6B — Thursday, January 30, 2020
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

The store where I work is 
getting these new shirts in stock 
for the spring (I promise this isn’t 
a plug). 
I’m 
deeply 
excited 
about 
them, partly because I haven’t 
seen them in person and I want 
the swift rush of dopamine that 
comes with showcasing a product 
that really stands on its own. And 
partly, because I’m afflicted with 
a feverish interest in anything that 
brings to mind the work of Giotto 
and Hieronymous Bosch — not 
to say that Medieval, Early and 
post-Renaissance depictions of 
European Catholic mysticism are 
even close to the entirety of what’s 
at play. Dubbed by Max Grobe at 
Highsnobiety as makers of “the 
occult alternative to your favorite 
Hawaiian shirt,” Endless Joy is 
the brainchild of designer Stevie 
Anderson, whose creations are 
“instilled with cryptic symbology 
and the subversive artworks play 
host to a motley crew of deities, 
shamans & spirits engaged in 
a dialectic of complementary 
opposites.” 
On its website, the brand 
normally goes out of its way to 
explain the source of inspiration for 
the artwork. From my perspective, 
Anderson has managed to create 
a 
visual 
language 
of 
global 
mysticism without coming from 
a 
Westernizing, 
colonizing, 
exoticizing 
or 
otherwise 
problematic 
positionality. 
Anderson does not directly take 
from different cultures, but rather 
envisions ways in which belief 
systems might intersect without 
valuing one over the other, and 
also goes out of his way to explain 
the histories from which his 
inspiration comes. 

Iterations of his philosophy like 
the Paradise Lost shirt eschews the 
assumption of a classical rendering 
of the primordial fall from grace 
that the John Milton-indebted 
name might entail. A classic camp 
collar shirt, fashioned out of 
ecologically sourced Indonesian 
silk and mother-of-pearl buttons, 
affords an atmospheric canvas 
filled with skies of deep lapis, 

palm trees that at once look tall 
and thin and muted and wilting 
and beaming with energy, sugilite-
hued fruits that adorn them and 
a ground filled with what looks 
like translucent hair.The ground 
comes up around and brushes 
against the feet of two opposing 
figures, each occupying one side of 
the shirt’s two front-facing panels. 
The identity of the figures, vastly 
different in their appearance, is 

quite open to interpretation. 
However, the shirt in question 
just 
isn’t, 
really. 
The 
two 
aforementioned figures appear to 
come from late-medieval and early-
Italian-Renaissance depictions of 
both deities and anthropomorphic 
figures of the afterlife envisioned 
by artists like Giotto di Bondone 
through Catholic and aristocratic 
patronage. To the left is a humanoid 

rabbit woman, wearing a goddess-
like, one shoulder coral dress out of 
organza or tulle, donning perked 
up ears, wide eyes and a modest 
grin as she exalts a blue python 
snake that’s wrapped around her 
arms. To the right of this scene 
is a woman completely cloaked 
in a white, form-fitting, jersey-
like material with exaggerated 
goddess sleeves and a high slit 
starting at the right hip. She holds 

a tall, lit candle and maintains a 
friendly posture that welcomes 
you into this new environment. 
That same woman is mirrored on 
the back of the shirt, with the same 
friendly posture and slight smile 
that’s visible even through her 
cloak. To her right is a humanoid 
man with the head of a goat. He 
wears a loincloth out of that same 
white jersey fabric, his hands and 
fingers are splayed and slightly 
stretched out to his sides and his 
renaissance-like 
contrapposto 
is directed elsewhere. He seems 
curious, but not with any respect 
to the viewer that’s now being 
welcomed in from both sides of 
this wearable canvas. The symbols 
in this work are extensive. A 
cloaked woman, a candle, and the 
sexualization of what appears to 
be religious attire and its fusion 
with references to Roman statues 
and idealized nudes. The nods to 

