When I heard Quinn XCII’s single “Stacy”
this past winter, I thought his upcom-
ing album would be similar to his previous
album, From Michigan With Love. “Stacy,” a
playful depiction of a rebellious relationship
between a high school freshman and a senior,
possesses the same contradictions we’ve seen
in his previous albums where the upbeat
nature of the music sharply contrasts with
the heavy and often complicated subject mat-
ter of the lyrics. But that’s what Quinn XCII
does best — he loves to pull difficult subjects
and make them lightheartedly digestible.
Despite the cheerful singles he dropped in
anticipation of the album’s release, A Letter
To My Younger Self showcases Quinn XCII’s
maturity and the amount of growth he’s expe-
rienced since his last album release. While
this album grapples with many of the themes
we’ve seen on his previous albums — mental
illness, love and heartbreak — A Letter To
My Younger Self takes these ideas and dis-
cusses them more honestly than they’ve been
depicted before.
One of the best examples of Quinn XCII’s
growth is the most reflective tune on the
album, “Second Time Around.” A pre-
released single just a few weeks before he
dropped the album, this song was described
by Quinn XCII as “the most powerful song
I’ve ever made” on his Instagram. The tune
is softer than anything we’ve heard from him
before, with delicate piano riffs and a raw cut
of his voice crooning about his regret for the
mistakes he’s made in the past and his vow to
be better in the future. The song also unveils
Quinn XCII’s spiritual beliefs, something
he’s kept out of his music in the past, as he
addresses his concerns to God and expresses
how he doesn’t believe he deserves a spot in
heaven after what he’s done in the past. This
reflective approach to songwriting contrasts
starkly with his previous songs dealing with
heavy subjects. While Quinn XCII has always
been open about his battle with depression,
he’s often glossed over the seriousness of
the illness by playfully presenting the hard
things he’s been through. “Sad Still,” a tune
off his 2017 album The Story of Us, discusses
depression in a simple way, as Quinn XCII
chants “we take this red pill, green pill, black
pill / I know deep down we’re sad still” over
poppy drum beats and bubbly synths. “Sec-
ond Time Around” takes a completely dif-
ferent approach with Quinn XCII getting
serious about how mental illness has impact-
ed him, and doesn’t shy away from honestly
opening up about the hard things: “Been
at war with myself / Makin’ my friends the
enemy / I let all of them down.”
It’s no surprise Quinn XCII’s become more
serious with his music. Since the release of
From Michigan With Love he’s married and
settled down with his new wife, spending his
time away from music cooking or attending
their friends’ weddings. While he’s still the
goofy, open artist who earned him so many
loyal fans, it’s clear he’s gotten a better grip
on his life and career, and is now ready to
open up about where he went wrong in the
past.
Despite its reflective nature, A Letter To
My Younger Self isn’t completely somber.
Songs like “Stacy,” “Coffee” and “Two 10s”
embody Quinn XCII’s signature, unsystemat-
ic sound that incorporates unique drum beats
and lighthearted electric guitar riffs that can
only be characterized as the rap-reggae style
of Quinn XCII. He also incorporated collabo-
rations with artists like Black Bear, Ashe and
Logic in “Am I High Rn,” “Sleep While I Die”
and the album’s title track.
6
Thursday, July 16, 2020
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
ARTS
SUMMER SERIES
SUMMER SERIES
Houston Ballet and
the pain of distance
Much of ballet has to do with precision
— exact placement is the gateway to physi-
cal strength and artistic allure. This dream
of absolute clarity of movement is thus the
founding goal of ballet training: toes that
point but do not curl, ankles that rotate but
do not roll, legs that turn out but only from
the hips and never from the knees, ribs that
lift off of the stomach and shoulders that
remain relaxed and level below and long, lift-
ed neck. These rigid requirements, though
necessary and impressive, are not physically
natural. It takes years to sculpt a professional
dancer’s body, and much of that time must
take place in childhood alongside developing
bones and muscles. The result is a physique
that is strong and supple enough to enjoy
the adventure of ballet’s art. Even still, that
end product of adulthood is never actually
finished: Rigorous daily classes must con-
tinuously remind one’s muscles about the
distinct requirements of balletic anatomy.
