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A Book of Rivalries or the Author’s Memoir?

Steven Hyden’s book, Your Favorite Band is Killing Me, gives a deeper meaning to the music rivalries that consume your mind. 

I would like to preface this by saying that the review you are about to read does not capture the enjoyment I had reading this book. The writing in Your Favorite Band is Killing Me caught my attention and the author Steven Hyden was genuinely funny. Most of my problems with it likely come from the fact that I am a 19-year-old liberal, mixed-race, college female student, while the author is a 40-year-old white dude with a beard. With different demographics come distinct perspectives. He was also a bit too focused on his personal anecdotes, making his essays meander and the point of the chapters subsequently lost.

Your Favorite Band is Killing Me explore the world of music rivalries, covering everything from the classic Beatles vs. Stones to the country artists Toby Keith vs. the Dixie Chicks to more modern rivalries such as Taylor Swift vs. Kanye West. As someone who takes a lot of pride in the artists that I listen to and would quickly come to their defense, I was particularly interested as to what Hyden had to say about some of the rivalries that I have a clear stance on. The book also claims that it reveals deeper truths about life as well as the reader through whose side they are on. As a sucker for personality quizzes and things that tell me more about myself (does that make me a narcissist?), I picked up this book in search of a reasoning behind my feelings towards certain artists.

Hyden’s writing has clever word choice as well as engaging comments that make the book worth reading. Each chapter has solid introductions and conclusions so that readers can pick up a random place to start. His introductions make me immediately interested in what he is about to write: “Eric Clapton makes me contemplate the inevitable decline of my own life, and this makes me uncomfortable” (114). He uses certain techniques to his advantage as when he cunningly said “Swift… swiftly exited” (82) or when he writes a long-winded sentence and notes that “this run-on sentence made Showalter very excited” (184). He is also clever with his musical references, some of which I likely am not musically inclined enough to even catch. When talking about the Smashing Pumpkins, he describes how he and Showalter “bonded like a couple of Siamese dreamers” (184). He also acts as a skeptic sometimes to his own ideas, which is a challenge that he handles well. He comments that he only classifies himself as more of a Stones fan than a Beatles one because he wants to seem more “cool.” He also only likes Oasis more than Blur because of his inherent self-image issues and aesthetic preferences, rather than the music. He admits these weaknesses in his own music rivalry stances, and insightfully elaborates on them.

I usually would not mind if the author and I came from completely different backgrounds: published authors are not often going to be 19-year olds. However, I could not help but feel that the author’s way of writing and the rivalries in the book seemed outdated at times. Hyden discusses very little rivalries that includes women or people of color compared to white male rivalries. I first took note of the author’s identity as a middle-aged white man when he described an event as “white-washed” (29). I fully understand the true definition of this term, but these days, I would assume most people think of the Urban Dictionary version of “white-washed” when they hear it: the idea that a minority has assimilated into white culture. To me, it seemed like a strange word to pick. The author’s identity kept making appearances throughout the book. Sometimes he uses it as a funny side note such as when he says, “dreaming about Bruce Springsteen is an utterly common occurrence among white men between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five” (33). Other times, however, his observations seem slightly ignorant. For example, when he spoke of the times that he has “encountered a fellow adult heterosexual male out in the wild,” he says that he always feels like the other male is “trying to push himself into my world” (68). I recognize that this type of exchange can often happen between two heterosexual males, but I could not help but feel slightly put off that a straight white male felt as though another person of his demographic was encroaching on him when women feel this way all the time. The author states that he struggles with “hewing too closely to my demographic stereotype” (115), but when he talks like this, it is hard not to associate him with this attitude.

It is important to note that my view of the author slightly switched in Chapter 8 when he writes about Sinead O’Connor vs. Miley Cyrus. Hyden states that “Miley froze me up. When it came to offering my own hot take, I punted” (141). He describes this fear as one where he did not feel that it was his place to talk about an issue of sex and expression among women musicians. I feel that the following quote is necessary to think about when speaking of any music journalism and to understand the context of Hyden’s writing:

“I feared that whatever I wrote would sound reactionary by virtue of its being written by a straight white male in his late thirties. I didn’t want to be ‘that guy,’ and being ‘that guy’ was unavoidable because I was that guy. My demographic profile would speak louder than anything I could possibly write” (141).

