In one of my clearest childhood
memories, I’m standing in the wings of a
stage. I’m eight years old and I’m a little
out of breath, having just sprinted from the
dressing room to the stage. I’m nervously
rolling and unrolling a comic book — my
only prop, which I took very seriously — in
my hands as I wait for the lights to go down
and the scene to transition.
The last note of a song rings through the
theater, the spotlights turn off,
the crowd cheers. The
stage manager waves
a hand urgently, I
straighten the vest
that I’d been put in
for my little role as a
citizen of River City,
Iowa, and I step out to
find my mark.
Back then, I had
aspirations of becoming
a Broadway star. My
part as a background
townsperson in this
community production of “The Music Man”
was enough to get me dreaming. Maybe
this was just the first step. Maybe I’d get an
even bigger role in the next show, and things
would fall into place from there.
Everything in the world was possible and
wide open then. If I worked hard enough,
what would stop me from doing anything I
wanted to do? It was never even about fame
— something I could hardly conceptualize
at the time — but the fun of performing, of
stepping out in front of other people and
telling a story.
But I got older, and my ability to be
comfortable on a stage shrank as I lost
the self-assurance kids are blessed
with. I stopped performing. My dreams
shifted away from being a Broadway
star and gradually worked their way
down to earth. Eventually, after so long
with my head in the clouds, I found
myself with two feet on the ground. The
great big world of possibilities shrunk
to fit between the narrow walls of my
own capabilities and other people’s
expectations.
There’s probably a connection there
between how I stopped being able to
express myself both as an actor and in
real life. The ability to wear every emotion
plainly and feel them deeply became
harder to do in real life as it
became impossible to do on
a stage. No one told me that
growing up would make
me reticent, more afraid
of my own feelings,
more afraid of what
other people would
think
about
them.
But I kept theater with me,
even though I moved from the
stage to the audience. Of all the
things that I loved in my childhood,
it’s the only one that’s grown with me. I
can’t count how many productions I’ve
seen, but they span years and continents.
Musicals make me less jaded, even when
getting older demands pessimism and
weariness. I don’t know another medium
that allows, if not requires, the same kind
of frank emotional exposition. In order for
the story to move along, everyone has to
say exactly what they’re feeling so that the
audience can feel it too. The Phantom has
to tell everyone how ugly he is; Jenna has to
mourn the person she used to be; Evan has
to apologize as his lies unravel; Bobby has
to reconcile with his loneliness.
Whenever I sit in a theater, I let my
guard down. When I do, nothing can
command my attention the way that a
good show can. Even though the nature of
an audience involves being surrounded by
other people, I find the theater a solitary
experience. My phone stays off. I don’t
move from my seat until curtain call, even
during intermission. I don’t say much to
anyone who comes with me. For two or so
hours, I’m completely content to be alone
in my head.
Letting the theater’s darkness settle over
me like a weighted blanket and letting all of
the emotions coming from the stage — no
matter how dramatic or over-exaggerated
— allows me to experience everything with
more emotional clarity. Most of the time, I
have what I think must be a life-changing
realization about myself or the world or the
universe after I’ve seen a show. It’s never
actually as profound as I think it is, but it
means that I’d let go of some of my reticence
and hesitation, at least for a little while.
Basking in the loneliness — welcoming
it rather than shoving it away — invites
me to feel everything more acutely than I
normally would. It’s strange, but I think I
owe it to the people performing. They put
on such displays of emotion that it makes me
think it’s only fair for me to feel my own in
return.
Personal
growth
isn’t
linear,
but
sometimes I think I’ve only regressed from
the person I was when I was eight — the
person who let herself feel everything, who
was so excited to perform because she was
totally undaunted. The theater makes me
feel like that person again; it lets me take a
step back in order to move forward with
greater clarity. I learn — or, maybe, relearn —
something about myself every time I’m in an
audience. I leave the theater having grown
into my own skin just a little bit more.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, April 14, 2021 — 5
Some things escape your notice until
they’re pointed out to you, and then they
become all you can think about. This was the
case with the first girl I ever really noticed as
beautiful — not beautiful, attractive. And it’s
the case with every love song sung by a woman
that I’ve listened to, where she uses the word
“she” or “her” to reference her lover.
