With my head on the pillow in a state of sleep delirium, I blindly click shuffle on my playlist. 

“Oh, I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien” — “Englishman in New York” by Sting reverberates throughout my bedroom, the sound of soprano saxophones swirling around in my subconscious. I smile to myself, considering my own experiences as an “Englishman in New York.” Metaphorically speaking, of course, since I write this sitting in a coffee shop in the heart of Ann Arbor. 

As the saying goes, I jumped across the pond — from London to Michigan — and began living among fish who were complete strangers to me. While I thrive on new adventures far out of my comfort zone, this one in particular came with its own set of advantages and drawbacks. On the first day of college, I was met with unexpected cultural obstacles. My first interaction went along the lines of: “Bet, I’ll see you there,” to which I responded, “Why are we betting on this?” As the semester went on, I began to internally decipher the ways in which Americans think and act. To my surprise, they were doing the same with me. 

“I don’t drink coffee, I take tea, my dear.” 

Sting has the right idea. I was astounded by the sheer amount of people waiting for their Starbucks order at any given moment in the day. My guilty pleasure is –– and always will be –– a cup of tea with copious amounts of sugar; coffee simply does not compare. On the topic of food, what I call “pain-au-chocolat,” my friends call “chocolate croissant” — which I discovered when I ordered one at a cafe, much to my embarrassment. Later, I asked a barista where the toilet was, to which she gave me a strange look and pointed toward the “bathroom” sign. Before asking for water, I always prepare myself to eliminate the “t” entirely, for fear of dehydration. 

“You can hear it in my accent when I talk” — so much so that when speaking in class, I see a mountain of heads turning to face me, their ears pricking at the sound of a voice unlike their own. My accent seemed to me like some sort of barrier, hindering my ability to connect. Finding it difficult to relate to others with what I knew, I began to make myself more malleable by shaping my own experiences to fit within the framework of Midwestern America. Although “slay” has yet to enter my vocabulary, I now have my own opinions on everything from ranch as a suitable condiment to March Madness to the strange phenomenon of using one’s hand as a map. 

Growing up in Wimbledon, tennis encompasses my childhood experiences and my neighborhood. It reminds me of the perfect start to the summer season — afternoons spent with my family on Wimbledon Tennis grounds are a quintessential British experience. I recall the only two weeks in a year when my street is amassed with crowds from all over, scrambling to catch the evening matches. Playing tennis also acts as a form of therapy for me. It requires fierce concentration, sparking a connection between my body and my brain. This solitary sport forces me to synchronize all my senses in one fell swoop. 

Tennis is a topic that I speak about quite often, especially when interacting and introducing myself to new people. While some friends share my love for tennis, most others find it to be an intriguing aspect of my personality. Initially, I had perceived my “Britishness” as a limitation and something to be given little attention to. Instead, it became an instrument yielding candid conversations and authentic relationships.

Sting reminds his listeners that “manners maketh man.” 

So, two years later, I now know that connections are not premised solely on similarities. I don’t need to mimic mannerisms or adjust my own identity in order to make space for myself within a new environment. The topic of tennis was a conversation starter that was unique to me; it allowed me to express my own narrative. In truth, I prefer being the person that makes heads turn and I enjoy the questions that follow. If manners do in fact maketh man, I would rather stick to what I know and learn from what I don’t.

MiC Columnist Nuraiya Malik can be reached at nuraiya@umich.edu.

The post Englishman in New York appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

A film that critiques the spectacle of Bollywood’s trauma porn and its ingrained casteism through its excruciating quietness.

Chaitanya Tamhane’s “Court” is an Indian movie in which not much happens. To describe the film as a legal “drama” might be a bit disingenuous, but it is this exact quality of the film that emphasizes its adherence to telling the truth. It’s clear from the initial moments of the film, such as the silent, distant, wide shot of poet Narayan Kamble’s arrest during a Dalit rally, that “Court” isn’t interested in dramatizing the oppression of Dalits. Instead, it is committed to representing real Dalit experiences with the law. It’s no coincidence that Naryan Kamble is played by a real-life Dalit activist, Vira Sathidar, cast right before shooting for the film began. Sathidar, who unfortunately passed away due to complications related to COVID-19 in 2021, spoke on the authenticity of Tamhane’s direction: “What he is showing is my life … what surprised me was that he wrote all this without having met me.” The portrait image of the late Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar, known as “the Father of the Indian constitution” who wrote provisions to protect Dalit people, watches over Kamble’s arrest, eerily reflecting how his vision of caste equality has not yet been achieved.

In the context of Indian cinema more broadly, but particularly in Bollywood, an industry dominated by upper-caste Hindus, many films address issues of caste through the lens of the privileged. A recent example is the Bollywood crime drama, Article 15 (2019), in which a Brahmin police officer is asked to investigate hate crimes against Dalits in a rural village. These films pose Brahmin, or upper-caste Hindu characters, as saviors of caste injustice and often exploit the trauma of Dalits for financial gain. “Article 15” specifically uses the 2014 Baduan gang rape and 2016 Una flogging incidents as inspiration to selfishly stir an emotional response from an upper-caste audience unfamiliar with Dalit struggle, while subjecting Dalits to reliving the trauma experienced within their communities. This form of activism only works to soothe the guilt of upper-caste people who hope that they can be one of the “good Brahmins” by sympathizing with fictional Dalit characters, thus obscuring how they are complicit in casteism themselves. The favorable representation of the Brahmin cop is especially problematic in that it reinforces an understanding that law enforcement is working to resolve issues of caste. In reality, law enforcement is actively oppressing Dalits, as shown in a recent study by Cambridge University that found officers were “more likely to prefer targeting offenders from caste-class subjugated (CCS) communities … the police are more likely to personally prefer investigating low-caste Dalit offenders than high-caste ones.” “Court” opposes this narrative in mainstream Bollywood of heroic law enforcement officials and demonstrates the complicity of cops, judges, lawyers and politicians alike, arguing that casteism is not simply a bug, but a feature of the Indian legal system.

“Court’s” aversion to sensationally representing caste oppression is shown by its treatment of the character, Vasudev Pawar, a Dalit sewage worker. All that is revealed of him is one photograph, and his death is never shown. While it’s implied that he most likely died due to unsafe working conditions in the sewer, the possibility of suicide is complicated by what is perhaps the most harrowing, soul-crushing moment of the film: the testimony of Pawar’s widow, Sharmila Pawar. She explains that Pawar was an alcoholic who needed to drink to face the unbearable stench of manual scavenging. He was never offered safety equipment, and all the while his family was living in complete destitution.

For those unfamiliar with the horror of manual scavenging, it is the practice of manually cleaning human waste from receptacles like septic tanks, latrines and sewers, largely occurring in rural villages. This role is forced upon Dalits with the threat of expulsion or violence and is often performed without wages or protective gear, subsequently leading to severe health consequences such as skin diseases and carbon monoxide poisoning, as in the case of Vasudev Pawar in “Court”. Manual scavengers are also ostracized within the community and experience discrimination in school, religious settings and in access to various goods and services.

Despite the dialogue of others in the scene of Sharmila’s testimony, the film does not revert to the typical shot-reverse shot technique and opts to keep the frame still on her fraught expression, leaving her in frame for seven minutes straight. She timidly looks around, never making direct eye contact with the camera, isolated in an unfamiliar environment of lawyers, a judge and a police officer, amongst others, and is expected to testify amidst her grieving the loss of her husband. It’s at this moment that the viewer understands that this Dalit woman is one who was robbed of her innocence and subjected to a life of terror. The viewer is left simply begging for the camera to cut away from her face, to relieve them of their guilt as they expect mainstream Bollywood to do, but “Court” expertly refuses to give in. “Court’s” decision to maintain ambiguity around Pawar’s death, whether it was suicide or accident, poses a deeply depressing question to the audience, given the circumstances of Pawar’s life: would death be better than a life like this? Just as is true of many aspects of “Court,” the suggestion of suicide is reflective of the pressing issues Dalits experience, as suicide rates amongst Dalits have been steadily rising from 2015 to 2020, with a staggering 42% of cases being caused by social humiliation.