With this qualifier, I almost felt bad about labeling him as “that guy” in my own head. However, in this Miley Cyrus chapter, he uses the term “Whore-ah Montana” (137), which could be perceived as funny or insulting depending on the audience. He touches on race and sexism when talking about Taylor Swift vs. Kanye West— the award show incident could be viewed as recurrent prejudice against artists of color or “a man saying ‘fuck you’ to a woman finally getting her due recognition” (83). It seems that these social issues are unfortunately only mentioned briefly when the author felt obliged to talk about them. Otherwise, he skips over them because he has a difficult time connecting such a topic to his own identity.

Swift vs. Kanye is one of those rivalries that I have an unequivocal opinion about. Kanye should not have interrupted Swift at the VMAs or referred to her as “that bitch” after the way that he acted towards her. Hyden takes a different approach though. He claims that the moral of the story here is that award shows do not actually signal merit because both West and Swift are talented in their own ways—West diminished the credibility of the VMAs simply by creating this drama. Although this did not change my viewpoint of who “won” the rivalry and Hyden did not reach a conclusion on details of the actual feud, I appreciated this deeper outlook that celebrity and entertainment news sources would never discuss.

Another overarching issue of the book is that the author loves talking about his own life almost too much. Do not get me wrong—I found his anecdotes relatable on a lot of levels, especially his “this was obviously a dumb decision for which there is no excuse” (127) attitude. It is not easy to be able to connect personal real-life experiences to pop culture, and to make witty comments about it. For the most part, Hyden is able to do this. He connects his own struggles with making deep male friendships to the rivalry between the White Stripes and the Black Keys, and his nerdy high school self to Prince’s former “uncoolness” compared to Michael Jackson who has always been cool. On one hand, I enjoyed reading these snippets, and I know I would have a fun time if I sat down to have a conversation with Hyden. But another part of me had trouble following all of his stories, and felt that the book would be better labeled as (at least) half-memoir. I did not hate the chapters that brought in the NFL, Playboy, Nixon, Chris Christie, or Hyden’s wife because they were humorous, but sometimes I just wanted to tell him, “Focus!” This is, however, more an organizational problem, rather than the quality of the writing.

I go back and forth when thinking about this book because the book was good, but not good enough to mask the issues that I found with it. Of course, I could be overthinking an issue that someone else would describe as a joke, or maybe Hyden simply was not writing for an audience like me. I often questioned who the audience for this book was. Was it supposed to be for middle-aged white males who happen to be music geeks? The wording and topic of the book seem accessible to the general public. There are not too many subtle pop culture references, and there are no complex words that I had to look up. Hyden talked about Justin Bieber as a cultural comparison, which makes the book seem agreeable with my demographic as well. However, he also specifically talks to an audience who was at some point “younger and 100 percent more stoned than you are now” (200). It seems like this is the audience that he was picturing, and maybe that demographic would find his personal anecdotes less distracting from the rivalries. But I personally felt like the author’s therapist, listening to him ramble about his childhood experiences and the ways in which he relates to certain artists.

I also wonder if the conflicts that he presents are truly rivalries. The author himself admits that some of the rivalries were created more so by the public rather than an actual feud between the artists. This goes back again to the lack of representation in his rivalries, but also just the sheer narrowness of the pool of rivalries he chose from. There are plenty of other rivalries that are not created by the public (and that are also more diverse) such as Gwen Stefani vs. Courtney Love, Whitney Houston vs. Mariah Carey, Zayn Malik vs. One Direction, Nicki Minaj vs. Cardi B, etc. The book was also written before Prince’s death and it seemed slightly wrong that the author ends the chapter on the note that “Prince lived” while “MJ just got weirder and weirder until he stopped living” (61). His argument does not make sense anymore now that Prince has also passed. Reading it after his death, I wondered if a deeper meaning still existed for this rivalry.

Did the book accomplish what it said it would on the cover? (“What Pop Music Rivalries Reveal About the Meaning of Life”). For the most part, yes. Each chapter needs to be treated separately, so not all have achieved the same effect as others. Some made me think deeply, while others left me questioning if I had really learned anything new other than the trite drama between the artists. Then there were chapters like the one on Biggie vs. Tupac that just left me with an overwhelming feeling of sadness and mystery— “There’s nothing deep about it. It’s as empty as empty can be” (266) were the last lines of that chapter. Although Hyden could be perceived as old-fashioned at times, the book gave me a deeper understanding of what these rivalries are about. I would encourage people to read the book, but go in with the mindset that they will probably learn more about the author than about themselves in the process. After all, music rivalries are subjective and Hyden’s favorite band may make you think, “Your Favorite Band is Killing Me!”