The thing is, heterosexual love songs don’t
seem particularly gendered until you realize
that you don’t quite fall into that realm all the
time. Or even most of the time. And you don’t
notice how unusual it is to hear LGBTQ+
romantic songs until the word “she” pops out
of absolutely nowhere, making you sit down
and stare at absolutely nothing — feeling your
thought patterns exploring this word and self-
inserting as you rewind the song.
Like many pansexual or bisexual people, I
started off thinking that my first “thing” for a
girl was something that would happen maybe
once or twice in my life. “I’m not bisexual, I
just like girls sometimes,” I would insist. Let’s
just say that’s something to laugh about now.
Music surrounded the first girl I realized
I was attracted to. We found that we had
the same favorite lyric in a particular song,
something about God and swimming pools.
My Spotify was a portal to getting to know me,
she told me. I insisted to myself that my feelings
for her were a rare one-off in my life; I created
percentages of attraction in my head, weighted
toward men. In reality, breaking love and other
feelings down into math, just like with music,
makes them lose some of their meaning.
And slowly, I began to notice when women
sang about female lovers.
Sometimes, the songs were passionately
centered on the anger of the woman-loving-
woman experience, using sex as defiance
against those who would hate them because
of their love. In Rett Madison’s “God is a
Woman,” Madison describes her knees as
“shaking” and “purple” as a woman kissed
them. The uncertain, nervous trembling
contrasted with the sureness of the romantic
experience laid out a story in my head to match
my feelings.
I would lie awake in bed at night, listening to
“Lorraine” by Big Thief over and over and over
again. The “soft burning hands” mentioned
didn’t belong to a man. They couldn’t. There
was something about Adrianne Lenker’s quiet
singing, thinking about a woman in a way
filled with desire, but without the force of a
man, that made me shiver.
The possibility of hands touching me that
didn’t belong to a man — of saying “This is my
girlfriend,” of tucking a girl’s long hair behind
her ear — all presented themselves to me as
new possibilities. They were scary to explore
and dream up on my own. So, a variety of
female musicians did it for me. Slowly, I began
to look for women singing about female lovers.
In “She,” Dodie sings hesitantly and sweetly
about noticing all the different things that
make you crush on someone — and, for the
first time, noticing them about a woman. The
woman she dreams of smelled of “lemongrass
and sleep,” and I wondered what sleep smelled
like. “Georgia” by Emily King is a song born
from heartbreak like many others, except that
she is begging a female lover to return. And, of
course, “Graceland Too” by Phoebe Bridgers
filled me to the brim and then spilled over a bit
every time I listened, especially when I finally
listened closely enough to realize that it was
about a woman.
Just like that, it was as though some puzzle
had been solved. Had other songs I hadn’t
listened to closely enough also contained
sapphic stories? Were there many more to
listen and dream to? Was it just one big gay
treasure hunt? Even now, when I am fully
confident in calling myself pansexual and
when I often notice women more than men,
these songs leave me with the same sense of
awe and shy interest that they always did. The
casual wonder with which Bridgers views her
lover eating saltines on her floor mimics the
way I have looked at a girl I care about when
she frowns at her homework or watches a
streetlight change from behind the wheel.
Devotion of any kind is about small
attentions, noticing the things that others won’t.
Dodie, Bridgers and countless other women
have marked down all the little ways that their
partners are unique and special. With love
songs that relish in the privilege of noticing the
small things about the women they adore, they
mark the individuality of their lovers.
And it is important to me, and I’m sure
to other listeners, that sometimes these
individuals are women. With each different
gay love song I found, a new path of dreaming
presented itself.