Because “Court” rejects the tendency of Indian cinema to invoke visceral reactions through drama, this is not a film that would appeal to the mainstream audience, but instead to the film buffs within film festival circuits. “Court’s” subtlety, to put it simply, limits its reach for the sake of authenticity, paradoxically making its message stronger, yet constraining the number of people who access it. Tangentially, given that this film was made to have success within the film world, it should be acknowledged that “Court” is afforded critical recognition that other Indian films are not, based on the pretentious notion that films that do seek to invoke the visceral are not as complex. This Eurocentric bias towards western storytelling not only undercuts the complexity of Indian cinema but also ignores the cultural differences that make the masala style so effective in capturing the hearts of Indian audiences.  

“Court” is a movie so concerned with doing everything right that it ironically falls short in its efficacy by refusing to do some things wrong, refusing to embellish and refusing to give what audiences want. The most painful aspect of “Court” is not just the story it tells, but how it falls flat on the ears of those who need to hear it most. 

MiC Columnist Vik Rupasinghe can be reached at vrupasin@umich.edu.

The post ‘Court’ (2014) Review: Subverting the Brahmin Savior Complex appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

This is a story of a girl and a rapper who made her feel seen, understood and safe. The rapper who gave her a new sense of perspective, an ode to how impactful art can be. As a part of Kendrick Lamar’s top 0.01% listeners on Spotify and after months of religiously listening to his music 24/7, I feel as though I have the “qualifications” to detail my experience with Lamar and unfold how his art has impacted me. While Lamar’s music discusses his own racialized experiences with respect to his mental health struggles, his lyricism captures an essence of mental health that is arguably universal and especially meaningful to me.  

In this dissection of Lamar’s music, to some surprise, I will not insist that he is the greatest artist of all time, or even our time. Rather than defending his spot on the industry hierarchy, I hope to highlight what makes Lamar’s discography so special, both to his listeners and me. What I will insist on, however, is that his art of emotional storytelling is incredibly distinct — transcending beyond a rapper and giving his listeners a glimpse into his psyche in a way that I’ve never seen conveyed before. 

From playing with his vocal tone – by switching between various cadences to evoke emotion – to utilizing his art as a means to make commentary on societal issues, Lamar’s voice matters both literally and figuratively. Through his music, he has taught me that my voice matters too. The 17-time Grammy-winning artist has impacted the world by unfolding new perspectives for marginalized groups of people, making them feel seen in mainstream media. His album DAMN., referred to as “a virtuosic song collection unified by its vernacular authenticity and rhythmic dynamism that offers affecting vignettes capturing the complexity of modern African-American life,” won hip-hop’s first-ever Pulitzer prize. No wonder all of Lamar’s studio albums have been certified platinum or higher. 

1. What makes Kendrick, “Kendrick”

Through Lamar’s immediately recognizable, multifaceted flow and technique, he has been proclaimed the voice of Black America on multiple occasions. On To Pimp a Butterfly, Kendrick rapped about the oppression and exploitation of Black people and culture by the hands of the United States. He brought cinematic visuals to main stages around the world, documenting the ongoing struggles of Black Americans. He conveyed a similar message during his performance of  “Alright” at the 58th Grammy Awards show. Understanding the extent of his influence, he utilizes his music as a medium for political commentary, with his songs consisting of deep social overtones, touching on gun violence, racial and socio-economic discrimination, institutional racism, sexual abuse, mass incarceration and so much more. Lamar has been able to achieve his incredible success with a social conscience, taking initiative to spread a strong message any chance he gets, something that many rappers have failed to do. To me, Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers was undoubtedly the most important album of 2022, tackling many narratives in one body of work. The album was composed of songs detailing his pursuit of breaking generational trauma and the struggles that Black families endure due to institutional racism in America. 

Lamar’s biggest strength and what infinitely sets him apart from other artists in the industry is his ability to make his listeners empathize. When listening to Lamar, it feels as if you can literally feel his emotional rage in your bones through his tone and vocal inflections. Lamar has mastered the art of creating a narrative and embodying his characters. He employs method-acting and role play, as seen in “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” on good Kid, m.A.A.d city by rapping from the point of view of different people in his life throughout the 12-minute track — allowing his listeners to feel the urgency, anxiety, pain, irritation and frustration that he may have felt at the moment. Lamar’s music has given me a safe space to understand my own emotions. I have struggled severely with my mental health over the past six years. Many rappers, like Kid Cudi and J. Cole, have been able to make me feel understood, but no artist has been able to make me feel like I’m grieving alongside them. 

This piece embodies my listening experience. I find beauty in the true stories — the ones with crackle and emotion, high stakes and true vulnerability, so please bear with me as I take you along on this journey of dissecting Lamar’s music through the lens of my own experiences.

2. My stories through Kendrick’s music 

“FEAR.” (DAMN.) 

Give peace a chance, let the fear you have wash away. 

From the age of 14, I’ve dealt with depression, a period coinciding with my family’s move from India to Texas. I was learning to adjust, undergoing a severe culture shock, while also grieving the death of the most important person in my life: my Ammama. As a teenager, death was a mundane concept, and I still now wrestle with its capriciousness as I enter my adulthood. I fear how apathetically I perceive death. I struggle to grasp how easy it is for life to slip away, how it all happens in a moment’s time. Yet, my Ammama’s death taught me to enjoy life’s slow moments and find beauty in them, no matter how small. At 19, I was formally diagnosed with depression. In some ways, I was actually relieved when I was diagnosed because I thought it meant that I wouldn’t have to struggle in silence anymore. 

I was wrong. 

The traumatic experiences turned into memories, playing in my mind on a constant loop. Never waning, never quiet. These memories became background noise, tolerable but always there. All 7 minutes and 40 seconds of “FEAR.” represent different phases in my own life where my fears took the steering wheel. This specific verse on the track struck a chord with me. Lamar raps about the fears he experienced living in Compton, California at different ages and how these fears have evolved to follow the changes in both his personal life and his career as an artist. As a Black man, Lamar raps from the perspective of an identity I do not hold, yet it is so beautiful how this verse is able to effectively reach people from so many different backgrounds and experiences in sharing those human emotions with him. This verse makes me feel less alone as he raps about internalized self-doubt, fear and depression. The song represents what it feels like to fear myself in my darkest moments. 

I fear a lot of things. I fear that if I no longer feel the pain to the intensity that I do, then I won’t be able to create the art I know I am capable of creating. I fear that if one day I do get better, I won’t be able to empathize with other people’s pain and happiness. I fear that if I don’t allow the pain to consume me, the version of myself that is kind and humble will fade away. I fear that my depression constantly holds me back from allowing myself to be loved. I fear that if I keep pushing people away, one day they’ll decide to stop trying. I fear not reaching my full potential. I fear that I will never be able to help people in the world the way I hope to.

But the thing I fear the most is myself. 

I tell myself that it’s okay to be scared, but I can no longer justify being scared as an excuse to keep allowing myself to fall down the same rabbit hole of isolation. The dread isn’t keeping me safe. I’m not keeping myself from heartbreak by existing this way. I’m keeping myself from joy, so I have to make a decision: how badly do I want to get better? 

So I take a step forward and decide it is time to stop making excuses and start acting on what I envision for myself. To me, this meant accepting that I didn’t deserve the cards I’d been dealt or being in a constant state of pain. Now, I’m more mindful of how I treat myself, and that has translated into how I treat the people in my life.

I can feel the changes — the coils of my anxiety are slowly loosening. I am letting go of control and finding joy in the small things. I appreciate my morning cup of coffee. I adore the Mountain Bernese dog that passes me by every morning as I get on the 11:30 a.m. shuttle. I love just sitting in my bed belly-laughing with my roommates. Reprogramming my brain to not believe my biggest fears has been a process when I’m constantly in fight or flight, but the first step was accepting that I deserve peace. 

I hope that wherever you are on your journey, you recognize that you deserve to be at peace too. 

“Die Hard” (Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers)

You deserve someone who isn’t afraid of being responsible for your heart — someone who embraces it. You deserve someone who wants to requite all of your hopes with action.

