“…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.”

Guys,

Please see below.

Sent from my iPhone

From: Jimmy, a Living SnailDate: January 28th, 2015 at 5:23:42 CSTTo: Brock KestersonSubject: 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, photo-shops, 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

GADFLYF E B R U A R Y 2 0 1 5

Giuseppe “Cabal President” VitellaroDavid “Cabal Inductee” BurkeSam “Cabal PR Man” FentressPaul “Strange” DauesKevin “Stranger” Strader

Michael “Swell kid” NeuhoffJohn “Ratman” RatermannSam “Audubon” AubuchonJack “Steve” EmbryAlix “Not Laith” Sexton-WarnerMax “Cabal Victim” Prosperi

Mr. Paul “Bowling Ball” BaudendistelMr. Steve “Yellow Journalism” Missey

Dr. David “Kal Kan” CallonMr. Joe “Cabal Treasurer” KomosMr. Michael “Four’s a Crowd” Schonhoff

2/08/15 Dark Star Orchestra2/08/15 Dave Dickey Big Band2/09/15 Kina Grannis2/10/15 Less Than Jake & Reel Big Fish2/10/15 St. Louis Stompers2/09/15 An Evening with Branford Marsalis2/11/15 Guster 2/13/15 Valentine’s Day with Erin Bode2/13/15 Above & Beyond2/13/15 The Wicked Pixel Cinema Rockshow2/14/15 Faithfully: A Tribute to the Music of Journey2/14/15 G. Love & Special Sauce2/17/15 Gaelic Storm2/18/15 Jeff Lorber Fusion2/19/15 Blackberry Smoke2/19/15 The Very Best of Celtic Thunder2/19/15 Robyn Hitchcock2/20/15 Larkin Poe & Jesse Mae2/21/15 Evan Dando2/21/15 The Isley Brothers2/22/15 Ladysmith Black Mambazo2/22/15 Portland Cello Project2/23/15 Catfish and the Bottlemen2/24/15 St. Louis Brass Band2/24/15 Hozier2/26/15 Lil Wyte2/27/15 Peter Martin & Federico González Peña2/27/15 Ed Kowalczyk2/27/15 Million Dollar Quartet 2/28/15 Byron Stripling2/28/15 Ricky Skaggs & Kentucky Thunder2/28/15 Quitting Amy 2/14/15 Jasen Isbell 3/01/15 Milo Greene 3/04/15 Webster University Chamber Singers3/04/15 The Phantom of the Opera 3/07/15 King of Pain: A Tribute to the Police3/10/15 Chamber Music Society of St. Louis3/19/15 Brit Floyd

The PageantJazz at the BistroThe FirebirdThe PageantSheldon Concert HallJazz at the BistroThe PageantJazz at the BistroThe PageantBlueberry HillPowell HallThe PageantThe PageantJazz at the BistroThe PageantFox TheaterBlueberry HillBlueberry HillBlueberry HillFox TheaterSheldon Concert HallBlueberry HillThe FirebirdSheldon Concert HallThe PageantThe FirebirdSheldon Concert HallBlueberry HillFox TheaterJazz at the BistroSheldon Concert HallBlueberry HillPeabody Opera HouseBlueberry HillSheldon Concert HallFox TheaterBlueberry HillSheldon Concert HallPeabody Opera House

CONCERT CALENDARDates listed are opening nights.

The PageantJazz at the BistroThe FirebirdThe PageantSheldon Concert HallJazz at the BistroThe PageantJazz at the BistroThe PageantBlueberry HillPowell HallThe PageantThe PageantJazz at the BistroThe PageantFox TheaterBlueberry HillBlueberry HillBlueberry HillFox TheaterSheldon Concert HallBlueberry HillThe FirebirdSheldon Concert HallThe PageantThe FirebirdSheldon Concert HallBlueberry HillFox TheaterJazz at the BistroSheldon Concert HallBlueberry HillPeabody Opera HouseBlueberry HillSheldon Concert HallFox TheaterBlueberry HillSheldon Concert HallPeabody Opera House

I GRABBED the pair of skinny chi-nos and my newly purchased flan-nel 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 cou-ples 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 go-ing 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 op-tion so I followed behind her.

