Guys, Please see below. Sent from my iPhone From: Jimmy, a Living Snail Date: January 28th, 2015 at 5:23:42 CST To: Brock Kesterson Subject: Lost item Hi Dr. Kesterson, I recently lost my Texas Instruments Speak & Spell. I really need it for English class. It’s bright orange and has “bob saget is a killer” scratched on the back. I’d really appreciate it if you could get back to me as soon as possible. James Smith
Hello reader, We’re always looking for essays, poems, short stories, reviews, recipes, how-tos, jokes, microfiction, proofs, drawings, illustration, designs, photoshops, small children, donations, gyros, kidnapping plots, bananas, etc. If there’s something you want published, send it our way at gadfly@sluh.org or by slipping it under the door to M125. Thanks for reading this little stack of paper. We hope you enjoy. —Giuseppe Vitellaro and David Burke
“…our city is like a large horse which because of its size is inclined to be lazy and needs the stimulation of a gadfly… before long you will awake from your drowsing, and in annoyance take Anytus’s advice and swat me; and then you will go on sleeping.”
GADFLY FEBRUARY 2015
Giuseppe “Cabal President” Vitellaro David “Cabal Inductee” Burke Sam “Cabal PR Man” Fentress Paul “Strange” Daues Kevin “Stranger” Strader Michael “Swell kid” Neuhoff John “Ratman” Ratermann Sam “Audubon” Aubuchon Jack “Steve” Embry Alix “Not Laith” Sexton-Warner Max “Cabal Victim” Prosperi Mr. Paul “Bowling Ball” Baudendistel Mr. Steve “Yellow Journalism” Missey Dr. David “Kal Kan” Callon Mr. Joe “Cabal Treasurer” Komos Mr. Michael “Four’s a Crowd” Schonhoff
CONCERT CALENDAR Dates listed are opening nights. 2/08/15 Dark Star Orchestra 2/08/15 Dave Dickey Big Band 2/09/15 Kina Grannis 2/10/15 Less Than Jake & Reel Big Fish 2/10/15 St. Louis Stompers 2/09/15 An Evening with Branford Marsalis 2/11/15 Guster 2/13/15 Valentine’s Day with Erin Bode 2/13/15 Above & Beyond 2/13/15 The Wicked Pixel Cinema Rockshow 2/14/15 Faithfully: A Tribute to the Music of Journey 2/14/15 G. Love & Special Sauce 2/17/15 Gaelic Storm 2/18/15 Jeff Lorber Fusion 2/19/15 Blackberry Smoke 2/19/15 The Very Best of Celtic Thunder 2/19/15 Robyn Hitchcock 2/20/15 Larkin Poe & Jesse Mae 2/21/15 Evan Dando 2/21/15 The Isley Brothers 2/22/15 Ladysmith Black Mambazo 2/22/15 Portland Cello Project 2/23/15 Catfish and the Bottlemen 2/24/15 St. Louis Brass Band 2/24/15 Hozier 2/26/15 Lil Wyte 2/27/15 Peter Martin & Federico González Peña 2/27/15 Ed Kowalczyk 2/27/15 Million Dollar Quartet 2/28/15 Byron Stripling 2/28/15 Ricky Skaggs & Kentucky Thunder 2/28/15 Quitting Amy 2/14/15 Jasen Isbell 3/01/15 Milo Greene 3/04/15 Webster University Chamber Singers 3/04/15 The Phantom of the Opera 3/07/15 King of Pain: A Tribute to the Police 3/10/15 Chamber Music Society of St. Louis 3/19/15 Brit Floyd
The Pageant Jazz at the Bistro The Firebird The Pageant Sheldon Concert Hall Jazz at the Bistro The Pageant Jazz at the Bistro The Pageant Blueberry Hill Powell Hall The Pageant The Pageant Jazz at the Bistro The Pageant Fox Theater Blueberry Hill Blueberry Hill Blueberry Hill Fox Theater Sheldon Concert Hall Blueberry Hill The Firebird Sheldon Concert Hall The Pageant The Firebird Sheldon Concert Hall Blueberry Hill Fox Theater Jazz at the Bistro Sheldon Concert Hall Blueberry Hill Peabody Opera House Blueberry Hill Sheldon Concert Hall Fox Theater Blueberry Hill Sheldon Concert Hall Peabody Opera House
WHITE IN FERGUSON BY MAX PROSPERI
I
GRABBED the pair of skinny chinos and my newly purchased flannel and began to walk out of Urban Outfitters. My cousin followed behind me rejoicing to be able to leave the world of indie music, skinny pants, and vinyls. We began the walk out to the car. It was eight thirty or so, thirty minutes before closing. It was the night before Thanksgiving so the mall was almost dead other than a few couples enjoying a meal at the California Pizza Kitchen. We exited the warm air that wreaked of Auntie Anne’s overly buttered pretzels and into the cold wintery night. As we approached our car, military humvees and highway patrol swarmed the parking lot. It felt like that scene in those apocalyptic movies where zombies are making their way down highway 40 and the only hope is the military. Crowds of whites fled the mall and to their cars shouting about how “those people have to wreck everything.” Fearing the worst we ran with the crowd to the car. We sat down and watched as white men hopped out of humvees, patrol cars, and armoured vehicles. I was stunned. My cousin sitting in awe turned to me and said, “Let’s go in.” I couldn’t believe I was considering going back in there. Visions of Ferguson a city in flames flashed through my mind. She had made her mind up as she jumped out of the car and made