Over the past summer, I was studying abroad in London. My boyfriend, who wasn’t my boyfriend at the time, flew out to see me and help me move into my dorm. During our short yet memorable time together, we walked the London Bridge at midnight listening to our favorite music. We broke into Borough Market and danced around under the fairy lights. We stumbled our way to every other pub, where he pretended to love beer but actually downed my delicious drinks for the “experience.” We stopped to listen to every local artist on our aimless walks, romanticized every bus and Tube ride and fell madly in love with each other. At 2:22 a.m. on June 22 in London, we started officially dating, and life has been so colorful since.

Falling in love is beautiful, yet daunting. My boyfriend was the first person I felt both wildly unsure and unwaveringly certain of. All I know is that he caught my eye and winged me back to a lightness I never thought was possible for me to experience in this lifetime. Time and time again, he has shown me patience and compassion. He has been there through every high, every low and every in-between moment, reminding me that I deserve to be loved and appreciated. He serves as a constant reminder that the right person always shows up. The right person cares, not only when life is convenient, but when it is difficult and messy and it aches all over. The right person believes in the love that you share with a ruthless conviction, with a hope that spills out of them. 

“Die Hard” reminds me of our time in London — so poetically raw — and evokes the feeling of loving him through my grief. It’s difficult to be dating someone who struggles with depression, and it requires an additional amount of effort to be with them. Nevertheless, he chose to stay because he saw past all that. He carries my struggles as his own to ease a little weight off my shoulders, and I do the same for him. It is so painstakingly beautiful to be in love and to want to make the other person’s soul feel lighter. 

My boyfriend is half of my heart, and he has changed my life entirely for the better. He has taught me to embrace everything that I feel and to love all that I am. And if some cosmic mishap takes place and forever doesn’t work out for us, I will always be so grateful to have known and loved him. 

“Father Time” (Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers) 

Your immigrant parents deserve empathy and understanding. Accepting that the generational difference of your struggles required two different perspectives is the first step to understanding each other better. 

My mom always reminds me that my dad and I have been incredibly connected since the day I was born. She relentlessly tells the story of how every day he would come back from work and yell “Ammadu.” I would immediately wake up from the deepest sleep and giggle as I heard the pitter-patter of his footsteps inching closer and closer. I believe that, because even 20 years later, that remains the same. My dad and I have this special connection, and even through all the struggles and lack of understanding we have endured in our relationship, I know I always have him to fall back on for safety and support. My dad has quite literally defined what I expect out of men in my life and has time and time again shown me what it means to be an incredible human being. 

My dad worked in India for eight months prior to immigrating to the U.S. He walked four miles every day to work to make a life for himself. After marrying my mom, who was 19 and still finishing up her undergraduate studies in India, my dad immigrated to the U.S. alone. He found a job to sponsor him in California and began working. He rented a one-bedroom apartment and didn’t know the language that well. He didn’t know anyone here. He didn’t have the support system to get through it. He had to do it alone. All he knew was that my mom would join him a year later, so he had to be able to sustain the life they pictured for themselves. So like any immigrant, he worked tirelessly while reminiscing about better days and being nostalgic for the days in the motherland that once were. I will never understand my parents’ struggles, and I cannot even begin to fathom what they went through to get our family to where we are now. Twenty-six years later, my older sister and I are determined to prove our parents’ struggles and tears. They stood on the ground so that we could touch the sky; it is crucial that we make that sacrifice worth it.

When I was younger, I didn’t have the maturity nor enough perspective in regard to their experiences and challenges to understand why their responses to my emotions didn’t fit under the radar of “gentle parenting.” When I was struggling with my mental health, I spent so much time and energy blaming them for being so ignorant. I know now that I was so far from the truth. 

Immigrant parents often only teach what they are taught. I viewed their lack of engagement with their own emotions as a weakness. They viewed my tendency to over feel and my struggles with mental health as a disruption to the future they envisioned. My parents’ detachment and lack of understanding of both my emotions and their own created barriers that I have had to work through in every single relationship in my life. There are various patterns I have had to overcome due to the unresolved emotional baggage they carried, and I resented them for that. “Father Time” captures that feeling of being mad at your parents, especially given the angst and desperation in Lamar’s delivery, but also empathizing with the pain and wounds they carry. 

Now, I am 20 years old, and I understand. I understand that my parents aren’t superheroes. I understand that just because they failed to see where I was coming from never meant that they loved me any less. It is crucial I humanize them and understand that they make mistakes because it is their first time going through life too. They are still in the process of changing and evolving. They were in survivor mode for so long when they immigrated, and that required them to be strong-willed; so, yes, they may not be as in tune with their emotions as I wish they were but I understand why. They never had it easy. Their struggles are comparably distinct from mine. They quite literally had to gamble on themselves and trust that everything will work out; the generational barrier makes us perceive the world in a different manner.

After intense introspection, I know my parents not picking up on the signs that I was struggling drastically with my mental health was not ignorance, but rather their lack of education and understanding of mental health in their own lives. My parents live vicariously through my eyes — getting excited when any opportunity comes my way, when I travel to a country they have never been to or when I am doing silly things at this age that they couldn’t. They aren’t perfect, but they made the decision to leave the people they love and their home behind in pursuit of the unknown. And they did that for my sister and me. I am so lucky to know that kind of love. 

As I reflect on how I can repay my parents for everything, the only way I know how is to live life to the fullest and take advantage of every experience and opportunity, as cliche as that may sound. That is what they wanted for me, and I intend to do everything I can to provide them with the life they deserve. I’ve seen so much growth in my parents ever since I opened up to them about my mental health, and I see them trying to be educated about the things I go through and be present in my life in a manner that caters to my needs. I appreciate them for that. I am grateful to have parents that are willing to change their mindsets in their 50s: a true embodiment of unconditional love. My mom and dad always say, “Growth never comes from comfort zones,” and as they begin their personal journeys in understanding and dissecting their past struggles, I am there with them to navigate this uncharted territory. I am there to guide them, just like they did for me, with so much love and patience for the past 20 years. 

Dad, in your heart I find the reflection of everything I admire the most: strength, compassion and perseverance. Here’s to a thousand more lifetimes of being your daughter — laughing, dancing in the rain, holding my hand tightly as we go down Splash Mountain at Disney World (even though you’re actually the one that’s scared) for the eight hundredth time and being there for me in every way you knew how to. Thank you for being open to change for me as my circumstances change. I hope we can continue to learn and grow with each other. You will always be the human I look up to the most. 

“Mirror” (Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers) 

Learn to be there for yourself and be okay with being alone — it is so freeing.

I’ve always chased adrenaline and experiences that ignite my heart and soul. I do this because I’ve had to up and leave everything I know every time I’ve moved to a different state or country. I am aware that the only constant thing is change, so I allow it to consume me whole. Whenever I crave change and experience something new, I meet a version of myself I have previously never met, and that is incredibly exciting to me. If I know anything, it is this: identity is not static. It is something you build upon, and your character arc doesn’t just stop. Growth is fueled by the very essence of change. 

I’ve had to grow up a lot this past year due to my personal adversities and just because of, you know, life. It’s crazy what you learn once the veil of naive innocence disappears. Once that veil perishes, you are forced to choose between ignorance and perspective. I chose perspective, and let me be the first one to tell you that perspective can be a bracing fuckin’ slap across the face. Yet, honestly, having perspective has changed the trajectory of my life. It humbled me to the core and called me out for repeating the same actions while expecting a different result every time — a lesson that I needed to learn. It’s okay to make mistakes, but it’s not okay to make the same mistakes over and over again just because it is easier to live in ignorance. 

I started therapy this past year. I started reaching out to my support system more when I know I am going down a familiar and unwarranted path. I am able to talk about my emotions without feeling fear or guilt. I am so much more present in the lives of those who I admire so deeply. I am light-hearted. I’m doing so well in school. I am able to love everything around me as it is. I am grateful for what every experience, good and bad, has brought me. The reality I experience is an identical reflection of my internal mindset — and my head has been a pretty damn good place to be recently. I finally see things in a new light, and all this happened because of one decision and one decision only: to choose myself. 

“Mirror” holds a special place in my heart. It feels like saying goodbye to the last chapter of my life. I am finally able to see it from the point of view of the girl who has gotten stronger and better from it. It’s nice to finally accept the past as it is and to no longer live in it. After all these years of avidly searching for a safe place, I now recognize that my energy is my safe space; I feel so free. 