The walk into the mall this time was much different than the first time. We were vigilant but also oblivi-ous. 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 experi-ence 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, oth-ers were not. Tenants stood watch glaring from side to side. Crowds of

WHITE IN FERGUSONBY MAX PROSPERI

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 tim-idly 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 gath-ering 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 some-thing. Growing up in the predomi-nantly white suburb of Kirkwood that “something.” was degraded to noth-ing than “an excuse to get some time off work and destroy their com-munity.” 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 con-tinued 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 de-cided to gather here, they have been doing those chants yelling and hol-lering, its not too big of a concern.” I asked, “Do you plan on making ar-rests?” 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 fol-low them across town.”

I couldn’t help but reflect on what the female officer said to us. To her, they meant nothing. They were noth-ing more than a pest. I felt disap-pointment. 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 major-ity 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 ex-pression. 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 aver-age 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 educa-tion a white teen can get, and I cow-ered 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 chant-ing the same chants as the protes-tors. 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 dis-gusting 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 re-mark. 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 bet-ter understand the anger of the dem-onstrators.

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 protest-ers 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 revo-lution 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 vari-ous 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-discrim-inatory 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 peo-ple 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 equal-ity. There is certainly a revolution at hand, rather or not it succeeds, only time will tell.

I LAY on my bed, the only thing mov-ing in my room was the fan. It lightly sprinkled dust across the room; it

hadn’t been turned on in months be-cause of the nice weather. I sat un-moving staring through the ceiling. My body was still yet my brain leaped farther and farther away from any comforting thought. “What if the che-mo 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. Shuf-fling 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 qui-etly hums behind the words. The lyr-ics hurt to hear: “Now won’t you lis-ten 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 Des-tin, 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 fam-ily gathered on the porch, eating and laughing yet I remember the feeling of uncertainty that clouded my happi-ness. Throughout the dinner I began to take notice of my parents’ one-word answers and distant thoughts that trailed off. They sat at the oppo-site 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 prac-ticed 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

RESTLESSBY KEVIN STRADER

same lines so much they might actu-ally make you believe them. My mom would be hearing those same sen-tences 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 up-stairs 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 Griz-zly 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 some-where to go. Anywhere but here, I thought. I got lost. As I wandered aim-lessly 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 go-ing to be able to sleep. I refused to lie to myself about that, yet I could not stand the truth that my mother is dy-ing.

I wanted to talk to anyone and no one at the same time. My room felt like a prison cell. The tall iron rods re-placed 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 re-ply, 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 brain-washed 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 man-ner, 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 emo-tions 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 mo-tivation 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).

SEEMS 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 Ad-dams 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 ex-pect. Sowis The Addams Family a de-cent musical or just a cheap sell out?

The show follows the same cast of characters that anyone who is famil-iar with the movies/television shows/comics will remember. Each charac-ter is full of personality and is dis-tinct. 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 con-flict 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 mu-sical. When most people think of The Addams Family and music, the open-ing theme to the 1964 television se-ries often comes to mind. The theme begins the overture and quickly van-ishes. 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 memo-rable, and everything works. From the big opening number “When You’re An Addams” to love song “The Moon and Me,” everything works. Songs are in-spired and many carry the same hu-mor that the rest of the show does. The worst part of the music lies in the fact that a full soundtrack is unavail-able. (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.

THE ADDAMS FAMILYBY DAVID BURKE

I’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 com-ing out of his latest film, Interstellar. A number of things blew me away: the unprecedented depiction and presentation of extra-terrestrial land-scapes and space travel—most nota-bly wormholes—on film; vindictive, en-thralling performances from Matthew McConaughey and Jessica Chastain; a string of plot devices so sophisti-cated 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 blockbust-er 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 Inter-stellar.