For a while, I admired the boldness and
assuredness with which they addressed
themselves. But for a while, personally, I didn’t
want my sexuality to be a lens through which
I was perceived. Though I’m no songwriter,
nowadays, I nevertheless find ways to explore
queerness in my creative work (obviously).
It’s funny how the love of others makes you
consider the love within yourself. It’s funny
how lucky their wonderful music makes me
feel to experience the same love.
One of my proudest moments at four
years old was memorizing all the lyrics to
“Hang Me Up To Dry” by The Cold War
Kids. I sang it confidently to my parents one
evening, a cappella. Along with The Cold
War Kids, my father force-fed me music by
the Rolling Stones, The Black Keys and Red
Hot Chili Peppers, among others. He did
everything he could to make sure that his
music taste was ingrained into my head.
Every night, the lullaby my father sang
me was his own rendition of “Yellow” by
Coldplay — except in his version, “yellow”
was replaced with “weasel,” his nickname
for me when I was young.
Cartoons and movie nights were
replaced with music video watch parties.
My favorite DVD was “Slowboat to Hades,”
an interactive rendition of music videos
and concert clips accompanying the release
of the Gorillaz album Demon Days. My
Christmas gift at six years old was a first-
generation iPod Nano, pre-downloaded
with all of my father’s favorite songs. I
stayed up well past my bedtime replaying
“Brick” by Ben Folds Five and listening to
Radiohead.
Looking
back,
passing
down
his
knowledge of music was one of the few
hobbies my father could easily share with
me. My father has been in a wheelchair
for my entire life, so teaching me how to
play sports, cook or use tools was out of the
question. Listening to music was something
to bond over and an activity he was always
able to partake in.
His
music
taste
stuck
with
me
throughout my early adolescent years, up
until middle school when I decided that I
had been deprived of listening to the “Top
40” played repetitively on the radio. As I
began to branch out into an entirely new
realm of music — boy bands, indie-pop
and eventually rap — the shared interest
between me and my father diminished.
Our common ground developed into me
complaining about listening to Iron &
Wine at dinner, and him complaining about
playing J. Cole and Kanye in the car.
At the beginning of high school, the
relationship between my father and me
strayed even further. After a surgery, he was
placed into long-term in-patient care. I saw
him every other night for dinner. We caught
up about what was happening at school, how
cross country was going, what I was going
to be up to over the weekend — the basics.
There was little time for mindless bickering
about the legitimacy of electronic music
and why I should listen to a “real band” like
Nirvana. Our similarities naturally lessened,
and we began to grow apart.
A couple months later, when my father
was finally allowed to continue his care at
home, I was already immersed in the world
of alternative R&B, trap music and EDM.
The lyrics to “Hang Me Up To Dry” had
faded from my memory and the songs from
my iPod were entirely left out of my Liked
Songs on Spotify. Conversations about
music became few and far between with
my father. The only time it was brought up
was when my father would decide to test
me on my music knowledge while one of his
playlists looped during family dinner. As the
years went by, my guesses for “Who sings
what?” became more inaccurate.
During my senior year of high school,
my father was in and out of the hospital for
weeks at a time. One morning, as I sat half
asleep in my 8 a.m. statistics class, I received
a call from an unknown number. Much
to my surprise, it was my father calling
me from the hospital. With more pep in
his voice than normal and a slight sense of
urgency, he asked if I could do him a “huge
favor” — bring his headphones over to the
hospital after school.
That afternoon, I stayed with him in his
hospital room until the sun set. I sat next to
him doing homework while he caught up
on all the new album releases he had missed
while in the hospital. Every now and then,
he would insist that “I had to hear” the song
he was listening to. I reluctantly listened to
them and secretly enjoyed all of them. He
then had me help him create a new playlist.
I titled it very literally, “Made with Dad in
the Hospital.” During the creation of the
playlist, his song additions sparked some
of my own suggestions for the playlist.