for the entrance. I had no other option so I followed behind her. The walk into the mall this time was much different than the first time. We were vigilant but also oblivious. I couldn’t wait to witness first hand the events I watched on CNN a few nights before. We approached the Bread Company. My first experience with a protestors unfolded right there near the curb. As white men armed with large assault rifles exited their humvees a man walked to the Bread Company window. He began to scream through the window, pumping his fist vigorously. I couldn’t tell what he was saying but it wasn’t in anger, it was excitement. That man was ready to challenge the straight faced white men in uniform. We hesitated entering the mall giggling nervously to what might be unfolding beyond the automatic doors. More police swarmed into the parking lot. The automatic doors swung opened and the mall didn’t feel like the mall I had just exited a few minutes ago. A white store clerk at Nordstrom was lowering the chain fence at eight twenty five or so, thirty five minutes before closing. He was frantic as if a crowd of flesh eating zombies was approaching the anchor tenant. We walked past other tenants. Some stores were open, others were not. Tenants stood watch glaring from side to side. Crowds of
people continued to anxiously run to the exits. We feared the worse. About a minute back in the mall we heard screaming and chanting. We froze in our tracks terrified of what we might see when we turned the corner. After a few seconds of timidly walking down the deserted hall, we heard louder chanting and took off to the source. As we approached the atrium near the food court we began to make out the chants. “Who are we.”the crowd responded “Mike Brown.” We noticed the crowd gathering across the atrium. There were forty five or so demonstrators, mostly black chanting and stomping their feet. On both sides of the protesters stood cops and national guard armed with large assault rifles. We decided to approach the crowd. Most of the protesters stood firmly with smiles on their faces. I could tell they felt they were a part of something. Growing up in the predominantly white suburb of Kirkwood that “something.” was degraded to nothing than “an excuse to get some time off work and destroy their community.” That message might have gotten the best of me if I hadn’t had overstepped my boundaries and went back into that mall. The chants continued to echo throughout the mall. My cousin chose to ask a cop rather than a protestor to find out what had happened in those short minutes during our walk to the car. The white female cop responded, “They all decided to gather here, they have been doing those chants yelling and hollering, its not too big of a concern.” I asked, “Do you plan on making arrests?” She responded, “No, they are no more than a pest, they come in
here and chant their little chants and then leave, then we pack up and follow them across town.” I couldn’t help but reflect on what the female officer said to us. To her, they meant nothing. They were nothing more than a pest. I felt disappointment. Just being around that group of forty-five made me feel like I was witnessing a part of history, like I was part of the movement. She shared the same view that the majority of the white community seemed to share. There was no movement only a pest problem. The group of demonstrators was made up of around thirty-eight blacks and six or so young, mostly female, whites. I couldn’t see all their faces, but the majority of their faces showed a proud, excited, and enthused expression. The crowd was like fire and the atmosphere was electric. My cousin and I stood around twenty feet behind the demonstrators fearing we might get labeled as one of them. Though the demonstrators were completely peaceful I stood back. I am ashamed to say that I cowered when faced with demonstrating with a group of peaceful young people only five maybe six years older than myself for the most part. I didn’t want to be associated with those Ferguson protesters. They are pushing for an equal America. An America where the average life expectancy is the same for both a white boy and a black boy, an America where the income gap is not 40% but equal, an America where black teens can get the same education a white teen can get, and I cowered away from them. Russiatoday, KSDK, and KMOX followed the group.