Anyways, yeah, Kendrick Lamar is an okay artist I guess, haven’t really heard much of his stuff or anything.

MiC Columnist and Photographer Ankitha Donepudi can be reached at ankithad@umich.edu.

The post The art of empathy: Kendrick Lamar and me appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

For Black History Month 2023, I will be publishing a mini-series of short music reviews under the title “Protest Music Retrospects.” The aim of this series is to both revisit some of the most pivotal moments in Black protest music history and to shed light on overlooked Black figures and musics, specifically those of Black women, that have contributed to socially-conscious popular culture. The reviews will be a mix of musical critique as well as historical and historiographical analysis of the works and their responses in media. I first highlighted Sister Souljah’s 360 Degrees of Power, and then Tracy Chapman’s debut album; for the final entry, I will finish the series with Elaine Brown’s 1969 album, Seize the Time. 

Brown is best known for her activism in Black Liberatory politics. She served as the leader of the Black Panther Party after Huey P. Newton fled to Cuba in the mid-70s, before leaving the party due to sexist leadership; she was the first and only woman to lead the party, and shifted the standard operations and the philosophies of the BPP towards inclusivity and local advocacy. In addition to her activism, Brown was trained as a musician from an early age and wrote poetry and songs in high school. In 1968, David Hilliard, then-BPP chief of staff commissioned Brown to record some of her politicized songs for the BPP after he heard her perform for some other Panthers — Seize The Time was the result.

Seize The Time exists as a recording (in more ways than one) of the motivations, goals and activism of the BPP. The album contains the party’s unofficial theme, “The Meeting,” as well as various other revolutionary tracks that were often played at BPP social events. Additionally, its cover art was created by Emory Douglas, BPP Minister of Culture. While it is not the only output of music from the BPP (the party also had a funk band composed of active members called “The Lumpen”), it is the only audio album produced by the party that featured exclusively music.

Brown’s Seize The Time is largely unrecognized by scholars and music fans alike; in researching the album for this article, I only found one comprehensive record of it by Michael Lupo of Répertoire International de Littérature Musicale on Smithsonian. From my knowledge of public history projects documenting music of the era, only PBS’s Fight the Power seems to have recognized it (and only in a passing montage of relevant albums). There is no official set of transcribed lyrics either; the original record did not include any with it, and open-source databases like Genius have not tackled the 10 tracks. Fortunately, the album (and its remaster) are available on the major streaming platforms and have not been lost to time just yet.

When I first envisioned this BHM mini-series, Seize The Time was the album I had in mind and most desired to write about. It represents a key shift in the canon of Black protest music in many ways. First, the songs are all composed and performed by a Black woman, one who was often ostracized by her fellow revolutionaries. Second, it predates the move towards overtly political music found in the `70s. Lastly, it demonstrates a unique application of protest music wherein the music serves in a direct-action/political praxis role, beyond “calls to action” or indictments.

Brown was classically trained in both music and dance in her youth, producing a certain restricted philosophy of praxis demonstrated in Seize The Time. Her music leans away from the powerful and raucous funk and soul of the `60s in favor of a more refined, authoritative tone. Though some of her contemporaries resisted this style, higher-ups in the party (namely Huey P. Newton) were fans of her music and supported her songwriting. The arrangements and orchestration were done by Horace Tapscott, pianist and jazz band leader, further solidifying the sound of Brown’s music into existing tradition.

Despite her western-influenced training, the lyricism of Seize The Time consists of a wide range of critiques. In the tracks, Brown addresses systemic racism and oppression, but also engages with the often violent, male aesthetic of the BPP. In “The End of Silence,” Brown includes these lines:

MiC Assistant Editor Cedric Preston McCoy can be reached at cedmccoy@umich.edu.

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Every year I come across a million and one things that make my mouth drop so far open I’ve got to push it closed manually with my own fist, things that make me think and feel and understand so much more deeply. I call them my gems.

1. 24 hours with the Robert Anderson survivor protestors outside Schlissel’s house by News, Photo & Video staff for The Michigan Daily

The News, Photo and Video staff at The Michigan Daily spent 24 hours with survivors of former University of Michigan athletic director, Robert Anderson, last fall. This story speaks for itself. It is deeply important and will forever be important. I am so proud of our staff for covering this so diligently and with so much care. 

2. What Bobby McIlvaine Left Behind by Jennifer Senior for The Atlantic 

This was the very first story I ever read after buying myself a subscription to The Atlantic for my 19th birthday. I remember thinking it deserved to win a Pulitzer Prize and then it ended up winning a Pulitzer Prize. Jennifer Senior is a fantastic writer, one that understands what it means to love and live and grieve. She tells the story of how one family came undone after they lost their 26-year-old son, Bobby, during the September 11th attacks in 2001. It takes courage to understand a family in pain, and it takes even more courage to become the voice of someone who is no longer here. Bobby was kind, funny and thoughtful. He was the kind of person that wrote things like “Life Loves On” in legal pads on his desk. I often think about what Bobby McIlvaine left behind. Everyone should know who he was.

3. The Mystifying Rise of Child Suicide by Andrew Solomon for The New Yorker

I will never forget this story. I will never forget Trevor Matthews, who took his own life a few months after his 12th birthday, and how we fail to see and hear and protect children like Trevor. This story is heartbreakingly painful, hard to read, yet important to understand because we so often deny children the right to pain, to anger and to their complexity in feeling. Children are far smarter, far more capable, far more able to perceive and understand the world in ways we do not give them enough credit for. Child suicide, clinically defined as suicide committed by children between 5 and 11 years of age, is often dismissed, overlooked and vastly under-researched. Solomon’s story more importantly brings to light the fact that psychologists, psychiatrists and various other mental health professionals that specialize in child and adolescent mental health are scarce, expensive to access and limited in the scope of empirical data concerning child suicide and clinical outcomes. 

4. How An Ivy League School Turned Against a Student by Rachel Aviv for The New Yorker

I wrote down one line from this story after reading it: “You start to think that maybe you had it wrong and that maybe it actually did happen the way that they say it did… And then you just throw away the real memory, the true one, and replace it with the one that they have fed you a million times, until that is the only thing you can remember.” The University of Pennsylvania attempted to revoke Mackenzie Fierceton’s bachelor’s degrees as well as her status as a Rhodes Scholar on the grounds of misrepresentation as a student, while simultaneously subjecting her to months of lengthy procedures and abuse. Because Fierceton was financially estranged from her mother after suffering years of abuse at the hands of her mother and her mother’s boyfriend, she identified as a First-Generation, Low-Income (FGLI) student upon admittance to the university, received a full-ride scholarship and was informed by university officials that she was able to do so. Rachel Aviv does a fantastic job of defining the hopelessness, fear and lack of self that comes with being a victim of abuse and how often we punish victims that fight so hard to find the courage to speak.

5. John Cusack: ‘I have not been hot for a long time’ by Tom Lamont for The Guardian 

I have always loved John Cusack. I loved him in the movies “High Fidelity” and “2012” and “Being John Malkovich” and “Serendipity”. My favorite thing he’s ever said was in a 2009 interview with Elle when he was asked if he planned to get married and replied, “Society doesn’t tell me what to do.” He’s retreated from the public eye for quite a while and currently stars in direct-to-streaming films the same way Bruce Willis and Nicholas Cage do. Cusack spends most of his time on Twitter now, deeply involved in politics and hating both Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg as much as possible. Tom Lamont does such a good job of profiling Cusack and defining what it means to no longer be “hot” as a star even when you once so dearly were. Except in my world, John Cusack is always hot.

6. What the mess means by Yasmine Slimani for Michigan in Color, The Michigan Daily

Yasmine is one of the best writers I have ever known. She is a wonderful person, a thoughtful editor and someone who is so dear to me. I will miss her very very very much. To choose just one of Yasmine’s pieces as one of my favorites is an incredibly difficult task. Though if you are to read one thing from her, I think it should be “What the mess means.” My favorite line is, “I tell you without really saying it, because I lack the courage, and I think the mess likes to speak for me anyway. When I say, “I’m sorry about my room,” what I mean is that I’m tired. That the days bleed into weeks and months and a task as simple as laundry would drain every iota of my energy.” I think this sentence, and her work in particular, speaks so much for itself.