Stop practicing and the body will inevitably
spring backward into its natural position.
This, of course, is not easy. To maintain
such well-oiled bodily machinery at the pro-
fessional level requires a substantial mix of
blood, sweat and the occasional tear. This
level of physical dedication is part of what
makes ballet so otherworldly — there is mys-
tery in the difficulty of the steps performed
— and it also makes ballet dancers some of
the strongest psychological warriors of our
time. They will work with the same inten-
sity and drive as a football player without the
appealing draws of money or even fame. To
keep going requires intense vision, usually
with the constant inspiration of a moment
onstage under the burning beauty of indus-
trial stage lights.
These two facets of ballet’s world — a
stage and a studio — tend to coexist out of
their reliance on each other. Good perfor-
mance cannot happen without hard work in
the studio; Hard work in the studio is diffi-
cult to motivate without good performance.
For years and generations this coexis-
tence worked seamlessly and productively
in the creation of ballet. Dancers worked
and learned with each other in the confines
of humid dance studios, exchanging lessons
and providing inspiration for each other to
keep fighting for their shot on stage. Now,
like many other previously accepted norms
of society, COVID-19 halts the opportunity
for such exchanges. Cancelled shows are
of course heartbreaking events for dancers
to bear, yet closed studios leave artists with
little place to process such loss. Neither situ-
ation makes it any easier to maintain one’s
well-sculpted technique, a level of fitness
that begins to atrophy after a week, let alone
a few months. Left to maintain their physi-
cality alone and handle the mental stress of
an art world in shambles, dancers continue
to make do with living room floors and
kitchen-counter barres. In an interview with
her co-worker last week, New York City Bal-
let principal dancer Megan Fairchild said it
best: “I’m miserable!”
Enter Houston Ballet: Suddenly a ray of
sunshine in the sea of gray clouds, the com-
pany gracefully disrupted the depression
of ballet’s 2020 existence. Last week, they
released a new short film aimed at main-
taining audience engagement and hopefully
salvaging their hemorrhaging finances. The
seven-minute extravaganza features all 61
company artists as they bounce, jiggle and
jive in an elation-inducing interpretation of
Billy Idol’s 1980 “Dancing by Myself,” a song
so perfectly crafted for quarantine that it’s
hard to believe it’s 40 years old.
In the film, the dancers start out comically
downtrodden — highlights include one man
dragging his bathrobe through the kitchen
while cradling a pint of ice cream and anoth-
er, also in pajamas, with his feet in the dryer.
When the music starts, the loungewear-
covered artists start to bounce. One of the
women has a bright green face peel. Then,
they twist, jump and twirl. As the energy
builds, their outfits change. Suddenly they’re
outside: The world is bright, their clothes
are even brighter. They’re swaying and spin-
ning and throwing their arms. They’re happy
to move, excited to dance. The whole thing is
masterfully edited and joyfully acted — and,
it includes barely any ballet technique.
Each of these dancers is classically
trained. They know all the rules — they’re
just not following them. Their shoulders
can move and their knees can bend. Their
toes don’t have to point and their legs need
not turn out. At the same time, they are still
wholeheartedly ballet dancers. Even in their
pajamas, they move with a grace that’s quite
impossible to acquire unless you’ve spent
your entire childhood in a ballet studio.
Their fingers don’t forget the distinct mold
of a ballet dancer’s hand and their knees
swivel without the joltiness of a layman.
Even slouched, turned in and ready-to-roll,
they do not shed the inherent liftedness of
ballet’s mold. In this vein, they become
strung across two existences, flying above us
and walking among us in the same count of
eight.
ZOE PHILLIPS
Daily Arts Writer
Quinn XCII reflects
in his new album
Read more at michigandaily.com
KAITLYN FOX
Daily Arts Writer
Read more at michigandaily.com
MUSIC REVIEW
MUSIC REVIEW