The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Tuesday, December 3, 2019 — 5

This past semester I was in English 425, 
an advanced essay writing course focused on 
immersion writing. Throughout the course 
we’ve focused on personal essay writing and 
immersing ourselves into a wider story covering 
a pertinent or engaging topic. For my first 
assignment I wrote a personal investigative 
essay about the life of my father’s mother, Gail 
Grober. 
She was a 5’3” Jewish woman who died at 
age 47 from breast cancer, leaving behind her 
young sons, Bobby and my father Vic. I was 
interested 
in 
writing 
a piece about her and 
investigating 
her 
life 
because 
everyone 
on 
my father’s side of the 
family constantly tells 
me I take after her 
despite the fact that I’ve 
never met her. 
I 
spent 
72 
hours 
writing the now 13-page 
piece, breaking down 
in 
tears 
more 
than 
once as I discovered 
more intimate details 
about the life of this 
elusive 
woman. 
The 
most important thing I 
learned about her was 
from her high school 
yearbook. Beside each 
senior portrait is the 
word “ambition” with a 
colon next to it. All the 
students included their 
post high school ambitions and upon searching 
through the yearbook the vast majority had put 
college, higher education or secretary. But Gail 
is different. Printed next to her “ambition” is the 
word “undecided.” While every other student 
in the yearbook felt so pressured to amount to 
greatness or reach for insane heights or brag 
about a seemingly perfect future ambition, 
Gail was apparently alright with not knowing. 
I fell in love with this ancestor of mine, one that 
nobody speaks of but clearly remembers dearly. 
Thank God for technology and for memory. 
I thought of my maternal grandmother’s 
kitchen the entire time I wrote this essay. I 
thought about how there’s no essay to write 
about her because every single year I come back 
to my grandmother’s home on Christmas day. It 

is warm, she is wearing an apron and slippers. 
There is a lack of words for the sheer joy that 
swells inside this sweet blue home on Jersey 
Avenue. There’s luck in the fortune of knowing 
at least half of where you come from. There’s 
no essay to be written, researching a history 
that’s tangible and breathing and mine because 
I’ve lived it. I have the ability to live it every 
single year. There’s a heart on Jersey Avenue. 
There’s life. And I’m fortunate enough that I 
don’t have to call to say “Dad, Mom: What was 
she like? Tell me a story.” Instead, I can come to 
my grandmother’s house and simply watch her 
cook in the kitchen on Dec. 25th. I can sit down 
for Christmas dinner every year surrounded 
by people who know me and always will. It’s 
tangible. It’s full of life. 
None of us are history. 
Christmas 
time 
is 
nostalgic 
for 
me. 
It 
always has been a time of 
reflection and celebration 
in the midst of joyous 
December. 
Five 
years 
ago, I found out I didn’t 
get into Yale University. 
A few days later on 
Christmas Eve, everyone 
else at my high school 
had heard back from the 
University of Michigan 
and I’d heard nothing. I 
assumed I’d been denied. 
But 
even 
that 
year, 
when I’d assumed I was 
denied from two of my 
top choice schools right 
in accordance with the 
holidays and felt neither 
festive nor celebratory, 
I 
went 
back 
to 
my 
grandmother’s home and felt whole again. It’s 
cyclical — tradition and memory and life — and 
in the unexpected places we find the pieces of 
ourselves we couldn’t find or perhaps didn’t 
know we lost. 
Tradition may be expected or ritual. It is 
something that regularly comes back up each 
year, something that we know and anticipate. 
It is easy to take these types of dinners and 
mornings and festivities for granted, especially 
around the holidays. This year I will not let 
it pass me by: dinner at my grandmother’s, 
the silly game we play in the living room, the 
dancing on tables that takes place early in the 
morning in my kitchen on Christmas day still 
dressed in glitter. It’s important, it’s here, it’s 
not history and for now, it’s mine, it’s ours.

