I’ve spent a very small portion — albeit,
the more blunderous part — of my life living
in Ohio. (Please don’t punish me for that, the
economy is hard.) When I was 16, I was with
my father on the drive to school, listening
to the early-morning talk radio program.
They announced the “Thanksgiving Misery
Index” in the news segment. The major news
was that Ohio had been deemed the absolute
worst state in which to spend Thanksgiving.
This news was hilarious beyond measure.
My dad and I cried from laughter. And then
we stopped laughing. Because we realized
where we were spending Thanksgiving that
year: Ohio.
This ultimately begs the question. Why
do we despise Ohio? I am prepared to say
something that may automatically revoke
my Michigan residency: Ohio’s kind of not
that bad. Listen, Ohio is certainly not good.
But there are some (read: not many) lovely
things in Ohio. Columbus is a genuinely nice
city, with lots of wonderful sights; German
Village is particularly pretty. Hocking Hills
State Park and Cuyahoga Valley National
Park are two truly beautiful instances of the
Midwest’s most stunning natural splendor.
The falls in Cuyahoga Valley National Park
are full of such radiance and grandeur that
I refuse to take them for granted. If nothing
else, Ohio has at least produced a decent
amount of corn (but, little known fact, they
actually produce more soybeans).
Ohio is responsible for an absurd number
of things. Rock ‘n’ roll finds its roots with
Cleveland — where the Hall of Fame sits —
because of disc jockey Alan Freed. It also has
the Football Hall of Fame in Canton. Some
notable Americans have called Ohio home,
like Thomas Edison, filmmaker Steven
Spielberg and the King of Flavortown,
Guy Fieri. Ohio has produced at least six
presidents. Even the Wright brothers were
from Ohio, allowing Ohio to adopt the slogan
“the Birthplace of Aviation” for their license
plates. 21 astronauts have come from Ohio.
Although, I think those two last facts just go
to show the lengths people will go to get out
of Ohio: At least 21 people have went to space
because Ohio is that bad.
The true animosity with Ohio can be
found in its absolute irrelevance to the rest
of the country. For all the great things Ohio
has given us, the state is not spectacular. It’s
hardly even notable. Its greatest offense is
its intense mediocrity. For the most part, it
doesn’t matter, aside from strangely being
a swing-state in presidential elections. It
seems most people are confused on where
Ohio even is. Lots of people get Ohio mixed
up with Iowa, much to the dismay of Iowans.
It’s a pretty average place, for the most part,
with an unusual amount of tornado sirens
and intensely hot summers. It touches the
grossest of the Great Lakes, and isn’t really
East or West geographically. Outside of the
Appalachian part of the state, it’s fairly flat.
Ohio simply is.
Yet, we hate it. It’s easily the most
despised state in the Midwest. That’s saying
something because Indiana is also part of
the Midwest. And I don’t feel bad for hating
Ohio. Cedar Point isn’t even that cool. The
only thing you really need to know about
Ohio is that Hell is real, and while most
people think it’s in Michigan, it’s actually in
Ohio.
Problem: I’m from Ohio
MIDWESTERN COLUMN
MAXWELL SCHWARZ
Daily Midwestern Columnist
COURTESY OF CLARA SCOTT
Contrary to popular belief, punks are some of the nicest people one
could ever meet. This was at least true of those I found at this year’s
iteration of Riot Fest in Chicago, as we celebrated the festival’s 15th
anniversary with more diluted light beer than should exist and a whole lot
of confetti. The first day of any festival is always slightly shaky at first —
someone is looking out for something to go wrong, a band not to show up
or the obligatory ferris wheel to shut down mid-cycle. But at Riot, nothing
of the sort happened. Instead, a horde of people dressed in faded black
jeans descended on Chicago’s Douglas Park to badly dance the night away
together, screaming lyrics into the darkness as the city slept.