Greek mythology, biblical texts, 
and to the kinds of creatures that 
are often exaggerated and made to 
be unsettling depictions of what 
might exist in canonized versions 
of hell. The luxuriously deep blue, 
suggesting both night and a kind 
of otherworldly environment, and 
the ties to nature that are altered 
just enough to toe the line between 
reality and fantasy. These all 
present more questions than they 
do answers. The sum of the shirt’s 
parts don’t necessarily add up to 
anything, and they certainly don’t 
have to be read into this deeply, but 
they do draw on familiar visual 
narratives in order to present 
something new. 
In a short description, the brand 
states that “beneath the electric-
spirit of the acid-lit palm, swinging 
in the blue night & surrounded by 
stars… emerge the archetypes.” 
Followed by the quote from famed 

psychologist Carl Gustav Jung, 
“Man has developed consciousness 
slowly and laboriously, in a process 
that took untold ages to reach the 
civilised state. And this evolution 
is far from complete, for large 
areas of the human mind are still 
shrouded in darkness.” What are 
these archetypes? Is this scene a 
depiction of Heaven? Hell? If not, 
then where might we be? If this 
environment isn’t based entirely 
in an ideology that’s been laid out 
for us, then how can we go about 
understanding it? In what could 
be argued as one of the brand’s 
more 
visually 
straightforward 
garments, Anderson calls on the 
consumer and viewer alike to 
challenge their notions of the 
supernatural, the afterlife and 
how they might apply to the 
frameworks through which we 
view culture in a broad sense as 
well as in our everyday lives.

Velveteen Dreams: On heaven and hell, part 1

DAILY STYLE COLUMN

SAM KREMKE
For the Daily

Iterations of his philosophy like 
the Paradise Lost shirt eschews 
the assumption of a classical 
rendering of the premordial fall 
from grace that the John Milton-
indebted name might entail

When I find a song to share 
with my mom, I always wait 
until it’s the two of us in the car. 
It would be difficult to trace how 
many of our shared obsessions 
began with this exact scene, but 
I imagine the fugitivity of the 
moment and ourselves on the 
road — minds and bodies alike — 
are somehow linked.
It’s something to do with not 
having to watch her face if I don’t 
want to, which is something to do 
with fear of finding disinterest 
in it, which is something to do 
with how absurdly high stakes 
these transactions feel to me. It 
doesn’t make me feel like I’m in 
the crosshairs; instead, it calls 
my understanding of the person 
sitting beside me into question.
A folk cover of a Nirvana song 
played between those seats, as 
did my mom’s first contemporary 
hip-hop record, as did the song 
that initiated our (neverending) 
Solange phase. Once, on a night 
drive during my new wave spurt, 
I queued a sequence that started 
with The Replacements’ “I Will 
Dare,” probably included a Cars 
song I thought she might be able 
to pretend wasn’t the Cars (Dad 
loves, Mom hates), definitely 
included Echo & the Bunnymen 
and concluded with Iggy Pop. 
She told me she hadn’t listened to 
those songs since she was around 
my age, commuting to college at 
U-M Dearborn. 
Those moments, identifying, 
then translating across a synapse 
I 
hadn’t 
detected, 
are 
the 
ones I wait for. The ones that 
compensate for the face she made 
when, say, I tried to convince her 
Bob Dylan could sing.
***
I don’t know if I should be 
writing about this. I wasn’t there 
to see how it began: with the 
artful labor of creating a mixtape. 
I’ve never had a cassette slipped 
into my hands, never consulted 
someone’s 
carefully 
printed, 
cryptic title to gather a hint as to 
what I might hear. 
I’ve come of age in the days 
of Spotify and other digital 
streaming services. I don’t tend 
to look at the past in a way that 
lends itself to longing, so I quickly 