We began to banter again about various
songs and artists. I vouched for some of my
favorite songs while he did the same for his,
and we surprisingly agreed on an extensive
list of songs. I came to the realization that
my father’s music taste had rubbed off on
me a little more than I would’ve liked to
admit.
All it took was one playlist to spark a
period of growth within our relationship.
Our love for music converged once again.
I began to revert back to my roots, from
R.E.M. to Beck. I actively searched for
music that I enjoyed, in the hope that my
father would too. Our conversations were no
longer filled with small talk about our days.
Instead, they were characterized by drawn-
out discussions of new albums, music videos
and performances. I even relearned the
lyrics to “Hang Me Up To Dry.”
Though music was not the defining
factor of me and my father’s relationship,
it functioned as a kind of guide, marking
the different stages of our bond. Our
likes and dislikes amplified the highs and
lows of our relationship. Our growth was
reflected in our music. As the relationship
matured, the breadth of our music scapes
overlapped more and more. Music was
never the sole reason we grew apart, but
it was the turning point in finding our
way back to common ground, and to each
other.
There is much to be said about a film’s
ability to influence the viewer. We all have a
movie that gave us chills and stayed front-of-
mind long after we left the theatre. When I
saw the 1985 film “Come and See,” I couldn’t
understand how people stood up so quickly
when the credits began to roll. I had been
immobilized by the apocalyptic imagery of
Nazi brutality and sat slack-jawed as fellow
movie-goers gathered their things and
discussed dinner plans. Movies like this have
the potential to change the way we perceive
and comprehend the world. But sometimes,
it is the viewer who changes the film. As we
grow and change, our understanding of a
movie will change with us.
I recently watched “High Fidelity” for the
third time. The movie, released a few months
before I was born in 2000, introduces the
audience to Rob Gordon (John Cusack,
“Being John Malkovich”) as his girlfriend
Laura (Iben Hjejle, “Defiance”) is walking
out the door. Rob, a former DJ and Chicago
record store-owner, is no stranger to break-
ups. Throughout the film, Cusack breaks the
fourth wall as Rob directly addresses the
camera, walking us through his romantic
history and quest to understand why he is
fated to be rejected.
Rob is something of an antihero. Viewed
according to 2021 standards, the film
capitalizes on antiquated tropes about
heterosexual relationships and a hefty dose
of misogyny. By 2000 standards, this is just
another movie about male dysfunction.
Scott Tobias of The Guardian says that Rob
“is kind of a jerk,” and describes the Nick
Hornby book on which the movie was based
as an “incisive dissection of the pop-addled
male brain.” To put it more simply, Rob is
a man-child with ill-founded ideas about
women and their role in his life. “High
Fidelity” is not life-changing, and it hasn’t
altered the way I perceive anything. Except,
maybe, Jack Black’s ability to cover Marvin
Gaye.
What has changed, however, is my
perception of the film itself. When I first
watched “High Fidelity,” I was 13 or 14
and had recently discovered the world of
collecting vintage vinyl. If I recall, I was
disappointed to learn that the movie poster
was a bit misleading: The film was more
about record store-owner than record store.
This explains why I more clearly recall the
Championship Vinyl scenes than I do the
scenes in bars and restaurants.
My next encounter with “High Fidelity”
took place a few years ago, when I was
probably 17 or 18. This time, with my
initial delusions dispelled, I knew what
I was getting into. No longer focused on
the vinyl aspect, I actually appreciated it
more. Rob has pretty good taste, and boy,
can Jack Black sing. Reflecting now on my
first rewatch, my memory seems to fixate
on Rob’s dysfunction. I may have seen too
much of myself in self-conscious Rob for
comfort, and as an anxious teenager, I was
a bit disconcerted. Rob is sad, selfish and
more deserving of pity than sympathy. I did
not want to be Rob.