The first act I stumbled upon that day was the Philadelphia rock outfit
Thin Lips, who, incidentally, I had already seen this year in Ann Arbor. I
had completely forgotten they were playing at the festival and had to check
the lineup to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from dehydration. But no,
it was them ― and they were incredible. Vocalist Chrissy Tashjian held the
audience captive with her soulful renditions of songs both old and new,
showcasing the group’s new album Chosen Family while remembering
their earlier work as well.
The crowd was a cheerful mix of people laughing and dancing in
the afternoon sun. As Tashjian yelled “This one’s for the homos!” they
erupted into applause. It was a delightful reminder of the acceptance
and happiness that comes with much of the punk scene — for those who
have found their own chosen family in the arms of the music they love
and the people who come with it. Their set was predictably stellar, and the
entire audience was jumping up and down by the time it came to an end. I
couldn’t have imagined a more fantastic start to a fantastic day.
From Thin Lips, myself and my lovely companion (and best friend from
high school) Kendall walked to another stage, where we could hear the
thumps of a pop bass line reverberating into the crowd. Following this
catchy melody, we found Caroline Rose performing with everything she
had in her, jumping across the stage in an all-red athletic getup, complete
with headband. Both Rose and her backing band were some of the most
frenetic performers I’ve ever seen, harnessing the energy of their excited
crowd to create an environment of fun and frenzy. She sang most of her
newest album Loner and threw in some well-loved oldies along the way.
For a relatively new addition to the indie-pop-rock scene, the songwriter
is remarkably self-aware of her own brand. She knows who her audience
is, but most impressively, Rose really knows who she is. It’s a great thing to
see from a young musician, and it shows in every song she writes.
After dancing like a maniac to Rose’s set while carrying a five-pound
camera, I was absolutely pooped. So we sat on the seemingly never-ending
green grass of Douglas Park’s grounds, watching people go by. This was not
Coachella, in any way — the biggest fashion statement I saw was someone
wearing fishnets over their pants — but it was somehow better because of
that. The aesthetic was not the point, after all, despite the common theme
of black and red clothing across the festivalgoers. It was completely about
the music, and enjoying it with everyone there. If places like Coachella
and Lollapalooza are where the beautiful people get together, Riot Fest
has been a place for misfits and punks alike for 15 very loud years.
The dilly-dallying eventually came to a close, and I ran to get some
prime photos of The Get Up Kids’ set. Every member of the band (including
bassist Rob Pope, who I am still mad at for leaving Spoon) was on the top of
their game, even so many years into playing together. They were a perfect
mid-day experience to begin the second wind of the festival’s first day.
Sure, the set was exciting, loud, the perfect place to lightly mosh without
worrying if you would break your leg. But it was also evidence of The Get
Up Kids’ time on the scene — they maintained the original stick-it-to-the-
man essence of their early work while getting even better at performing,
creating a fun atmosphere that was grounded in real, tangible skills.
Standing near the stage, I couldn’t help but slow-clap as their set came to
an end.
The highlight of the day, the piece-de-resistance of Riot Fest’s
illustrious history, was when The Flaming Lips took the stage. After being
on my feet all day, I was wary of how much I would be able to participate in
the technicolor dreamscape of their performance, but who was I kidding.
As soon as frontman Wayne Coyne took the stage, clad in a pure white
suit and trademark halo of gray hair, it was like someone had gently tased
me. I couldn’t stop smiling, to the point where my friend asked me if I was
alright. The Lips (or Flips, as affectionate fans call them) were a force of
nature, and the perfect ending to the first day of the festival. Between
cannons of confetti, a giant blow-up robot and every band member
wearing some sort of rainbow garb, everyone around me was having the
time of their life. At one point, Coyne zipped himself into a plastic bubble
and was thrust into the audience in a futuristic crowd-surf. I couldn’t
believe my eyes.
The group played the entirety of their 2002 magnum opus Yoshimi
Battles the Pink Robots with the flair and intensity as if they had just
released it. In addition to these songs, Coyne took a moment to remember
indie legend Daniel Johnston by singing his most pure, strikingly true
song “True Love Will Find You In The End.” By the end of it, tears were
streaming down my face. The admiration and love in the frontman’s
rendition was that of someone who had lost a close friend, and everyone in
the audience could feel it. The set continued in a similar fashion, until the
very last song. From hundreds of people away, it felt like they were singing
to every person there individually, celebrating the night and everyone who
had gathered there one by one. If there’s anything Riot Fest is perfect for,
it’s that — that you can find people just like you, no matter how weird you
are.