I feared that I might get in a shot and forever be seen as a rioter, looters, or one of the pests. The protest inside the walls of the Galleria continued. Now 8:50 p.m., the protesters had done a full loop around the first floor of the mall. The chants echoed throughout the mall. “You can’t stop the revolution.” “No Justice, No Profit.” “We are Mike Brown.” I felt joy and excitement as I followed the crowd slowly behind with my Galaxy S5 recording their every move. There were mixed reactions from mall tenants. A black women at the Microsoft store stood among her white colleagues who galred viciously at the protest in disgust. She didn’t cower under pressure and instead began to tap on the glass chanting the same chants as the protestors. As we continued to walk down the mall we passed a row of holiday themed kiosks. An older white man was putting a cloth over his kiosk, closing earlier than usual. After the demonstrators were a safe distance away the man said something so disgusting it made me want to lash out at him. “Why don’t you all just die already,”he shouted. At the moment I didn’t even think twice about his remark. But as I reflected on the events that night I looked at his anger from both sides. This man had every right to be angry. He had to close up early. He lost revenue that he needs badly during the holiday season, but I better understand the anger of the demonstrators. The protesters came to a halt around the same place they met up. We realized that the protest had ended, so I cowardly dashed out the
exit and hid behind a line of highway patrol. As protesters filed out they began to notice the police presence. The police formed a line in front of the now vacant mall. The protesters continued their peaceful march, shouting the same chants. There were small confrontations between the protestors and officers as many protesters shouted “you can’t stop the revolution.”to officers. I still can’t say I fully understand what that revolution is. The night at the Galleria made me want to know more about the event. I turned to my cousin and said, “Let’s go to Ferguson.” She shouted back at me, “Are you crazy? We’ll get shot.” I managed to convince her. Over Thanksgiving break, that cousin and I spent probably a total of six hours in Ferguson, the Grove, and other various places throughout the St. Louis area. We just watched. I think I began to feel the same feeling that I was a part of something those protestors did while they chanted at the Galleria. Whether it was equal treatment for the black community or anti-discriminatory laws for LGBT members in St. Louis, I felt it. There was something going on that week in St. Louis and the nation. There is a revolution. One must stop watching this revolution from the comfort of their home and see who these people are. The people that set these communities on fire are not part of the revolution; they are the pests. The people I saw at the Galleria, the Groove, and in the heart of Ferguson want peace and equality. There is certainly a revolution at hand, rather or not it succeeds, only time will tell.
RESTLESS BY KEVIN STRADER
I
LAY on my bed, the only thing moving in my room was the fan. It lightly sprinkled dust across the room; it hadn’t been turned on in months because of the nice weather. I sat unmoving staring through the ceiling. My body was still yet my brain leaped farther and farther away from any comforting thought. “What if the chemo doesn’t help? What if they found it too late? What if she dies?” The last question rattles in my brain the same way it has since summer. The same swift stab of pain in my throat as I stiffen my face. I swing over in bed hoping to turn my back to the thoughts that refuse me sleep. Regardless of my attempts to close my eyes, they are pried back open by restless thoughts. Maybe some music will help, I think. Shuffling through the twenty or so songs before I hear the three opening piano keys that I recognize without even needing to see the name of the song. After You’ve Gone by Marion Harris. In this recording, the sound of the needle gliding across the record quietly hums behind the words. The lyrics hurt to hear: “Now won’t you listen deary, while I say, How could you tell me that you’re goin’ away?” The words of this long dead singer rattled my emotions. I felt no control. Earlier that year, in the summer, my family and I were on vacation in Destin, Florida. We stayed at a bungalow in Sandestin, a vacation resort in Florida. When you entered the bunga-
