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These words may sound like childish gibberish to you–and you’d be right if they do–but they also happen to be names of a local Ann Arbor created and based awesome, rad-tad rock band. Yada Yada, formed in 2011 by Ian Klipa, Conor Anderson and Rowan Niemisto is seen most often playing shows at Kerrytown Co-ops and house parties, and also driving around town like hooligans in a dusty pick-up truck. Their latest release encompasses everything about the band that matters: a well-calculated and designed aesthetic, a delightful and mellow vibe, soft and catchy vocals and a sense of pure joy. These guys are out there havin’ fun. That much comes across within the first few seconds of listening. These five tracks are entirely Yada Yada-written and performed, with a few moments of help from talented friends, and will accompany your spring-filled study days like a warm sweatshirt.

 

Tune in below and, if you feel inclined, download this awesome tape for the low low cost of 3 dollars!!

Listen Here

Student organizations that create their own material (videos, choreography, digital content,) perform it, and collect a wide fan base almost entirely own their own are sparse and a precious gem when discovered. It may be due to my relative newness on campus or general disconnect, but in the past month I’ve just discovered the high energy percussion group GROOVE. You may have heard of them as well, for they’ve been performing daily on the Diag in promotion for their recent and final performance of the year, Canarchy.

On a spur of the moment decision to attend with a friend on a Saturday night, I too strode into the Michigan theater and picked up a playbill from one of the parents of a GROOVE member, functioning as an usher. The moment I realized that this was so much cooler, respected, and worthy of my excitement came when the projector began playing a self-written, directed, edited and produced video on the screen to which the audience began to scream, hoot, clap, and cheer for. I turned in my seat to survey the audience and what I saw surprised me, the house was packed, floor and balcony.

This attendance, the amount of energy and excitement, the amount of support from students, parents, and apparent out-of-towners was justified in a two-part set in which digital shorts, live performances with collaborations from several dance groups, and audience-interaction pieces set the show on fire. The transitions between songs were seamless with an equally applauded jam-band filling with head-bob worthy improvisation.

Songs exploded in lasers, lights, STOMP-like trash can percussion, costumes, hilarious skits,  scaffolding climbing drummers, and of course smoke machines. Canarchy was exactly how GROOVE describes themselves: high-energy. The crowd screamed to the performers on stage with the same hysteric excitement of fans in the Big House. Gasps and hoots broke out when the performers crescendoed together to a roar or the lights surged to reveal flawless coordination or a flip to a set of black lights.

The group maintains a supportive alumni base that returns to Ann Arbor for shows, a dedicated group of parents that sell merchandise, and enough fans and friends to sell out the Michigan Theater. If this amount of backing isn’t enough proof of the phenomenal group, then one must simply read over the setlist as distributed in the playbill. Nearly every piece presented was arranged, selected, and performed by the student drummers exclusively. Not only must these percussionists perform with finesse and coordination on their instruments, they danced, acted, memorized lines, but they wrote the music themselves.

The final song performed included a pyramidal mountain of trash cans that were thrashed upon with passion. Every member of GROOVE was on stage, drumming with passion, sweat, and a fierce smile. The crowd screamed and clapped and gazed in awe of the lights, the smoke, the all-in-full-body sticking. The performers were entirely in sync with one another, listening to one another, feeling the rhythms, the pauses, the breaks. They beat their props in a frenzy and the song ended with a unified, coordinated boom on their instruments. The drummers raised their sticks over their heads in an “X” and grunted in unison. The stage lights were a fiery orange and the performers glistened with the pride of quite literally “leaving it all on the stage.”

What is incredible, what is laudable, what made my heart pound with excitement in the Michigan Theater Saturday night was the immediate jump to their feet the audience made in a standing ovation for GROOVE. We screamed, hollered, whistled, clapped, and stomped for these kids who had an outstanding show.

Whether you have heard of GROOVE or not, I cannot endorse them enough. The amount of musicianship, performance, and musical integrity executed in this group is exquisite. It was beautiful noise that flowed through, proving endless rehearsal. Canarchy blew me back in my folding seat and I cannot wait to be the first in line to buy a ticket to their next show.

 

The cat is an artist. Or the artist is a cat. Or wait. I don’t like cats.

I am a dog person, but this claim of identification is purely based on the fact that I have had one dog during my short existence in this world. I have never owned a cat; I have touched cats, but did not find it appealing, it seemed so distant, like it could not care less about the fact that I was petting it. Of course, I can entertain the thought that I was not stroking the cat the right way or maybe that particular cat was an asshole.

But regardless, dogs are important to me, because I grew up with my first and only dog. I met him when we were both young, and unfortunately, he passed away when I was entering my senior year of high school. Sorry to bring the mood to a somber level, but it happened. Nothing can make me forget about the connection I had with my dog – but it makes me wonder, what if my first pet was a cat? (I mean I swear my dog purred once)

I was surfing the internet, as one does to run away from the last bit of work they have to do during a semester, when I ran into a blog post that featured pictures of famous artists with their cats.

Apparently cats are frequent muses for artists – a “creative companion” of sorts. So wait, am I not an artist then? Should I go and buy a cat? The only cats I have ever respected is Tom and Sylvester – both of whom never give up despite their foiled efforts to catch their prey. But neither of them is real. You cannot find me a cat that will sit on the train tracks in depression after his girlfriend dumps him. You cannot find me a cat with such an intense emotional gravitas.