7. 164: Crime Scene, 2000 + 2018 rerun Act 3: A Criminal Returns To The Scene of The Crime by Katie Davis for This American Life

I love this show for its predictability because Ira Glass opens every show with “from WBEZ Chicago, it’s This American Life, I’m Ira Glass.” But I love this show, more than anything else, because it is so deeply humane, because they report on the most mundane places and things like rest stops and car dealerships and recreational baseball and make them so entirely real and thriving and living in a way that I have never seen anywhere else. I love this act from Katie Davis because she chronicles the life of her friend Bobby, a man with a difficult childhood, wrestling with addiction and houselessness. He returned back to the neighborhood he grew up in to coach an unruly team of kids. I love how he calls the kids  “fellas” and “leprachauns” and “big heads” and I love how the kids tell Bobby “SHUT UP BOBBY YOU DON’T KNOW NOTHING” as often as they can. But the reason this act will forever stick with me is because of the way Ira Glass closes it off: “It’s been years since we first broadcasted this story over a decade ago. Bobby did go on to coach a basketball team, and they took first place at a local Boys and Girls Club. But Bobby also relapsed. He started doing heroin again. And then he would get clean, and then he would relapse again. Then he moved to a halfway house, a sober house, where a few years back, he died. He was clean. His counselor said that one of his few possessions when he died was a CD with this story on it.” And that makes Bobby’s story that much more unforgettable. 

8. 354: Mistakes Were Made, 2008, Act 1: You’re As Cold As Ice by Sam Shaw for This American Life

In the late 1960s, Bob Nelson was a TV repairman in California. He was also the chair of his local cryonics society. Cryonics is a concept rooted in the belief that if we act quickly enough, if we manage to freeze those who have died just in time and store them in a cryonics capsule that keeps them cold for all eternity, somehow, someday, someone might just unseal the container and resurrect them to live again. Cryonics is also rooted in desperation, in those who so badly want a second chance at living. Except, freezing those who died and keeping them frozen cost Bob thousands of dollars he did not have. So when members of the local cryonics society began to die, Bob had no other place to lay them to rest but in a double wide freezer in his garage. And soon, Bob had multiple bodies in a garage freezer and no legal right to keep them there. A woman from Detroit who had frozen her father for years in a cryonics capsule approached Bob because she could no longer pay the monthly fee that kept her father frozen. Bob agreed to maintain her father for a much cheaper price, but neglected to tell her he had intended to open the capsule and put more people in there alongside her father. Bob’s plan didn’t work, of course, and the bodies of his friends at the cryonics society, along with the Detroit woman’s father, a little 7-year-old girl named Genevieve from Montreal who had died of cancer and many many other mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers that Bob had promised to keep frozen never saw the possibility of resurrection. They had all erupted into flames when the cryonics capsule Bob had managed to somehow fit them all in malfunctioned

9. The Regina King’s Puppy: The Active Cash Visa Card from Wells Fargo commercial

I love this commercial dearly. I love Regina King and her puppy even more. I love how she says, “We hope you’ll have us over again?” after her puppy chews a leg clean off her neighbor’s dining room table. I love how light and carefree and airy and 2007 pre-recession this commercial is. I also almost opened an active cash Visa card with Wells Fargo. But only because of Regina King and her puppy. 

10. White friend groups by Hugo Quintana for Michigan in Color, The Michigan Daily  

I loved this piece from Hugo. He is decisive, straight to the point and courageously brave in writing “White friend groups.” My favorite line is, “Over my freshman year, I started to notice how these cliques seemed to run the University. As a minority on campus, I felt inferior to these groups who had strong senses of privilege, entitlement and belonging.” “White friend groups,”’ is an incredibly necessary investigation in racial homogeneity among social circles and the inherent damage it causes students of Color. I will miss Hugo’s honesty in writing and in editing very very much. 

MiC Assistant Editor Sarah Akaaboune can be reached at sarahaka@umich.edu.

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When I think of an album that will stick with me for the rest of my life, I instantly think about J Dilla’s Donuts.

J Dilla, or Jay Dee, is a Detroit hip-hop legend. Born James Dewitt Yancey, Yancey began rapping and making beats as a kid in his family’s basement studio in the Conant Gardens neighborhood. He would go on to form the rap trio, Slum Village, with his high school friends and gain the attention of Q-Tip from A Tribe Called Quest. This connection would eventually lead to Dilla collaborating with The Pharcyde, a Los Angeles quartet of rappers, and producing six tracks for their 1995 album Labcabincalifornia. He would go on to produce tracks for artists like Erykah Badu, Busta Rhymes and Common, just to name a few, while also releasing his own solo projects.

Dilla passed away in February 2006 at the age of 32 due to complications of the rare blood disease lupus.

On February 7, 2006, three days before his death, Dilla released Donuts, the anticipated follow-up to his debut album Welcome 2 Detroit. According to Dan Charnas, author of “Dilla Time,” Dilla began to feel ill in late January 2003, and from that point on was in and out of hospitals. Dilla would leave Cedar-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles on March 16, 2005, and after a few months of recovery, he had enough strength to begin making beats on his Macintosh laptop with records he had bought from Rockaway Records in Silver Lake in L.A. This burst of energy created the nearly complete beat tape for Donuts which was going to be edited by close friend and collaborator Jeff Jank to add its finishing touches. Throughout the year, Jank would visit Dilla in the hospital to show him edits and receive some more tracks. While in the hospital, Dilla would create tracks with a Boss SP-303 sampler and a portable turntable that were provided by his friends from the Stones Throw record label.

With Donuts, Dilla ended up making an album composed entirely of instrumentals and skits; no guest features or rapping, just samples that he cleverly connected. Executives were concerned that the album would flop, but ultimately Donuts would influence a generation of musicians. 

Dilla’s iconic production is so revered because he was able to make the MPC3000 drum machine a true extension of himself. He used loose, unquantized drumming patterns, accents and complex sampling techniques to really make the MPC3000 come to life. His drum machine is now displayed at the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, D.C.

Donuts is a mystical listening experience. When you play it all the way through, front to back, you get to hear how tracks transition from one to another so gently. You also get to hear the musical motifs — like record scratches and sirens — laid throughout the album’s 43-minute run time, keeping your ear on the edge of its seat.

There is so much love, joy, happiness and, at times, sadness behind the choice of samples and the rhythms that Dilla uses on each track.

Some highlights include the Dionne Warwick sample on “Stop!”. The repeated refrain — “you better stop and think about what you’re doing” — in the middle of the track creates an infectious head nod. Dilla goes so far as to actually pause the track altogether for a second during this section. 

The Sylvers sample and drums on “Two Can Win” creates a bounce that transitions perfectly into “Don’t Cry”, where Dilla magically slows and speeds up a chopped sample of The Escorts.

The listener doesn’t get to hear any rapping from Dilla or from any guest verses. The minute-long tracks mesh so beautifully that you get lost in the pure sonics. Dilla’s style is so unique and recognizable that you are constantly reminded of the hands and fingers hitting each pad on the drum machine.

I feel even more admiration knowing that this would be the last album Dilla released before he passed away. The album sounds like a goodbye. The soulful samples give each track a sense of nostalgia for a moment you might not have even been there to experience, but are reminded of anyway.

To some people, music is the vessel to let their souls speak.

The art of beat-making and producing is everlasting and truly special, and it’s something that I wish to try in the future. Thank you, J Dilla, for providing me with a sense of joy and wonder.  

I encourage you to give Donuts a listen. It’s a true masterpiece. 

MiC Columnist Juan Pablo Angel Marcos can be reached at marcosj@umich.edu.

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Released on Oct. 28 in celebration of Disability Employment Awareness Month, Perspective is Molly Joyce’s second studio album and the newest entry in her growing collection of activist thinkpieces. Across 12 tracks, each focused on a core element of disability or societal perception of disability, Joyce weaves together her minimalist-esque music compositional styles with interview clips and statements from a tremendously wide range of people, from performing artists to academic activists. The spoken audio clips are engaging, personal and often emotional in nature due to the intimacy of disability conversations. Joyce pays specific attention to sharing diverse viewpoints within the disability community and features many POC and LGBTQ+ perspectives. Thus far, it has received fairly positive criticism, but her status as a marginalized composer has limited the exposure of her work. I’d like to tell you a bit more about her and the significance of this work both in terms of her activism and her trailblazing musical visions. In full transparency, I do not identify myself with the disabled community. With that in mind, I do not intend for this piece to speak to the disabled experience in any way; rather, I hope to shed light on the work that Joyce has done thus far, and hopefully convince you to experience her music.