What’s really important
about the holiday season

ELI RALLO
Daily Arts Writer

COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK

Every scene of “Servant” is gorgeous, highly stylized 
and utterly overindulgent. Set in a historical Philadelphia 
brownstone, M. Night Shyamalan’s newest series 
complements its odd premise and hallmark suspense 
with a flawless aesthetic. 
After the death of their child Jericho, rich couple 
Dorothy (Lauren Ambrose, “Six Feet Under”) and Sean 
Turner (Toby Kebbell, “Fantastic Four”) are unable to 
handle their grief. Rendered nearly catatonic, Dorothy 
begins transitional object therapy and takes care of a doll 
in the place of her son. Tired of enabling her illness, her 
husband confides in her brother Julian (Rupert Grint, 
“Snatch”) about how to prevent Dorothy from being 
further consumed by grief for her son.
Without Sean’s knowledge, Dorothy hires Leanne 
Grayson (Nell Tiger Free, “Game of Thrones”) as the 
Jericho doll’s full-time nanny. 
Much to Sean’s surprise, 
Leanne is entirely unfazed by 
Dorothy’s situation and treats 
Jericho the doll as if it were 
a real child. A shy girl from 
Wisconsin, Leanne struggles 
to adapt to the upper class 
lifestyle of the Turners and 
shocks the parents by praying 
nightly and hanging crosses 
in the baby’s nursery. 
Suspicious of some of Leanne’s odder behavior, Sean 
avoids interacting with her and buries himself in his 
work. One night after Leanne returns from walking 
Jericho through the park, Sean hears a noise on the 
baby monitor, runs to the nursery and finds a real baby 
has replaced the doll. Concerned Leanne or Dorothy 
has stolen this child, Sean and Julian investigate where 
exactly the baby and Leanne came from. 
While the premise of “Servant” is not necessarily 
new in the thriller genre, the series masterfully blends 
some well-used horror tropes with fresh visuals and 

dialogue. The show uses the artifice of luxury to mask 
a deep psychological suffering occurring within the 
family. Leanne, the plain, understated antithesis to 
the Turners’s appearance-based lifestyle, is framed as 
exponentially creepy by simply existing in the wealthy 
space which rejects anything genuine. Sean continually 
refers to her as “staff” and refuses to accept her or her 
odd behaviors.
Like many horror movies, “Servant” addresses gender 
as an aspect of its most disturbing themes. Within 
the Turners’ marriage, though Dorothy may have a 
tenuous grip on reality, Sean is the one tortured by the 
subtle evils in his home. Frustrated with his wife and 
the changes in house, Sean has lost whatever control he 
once had and scrambles to blame Leanne for whatever 
may be happening to him. While what he experiences 
is undoubtedly real, his questioning of his own sanity 
mimics the gaslighting female characters in similar 
thrillers often face. 
In recruiting his brother-in-law Julian, Sean searches 
for any answer that could 
discredit Dorothy and Leanne 
or explain how the doll 
was replaced. As he fails to 
understand what happens to 
him, he slowly becomes more 
violent and lashes out at those 
around him. “Servant” relies 
heavily on an underlying sense 
of increasing claustrophobia, 
as few scenes take place 
outside the strangeness of the 
Turners’ home. Essentially trapped in his home with a 
mysterious nanny and a child he believes may have been 
abducted, Sean cannot escape someone else’s fantasy. 
“Servant” may seem like another attempt at a highly 
stylized Shyamalan comeback, but — plot twist — the 
show actually has some hidden depths worth exploring. 
However trite the concept, some of the show’s most 
shocking moments and cliffhangers are genuinely 
compelling and exciting. Moving forward, “Servant” has 
the potential to truly embrace its aesthetic and plunge 
entirely into its disturbing atmosphere.