The bubbles, bangs and beats of this year’s Riot Fest
FESTIVAL COVERAGE
CLARA SCOTT
Senior Arts Editor
“Gloria, you crawled up on your cross/
Gloria, you made us sit and watch,” sing
The Lumineers, weaving the tragic, all
too-human tale of a family who lost their
loved ones to addiction. Gritty, authentic,
vulnerable — that’s The Lumineers’s new
album, III, in a nutshell. Holding on to the
familiar folksy f lair of their earlier music,
III would appear nothing too special. It’s
the underlying thematic discussion of the
darker side of human vulnerability that
adds the “wow factor” to the album. A
stark contrast to the band’s cheerful first
hit, “Hi-Ho,” III welcomes a more mature,
more honest version of The Lumineers.
Drawing from their personal experience,
the band explores not only how addiction
harms the individual, but more so how
addiction destroys the collective. The
album is structured in three parts, with
three songs per part (and an added three
bonus songs). Before the music even begins,
the recurrence of the number three already
steeps the album in symbolism, drawing
from religious connotations, to the three
stages of life, a beginning, middle and
end. The progression of each track builds
off the previous one, branching through a
family marred by addiction. The broken-
down structure helps to emphasize these
core themes. Addiction is like an infection,
spreading from person to person, loved one
to loved one, until the entire world is lost
in the haze.
Part one of the record follows two women
who struggle with addiction. The first
song, “Donna,” explores the archetype of
the mother. A mother is someone who cares
for others, who is a pillar of the family. Yet,
the roles of mother and child are switched
in this case. “Hold my hand now, time to /
Go to bed, it’s way too late,” The Lumineers
sing as Donna’s addiction drafts her into
the role of the child, and her unnamed
child becomes the caregiver. “Gloria”
also explores the warped relationship
between parent and child under the weight
of addiction, the verses sung by the child
and the chorus sung by the mother, Gloria.
Gloria sings “Did you know me when I was
younger then?/I could take the whole world
then,” emphasizing how addiction can
steal away an identity, a life. Yet, despite
the tragedy of part one — which captures
the descent into addiction’s stormy waters
— the classic high-energ y feel of The
Lumineers simultaneously uplifts the song,
added a vague sense of hope.
Part two and three continue to build on
the rest of the album’s themes, emphasizing
especially how addiction is often cyclical
in nature, moving through generations.
The song “Jimmy Sparks” conveys this the
best, spinning a tale of a father who falls
to gambling in order to care for his son.
Throughout the song, the father advises
his son that “It’s us or them,” ignoring the
helpless in favor of helping only himself.
Yet, by the song’s final notes, the full circle
comes to a close, with the son driving past
his homeless, penniless father begging
by the road, echoing “’Cause it’s us or
them/‘Cause it’s me or him.”
At the end of the day, The Lumineers’
III finds its greatest strength in its
relevance. At a time when the opioid
crisis still ravages America, e-cigarettes
dangerously beckon the young and drugs
continue to remain an inevitable part of
growing up American, this spotlight on
the complexities and enduring poison of
addiction is vital. Listen to III, first for its
authentic, classic folk songs and brand of
charm, second for the lesson it can teach
us — a lesson learned never too early and
never too late.
‘III’ proves strong & sweet
MADELEINE VIRGINIA GANNON
Daily Arts Writer
ALBUM REVIEW
ALEXIS RANKIN / DAILY
III
The Lumineers
Dualtone Music Group
The true animosity with
Ohio can be found in its
absolute irrelevance to
the rest of the country
If places like Coachella and
Lollapalooza are where the
beautiful people get together, Riot
Fest has been a place for misfits
and punks alike for 15 very loud
years
5A — Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com