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