adapted 
to 
an 
increasingly 
intangible 
experience 
with 
music. Even after admiring box 
after box of vinyl, I rarely make 
purchases at the record stores 
I visit, and I don’t miss the 
choreography of extracting a CD 
without leaving fingerprints on 
it. Does that mean that I have no 
taste of that old-school magic?
I don’t think so. I think when 
I pull up the Spotify playlist I 
commissioned from a friend after 
hearing his favorite Kendrick 
Lamar song by chance and finally 
admitting that I had neglected a 
revolutionary genre for too long, 
I know something of its charms. 
I don’t think that because the 
songs on the digital counterpart 
of a mixtape were easier to 
compile that less attention and 
care were devoted to the act of 
compiling them. I don’t think 
that kind of transaction will ever 
depreciate if music is still part of 
it.
***
I’ve begun to confuse the 
absence of a person with the 
absence of their music. I’ve 
begun to confuse the presence 
of a person with the sound of 
their music. I’ll give you an 
example: It’s not when I visit the 
house where my Pa once lived 
that I perceive his absence most 
clearly. That might proceed in 
part from my Nana’s refusal to 
move anywhere else and curator-
like preservation of the home 
they once shared. Regardless, it’s 
when I listen to a song and think, 
I know exactly who would love 
this song, and that person is him, 
and the music sharing comes to a 
sad, jolting halt that I know what 
it means for him to be gone.
It 
got 
worse 
when 
my 
Grandma Laura died. Unlike my 
Pa’s heart attack, her death was 
anticipated, 
slowly, 
painfully 
ambled toward. At one point, 
she gathered her grandchildren 
around her chair and presented 
us with paper butterflies, glued 
to adjustable clips so that we 
could attach it to something. 
It was supposed to be her way 
of being with us, even as her 
mobility slipped away. I cried in 
the bathroom: Because of what it 
meant, I both wanted and didn’t 
want it in the most severe way.
Six years after her death, in 
the process of moving in and 

out of college dorms, I lost the 
butterfly. One of the most fragile, 
most important belongings I 
have ever had, and ever will 
have. Telling my mom was much 
more 
shameful, 
much 
more 
distressing than any Catholic 
sacrament I had ever been forced 
to participate in. How could my 
grandmother ever be present 
if I lost the object in which she 
vested that presence?
I don’t know, but I can tell you 
that I turned to music.
“Paper Butterfly,” I titled it. 
The caption adds, “favorite songs 
of and songs inspired by the 
favorite songs of my grandma, 
Laura Leigh Schmidt (1948-
2012).” It’s a playlist on Spotify, 
with a foundation of Paul Simon 
and Queen (her favorites), a few 
songs of special significance 
interspersed (Elton John’s “Your 
Song”: the song my mom told me 
my uncle and Grandma Laura 
danced to at his wedding) and, of 
course, songs I wish I could play 
for her. Yusuf’s “If You Want to 
Sing Out, Sing Out.” Paul Simon’s 
not the only one with the voice 
of an angel. Grace Potter & The 
Nocturnals’s “Stars.” I can’t 
look at the stars / They make me 
wonder where you are. Aretha 
Franklin’s “You Make Me Feel 
Like a Natural Woman.” Tell me 
what that feels like.
That’s more than translating 
across a synapse. It’s the letter 
I’ll never send because I can’t. 
It’s a language for grief, a less 
painful iteration of the imagined 
conversation, where at least 
the silence, still impervious, is 
disturbed.

***
So I’m confessing once and for 
all: I’m your Spotify stalker.
I can’t tell you how many 
essays and sorrows and long 
nights 
your 
playlists 
and 
inadvertent 
recommendations 
have gotten me through, so what 
I should say next is thank you.
Thank you for luring me into 
the worlds of dream pop and 
contemporary R&B, worlds I’m 
not sure I could have found the 
entrance to without you.
Thank you for dismantling 
the concept of “guilty pleasure,” 
for listening publicly, so I can 
also listen publicly to songs 
I worshipped in ninth grade, 

when I need them to remind me 
of what that time felt like.
And no, I’m not proud of this 
one, but thank you for showing 
me you’re alive when sometimes 
I wonder. When I haven’t heard 
from you in a few days, sometimes 
I stakeout the “Friend Activity” 
sidebar. Then I’ll see your name 
and your song and the speaker 
with 
the 
arcs 
representing 
sound, and I exhale. You’re okay. 
It’s post-punk, so you’re probably 
not happy. But the music is on, 
so you are alright. In adequate 
hands, for now.
***
I’ve used playlists as the 
language 
of 
my 
grief, 
so, 
naturally, I’ve also used them 
to try to make legible fleeting, 
off-mark feelings that could 
have thickened into something 
like love. “Could have” because 
I 
should 
preface 
this 
with 
another confession, that I forgot 
how the story goes. It was the 
same promising, blinding boy-
meets-girl, followed by the same 
violation 
of 
boundaries, 
the 
levying of power dynamics, for 
which boy expresses guilt and 
girl comforts boy. (Who comforts 
girl?)
But between points A and 
B of course, there was music. 
There were songs that said, I’m 
trying to figure out my feelings 
for you. There were careful 
recommendations that said, You 
might understand this, even 
though no one else has. The 
songs added up in our minds 
and told us what we wanted to 
believe about one another. For 
me, that was that I found a man 
who wasn’t just luring me in with 
feigned respect for boundaries 
and limits, who wouldn’t take 
advantage. (I was wrong.) For 
him, it seemed something more 
like I was the antidote to some 
part of himself, with involuntary 
powers of healing. (He was 
wrong, too.)
These 
song 
statements 
and 
misrepresentations 
were 
housed in Spotify’s collaborative 
playlist function. We had two 
of 
them; 
especially 
in 
the 
beginning, I would contemplate 
my contribution obsessively. I 
tried to calculate all the ways it 
could misfire, both in terms of 
whether he would actually like 
it and whether it would say what 

