsettling and claustrophobic, but in a
way, it feels nostalgic, like a memory that
can suddenly speak to you, subtly reminding
you of an old misstep.
“Walk Away” is the introductory track
to an album dealing with addiction and
dependence, and it’s a damn good one at
that. It beautifully sets listeners up for songs
like “Hope,” a tear-inducing remembrance
of a friend who died from an overdose
on fentanyl, and “Taking,” a choric aside
about a woman discovering and caressing
her potentially strung-out lover. Despite
thematic similarities, Alex G continues to
surprise sonically. “Bad Man” is similar
to a country ballad, and on “Sugar,” he
unleashes a droning, robtronic wall of
sound, making it clear that Oneohtrix Point
Never’s influence has rubbed off on him.
The most striking thing about House
of Sugar is its ability to strike a balance
between the strange and the familiar. Alex G
seamlessly incorporates altered and multi-
tracked vocals with electronic keys and
acoustic guitar. He’s so good at arranging
his songs that the electronic flare doesn’t
seem that odd next to the more standard
acoustic guitar. It just makes sense. That
weirdness is what makes Alex G who he is,

and he’s never ashamed to let his goofiness
shine. Luckily, this doesn’t detract from
his music and its message. Instead, it adds
accessibility, cutting the weight off some of
the heavier tracks.
House of Sugar is like a childhood fairy
tale that slowly begins to reveal itself as
you get older. At first, it seems sweet and
innocent, but as you give it more time
and thought, it begins to reveal its more
sinister colors. In this case, it unveils the
ravages of dependence and addiction in a
truly sad way. But using pitch shifting and
glittering instrumentals, the album appears
saccharine and a bit silly. It is truly the
culmination of Alex G’s career up to this
point, perfectly capturing his essence as a
musician and human being. House of Sugar
is an album that deserves repeat listens, if
not for its lyrical content, then for the sonic
acrobatics it so often pulls.
(Sandy) Alex G has already proven that he
can do the whole singer-songwriter thing.
But it’s the moments on House of Sugar when
he lets his freak fly that make the album
special. Moments like when he busts out the
Springsteen impression on “SugarHouse -
Live” or his mock-country accent on “Bad
Man” are what make it hard not to fall in
love with the man and the music.

(Sandy) Alex G’s Grimm-est tale yet

ALBUM REVIEW

JIM WILSON
Daily Arts Writer

House of
Sugar

(Sandy) Alex G

Domino Recording
Company

From
an
early
age,
we’ve
been
conditioned to see height not just as a
genetic marker, but as a quality of identity.
Growing up, we tracked our maturation
with pencil marks on closet walls, in
middle school we lined up in height order
and beamed with pride upon reaching
five feet and now as adults we still gossip
over physical stature. Impossible to miss,
height is naturally a feature considered
in our first impressions of one another.
While the intention behind Netflix’s latest
release, “Tall Girl,” is more to offer a light-
hearted romantic comedy than to make
a commentary on society’s fixation with
height, the film is deeper than it appears,
provoking audiences to recall the value in
embracing their own skin and standing
tall.
Jodi (Ava Michelle, “The Bold and the
Beautiful”) is six foot one inch, a trait no
one ever lets her forget. Despite support
from her family and quirky best friend
Dunkleman (Griffin Gluck, “Why Him?”),
who is openly head over heels for Jodi, her
insecurities weigh heavy. For Jodi, height
is a curse, a bewitchment that singles her
out and, even worse, makes the prospect of
finding a dateable guy nearly impossible.
Her luck seems to change however, when
an uber tall, dreamboat foreign exchange
student named Stig materializes out of the
blue. Stig appears to be everything that

Jodi has been longing for and more, but
whether he is actually what she needs is
another question entirely.
As the title suggests, the film’s plot is
relatively simplistic, illustrating the trials
and tribulations of a girl struggling to fit
in. However, through a balance of B-grade
jokes and silly supporting characters, the
film holds audience attention. Given that
there aren’t many exciting twists and
turns, both Dunkleman and Jodi’s sister
Harper (Sabrina Carpenter, “Horns”),
a slightly air-headed pageant girl, help
pump the life blood to the movie. The
two characters function as Jodi’s support
network in different ways, and each has an
eccentricity that skirts the line between
entertaining and annoying.
Despite its lack of mystery, “Tall Girl”
does pull viewers in through the shared
experience of being an “other.” Jodi’s tall
stature is an obvious characteristic that
sets her apart from the bunch. But other
characters in the film are “weird” in less
evident ways. Dunkleman for instance,
carries around a crate of books instead of
using a backpack. And Harper is the latest
of late bloomer, still struggling to close the
yearbook and move on from her pageant
days. The point that director Nzingha
Stewart aims to make is that we all have
elements, on a varying spectrum of
visibility, that make us outliers. As cheesy
and overemphasized as this message is, for
some odd reason, we don’t mind hearing it
just one more time.
“Tall Girl” embodies the phrase “‘what

you see is what you get.’” There are no
major shockers, and no defining moments,
but there is development. Though not
necessarily innovative or fresh, Jodi’s
story is representative of the journey of
self-acceptance that each and every person
goes through. We might not all have been
the “tall girl” in high school, but that
doesn’t mean we don’t all have our own
awkward oddities that we’ve had to learn
to grow into. The ultimate goal of “Tall
Girl” is not to leave viewers wide-eyed
and mindblown, but rather to crack a few
smiles and warm a few hearts.

‘Tall Girl’ is simple, but very sweet

FILM REVIEW

SAMANTHA NELSON
Daily Arts Writer

Tall Girl

Netflix

Wonderland Sound and
Vision

6A — Monday, September 16, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com