low from the front porch you ran into the kitchen and the family room. The open room felt great just to hang out in. The breeze would come in from the screen door on the worn wooden porch mixing with the contemporary style of the kitchen; the feeling was that of the old fusing just right with the new. At dinner on Saturday, the day before we were leaving, we were enjoying some local fish my dad had picked up earlier that day. Our family gathered on the porch, eating and laughing yet I remember the feeling of uncertainty that clouded my happiness. Throughout the dinner I began to take notice of my parents’ oneword answers and distant thoughts that trailed off. They sat at the opposite side of the table from the three of us. It was Jeffery, Jack and I. Jeffery, my oldest brother who was soon to be graduating college at Lindenwood University, Jack, my older brother was a senior at DuBourg and varsity soccer goalie. My parents had politely asked us to listen. We stopped talking, the silence was crushing. I sat unmoving, hearing the slow and seemingly practiced speech of my dad as he held my mom’s hand. I cringed at the words: “found”, “cancer”, and “chemo” My emotional mask was torn off piece by piece by every word. After being told about our mom, the three of us gave her hugs and said all the classics: “It’s going to be ok”, “You are going to get through this”, “ Don’t worry” People say those
same lines so much they might actually make you believe them. My mom would be hearing those same sentences for the next year. Once all of the lines have been used up I said, “I’m going to go for a walk.” I ran upstairs to grab my phone and put my headphones in before I was even down the steps. Making sure that I couldn’t hear anything else I held down the “Volume-up” button until my own footsteps weren’t registrable noise. The song, Two Weeks by Grizzly Bear, blared in my ear drums as I darted past my still crying mother. Subconsciously I knew that if I made eye contact with her, I would break down into tears. My tears would do more harm than good, I decided. I did not stop to turn around. Walking with no direction or prior intent of somewhere to go. Anywhere but here, I thought. I got lost. As I wandered aimlessly around Sandestin I got lost in the sound and the lyrics that struck my heart, “Just like yesterday, I told you I would stay” I felt like a stranger in my own bed. I sat up because I knew I was not going to be able to sleep. I refused to lie to myself about that, yet I could not stand the truth that my mother is dying. I wanted to talk to anyone and no one at the same time. My room felt like a prison cell. The tall iron rods replaced with a pearl colored wooden door. The warden was a hallway with my sleeping parents across it. They did not want to know why I can’t sleep. My cellmate, a green Build-a-Bear workshop stuffed frog I had creatively named Froggy. He sat on an antique chair, whose seat creaked with every twist and turn. His eyes stuck open
and a permanent grin sewn onto his football-shaped head. My religious ties faded, doubting my creator. I wanted to ask, “Why?” Repelling the notion that God will reply, I did not attempt to talk or ask him anything. “Just ask God and your prayers will be answered.” I heard the overconfident voices of brainwashed teens plucking away at my pessimism. I hadn’t been to my youth group in months. I stopped working on the REAP team and refused to go on any more retreats. As I turned the corner onto the main street in Sandestin, where neighborhoods came off of, I spotted the moon-lit silhouette of a teenage boy. He was my size and height, his tropical flower shirt still colorful even at night. It was Jack, he must have had a similar idea as well. “Jack! Where ya headed?” I yelled, the only other person on the street. He turned slowly, not expecting to hear his name called on a dark street late at night in a state that he doesn’t live in. We reunited and began the walk back to the bungalow. While en route he asked, “Whatcha’ listening too?” One headphone bud soothed music into right ear as Jack’s penetrated the other. Rather than answering, I tugged the headphone jack out of my phone. Can the Circle Be Unbroken by The Carter Family played softly out of the external speakers. “When I saw that hearse come rolling. For to carry my mother away.” (Can the Circle Be Unbroken by The Carter Family) We both heard and felt the lyrics, sung by that little folk band that gave the song a personal touch of loss. The strumming of the banjo accompanied by the gentlemen chorus spoke reas-
suring truth, “There’s a better home a-waiting in the sky Lord, in the sky.” During the winter of 2013 my mom was being treated for breast cancer. My mom acted like a soldier in manner, never complaining in front of me nor trying to slow down her life. She tried to stay as active at her job as she could, as well as still do things around the house. I had lost a friend that I grew up with to adrenal cancer the year prior. Emotionally I wasn’t prepared and went into a depressive state where I struggled in school and had no motivation to do anything. I of-
ten isolated myself and hid my emotions to everyone. I did not tell any of my friends about my mom but they eventually found out. Music helped me find a motive to do the things I liked. Music would give me the motivation to go out with my friends or start writing a sketch. It helped me to look on the bright side of life. It helped me recognize how lucky I was to see my mom beat breast cancer. Music helped me get through that tough time in my life, “I don’t ever want to feel like I did that day” (Under the Bridge by Red Hot Chili Peppers).
