The second day of Riot Fest began with a large blow-up cherry and 
a burgundy slip dress. The latter was donned by Cherry Glazerr’s 
always-on frontwoman, Clementine Creevy, and the former teetered 
in the background of their set. With the level of noise coming from 
each instrument, you would have expected it to pop. But no, it held up 
throughout their raucous and entertaining set, a whimsical piece of 
mythology that encapsulated the group’s ethos perfectly. Standing three 
feet from the front of the stage and the aforementioned cherry balloon, 
I was struck by a jolt of pure happiness. For the first show of Riot Fest’s 
second day, we were already off to a great start. 
Cherry Glazerr played for over an hour straight, with each band 
member thrashing to the music as Creevy’s ethereal voice carried 
through the air. I had seen them perform at Detroit’s Fillmore theatre 
in 2017, just as their star was beginning to shine in the rock scene. It 
was nice to see how they’d grown from a smaller, derivative outfit to a 
full-force group of seasoned performers. Their group is an interesting 
mix of classic punk and pop-punk influences with a lighter, almost folk-
inspired flavor. It was a natural fit for Chicago’s Riot Fest crowd, which 
was mixed in a similar way — from hardcore punkers to lighter, more 
hippie-esque festivalgoers, there was something there for everyone on 
that sunny Saturday in Douglas Park.
After dancing extremely poorly throughout the entirety of Cherry 
Glazerr’s set, I meandered across the fairgrounds and realized an artist 
I had been meaning to see was 50 feet away from where I was standing. 
That artist was upcoming rapper PROF, who is, I would say, what we 
all wanted Macklemore to be but never got from him. PROF’s set was a 
hilarious 45 minutes of him questioning why he was even playing there 
(which one could reasonably ask at a largely punk festival) and a rap 
performance that knocked it out of the park. The rapper threw water 
into the crowd, threw it on himself, bantered with his DJ and performed 
songs from his most recent album all at the same time, building a rapport 
with the crowd with every move he made. His beats were solid, his flow 
a pleasant nod to old-school. He is definitely one to watch. 

Walking soaked from PROF’s audience to the next stage, I couldn’t 
help but giggle at the wonder of it all. You could hear the battling 
basslines of multiple performers echo across the battered grass, smell 
the smoke from vapes and cigarettes mixing in the afternoon wind, 
catch the laughter of each group who had ventured back for another day. 
It was honestly delightful. What was also delightful came in the next 
hour, when I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd for glam-rock 
throwback band The Struts. Their set was a blast from the past, in the 
best way possible. 
The Struts, composed of four incredibly talented musicians in shiny 
costumes, bounced onto their stage with fervor. Frontman Luke Spiller 
was clad in a brilliant red getup reminiscent of Freddie Mercury’s early 
costumes, and the rest of the band wore similar outfits to push their 
image even further. The songs blended into one another perfectly, with 
Spiller effortlessly throwing in anecdotes between each performance 
that ultimately segued into the next song. It was great, it was hot and 
it was something that not many musicians could do in this day and age. 
If Greta Van Fleet is what happens when a band blindly copies one from 
the past, The Struts have ultimately become more than the sum of their 
influences. Parts of their set reminded the audience of Queen, of Black 
Sabbath, of the late ’70s in general — but they were themselves, not 
anyone else. The music was good, and sometimes that’s what sets you 
apart in the end. 
As the sun began to go down and lines formed at every stage to 
prepare for the mainstage headliners, an anticipatory buzz fell over the 
crowds. First, I made my way over to the Wu-Tang Clan’s performance, 
for which they were predictably late. After waiting for 20 minutes in the 
photo line, we were finally there: I couldn’t believe that I had made it one 
foot from the members of such a celebrated heritage group, but there I 
was. Joining most of the original lineup was a new addition, Ol’ Dirty 
Bastard’s son, aptly nicknamed Young Dirty Bastard. Their show was 
brilliant, if somewhat slow. But its been decades since they burst onto 
the scene, and the audience knew that. We were celebrating their genius 
while listening to it, joining the group members in a rehashing of their 
very beginnings with a full performance of their album 39 Chambers. 
The rest of the night was a blur. From running to the Slayer stage 

only to feel the literal sweat of the metal legends on my own skin in the 
photo pit, to a knockout performance from the British post-punk icons 
Bloc Party, I was riding an emotional yo-yo back and forth happily. My 
eardrums were near the brink of collapse, but the smile on my face was 
immovable, plastered across my cheeks like the Joker. I could feel the 
bass in my bones, the arms and legs of the audience members around me, 
the eyes of each performer crossing mine as I tried to get the best shots 
and sounds of the night. Though blended, my memories are fond. Those 
last two acts were a frenzied mix — sadness that I would be going home 
the next day, ecstatic joy of true togetherness. We were dancing with 
legends that night, and everyone knew that. Walking home from that 
second day at Riot Fest, my skin buzzed with the energy of everyone I 
had seen that day. I can almost feel it now.