‘Servant’ is beauty & brains

ANYA SOLLER
Daily Arts Writer

When BROCKHAMPTON announced the “Heaven 
Belongs To You” tour with slowthai and then added 100 
gecs as an opener, I couldn’t think of a crazier lineup. 
The SATURATION trilogy was the soundtrack to my 
first two years of college, while Nothing Great About 
Britain and 1000 gecs have been at the top of my music 
rotation since they released in May. On Nov. 30, after 
months of anticipation, the three acts came to the Motor 
City.
My journey leading up to the show was business as 
usual for a Detroit concert. Dump money at the gate of 
an overpriced parking lot, scarred by the number of $45 
tickets I’ve received because I’m incapable of finding 
legal street parking; group up with the gang at Detroit 
One Coney Island on Woodward, the greatest Midtown 
venue pre/post-concert kickback restaurant; debate 
bringing a coat into the venue and stand freezing at 
the back of a long line either way; go to the box office at 
The Masonic to pick up my 
press ticket, and …
General admission — 
lower level.
This had to be a mistake. 
Now, 
I’d 
been 
ripped 
off 
once 
by 
promoters 
at 
The 
Masonic 
when 
I bought tickets to see 
BROCKHAMPTON 
in 
2018, so I was very familiar 
with 
the 
distinction 
between the “lower level” 
and the “pit” — lower level 
meant the outer ring of 
seats, while pit meant the 
actual floor. Now, there’s 
nothing wrong with having 
seats for a concert. But that is not what you want at a 
100 gecs/slowthai/BROCKHAMPTON event, and 
definitely not the perspective you want to read about 
in a concert review. Fortunately, a sincerely wonderful 
friend traded me her pit ticket for my lower level ticket, 
and it’s her act of extreme kindness that saved this 
review from being a purely clinical account.
My pal and I rushed into the theatre to the sight of 
100 gecs’s iconic conifer tree in center stage. Laura 
Les and Dylan Brady were singing “ringtone,” their 
vocals warped and autotuned in their live show just 
like they are in the studio version. Thanks to the pre-
show debacle, I missed “stupid horse” at the beginning 
of their set. This was a grave loss, one which I would 
mourn through the rest of the night and will continue 
to grieve until their next appearance in Detroit. But I 
did hear Laura Les’s blood-curdling growls in the flesh 
during the heavy metal breakdown at the end of “800db 

cloud,” so I could sleep comfortably at night.
Seeing the reaction from the BROCKHAMPTON 
crowd to 100 gecs’s live performance exposed just how 
much of a bubble I live in. In our hyper-art-consuming 
corner of The Daily, myself and many friends adore 100 
gecs — I wouldn’t be surprised if my editors played 100 
gecs at the Arts desk as they published this article. But 
for a mostly young crowd that’s into the highly accessible 
music of BROCKHAMPTON, such an experimental 
opener didn’t go over very well. In our corner of the pit, 
me and my fellow big Gec were jumping up and down, 
belting every lyric, while everyone in our surroundings 
was still as stone. At the very least, though, the duo had 
the audience’s genuine interest. A different opener of 
similar notoriety might have a crowd staring at their 
phones, but everybody at The Masonic was watching the 
onstage spectacle. The crowd did scream in excitement 
during a brief period where Laura Les shredded on 
the guitar, but I think most listeners were just kind of 
confused.
When the lights returned post-gecs, my friend and I 
chatted with a couple that must’ve been in their mid or 
late 20s who were surprised 
to see that they were the 
oldest people in the vicinity. 
I expected a young audience 
— 
BROCKHAMPTON’s 
fanbase is definitely high 
school and college aged — 
but even I was surprised to 
see so many people getting 
dropped off at the venue by 
their parents.
I was in the middle of some 
mid-concert 
networking 
with one of my new mid-20s 
friends (no shame) when 
slowthai 
came 
onstage 
and 
immediately 
jumped 
into his first song. Mildly 
professional conversation was definitely coming out of 
my mouth when slowthai spoke the seven magic words 
— “Kodak moment polaroid picture shake it yeh” — and 
I dropped whatever I was saying to chant them myself.
Since my first concert, I’ve seen dozens of shows and 
dozens of openers, and none of them commanded the 
crowd’s energy the way Tyler, the Creator did at DTE 
during Kid Cudi’s 2013 tour. But slowthai came pretty 
close (and fittingly covered Tyler’s song, “WHAT’S 
GOOD”). The UK rapper had the crowd echoing all his 
adlibs back to him — “yuh” went slowthai, “yuh” went 
the crowd; “brrrt” went slowthai, “brrrt” went the 
crowd. After a murderous performance of “Inglorious,” 
slowthai literally spat into a fan’s mouth. “This is 
fucking punk,” he said. I found it kind of gross, but yeah, 
it was punk.
Afterward he rapped “HEAVEN BELONGS TO 
YOU,” his guest feature on GINGER. The crowd 