Now, rewatching “High Fidelity” again, I
still see myself in Rob, but not as the selfish
mope. When Laura leaves, Rob undertakes
the reorganization of his large record
collection “autobiographically.” In order to
find a song, he’d need to scour his memory
for the person or event to which that song is
attached. This is a very minor plot point, and
it is meant to support the point that Rob has
an obsessive personality. I was struck by this
scene, not because I heal emotional wounds
through reorganization (if only it were
that easy), but because there is something
poignant
about
turning
that
sorting
compulsion on one’s own personal history in
a time of crisis.
Rob is still a problematic character on the
third watch. His ironically simultaneous
fears of commitment and rejection are likely
to linger despite his making up with Laura
at the film’s conclusion. The insecurity and
selfishness which struck a minor chord with
my 17-year-old self have been replaced by my
identification with Rob’s desire to find and
create order in a disordered world.
“High Fidelity” is defined by lists. Rob
is always making them, often with his
friends, otherwise for the camera. In fact,
the narrative structure is oriented around
Rob’s Top Five Worst Breakups — you see
here a hint of his misogyny as he reduces
women to ordinal items. Music is the source
material for most of the film’s lists, with
one example being “Top Five Songs for a
Monday Morning.” If you’ll indulge me, and
in no particular order: “Feeling Good” by
Nina Simone, “7 AM” by Jacqueline Taieb,
“Sunday Morning” by Amanaz (ironic, I
know), “It’s Summertime” by Morcheeba
and “Beggin’” by Frankie Valli and the Four
Seasons.
Rob’s list-making is shown as a symptom
of his dysfunction. We get hints of this
obsessive quality elsewhere in the film, like
Rob’s hypocritical focus on Laura’s post-
breakup sexual activity and the way he seeks
absolution from obsession over the “top five”
exes. Rob is not a healthy man, but there is
something else at work here. The characters
gloss over his record reorganization, but it
reveals an interiority that is lacking in the
rest of the movie.
To construct this “autobiographical”
system, Rob must draw on a mental timeline
of emotional memory. His musical catalog
becomes a playable chronicle of his life. His
new system will be totally nonsensical to the
outsider, suggesting that Rob sees his now
Laura-less apartment as a sanctuary and
extension of himself.
And sweetest of all, when he sits down to
make Laura a mixtape at the end of the film,
he must first make a sort of memory playlist,
curating an emotional experience for Laura
from events that may even predate her.
“High Fidelity” is about much more than
a self-loathing and obsessive-compulsive
record store owner. The viewer is welcomed
into an emotional world defined by music,
arranged like a setlist and highly curated, for
better or for worse. This was lost on me when
I first watched and then rewatched the film.
On the first go, my initial misconceptions
left me dialed into the music alone, generally
uninterested in Rob’s romantic woes. The
second round was subconsciously sour, as
Rob’s insecurities hit too close to my own and
left a bad taste in my mouth. Now, I watch
his romantic incompetence with pity while
focusing on his pathological need to impose
order. On the third go, the film is much more
interesting.
Rob’s lines and lists are the same as they
were when I was 14. All that has changed is
me. From viewing to viewing, I traversed
setting and superficiality toward plot
and character, and beyond to subplot and
consequence. I only imagine that next time
I will come full circle to the superficial and
spend the whole time trying to identify
the many Chicago and suburban filming
locations. “High Fidelity” is no cinematic
masterpiece, but my experience with the
film embodies one of the ways that personal
growth can alter our perception of art and
media.
Noticing “her”: The sapphic love song
‘And it was all weasel’: Defining a relationship through music
My love letter to theater and the things it’s taught me
‘High Fidelity’ and the
illuminative power of rewatching
Design by Grace Aretakis
Design by Mellisa Lee
ROSA SOFIA KAMINSKI
Daily Arts Writer
CARTER VEILLEUX
Daily Arts Writer
KATRINA STEBBINS
Daily Arts Writer
ROSS LONDON
Daily Arts Writer
Design by
Cara Jhang