THE ADDAMS FAMILY BY DAVID BURKE
S
EEMS like any property can get a musical these days. A Christmas Story, Elf, and even Spider-Man have all found their way to Broadway. When I saw that The Addams Family had gotten the musical treatment as well, I wasn’t all that surprised. When I was offered the chance to see the show last summer at the Muny, I had no clue what to expect. Sowis The Addams Family a decent musical or just a cheap sell out? The show follows the same cast of characters that anyone who is familiar with the movies/television shows/ comics will remember. Each character is full of personality and is distinct. A notable change is the aging of Wednesday Addams. In the past, she is portrayed as a little girl, but in this show she is in her late teens. Such a change may be a little offsetting at first, especially considering that the show’s central conflict focuses on her, but I had no real issues with the change. The show introduces the Beineke family as new characters who are thrown into the wacky realm of the Addams. It would be easy for these characters to simply serve as set ups to a variety of jokes, but they have a nice story ark and enjoy some character development. In the past, The Addams Family have been known for their comedy and the show continues this trend. There are a lot of jokes here, which provide ample laughs. The first act of the show is filled with humor. Every chance for a good joke is taken, from Wednesday’s “enthusiastic” face to
Gomez’s family history. The second act isn’t as funny as the first, dealing more with resolving the show’s conflict but still has some good lines. (“I thought she was your mother.”) Good characters and good comedy can help the show, but at the end of the day, The Addams Family is a musical. When most people think of The Addams Family and music, the opening theme to the 1964 television series often comes to mind. The theme begins the overture and quickly vanishes. It is never heard outside of this and is never sung once. With the only song to the series’ used up, the rest of the show relies on original songs written by Andrew Lippa. Thankfully, the show’s music is spectacular. The songs are catchy, the lyrics are memorable, and everything works. From the big opening number “When You’re An Addams” to love song “The Moon and Me,” everything works. Songs are inspired and many carry the same humor that the rest of the show does. The worst part of the music lies in the fact that a full soundtrack is unavailable. (A recording of the Broadway version is available, but the current version that features some changes to the soundtrack is unavailable.) The Addams Family is a delightful surprise. It stands out not only as a great licensed musical, but also as a great musical in general. It is filled with memorable characters, great comedy, and spectacular music. If given the opportunity, go see it. You will be pleasantly surprised.
INTERSTELLAR
I
BY SAM FENTRESS
’LL admit it: in many ways, I am a Nolanian. I gladly underwent the existential crisis of Inception. I saw the three Batman films consecutively in theaters. And I had my fair share of post-Nolan-film brain-freeze coming out of his latest film, Interstellar. A number of things blew me away: the unprecedented depiction and presentation of extra-terrestrial landscapes and space travel—most notably wormholes—on film; vindictive, enthralling performances from Matthew McConaughey and Jessica Chastain; a string of plot devices so sophisticated that I have to wonder how he’ll out-Nolan himself next time (he will.) It’s clear at this point that Nolan has earned his reputation as someone who will do interesting things given a hefty budget, even in the context of Hollywood studios that are becoming less and less likely to give blockbuster directors any real artistic freedom. All of that said, the little things that have bugged me in his films tended to bug me a whole lot more in Interstellar. I’ve tried to imagine the reasons this might be. Perhaps it was that scenes of real, interesting human emotions came only in teary, intermittent bursts—I may have been expecting something more like Gravity, where human emotion was integral to the film’s framework. It might not be the fault of the actors, but I suspect in some cases it was. I’ll be the first to say that it becomes increasingly painful to watch Michael Caine essentially
play himself in Nolan’s movies, and in this one his role becomes even more confused when he admits on his deathbed that he’s been living a lie for decades. Unless NASA can figure out how to use fertilized embryos to build the race anew on another planet, he tells his daughter, it is doomed to die. But then the scene is over, and Caine is dead, and she finds another way to save humanity. It’s a pointless Chris Nolan curveball that misses the mark. That’s another complaint about Interstellar; I’ve grown weary of the rollercoaster jolts in Nolan’s movies, which he writes with his brother Jonathan. Since Inception, I’ve gone into his films expecting to be emotionally
wrecked by the end of my time in the theater. Does the emotional wrecking itself merit recognition? Maybe, but there often he doesn’t earn the jolt; it feels too much like something the script writer would do—not the characters. The Prestige is an example where that was not the case; the jolts came from vicious and believable enmity between the film’s main characters. And then there’s Nolan’s lack of cinematographic direction; in Interstellar, we are simply told too much. I’m speaking not just of the occasional and unusually clumsy expository lines in the film, but also Nolan’s tendency to leave artistic or thoughtprovoking camerawork at the door. For a film that in other, less important ways calls to mind space epics of the past like Tarkovsky’s Solaris and Kubrick’s 2001 (especially in several moments where we are left only with a single note from an organ, courtesy of composer Hans Zimmer, another
Nolanian staple) few of the scenes are shot in interesting ways. Instead, Nolan sweeps us into the film with stunning visuals and high-powered, highly intelligent plot movements, like the main one which has Cooper exploring a physical construction of the dimension of time. I need to be clear that I don’t think he’s an amateur cinematographer—just the opposite. For someone who doesn’t make mistakes behind the camera, though, he doesn’t take enough risks. But why focus on Nolan so much? Like any great director, his name is painted all over the movie. It’s inseparable from his intentions as a brilliant maniac. And for most that go and see the film in the coming months, being a brilliant, sophisticated maniac of a director will be enough. It nearly was for me. A smaller group of people will be left a little confused. Confused as to why they left the theater speechless after a 3-hour movie that felt a little flat.