Riot Fest day two is a sweaty, smoking punkmess

FESTIVAL COVERAGE

CLARA SCOTT
Senior Arts Editor

As a summer birthday baby, I’ve always felt spiritually 
connected to the Emmys — the forgotten birthday, if you will, 
of awards season. Sure, your friends tell you they’ll remember 
it when everyone is back at school, but you know the truth. 
In the same vein, everyone pretends that they’ll continue 
to respect the Emmys, but by the time the “golden girl” (the 
Academy Awards) rolls around the following spring, the 
Emmy Awards is expected to retreat back into obscurity. 
No longer. 
The TV beat has made it our mission to prove that 
television’s biggest night not only matters, but might — just 
might — be a superior night to the Oscars. After all, despite 
the annual hype surrounding the event, the Oscars always 
prove to be a gargantuan disappointment in some way: 
“Green Book” was not nominated purely as a joke? Lady 
Gaga and Bradley Cooper didn’t make love on stage?

On the other hand, with nominees including “POSE,” 
“Killing Eve” and “When They See Us,” the Emmys make the 
Oscars look like the slice of male-dominated Wonder Bread 
that it is*. Nearly every category is a close race, predisposing 
the night to be one chock-full of must-see moments. So, for 
those of you born without a crippling addiction to television, 
we, the TV beat, are to give you a brief cheat sheet on who 
to root for. Hopefully, you will exit this piece with some 
conversation points that will make you sound like the most 
cultured person in the room wherever you happen to be post-
Emmys on Monday morning. 
We’ve got a good feeling about our predictions. We’re 
about 75 percent sure that our predictions will be 100 percent 
right. 
You’re welcome.
— Ally Owens, TV Beat Editor

*The Emmys are not nearly as diverse on the production 
side as my brag would substantiate ... but for the sake of the 
argument, it’s still better than the Oscars.

Lead Actress in a Comedy Series: Julia Louis-
Dreyfus, “Veep” 
It physically pains me to have to make a choice in this 
category. Every actress nominated is a driving force of my 
favorite shows, proving time and time again that women 
are, in fact, funny, and actually are at the top of today’s 
comedy game. That being said, there is one woman on that 
list who inches above the rest, sitting atop the unreachable 
throne of Queen of Comedy that she’s been crafting for 
decades. I speak, of course, of Julia Louis-Dreyfus and her 
performance in the seventh and final season of “Veep.” 
Dreyfus bids the infamous Selina Meyer farewell in a 
season of power-hungry mania that resolves with barely 
a glimpse of regret. If her delivery of fast quips and gut-
punching insults won’t get the gold for her, the final 
prolonged stare she graces an empty Oval Office with sure 
will. 
— Samantha Della Fera, Senior Arts Editor 

Comedy Series: “Fleabag” 
The only justified way to award this category is in a six-
way tie. Trying to choose “The Good Place” over “Schitt’s 
Creek”? “Barry” over “Russian Doll”? It’s a tedious task: 
Comedy is delivering today’s best television, scoffing as we 
duel over which show is best. The underdog winner here is 
Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s glorious “Fleabag,” a dark comedy 
with talk-to-the-camera direction that makes “The 
Office” and “Parks and Recreation” look like high school 
video projects. As Waller-Bridge’s titular Fleabag grapples 
with trauma through sex and humor, she is introduced to 
a hot priest that everyone, including Fleabag herself, has 
no choice but to fall head over heels for in the most painful 
way. Once you witness the fourth wall break that will send 
a cold shock through your entire body, you too will know 
why this show should be walking home with the statue. 
— Samantha Della Fera

Lead Actor in A Drama: Billy Porter, “POSE” 
If Billy Porter is not awarded this title, you have my word 
that I will punch a hole through my Samsung television. 
Carnegie 
Mellon-educated 
and 
Broadway-trained, 
Porter’s resume already exceeds what is commonly 
expected of a “conventional” leading man in television. 