Molly Joyce is a composer and performer. Much of her work is multimedia, making use of both audio and visual components. She is best known for playing her vintage 1960s Magnus toy organ, which she uses as an instrumental reflection of disability in her work; according to Joyce, the organ “allows (her) to engage and seek the creative potential of disability.” She is a graduate of Juilliard, the Royal Conservatory in The Hague and the Yale School of Music. She has won numerous awards, collaborated with many significant contemporary music artists and has written for various academic publications as well as given a TedX presentation about persisting in music after being impaired in an accident. Prior to Perspective, she released performances of her music on her 2017 EP Lean Back and Release and her 2020 debut album Breaking and Entering. She has also composed works for other performers and ensembles of various mediums.

I first learned about Joyce in a contemporary music course by Dr. Ryan Olivier that I took at Indiana University South Bend before I transferred to Michigan. I was really interested in minimalist music at the time, so her postminimalist compositional style intrigued me; I found her works evocative and direct in messaging, yet somewhat open to artistic interpretation. I had little exposure to contemporary women composers prior to the course, and had absolutely no reference for possible intersections between disability and music, so her work served as a genesis point for my exploration of the inherent ableism in the Western Art Music tradition. WAM tradition, but also the performing arts as a whole — being one of the most regressive holdovers of 19th- and 20th-century white, male, cisheterosexual cultural dominance — often actively resist intersectional and marginalized identities of composers and performers, especially if they center those identities in their music. In her article “Music as a Tool for Disability Activism,” York University Ph.D. student Diane Kolin states, “(V)enues, and the music industry more broadly, do not seem to carry out the efforts of making themselves more accessible, thus more diverse and inclusive. Disabled artists rarely appear in media, and they are hardly highlighted on social platforms.” This is not to say that various disabled artists have not found their own successes, but rather that the culture as a whole does not incentivize deviation from the perceived norm.

Joyce tends to structure her works with melodic and/or rhythmic ostinati supported by narration or some other vocal form of performance. In true minimalist fashion, the majority of her works lack a traditional chord progression or otherwise tonal gravity; instead, she relies on the cadence of her vocal content to differentiate greater sections within her works. To the uninitiated listener, this approach and sound are difficult to follow, but actually simplify the task of narration: Joyce is not beholden to a rhyme scheme, a verse-chorus format or any other structural barriers that would otherwise limit how she expresses her artistic ideas. A listen through her debut album Breaking and Entering demonstrates this process perfectly, as Joyce sings through most of the lyrics without discernible melody or metric stress. Musical development occurs through timbral (what sounds are being made, i.e. a piano versus an electronic synth playing) and dynamic (how loud or soft the music is) fluctuation, weaving in and out of tension often independently from the narrative. It goes without saying that this analysis will not apply to each of her songs, but rather lays the groundwork for understanding her compositional style.

Perspective takes this approach to the next level. Joyce begins each track by prompting various interviewees with a one-word theme (reflected in the title of each song), and then she layers the given responses over her traditional minimalist musical accompaniment. Rather than hide these diverse stories in the music (á la Steve Reich’s “Different Trains”), Joyce lets these statements speak for themselves clearly and without much editing. The goal is not to make music out of these interviews, but rather to make these interviews musical; her artistic vision seeks to engage in these difficult conversations through the music, not by the music. Many of the responses given to her prompts are not just explanations of disability – many offer critical thoughts regarding the connotations of these themes in service of dismantling them. For example, the track “Strength” features commentary on both literal understandings of the word and also societal valuation of physical strength as a desired or otherwise superior trait for humans to possess.

None of the works on Perspective have conclusive or resolved endings, much like how many of the discussions started in this album are far from decided. Further, these are not just faceless voices: Joyce credits every interviewee in the album notes and even cites some of their social media handles on her promotional Instagram post. With many of her collaborators being POC and LGBTQ+ people, as aforementioned, Joyce is careful not to erase the humanity and individuality of anyone involved with her work. Joyce masterfully navigates the intersectional spaces that disability discourse inhabits, while equally valuing the experiences of each person interviewed. She makes no attempt to summarize their interactions with disability, nor does she speak for them. In both the narrative and musical components of these tracks, Joyce is meditative and contemplative; the listener is allowed to be both an observer and an active participant in the process.

Joyce’s musical commentary is tremendously valuable and important in the current climate of growing awareness of disability activism and ableism in society by able-bodied persons. Many of our institutions (both in physical and cultural forms) have barely begun investigating their inherent complicity in (and often ignorance of) these hierarchies. But artists and activists such as Joyce provide both a voice and a platform for learning and engagement that is uniquely authentic. There is something to be learned (and unlearned) in each of her talks, articles, performances and now musical releases. I sincerely hope that Perspective will be remembered as one of the pivotal works in a new era of social consciousness of intersectional ableism as well as artistic activism.

MiC Columnist Cedric McCoy can be reached at cedmccoy@umich.edu.

The post Molly Joyce and Musical Commentary on Disability in ‘Perspective’ appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

Maybe I’m biased, but Telugu films never get the recognition they deserve. Only recently have Telugu films become more readily available in their original language via streaming platforms and screened in theaters worldwide, increasing accessibility. Out of the top 87 highest grossing Indian films to date, the Telugu films that are ranked are “Rangasthalam” (2018) at number 74, “Sarileru Neekevvaru” (2020) at number 60, “Sye Raa Narasimha Reddy” (2019) at number 55, “Ala Vaikunthapurramuloo” (2020) at number 49, “Pushpa: The Rise – Part 1” (2021) at number 23, “Baahubali: The Beginning” (2015) at number 10, “RRR” (2022) at number four and “Baahubali 2: The Conclusion” (2017) sits at number two.

Although Telugu films are slowly starting to make their marks on the charts, the Hindi film industry has always dominated popular notions of Indian cinema. Hindi actors and directors are the ones that have wax figures made of them at Madame Tussauds. They’re the ones that get to walk the red carpets, represent film festival panels and strike Hollywood deals.

Time after time we’ve witnessed the Hindi film industry take screenplays from the Telugu industry and other South Indian industries, and while the original Telugu screenplays have higher ratings, they’re still not as popular as their Hindi remakes. For example, many Hindi-film fans will know the iconic film “Rowdy Rathore” (2012) and its soundtrack, but many of those same fans would be shocked to find out that it is a remake of the Telugu movie “Vikramarkudu” (2006). The film even uses some of the same songs, just translated into Hindi! While “Vikramarkdu” has a 3.4 out of 5.0 rating on Letterboxd, “Rowdy Rathore” has a 2.3 rating. If you take a peek at that same list of the top 87 highest-grossing Indian movies, you’ll see “Rowdy Rathore” at 87, while the original “Vikramarkudu” is nowhere to be found. 

Not only are some of the highest-grossing Indian films just Hindi remakes of Telugu screenplays, some of these films go as far as to make fun of South Indian culture altogether. Films like “Ra.One” (2011) and “Chennai Express” (2013) are prime examples of films that stereotype South Indian culture, yet they’re some of the highest-grossing Indian films to date, ranking at number 80 and 19 respectively.

So how can I convince you to pay more attention to the Telugu film industry? It’s not a task I can do alone, so I decided to sit down with the hosts of ThyGap Telugu Podcast. The hosts, using the pseudonyms BeingBrut and BogusNoog, review popular Telugu films, using sarcastic and witty humor to make anyone that can understand Telugu laugh until they have tears streaming down their faces. And luckily for you, if you don’t understand Telugu or have Telugu friends willing to translate, they also have an English podcast under the same name, ThyGap, which is just as entertaining. 

Brut, Bogus and I all feel that the Telugu film industry has the potential of showcasing stories on the same caliber as the Western and Hindi film industries. 