I’ve tried to imagine the reasons this might be. Perhaps it was that scenes of real, interesting human emotions came only in teary, inter-mittent bursts—I may have been ex-pecting 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 pain-ful 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 plan-et, 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 Jona-than. Since Inception, I’ve gone into his films expecting to be emotionally

INTERSTELLARBY SAM FENTRESS

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 char-acters. The Prestige is an example where that was not the case; the jolts came from vicious and believable en-mity between the film’s main charac-ters.

And then there’s Nolan’s lack of cinematographic direction; in Inter-stellar, we are simply told too much. I’m speaking not just of the occa-sional and unusually clumsy exposi-tory lines in the film, but also Nolan’s tendency to leave artistic or thought-provoking 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 Ku-brick’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 ama-teur cinematographer—just the oppo-site. 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 insepa-rable 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 speech-less after a 3-hour movie that felt a little flat.

IN 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 conversa-tions that will shape her life, but also showing Frances burning her hand on the stove, checking the clock numer-ous times before waking up, and find-ing 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,

FRANCES HABY MICHAEL NEUHOFF

“I’ve done that before” or “That’s ex-actly how I would have reacted in that situation”. It’s pretty impressive just how many of those moments Baum-bach 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 visa-versa in terms of the events in Fran-ces’s life. The film switches from, at one point, Frances’s awkward, forced conversation with people she’s meet-ing 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 re-flects life as it is, with events of the utmost importance taking place right

before or after the minutiae of day-to-day 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 aver-age sitcom characters. Your friends might say things similar to how Fran-ces 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 high-school.

The movie is also worth watch-ing 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 inter-act 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 sensi-tive 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 di-rected 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 some-thing in Frances Ha.

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, Jane-way 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

ALBUMS WE LIKE

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 multifacet-ed 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 al-ways wanted to hear in a rock set-ting. You might hear music where you never quite know what’s coming next, and at times surprises you with beau-ty created spontaneously. Maybe you’ll be able to put up with musical risk-taking to hear amazing releases that wouldn’t have meant much with-out 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 be-ginnings 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 (Grate-ful 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 feed-ing us the funk filled techno jam that culminates in Let’s Go Outside and before we know it, percussionists Mi-chael 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 con-cert 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 is-land 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 cor-ruption among the richest and most powerful men in the United States. Elo-quent, 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 al-bum 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

FROM HIS SELF-TITLED AND SELF-produced 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 lyr-ics. 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 re-minder to stay hydrated, The Water[s] fares quite easily as one of the best mixtapes of this year.

—Jack Embry

virginity and vividly incorporating con-versations he had with one of best friends that looked up to him for go-ing 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 un-comfortable 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 re-lationship 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 al-bum in which Jermaine gives his fans his whole self with his 3rd studio in-stallment.

—Alix Sexton-Warner

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 relax-ation 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.

GETTING UP TO THE RIGHT STUFF

BY PAUL DAUES

Students reseated, desks moved apart.Instructions repeated, ready to start.

Papers distributed, tone sounds; begin!Attendance taken; two minutes in.

Watching alertly, walking around.Student pen out of ink, replacement found.

Gave rover a copy for absentee.Checked under desks; just 9:03.

Sometimes daydreaming, reading the walls.Hearing minor disturbances out in the halls.

“How much time left?” “60 minutes remain.”With no more to look at, I’m numb in the brain.

Legs bothering me but can’t take a seat.When rover revisits still on my feet.

I could be working, plenty to do.Another check of my watch: but halfway through.

No wandering eyes, no cheat sheets here.I ought to arrange my peer-to-peer.

Eyes glazing over, pace down each row.One hour is up! Students may go.

Yet wait, some aren’t going. What is their deal?Trying to monitor, losing my zeal.

Only 15 more minutes. Time marches on.I’m no longer marching, but stifling a yawn.

Soldiering forward, silent, boxed, like a mime.These slowpokes should be in extended time.

More seconds tick by, and ... finally, done!This battle is finished. This race is won.

Sparklers should sparkle! Fireworks should boom!Kept my reading materials out of the room.

—Paul Baudendistel