Of course, this whole photographical representation of the relationships between artists and their cats is to be considered in moderation. By no means is it a requirement. But often, these little posts that bring up interesting coincidences that are backed up by some sort of statistical evidence, make me wonder about my own position. The conclusion is never that relative to the very coincidence that got me going in the first place, but nonetheless, I realize a little bit more about myself. Similar to how we respond to banal platitudes. And everyone knows how clichéd those are, right?

Pablo Picasso

Link to some more pictures.

Intimate Portraits of 50 Artists and Their Cats Compiled by Alison Nastasi

 

Why can’t art come from emptiness? For all artistic expression, the artist must be filled with some emotion. It can stem form anger, despair, elation, or confusion, but I have never seen anything grow out of emptiness. I guess the main reason would be that there’s no conceivable way to portray it. Thousands of years of creative expression and we have not come up with a way to show it except for extreme monochromaticity of black or white. Anything else and another emotion overwhelms. Even writing is constrained by this. Trying to write about emptiness really stems from the despair or anger that you feel empty. Those are the emotions that are portrayed through the writing, not the sensation of emptiness.

Emptiness needs expression because it is valid and it’s a unique temperament that may be alien when first encountered. It’s something that is easily ignored, but is always present. You don’t think about it until you start feeling guilty about it. This usual lack of emotional variance is worrisome, but it can also be relieving. You can express all that, the guilt, worry, and relief, but it doesn’t get to the heart of the matter. We make art to make a connection. We can’t make art about this because there is no way to truly represent it. Even the past passage is framed solely by emotions because there is no other way to describe it.

How did expression evolve through all these years without being able to express this? It’s curiously missing, yet most people must feel it at some point. It’s a loss of intensity and a general washing out of sensation, yet that’s not wholly it. There are ways to express nothingness, but nothingness doesn’t cover what this is. It’s something more, nothingness is just a part of it. It’s this enigmatic difference from nothingness that makes it impossible to describe.

I want to express this part of myself, but I can’t. I often feel empty, but I don’t have an easy way to represent that to the world. I want to connect to others through this, but I don’t have the resources to.

Over the summer I got really into this band out of Minneapolis called Bad Bad Hats. They’ve got a really fun acoustic sound that’s perfect for blasting while on a road trip with the sun beating down on you and a film reel playing in your head. Essentially, pretty ideal for anyone who imagines their life as a movie. I recently made a pretty cool discovery when I stumbled upon their lead singer’s bandcamp page from before the band started working on their first EP, It Hurts, and since then I have been playing her early music and the EP’s original demos on loop.

What I love about Kerry Roy’s music is that she writes really soft and sweet love songs, complete with visually vivid lyrics and fluttering harmonies, but captured in each easygoing piece is a complex story about the struggles of relationships missing from a lot of contemporary love songs. For instance, her piece 9AM tells the story of a person who leads someone on because she knows she “doesn’t feel a thing” but is too attached to let go. This apology piece is complicated by lines like “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I’m not sorry” and “don’t tell me I can’t stay but know I’m gonna treat you badly.” I Know I Am But What Are You is a song about wasting your time on someone who doesn’t seem to want to be with you, but settling for the fact that you are the one they choose to be with at the end of the night. Not only is this a possible foil to the person in 9AM, but it touches on relationships that  go undefined by the parties involved and the difficulties of navigating them.

One of my favorites is a song called The Things We Never Say, which tells the tale of two people in a complicated relationship who do a lot of things “wrong” by conventional standards. They make each other jealous, are never around when needed, and don’t know how to say ‘I love you,’ but their feelings for each other go without saying. It’s a beautiful song about resigning yourself to another’s flaws and realizing that you love them regardless.

I would definitely suggest giving her demos a listen if you are looking for a new sound for the summer, as well as grabbing a free download of their EP, which has a higher quality sound. You can find her demos on her bandcamp here.

It is a little obscene how much I love performing. The thrill of the applause, the fear of missing an entrance and the chance to share a little bit of truth hidden behind a plot of twists and turns that demands a dutiful suspension of disbelief is addicting. Something about it consistently causes me to agree to one too many things just so I can have 1 more minute under those hot stage lights.

Two weekends ago I gave my senior recital. Wednesday I performed in the Chamber Choir Concert. Thursday I performed in the Green Opera Performances and tonight I will perform in those Green Operas again (8 pm Stamps Auditorium in the Walgreen Drama Center if anyone is interested). While being in all of these shows is amazing and I have never regretted taking all of this on, it gets tiring. Beyond the physical exhaustion of all the rehearsals and performances augmented by late nights to finish homework, the act of performing is emotionally and mentally exhausting.

After the run of a show ends I typically send out apologies to everyone who came to it. Not for my performance or the way that the set looked or for any other reason you are probably thinking of, but because after a show when I walk out of the green room to talk to my friends and family I am out of it. After having spent 2 hours being someone else, I am not able to so quickly transition back into Alexandria – which always feels awkward. Here are people congratulating me, supporting me, and often paying money to see me perform, and all I want to do is go to bed!

Yet, this exhaustion is part of the experience of performing. I know that if I am not mentally, emotionally and physically drained by the end of the performance I was not “in it”. If I am perky and immediately transition back to Alexandria after the final curtain I know it was Alexandria up on stage – not Brooke, not Phyllis, not Grace, certainly not anyone that the audience had paid to come and see. This exhaustion is cathartic and means that on stage I was not thinking but that I was living life through the eyes of another. This is the beauty of performing, because once it stops being a “performance” it is not longer contrived but a theatrical presentation of truth.