Jason Bateman, you’ll always have a place in my heart, but 
Billy simply is a stratosphere above what has been listed 
(in name only) as his competition. Even without context, 
Porter’s portrayal of Pray Tell on “POSE” could still beat 
out the most talented men in Hollywood. However, when 
you combine Porter’s raw performance ability with the 
important social work he is doing — representing the 
strength and kinship of queer-found families — you have 
to wonder, do I really need to call Saul? 
— Ally Owens 

Lead Actor in a Comedy Series: Bill Hader, “Barry”
While “Schitt’s Creek” patriarch Eugene Levy and 
Ted Danson’s demonic Michael on “The Good Place” 
are also worthy contenders for this prize, their brilliant 
performances seem almost one-note in comparison to 
Bill Hader’s as the titular hitman in “Barry.” Playing a 
character who is on a quest to put his dark past into the 
shadows in order to pursue a serendipitous acting career, 
Hader is even more impressive in the show’s second 
season, as he is forced to display a much wider range of 
emotions than the stoic, repressed and awkward version 
of the character seen in the first season. Second season 
Barry is given the ability to show development, and Hader 
juggles the inherent complexity in playing such a role with 
tremendous skill. 
— Sayan Ghosh, New Media Beat Editor 

Limited Series: “Chernobyl” 
Possibly the most stacked category of the entire 
night, the “Limited Series” title will probably be 
bestowed upon one of the largest TV phenomena of 
recent memory. I mean, how many other television 
shows can transform a destroyed nuclear site into 
a destination for influencers? Moreover, HBO’s 
“Chernobyl” doesn’t just have popularity on its 
side, but also an impressively well-crafted world 
lain before audiences by the writers, as well 
as a stellar performance by Stellan Skarsgård. 

2019 Emmys predictions from The Daily’s TV beat

DAILY TV WRITERS
Daily Arts Writers

TV/NEW MEDIA NOTEBOOK

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

When I was younger, I fantasized about 
receiving letters. Not just any letters — 
letters from myself in the future. In these 
letters, future Sarah would chronologize my 
milestones and regrets. The information could 
be anything from a tip on an upcoming exam 
(I’m looking at you, physiology) or a clue about 
who I will marry. What could I do with that 
knowledge? Would I even believe it? While 
characters in Keigo Higashino’s “Miracles of 
the Namiya General Store” don’t get letters 
from themselves, they do get letters from the 
future. 
“Miracles of the Namiya General Store” 
follows a series of interconnected vignettes, 
each telling a touching tale about a specific 
character’s internal conflicts with Mr. Namiya 
and his letters. Before the Namiya General 
Store had its time travel capabilities, it was 
simply a mom-and-pop shop with an old man 
as its owner. At the beginning, the letters and 
their responses weren’t serious at all. In fact, 
they would be most aptly dubbed as riddles. 
People would stop by the Namiya General Store 
and drop the letters off in a little milk crate. At 
5:30 a.m. each morning, Mr. Namiya would get 
up, read through the letters and post his reply.

“Tell me how I can get an A+ on a test without 
studying or cheating on anything,” one visitor 
writes in “The Miracles.” And Mr. Namiya 
responds with, “Ask your teacher to test you 
on yourself. Since you’re the topic of the test, 
whatever you say will be correct.” 
These 
silly 
prankster-like 
questions, 
however, were soon replaced with serious 
questions. Instead of dismissing these letters, 

Mr. Namiya slaved over thoughtful replies. 
Halfway through the work, Mr. Namiya 
eventually dies on September 13th. Each year, 
however, on the anniversary of his death, time 
stops at the Namiya General Store. Whoever 
stumbles by has the ability to communicate 
with people in the past. We don’t learn of 
the Namiya General’s backstory until we’re 
halfway through the novel. Instead, the novel 
is framed by a set of three teenage delinquents 
— Kohei, Atsuya and Shota — who happen by the 
Namiya General Store by chance. Interestingly 
enough, the three boys take on the role Mr. 
Namiya once filled and earnestly answer the 
letters that file through the milk crate. 
It’s easy to fall into the trap of tedium with a 
structure like the vignettes of “The Miracles.” 
Each chapter is like another exposition: new 
setting, new characters and new conflict. 
I initially worried that I would dread each 
chapter, hoping to return to familiar characters 
like Kohei, Atsuya and Shota. Thankfully, this 
is never the case. Each story is singular and 
surprisingly touching. One follows the story 
of a man with the pseudonym of “Floundering 
Musician” who struggles between his duty to 
the family business or following his dream 
to pursue a career in music. Another is of 
an Olympic fencer named “Moon Rabbit” 
who oscillates between taking care of her 
terminally ill partner or throwing her all into 

her training. 
Like the letters sent to Mr. Namiya, some 
stories are hilarious. Others are heavy, delving 
deep into familial problems that had me 
fighting tears. Keigo Higashino proves to be a 
masterful storyteller, demonstrating expertise 
outside of his traditional crime and mystery 
novels. As always, I’m eager for his next 
translated work.

‘Namiya General Store’ an epistolary coming-of-age

SARAH SALMAN
Daily Arts Writer

BOOK REVIEW

The Miracles of 
Namiya General 
Store

Keigo Higashino

Yen Press

Sept. 24, 2019

HBO

COURTESY OF CLARA SCOTT

DESIGN BY TRINA PAL

5 — Friday, September 20, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