FRANCES HA
I
BY MICHAEL NEUHOFF
N the Seinfeld episode, “The Pitch”, George was adamant about “Jerry” being a show about nothing. You got up and went to work today? “That’s a show” insisted George. It seems that what George meant then by “nothing” was sort of the opposite, or, “everything”. The show would not be about “something” as so many shows are—Seinfeld included I would argue—as in one single thing. To say the show would be about nothing is to say it could be about anything. Frances Ha is the sort of work
George was after. To be sure, It has a focus —Frances Halladay’s life within the reference frame of a year’s time— but it focuses holistically, not just spending time on pivotal conversations that will shape her life, but also showing Frances burning her hand on the stove, checking the clock numerous times before waking up, and finding a tax rebate in her mailbox. This movie, more than any other I’ve seen, presents little encapsulations of what it is to be human. Often throughout watching the film I thought things like,
“I’ve done that before” or “That’s exactly how I would have reacted in that situation”. It’s pretty impressive just how many of those moments Baumbach and Gerwig are able to transmit. The other aspect of the film which impresses me is its ability to change scope flawlessly. The movie deftly shifts micro to macroscopic and visaversa in terms of the events in Frances’s life. The film switches from, at one point, Frances’s awkward, forced conversation with people she’s meeting for the first time to, minutes later, a very heartfelt description of what she wants out of life in general. The micro-macro fluidity of the film reflects life as it is, with events of the utmost importance taking place right
before or after the minutiae of day-today occurrences. “Well why am I watching it?” asks the NBC executive in regards to George’s show about nothing. You should Frances Ha because the characters, while slightly cartoony, are far more natural than your average sitcom characters. Your friends might say things similar to how Frances makes inside jokes with Sophie (“Ahoy sexy” for example), but the film tends to show the “greatest hits” of these moments. The characters are more extraordinary and quirky than I am, and probably than most people, but their not as fabricated as Tony Stark from Iron Man. It’s easy to feel a connection to characters who you feel like you may have been able to sit across the lunch table with in highschool. The movie is also worth watching because it serves one of the key roles of a work of art, in that it directs us towards aspects of our own lives (micro and macro).This movie made me think about how I speak, how I interact with friends, and how I interact with people I don’t really like. The film is simple and “authentic” as per the hipster, indie-chic fetishization of what is genuine, but it’s also sensitive and thought provoking. Beyond the unique style of the film, maybe you’ll find something else completely different than what I’ve picked up on. While the film directed me to reflect on my own life, you might find it tells you more about class relations than about yourself. Whatever it is, I trust you’ll find something in Frances Ha.
ALBUMS WE LIKE THIS 12 TRACK ALBUM IS THE FIRST ever by the 7 soul filled men who make up St. Paul and the Broken Bones. Solo vocalist Paul Janeway blends southern Alabama soul with blues, R&B, and gospel hymns, in tiempos long and upbeat. With all the elements of passion and fever, Janeway finds similarities in James Brown and Cee Lo Green. Tracks as “Let It Be So” or “Like a Mighty River” can easily stir a soul or mend one. —John Ratermann
ON FIRST LISTEN, YOU’LL SWEAR you’ve heard some of these songs before—they’ve been popping up in those scenes when a director wants to linger with a character sitting alone in a room and use a sort of shortcut into his or her interior life. I turned on the end of Sherlock and found Lucy Liu’s character sitting in her office as the strongest of these tracks, “Every Time the Sun Comes Up,” swirled around her. The first note of the album is a single two measure piano chord feels like a nod to the female singer-songwriters Van Etten likely met through her parents’ extensive vinyl collection: Joni Mitchell, Carole King, Carly Simon. This latter is a nice marker for Van Etten’s haunting voice, which seems most at home in the sultrier lower ranges that make the album particularly singable by guys driving at night. Van Etten worked at a music store for a half decade, and you can hear in these songs echoes of Billie Holliday, PJ Harvey, Aimee Mann, Siouxsie, Mazzy Starr and so many others. Van Etten writes love songs true to the trouble—the good kind and the bad—that come with saying “I love you” and really meaning it. You’ll love the rhythmic atmosphere of “Your Love is Killing Me” even as the words of the chorus hurt to hear: “Break my legs so I won’t run to you / Steal my soul so I am one with you / From a distance I am on to you / But I’ll stab my eyes out so I can’t see / You like it.” This is a great album for studying or doing some grading. It’ll make a great gift. —David Callon