“Today, the fourth wall of movie-making has been broken,” Brut explained. “You are no (longer) bound by your regional concepts, you’re no (longer) bound by the regional talent. We have the potential of being as good storytellers as the Western (and/or Hindi) movie industry, but we somehow don’t seem to be going in that direction. And the reason that was told before was that the audiences don’t want it.”

But did audiences truly not want it? Before streaming services became mainstream, that may have been the case. “There’s a lot more exposure of the Hindi-speaking audience to the Tamil content and Kannada content and Telugu content,” Brut said. Before streaming platforms, it was difficult to find films with subtitles, so unless you understood Telugu, you wouldn’t be able to watch a Telugu movie. But now that subtitles and closed captions are the default on streaming platforms and in theaters, that’s no longer a concern. “We feel like the audiences are ready,” Brut said.

We’ve seen Telugu screenwriters reuse Hindi scripts in the past. However, Brut, Bogus and I don’t think that will continue to be the case. We feel that Telugu storytellers are pioneering original content, especially with recent films like “RRR,” sparking conversation about whether this could be a potential Oscar submission from India for “Best Foreign Language Film.”

“(The Telugu film industry) just started off, but the road map looks really exciting, is what we can say,” Brut said. “Storytelling is obviously the core of any content making, so a better question to ask is: are there good storytellers now?”

Storytelling is an art and a skill in and of itself. We are all storytellers, or at least consume stories via one medium or another. Storytelling allows the Telugu film industry to share cultural experiences, and through those experiences we’re able to learn from and teach each other more about ourselves and the world. Because of this, it’s also important to tell new stories so that new experiences can be shared and more can be learned from others.

To answer Brut’s question regarding storytellers, I wholeheartedly think there are (and have been) good Telugu storytellers and Telugu content to pave the path to recognition. 

Personally speaking, Telugu comedy films have been able to make me laugh the most. Telugu horror films are some of the only horror movies that still scare me to this day (which is saying a lot considering I’m an avid horror movie fan and proudly claim that I can count on one hand how many horror movies have actually scared me). And although I hate romance movies, Telugu romance movies and their soundtracks are the sole reason my standards for love are set so unrealistically high. You may catch me taking a break from the dance floor when a Hindi item song plays, but you can bet to see me bouncing off the walls the second a Telugu item song plays. Even watching a Telugu movie in theaters is an experience in and of itself. Those of you who have seen a Telugu movie in a theater in India know how hype the crowds get. Everyone starts to cheer and whistle so loudly that you can’t even hear the movie anymore when the main protagonist makes his dramatic reveal on the screen. They sing along to the songs and get up out of their seats to start dancing. Even here in the U.S., depending on the movie and the crowd, you could have the same experience in your local theater. My older brother watched director S.S. Rajamouli’s latest film, “RRR,” in theaters. Part of his Letterboxd review reads: “Watching a Telugu movie in theaters with a hyped crowd just hits different.” 

Not only do they allow me to feel such a wide array of emotions, Telugu movies mostly provide me a sense of comfort, mainly due to the cultural factors showcased in these films. There’s an immense sense of solace I feel when I see the characters celebrating Telugu holidays, eating Telugu food and wearing Telugu clothes. Seeing my culture on screen reminds me that I’m not alone in my experiences growing up as a Telugu girl and helps make the world feel a lot smaller. Not to say that film is the best way to learn more about another culture, but for viewers who may not identify with the Telugu community, Brut believes that Telugu films are a great starting point.

“Any culture has art as its core of its value system,” Brut said. “It can be classical music, it can be dance forms, it can be simple movie franchises — that forms our culture. Movies definitely add a hook to identify what culture you belong to, per se, but our culture is probably about (10,000) to 15,000 years older than what the movie industry is. So, it’s more of a contemporary ‘color code’ in which we can be identified.”

Reflecting on all of these emotions that the Telugu film industry can make people like me feel and given the collective love of storytelling, it’s evident why people like me are pushing for the Telugu industry to gain the attention it deserves. Watching Telugu movies and speaking about them, either via a podcast like ThyGap’s Telugu Podcast or just leaving reviews on Letterboxd, not only awards creativity and originality, but also pushes the medium forward. Telugu movies can provide a sense of cultural comfort and introduce new aspects of culture to other communities who aren’t familiar. 

If you want to learn more about Telugu films, you can always head over and listen to the ThyGap Telugu Podcast (if you understand Telugu or have a Telugu friend willing to translate) or stream ThyGap’s English podcast afterward (my recommendation: their episode on storytelling!).

MiC Columnist Smarani Komanduri can be reached at smaranik@umich.edu.

The post Watch more Telugu movies (and listen to ThyGap!) appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

As being a person of Color at a predominantly white institution is scary enough, it makes sense, then, that the dangerously dark palettes, jaunting jump scares and all the hallmarks of horror cannot truly convey the unyielding terror and trepidation which comes with being Black in a majority white college town. Yet Music, Theatre & Dance junior and Ghanaian-American writer-director-producer Andrew Otchere seeks to do just that through “Branch Out” — blending and mending our preconceived notions of such genres with a sweet sensational flair. 

Produced by Music, Theatre & Dance sophomore and Black artist Cortez Hill, Otchere’s comedic-thriller short film centers three Black friends at a predominantly white college “who attend a house party with hopes of expanding their social circle but instead experience a bit of … well, let’s just call it … ‘culture shock’” — a promising premise in itself.  For Black students, especially, the sociolinguistic barriers which beget constant code-switching, the staggering cultural differences in artistic taste, aesthetic values and beauty standards ultimately create distinct attitudes along cultural lines which are in ongoing opposition to dominant modes of behavior — a.k.a. whiteness. “Branch Out” brings these juxtaposing perspectives alive with an exuberant display of Black life and living. Indeed, to be Black on a college campus like the University of Michigan’s — in which only four out of every 100 people look like you — is to be persistently expected to navigate social environments that do not serve your interests, desires and needs. We’ve already seen earlier this month how crucial affinity spaces are for a community. And as seen similarly in the opening shots and scene of “Branch Out,” our protagonists — Micah (Tomias Robinson), Trey (Owen Scales), and Gabbi (Taylor Daniel) — remaining steadfast in their pre-game ritual ring us in with their dynamic chemistry, getting down before hitting the town, creating their own arena in which Blackness is celebrated without interference. 

Stepping out of this space, out of the zone of comfort and into the elusive white people’s party, the crux of the piece unfolds as we bear witness to some comical interactions between our Black leads and their white peers. Most of these are catalyzed by Trey and his white girlfriend Renee’s (Clara Dossetter) desire to inter-mix their respective friend groups. Even today, interracial Black and white couples beget controversy. The disparate power dynamics along racial (and class) lines, the fetishization of Black men and women as exotic objects and the general sense of betrayal of one’s own community all come to mind when considering intimacy across race and ethnicity. As Trey’s close friends, Micah and Gabbi remain cautious of their friend’s descent into the wretched claws of whiteness, hesitant to be amiable with Renee’s friends Ella (Claire Vogel) and Sami (Ruby Sevcik), their white counterparts. While it’s nice to witness these diametrical dynamics at play, it would have been interesting to see them fleshed out in its entirety. In considering the plight of interracial Black and white relationships, there is a valid distinction to be made between discomfort as a result of racial microaggressions and (c)overt discrimination versus a mere dissatisfaction with the personality, attitude or behavior of an individual or group. At times, it was unclear whether Micah and Gabbi’s feelings towards Renee and her friends and the other white folks at the party fell into the former or latter, although admittedly there is often an intersection of both. 

Of course, beyond the difficulties of social acceptance and belonging that come with being Black at a PWI, there is the ever-present threat of danger that comes with being Afrikan in America (and around the globe). Skillfully, “Branch Out,” as a testament to the thrills it seeks to serve, portrays this phenomenon powerfully in the climax in which relatively low stakes take a turn for the worse and our Black leads are placed in pernicious peril. The last few minutes are, indeed, fast-paced and exciting to watch, although, they do leave me wishing I felt a similar sense of all-encompassing danger, the thrill in the thriller, more present throughout. Yet, nonetheless, it is impressive that in a short 15 minutes, Otchere seamlessly weaves the lows and highs, blessings and curses that come with being a person of Color on a majority white campus. And notably, for a decent duration of the piece, this is done to music.

