Let it be known that Hozier, Irish singer-song-
writer extraordinaire, receives poetry books as
Christmas gifts. Yes, The man behind our favorite
sleepy Sunday morning tunes with his poignant,
dreamy voice reads poetry. And, most importantly:
If you tune in to Instagram Live at the right time
on Fridays, Hozier will read a selection of poetry
to you. For the past four weeks, Hozier presented
a kinder, gentler side of the internet. His perfor-
mance of casual loungewear and literary greats
found purchase with casual and ardent listeners
alike. He will repeatedly and endearingly fumble
through poetry books to find a specific poem.
With his hair combed back into a messy yet
practical bun, Hozier faces away from his record-
ing phone while reading. He looks clean, calm and
human. Mundane. He speaks informally to fans
and casual listeners, quickly mentioning the name
and author of his chosen poems before diving into
some great works. He keeps his voice steady and
calls Yeats “sassy” before moving on to another
poet.
Homey and comfortable, Hozier slows down
and invites others to pause their lives to appreciate
the quiet and subtle beauty of good writing.
The relentless self-promotion native to Insta-
gram Live streams is notably absent. Hozier has
yet to descend on a long, self-seeking monologue
of his COVID-19 grievances. In a surprising but
not unwelcome change, he simply reads poetry,
no insensitive commentary or unskippable adverts
attached. There’s no hyperactive positivity. There’s
no accompanying band or microphone. Instead,
what you have is what you hear. Hozier, unassum-
ing, kindly reminding listeners to wash their hands
and stay safe while sharing his interests.
His voice doesn’t pretend that the world outside
makes sense. His slow cadence acknowledges the
challenges of the present yet remains soothing.
There’s a startling lack of artifice. Hozier dips his
head while reading, focused on shaping the words.
He is reminiscent of a graduate student instructor,
overworked and bibliophilic.
However, Hozier’s Friday poetry corner read-
ings, while humble and calming, still serve as
performance: a new kind of performance, long
estranged from my 21st-century brain conditioned
to accept and process a relentless stream of 15-sec-
ond TikTok clips. But it is a performance all the
same.
Hozier films seated comfortably in front of a
large window showing off gorgeous spriggy trees.
Nature functions as the backdrop to his relaxed
intimacy. It’s fitting that Hozier frames his poetry
readings with nature. His fans famously manipu-
late his music, overlaying nature sounds with his
recordings to draw out the serene core of Hozier’s
discography.
Hozier takes his time reading, broadcasting an
ideal calm. For a short moment, his quiet, sooth-
ing voice transports listens from their daily, hectic
lives.
These intimate performances epitomize the
kind of relaxed introspection we desperately crave
in our busy work day. Hozier’s poetry corners tell
us that Hozier is but a man who enjoys the finer
things in life: poetry, heather mock necks and W
.B.
Yeats (among many others). And, his performanc-
es model by example an enviable state of quiet
appreciation.
Hozier doesn’t ask questions about the wild
stress and fear a man refusing to wear a mask in the
grocery store inspires. He doesn’t reprimand you
for your tired typos and rushed Zoom meetings.
Hozier performs a fantasy, one hallmarked by cozy
pull-overs and a natural background. The events
are a little boring yet the simple, straightforward
premise of poetry reading compels. Hozier draws
in listeners with his baffling, unassuming display of
7
“Memories are unreliable . . . Art is memo-
ry made public,” a musician muses in David
Mitchell’s new novel, “Utopia Avenue.”
Mitchell taps into an enduring public mem-
ory for the book: the late ’60s. It chronicles the
rise of a fictional British band called Utopia
Avenue, in the era of flower power and free
love. The band’s members come from dispa-
rate areas of the Soho music scene: There’s
Elf, a folkstress fresh from a “Sonny and Cher”
type duo with an ex-boyfriend; Dean, a bassist
struggling for cash; Griff, a jazz drummer; and
Jasper, a Dutch guitar prodigy. A uniquely egal-
itarian band, they split the singing, songwrit-
ing, instrumental duties and royalties equally.
Utopia Avenue’s music is described as “a shot
of R&B with a glug of psychedelica” and “a dash
of folk.” Another character calls them a “cut of
Pink Floyd … a dash of Cream, (and) a pinch of
Dusty Springfield.” Personally, they sounded
like David Bowie’s self-titled 1969 classic or
The Velvet Underground’s 1970 “Loaded.”