THIS IS NOT MY FAVORITE PHISH ALBUM. Neither is A Picture of Nectar (1992). What that album was, however—and what this album may be for you—is a gateway into diverse and multifaceted music, deeply moving, and, just as often, silly. You might not be able to get past the singing which is nothing spectacular, and “authentic” at best. But maybe you will, and maybe you’ll experience improvisation you’ve always wanted to hear in a rock setting. You might hear music where you never quite know what’s coming next, and at times surprises you with beauty created spontaneously. Maybe you’ll be able to put up with musical risk-taking to hear amazing releases that wouldn’t have meant much without the tensions that preceded them. Or maybe you’ll just tell Michael to turn down his boring hippie music. —Michael Neuhoff THE STRING CHEESE INCIDENT’S first studio release in nine years is nothing short of brilliant. The first track Colorado Bluebird Sky harkens back to String Cheese’s humble beginnings as a small time bluegrass band all while providing the flavor of a
powerful jam band. Mandolin player, Michael Kang, manages to blend the tones of jam gods Jerry Garcia (Grateful Dead) and Trey Anastasio (Phish) to create the String Cheese Incident’s multi-stylistic approach to music. The album seems to evolve as it plays on, something that few artists manage to accomplish. The album sweetens our palettes with bluegrass before feeding us the funk filled techno jam that culminates in Let’s Go Outside and before we know it, percussionists Michael Travis and Jason Hann are hard at work to deliver us the kind of beats we could only hear on a Caribbean vacation or at a Jimmy Buffet concert in Can’t Wait Another Day. The String Cheese Incident leaves us with the song Colliding, which seems to embody the entire album. It displays the String Cheese Incident’s ability to deliver the sounds of bluegrass, funk, techno, and reggae all on one track. All in all, this album manages to remind of us simpler times in the Rocky Mountains or on a tropical island all while providing the listener with danceable funk. —Sam Aubuchon
LAST YEAR, RUN THE JEWELS’ DEBUT was easily the most explosive and cutting-edge rap album of the year. Since then, Killer Mike and El-P have been touring and recording non-stop, culminating this past October, when the highly anticipated sequel was dropped on the 28th. Topping their last in almost every aspect, RTJ2 blasts hard-hitting instrumentals and aggressively tackling a wide range of topics. On “Early”, Mike recants his experiences with police brutality and profiling, “Love Again” features Mike, El, and guest MC Gangsta Boo describing (in vivid detail) their sexual exploits in recent years, and “Lie, Cheat, Steal” is a commentary on the prevalent corruption among the richest and most powerful men in the United States. Eloquent, fresh, and completely unchecked, RTJ2 reminds us who really holds power in this world - whether it be Mike and El in the rap game, the corrupt police on the streets, or the tycoons who keep this country running. —Jack Embry AFTER ABRUPTLY ANNOUNCING HIS album 2014 Forrest Hills Dr. release date only a month before it dropped, rapper J. Cole delivers his diverse fan base a powerful and compact 13 track album. Here in his 5th album, Cole reveals the major internal strife he’s been dealing with since he’s been able to reflect on his success while also putting his prior middle class life into perspective. The album begins with Jermaine repeatedly asking himself and his listeners “Do you wanna be happy?” because as a 29-year-old man he has reached a crossroads commercial success while juggling great disappointments and failures in his personal life due to the demands of his profession. Most of the album’s hooks are driven by inspirational words about his his evolution as an artist. Cole carries the hooks by singing melodic flows
rather than rapping them. He takes his listeners through an interesting life narrative beginning with the first track “January 28th”--his birthday-to remind us who he was coming up in his hometown: Fayetteville, North Carolina. His next tracks continue in this vein, impressively illustrating landmarks in his youth like losing his
virginity and vividly incorporating conversations he had with one of best friends that looked up to him for going off to college while he didn’t. “A Tale of 2 Citiez” stands out as a