Music is a means of bringing folks together, with the songs and sounds of many artists and musicians alike having the eternal capacity to play a profound role in crafting the vibe and feel of a space. We become plucked from the real as we enter into a fantastical liminality entranced by far-reaching rhythms and sublime rhymes which reach down deep into our soul. Trekking along this trail of thought, the soundtrack of “Branch Out” features various independent artists, including music and vocal performances from Juliet Freedman, Black artists Simone Clotile, Tunde Olaniran, Buto, Abby T. and Rodney Chrome. The film certainly exceeds itself with its incorporation of Black music as a means to not only support independent artists but also further the plot.

While student-run works –– especially independent film projects –– are often constrained by a limited budget, it is clear Otchere took a multitude of creative initiatives to work around this, ultimately uplifting the Black community and culture in the process. Couple this with stellar performances all across the board from an exceptional cast and it becomes clear that “Branch Out” is truly one-of-a-kind: it is not every day we find works written, directed, produced and performed by Black folks speaking truthfully to the Black experience. Thus, it is our responsibility, en route to liberation, to actively support the works of art which do just this. If you’ve yet to do so, then, maybe you should branch out. 

Branch Out will be available for streaming in the near future. Follow @branchout.shortfilm on Instagram for more updates.

MiC Columnist Karis Clark can be reached at kariscl@umich.edu.

The post Andrew Otchere’s “Branch Out”: when Black faces meet white spaces appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

Growing up as a young South Asian girl in a small city in Michigan, finding representation in music always felt nearly impossible. I had two easy options when it came to listening to music. I could either listen to whatever was trending in the U.S., or I could listen to the South Asian music my mother would blast on her phone while cooking. And as much as I loved listening to A. R. Rahman and Dhanush while helping my mother roll out her chapatis on a random Tuesday night, I never felt seen by their artistry. It wasn’t music I could dive into, getting lost in the melodies, replaying the lyrics over and over in my head like a trance. 

My knowledge of Tamil is very limited. I can understand basic conversational Tamil and repeat back a whopping 14 words. So understanding fluent melodic Tamil was already a challenge, but being able to sing along to the lyrics was unimaginable. So I did what 11-year-old me thought was my only option — listened to the radio. 98.7 was my channel. I’d get into my mom’s car from school and immediately pause the Tamil song she was listening to since I couldn’t understand the lyrics, just to put on Detroit’s 98.7, which played whatever was trending on the Billboard Hot 100. Through the years, this radio obsession quickly switched over to whatever song my brother played in the car through his phone in middle school, eventually then jumping to whatever my friends listened to or what Spotify recommended to me in high school. I could understand and sing along to every song I heard. But gaining this meant I lost any form of the musical representation that the Tamil music gave me.

So a few years back, I fell into a Spotify playlist searching frenzy, finding South Asian artists that I could listen to, enjoy and relate to. After finding a few that I featured in part one, I decided to continue my hunt. Here are some more of my favorite artists so far. 

Nikhil Ramani

Nikhil Ramani is originally from Chennai, a city in South India, where my family currently resides. Both he and his roommate, Luke Duckworth, have been creating music together and releasing it on Spotify since 2020. Through this, Ramani has accumulated over 1,500 monthly listeners. I stumbled upon Ramani’s music last October when I heard the duo’s song “seventeen.” The song grapples with the end of one’s youth: the period of shifting from adolescence to adulthood, reflecting on all the fun times they had as teens. The lyrics paint a clear story about Ramani and his friends when they were younger, filled with imagery about the “Chennai heat” and the “salty breeze” that loomed around Ramani growing up. This was one of the first things that made me gravitate so strongly to Ramani’s music. The lyrics were so direct, letting me follow along to his story as if I were there. It made his music feel so homey and relatable. As if he was someone you knew, could talk to and listen to for hours. The music felt raw and less manufactured, almost like a home video, something so hard to find nowadays. To get into Ramani’s music, start by listening to “seventeen” and “Halfway Across the World.”

Anjali Taneja

Taneja is an Indian-American artist releasing music since 2017. Her latest single, “How It Feels,” has been playing on rotation in my Spotify playlists since its release in January. Her music takes a unique spin on R‘n’B through a more indie sound, creating a flowy feeling that cannot help but bring out a deep calmness. The equal blending between the music and more relaxed vocals drew me into Taneja’s music. “How It Feels” is a song that immediately makes me close my eyes and forget every pressure in my life for two minutes and 18 seconds. Her song “Paradise” has become another one of my favorites. The song title itself describes the vibe of the song, exuding a light and airy feeling. To get into Taneja’s music, start by listening to “Paradise,” “Keepsake” and “How It Feels.”

Shravya Kamaraju

Kamaraju is a singer and songwriter who first started out by making covers of popular songs on TikTok. She would add desi influences, like adding Bollywood mashups to the covers which led to her rise in popularity. From TikTok, she began creating her own music. Her most popular song has amassed over 220,000 Spotify streams. I first listened to Kamaraju this past summer, when she released “Fire Hazard.” The song focuses on the outside world pressures she faces as both a young adult and college student. With lyrics like “carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders” and “all in good time / even natural disasters subside,” the song centers on how she’s falling apart with too much on her plate, but still wanting more but with the hope that eventually this feeling of dread and pressure will pass. The upbeat music contrasts with the feeling of mental exhaustion translated through the lyrics, highlighting the hope that things will get better. To get into Kamaraju’s music, start by listening to “Fire Hazard” and “Night to Remember.”

hrishi

With only five tracks released on Spotify, Indian American artist hrishi is quickly gaining popularity. He brings his desi music influences into both his TikTok covers and his original music. hrishi was trained in Carnatic music, a traditional style in South India, for over 10 years, and highlights this talent in his music while creating Carnatic remixes of popular songs on his TikTok. His song “20somethin” begins with clear Carnatic vocals. The song was released in May 2021 and has already picked up over 130,000 Spotify streams. The lyrics focus on young adult life and how it isn’t always the life of the party society paints. To get into his music, start by listening to “20somethin” and “Paul McCartney (superstar).”

Sne

With only 203 monthly listeners, Sne’s music is severely underrated. Her most popular song, “Honey,” showcases Sne’s smooth and sweet vocals. Every time this song plays through my earbuds, I can’t help but just fall back in bed and lie there all day while the song sits on repeat, losing track of time in her melodic golden voice that perfectly flows across the music and immediately sends me into a trance. The lyrics focus on fantasizing about someone — the thought of them consumes your mind the way Sne’s voice does, echoing in the back of your head. Where being with them becomes the only wish and thought you have. Even with only four songs out, Sne has quickly climbed my Spotify hierarchy and become one of my most listened to artists. To get into her music, start by listening to “Honey” and “Miss You.”

Dameer

Dameer is a singer and songwriter born and raised in Bangladesh. His Bangladeshi roots mix with the Western musical influences he heard growing up to create his modern sunshine indie sound. His song “Michelle,” with over 700,000 Spotify streams, diffuses a happy feeling every time it plays. Hearing the song for the first time sent me into a spiral of queuing every one of his songs over and over, until I could quote every lyric. Dameer’s first 2018 releases quickly created buzz, leading to an album release in 2019 called “For We Are Distant.” This past year, Dameer has gone independent, breaking away from the label he signed with as a teenager, releasing “Bashbo Bhalo,” his first independent song as well as his first song fully in Bangla. To get into his music, start by listening to “Michelle” and “Air.”

All these artists have given me music that I can dive into. Music whose melodies I can get lost in. Music whose lyrics I can replay in my head. Music that I can lie in bed all day and listen to, daydreaming to the sound of their voices. Music I wouldn’t mind playing in the background while I help my mother roll out another batch of chapatis on the weekends when I’m home from college. But most importantly, it’s music that I can listen to and still feel close to my South Asian roots. They’re artists who represent me and artists I can relate to. I have compiled a playlist with all of the mentioned songs as well as other South Asian artists I think you should start listening to. I hope you listen and enjoy. 

MiC Columnist Roshni Mohan can be reached at romohan@umich.edu.

The post South Asian artists you need to start listening to! Pt. 2 appeared first on The Michigan Daily.