seemed absurdly excited for what’s just a chill mid-
album interlude. Then I realized that since it was on 
BROCKHAMPTON’s album, for most of the audience, it 
was probably the only slowthai song they knew. For his 
final song, “Doorman,” he opened the pit, and everyone 
circle-moshed in a frenzy — I somehow ended up near 
the very front of the pit, perfectly positioning myself for 
BROCKHAMPTON. slowthai put on a hell of a show, 
one that added him to the ranks of my favorite live 

performers, right up there with JPEGMAFIA and Vince 
Staples. I just wished his set could have been longer.
BROCKHAMPTON took the stage, the show started 
and it was business as usual for the boys. Dom McLennon 
climbed to the edge of a balcony off-stage to deliver his 
killer verse on “BOY BYE.” Everytime bearface opened 
his mouth, hands with recording phones shot up from 
the audience; I wished I had my own phone ready when 
he did his raspy whisper intro from “I BEEN BORN 
AGAIN.” Merlyn Wood, who already breathes life into 
BROCKHAMPTON in the studio, doubled down on his 
adrenaline-infused delivery for all his verses.
Traditionally, Kevin Abstract and Matt Champion 
have been the meat and potatoes of BROCKHAMPTON, 
especially on the SATURATION trilogy. But I am a firm 
believer that Joba is the heart and soul of GINGER, and 
he proved it that night. Half of my notes on the show 
were just song titles followed by “holy shit Joba.” Among 
those highlight moments were Joba’s gorgeous voice on 
the outro of “BOY BYE,” his stunning verse on “BIG 
BOY” and his terrifying rage on “J’OUVERT.”
Performances from the band were show-stopping 
and jaw-dropping all around — no surprise there — but 
I had mixed feelings about all the other elements of 
the concert. When BROCKHAMPTON first came on, 
slowthai had me full of hype. Then a pattern in the show 

started to emerge, and before long, I almost regretted 
trading my ticket for the pit. After the first few songs, 
the drill became clear: Overuse of the smoke machines 
onstage, and if Kevin wasn’t already telling the crowd to 
open the pit, then the same high-school-senior-looking 
dude in the audience was on the job. Over and over and 
over. It got old by the twelfth time in less than half as 
many songs.
I can’t knock BROCKHAMPTON for their audience. 

It is what it is. But there’s something comforting 
about being able to go to a show, look at all the people 
in line, and think, “I could be good friends with these 
people.” That was not the vibe at BROCKHAMPTON. 
I was mildly perturbed when, during the chorus of 
“1999 WILDFIRE,” Kevin kept yelling “SING IT!” to 
the overwhelmingly white crowd (The chorus drops 
a couple N-words). During “SUGAR,” while bearface 
chanted “Do you love me, love me, love me,” a girl 
behind me — who looked like she came straight out of 
BROCKHAMPTON Stan Twitter — screamed back, “I 
DO LOVE YOU!” on the verge of tears. The band pulled 
several fans onstage during “QUEER,” which was cool 
to see, but their youth cemented that I was too old to be 
there (and I’m literally only 20 years old).
With all those ups and downs, the experience was 
a rollercoaster. The final verdict on the concert is that 
BROCKHAMPTON is worth seeing live once before 
they break up, but once is enough, and watching from the 
lower level seats will do just fine. Every member proved 
that they’re infinitely talented, just not in any way that 
wasn’t already obvious from their studio recordings. 
As for slowthai and 100 gecs, I already immensely 
anticipated their acts, and now I’m even more eager to 
see them again — when they’re the headliners, that is. 
Until then.

BROCKHAMPTON, slowthai, 100 gecs at The Masonic

DYLAN YONO
Daily Arts Writer

CONCERT REVIEW

This year I will not let 
it pass me by: dinner 
at my grandmother’s, 
the silly game we play 
in the living room, the 
dancing on tables that 
takes place early in the 
morning in my kitchen 
on Christmas day still 
dressed in glitter. 

After a murderous 
performance of 
“Inglorious,” slowthai 
literally spat into a 
fan’s mouth. “This is 
fucking punk,” he said.

APPLE+

Servant

Season 1. Episodes 1-3

Apple TV+

Now Streaming

QUESTION EVERYTHING, INC.

TV REVIEW