major track because of the eerie picture it conveys regarding the uncomfortable contrast between his money and success and the rougher, rawer lives of his childhood friends in Fayetteville. Cole, sharply aware of just how different his life could have been, carries this reflection on the relationship between his past and his present in the remaining tracks as well, finishing this masterpiece with a track dedicated to his mother. While that relationship suffered due to his career, he wants to reconcile and put it back together. This is an honest album in which Jermaine gives his fans his whole self with his 3rd studio installment. —Alix Sexton-Warner
FROM HIS SELF-TITLED AND SELFproduced album “Allen Stone” in 2012, Allen Stone is finishing up on a third record called Radius to release 2014 or early 2015. As a new kind of soul artist, Allen Stone brilliantly mixes classic ‘60s and ‘70s soul with a light folky guitar, and a vibrant taste of today’s R&B, in keyboards, horns, and powerhouse vocals. As a singer and songwriter, Allen Stone produces a strong melodic style that resound in passionate and idealistic types of lyrics. Stone’s passion focuses around live music— with real instruments and real people uniting. His own blend of soul is passionately made for that reason. Allowing people today to: 1) feel the soul stir inside them, and 2) follow the soul and experience a live show that truly makes their head and heart pulsate with groove. —John Ratermann
THE BEST WATER-THEMED MIXTAPE since Heems’ Wild Water Kingdom, The Water[s] shows Jenkins, a young Chicago rapper, making an effort to distinguish himself. The strongest tracks on this album have a clear-cut defining characteristic: vocals taking center stage, letting the production take a backseat. “Jazz”, for example, which features a slow-tempo, quiet beat taken from Yael Naim’s “Toxic”, sees Jenkins taking offense towards those who fail to speak the truth, and instead just talk shit on others. A compelling self-release showing much promise, as well as a gentle reminder to stay hydrated, The Water[s] fares quite easily as one of the best mixtapes of this year. —Jack Embry
GETTING UP TO THE RIGHT STUFF BY PAUL DAUES
I often hear people complain about having to drag themselves out of bed like it’s a disease. As a surviving patient of that particular affliction, I believe I can reasonably prescribe a cure. Part of it’s actually getting enough sleep, but that’s a more personal issue so I won’t address it here. As to the act of getting up itself, the whole ordeal becomes a lot more pleasant if you ditch the incessant beeps and blares of your clock alarm in favor of music. This is made easy through the alarm function on your phone or mp3 player (just look, there almost always is one). Music provides a more gradual awakening to get up from where you want to be to where you have to go. However, not all music is suitable to this end, and you don’t want to wake up to something that’ll put you right back down. Here are some of my band recommendations (results may vary): DO WAKE UP TO AC/DC Loud, proud, and pumps you up; perfect for when you’ve got a project to demolish later in the day. THE TALKING HEADS The combination of strong rhythm and funk provides a smooth awakening and a consistent mood for after you’re awake. DEXY’S MIDNIGHT RUNNERS Bold but not intrusive; a soulful way to start your day. DON’T WAKE UP TO THE SMITHS Morrisey’s dulcet voice is beautiful to a fault, but it’s downright hypnotic, and falling asleep is a terrible way to wake up. DIRE STRAITS Gentle guitar and smooth, low bass is great for evening relaxation but lacks the oomph to get you out of bed. EMERSON, LAKE, AND PALMER While some pieces do pack a punch, the band generally uses more subdued tones and slow, rising sound: usually not enough to stir you awake.
Students reseated, Instructions repeated,
desks moved apart. ready to start.
Papers distributed, Attendance taken;
tone sounds; begin! two minutes in.
Watching alertly, Student pen out of ink,
walking around. replacement found.
Gave rover a copy Checked under desks;
for absentee. just 9:03.
Sometimes daydreaming, Hearing minor disturbances
reading the walls. out in the halls.
“How much time left?” “60 With no more to look at, I’m
minutes remain.” numb in the brain.
Legs bothering me but When rover revisits
can’t take a seat. still on my feet.
I could be working, Another check of my watch:
plenty to do. but halfway through.
No wandering eyes, I ought to arrange
no cheat sheets here. my peer-to-peer.
Eyes glazing over, One hour is up!
pace down each row. Students may go.
Yet wait, some aren’t going. Trying to monitor,
What is their deal? losing my zeal.
Only 15 more minutes. I’m no longer marching, but
Time marches on. stifling a yawn.
Soldiering forward, silent, These slowpokes should be in
boxed, like a mime. extended time.
More seconds tick by, and ... This battle is finished.
finally, done! This race is won.
Sparklers should sparkle! Kept my reading materials
Fireworks should boom! out of the room. —Paul Baudendistel