I wanted it to say. And I would 
wait for his response song, check 
the playlists obsessively, listen 
the moment he added something. 
 
One day, close to the end, at 
a time where I was somewhere 
between wanting to see him often 
and feeling like I was supposed 
to want to see him often, I was 
walking to work. It was cold 
and I’d forgotten the earmuffs 
he’d once complimented. To 
make matters worse, my hair 
was pulled back, so the wind 
gnawed mercilessly at both ears. 
I inserted an earbud in each, 
numbness still blossoming, and 
queued the most recent songs he 
added to one of the playlists. 

One was about finding a 
reason to live in another person, 
which he had promised I wasn’t, 
that he wouldn’t let one person 
be that, but the song still had 
warmth. Another was about a 
couple’s atypical, wonderfully 
awkward track to falling in love. 
I felt a flood of warmth, starting 
with my ears. His songs playing 
in them, their lyrics I figured 
might as well be his words, 
warmed me from the inside 
out, swirled around my head, 
dizzying, almost fashioning a 
pair of earmuffs out of thin air 
and a few well-sung notes.
After the boundary violation, 
I grew resentful of his music. I 
didn’t look forward to adding 
songs to our playlists anymore; 
when I did, it was perfunctory 
and begrudging. I shuddered 
when I saw him listening to 

a song I’d recommended or 
whenever his name displayed on 
my “Friend Activity” (“friend,” 
the word I questioned). When I 
realized how not only permissible 
but also how simple it would be 
to escape this dimension of his 
lingering, it was ridiculously 
liberating. How unburdening it 
was to unfollow the playlists, to 
delete the one I made for him and 
lastly to unfollow him.
It’s unnerving how still, when 
I listen to a song by an artist he 
liked and I once liked, it carries a 
new weight of having been part of 
a trust I developed with someone 
but deeply regret. Maybe it’s that 
we surrender pieces of ourselves 
to our songs, the transaction, 
the dialogue that they are. We 
must because the associations 
between a person and their 
music is wonderful sometimes, 
unbearable 
other 
times 
and 
always incontrovertible.
We must, because getting 
free from him and getting free 
from his music felt like the same, 
almost possible, depriving but 
necessary thing.
***
It used to make me sad, how 
integral music or really any form 
of media can be to some of my 
relationships. I thought of it as 
the mark of a fizzling connection, 
like the unintelligible audio that 
occasionally 
bursts 
through 
static as you drive away from the 
tower.
Now I’m not so sure. What 
if, instead, it was the strongest 
connection 
we 
could 
have 
among ourselves? What if it’s the 
cables buried deep, the ones that 
survive the storms and are there 
even after the soil and pollution 
are piled on top?
My favorite line of poetry 
comes from a sam sax poem 
called “bury.” In it, sax entertains 
his fascination with burial rites, 
concluding with his own such 
preferences: “when I’m gone, 
make me again / from my hair. 
carry me with you / a small book 
in your pocket.”
When it comes down to it, I 
think I see music in a related, 
baseline way.
When I’m gone, remember 
me by my songs. Make a playlist 
in my name; I’ll be there, 
somewhere, probably in between 
the minor chords.

Coming of age in the days of music streaming, Spotify

 MALE RAFFINE

B-SIDE: MUSIC NOTEBOOK

JULIANNA MORANO
Managing Arts Editor

I don’t think that 
because the songs 
on the digital 
counterpart of 
a mixtape were 
easier to compile 
that less attention 
and care were 
devoted to the act 
of compiling them.