Mitchell gives the reader scant information
about the music itself, just enough to propel
one’s imagination and orient the music in its
cultural context, preferring instead to focus
on the inspirations behind the fictional songs
through narrative.
The story follows the band’s formation and
rise to stardom, and is broken into three parts,
corresponding with Utopia Avenue’s three LPs.
Each POV segment matches one of the band’s
songs, and frequently reveals the inspira-
tions behind the music. The plot, turning like
a record, meanders and doubles back on itself
as certain scenes crop up again in different
chapters like leitmotifs varying from charac-
ter to character. This never becomes tiresome,
because Mitchell’s prose is, as ever, immacu-
late.
His characters and settings are as lush and
finely crafted as Rembrandt paintings. The
paragraphs flow seamlessly, simultaneously
delicious with detail but addictively readable.
The amount of detail is just right, enough to be
immersive but not so much that one loses the
empathetic tether with the finely drawn char-
acters. Mitchell also takes enjoyable pitstops
where cultural icons pop up for cameos, like
heroes in a Marvel film. While the surprise is
half the fun of it, a pre-fame David Bowie steals
every scene he’s in.
The novel is no simple nostalgia-fest,
though. It hones in on the ’60s with a modern
lens, exploring gender, sexuality, mental ill-
ness, prejudice and poverty along with rock
’n’ roll. While there’s the usual beats of the late
’60s, the rock music, protests and drugs, Mitch-
ell also highlights what fiction usually shies
away from when covering the period. Figures
in positions of power, such as industry boss-
es, record store owners or family patriarchs,
exhibit anti-semitism, racism, sexism and
homophobia, illustrating what made the era
a difficult time to live in if one wasn’t a white
male. It is refreshing to dig beneath the flowery
veneer with characters who do not fit the era’s
stereotypes. Elf and Utopia Avenue’s manager
Leon benefit the most from this multifaceted
treatment, and their experiences being homo-
sexual in an intolerent era are the most poi-
gnant of the book. Elf also contends with being
a woman in a male-dominated industry, and is
frequently sexualized, patronized or flat out
ignored, even by her own band members.
Additionally, Mitchell explores art’s relation
to society in a fascinating, and prescient, man-
ner.
“We, my friends, are the bottlesmashers,”
a famous rocker says. “We release the genies .
. . In the ears of the young the genies whisper
what was unsayable. ‘Hey, kids- there’s noth-
ing wrong with being gay.’ Or ‘What if war isn’t
a patriotism test, but really fucking dumb?’
Or ‘Why do so few own so goddamn much?’.
. . Those whispers are the blueprints of the
future.”
“Utopia Avenue” is a comforting escape
from troubled times and a reminder that prog-
ress is never far from the horizon, especially
when art continues to break boundaries. Yet
while Mitchell conjures concert halls across
the globe, filled to the brim with roaring fans,
underground gay bars in London where artists
mingle over fancy cocktails and the scrubby,
sun-bleached Laurel Canyon with flair, the plot
buckles under an unnecessary cosmic weight.
Known as the “Mitchellverse,” David Mitch-
ell’s oeuvre shares characters and a fantastical
system of reincarnation, with dueling sects of
immortal souls. While this benefits “Utopia” in
some respects, like when a fan-favorite “Cloud
Atlas” character reappears, it mostly reads as
indulgent at best, and problematic at worst.
Mitchell makes lengthy digressions to
heroes and villains from his last two novels
“The Bone Clocks” and “Slade House.” While
those books worked as cosmic epics, the fan-
tasy, coming out of left field here, will confuse
those unfamiliar with Mitchell’s earlier work.
“Utopia” is a character-centered meander
through psychedelic rock, not a centuries-
spanning, sci-fi epic like his other books.
When a lengthy sojourn is made to immortal
souls dueling another immortal soul, it reads
as tacked on. One just wants to get back to the
rock band. Additionally, his previous books
take great pains to respectfully portray a
diverse cast of immortal characters. “Utopia,”
however, lacks this context.
Thursday, August 6, 2020
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com ARTS
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
LIZZIE YOON
Daily Arts Writer
MUSIC REVIEW
MUSIC REVIEW
ANDREW WARRICK
Managing Arts Editor
Revisiting the heady
60s in ‘Utopia Avenue’
Hozier reads to you
on Instagram Live
Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com