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A Pianist Through It All: the Life of Leon Fleisher

A musician who was much more than just his malady. 

A pianist needs only three essential components to play their instrument—a piano, their left hand, and their right hand. The difficulty of playing piano comes from pieces that have vastly different melodies and rhythms for each hand or stanzas where one hand has to cross over the other. However, Leon Fleisher, who died at age 92 on August 2nd, would disagree. The trickiest aspect of piano for him was that he could not use the third ingredient—his right hand.

When Fleisher emerged into the world on July 23rd, 1928 to his Jewish immigrant parents, he had two working hands. In fact, his hands were more than just functional—he was a child prodigy who could fully play by ear at the mere age of four years old. At age nine, the prominent pianist Artur Schnabel took him in, and in 1944 he made his Carnegie Hall debut with the New York Philharmonic at just 16 years old. The Brahms Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor that he played there became one of his signature pieces. He was praised for this performance by acclaimed musicians and journalists, but he was always motivated to do more, wanting to explore his opportunities outside of the United States. He moved to Europe and became the first American to win the Queen Elisabeth international music competition in 1952. At 23, he was on a path towards further fame and success. He was performing all around the world in renowned concert halls and creating recordings with George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra. These included a huge repertoire of works by Brahms, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, Franck, and Rachmaninov. According to the New York Times, these recordings are “considered among the most vivid and moving accounts of those works.” 

Anyone who heard Fleisher play immediately recognized his talent. He was a music descendant of Beethoven, as Schnabel’s teacher Theodor Leschetisky had studied with Carl Czerny, one of Beethoven’s students. Pierre Monteux, who was the conductor of his performance at Carnegie Hall described him as “the pianistic find of the century,” according to NPR. Everyone around him believed that he was set to do great things.

In this peak of his career, however, Fleisher faced possibly the worst obstacle for a pianist. At 36, he began to feel a sharp cramping in his right hand. It started with his ring and pinky fingers, and then eventually creeped to his entire hand. He told the New York Times in 1996 that this was due to overworking himself—“seven or eight hours a day of pumping ivory.” As his hand started to hurt more, he made up for it by practicing more. He soon could not play with his right hand at all. The night before he was supposed to tour with Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra, he had to cancel because he could not move both hands.

Many pianists in this situation may have given up. Even Fleisher found himself depressed by his unidentifiable injury. However, his pure love for music ultimately shone brighter than his injury or his need to play piano. He began teaching instead at the Peabody Institute of Johns Hopkins University as well as the Tanglewood Music Center, and also spent more time conducting. These classes forced him to think about music in different ways—since he could not just sit down and show his students how to play, he had to learn to explain with his own words and descriptive metaphors. He was even able to find some songs that he could play solely with his left hand. He played songs that were originally composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who had lost his right arm in World War I. Fleisher also drew on Brahm’s left-hand piano version of Bach’s chaconne as a mainstay of his recital programming. Fleisher’s new signature pieces became this and Maurice Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the Left Hand. He was infinitely grateful that it was his right hand that gave out instead of his left because at least there were some, albeit limited, pieces for his left hand to play. 

Fleisher never ceased to look for a cure for his hand. For the next 30 years, he tried everything from Rolfing to shots of lidocaine to Zen Buddhism. With no promising results, he felt as though he had lost his one passion in life. He depended on his second wife, Riselle Rosenthal, but his condition ended up destroying that relationship as well, crawling into his family life. Growing out his hair and buying a Vespa motorcycle were the types of distractions he would create for himself to forget about his lost purpose in life. He considered suicide at this time.

His life began to turn around in 1991 because of an increasing number of doctors who were experimenting with Botox injections. These injections combined with Rolfing proved to keep his hand in good enough shape where he could play with both hands again. During the next few years, he built up his dexterity and skill again, and was back on the performance scene in 1995. He started small, and by 2005 he was playing at international concerts halls, and at Carnegie Hall where it all started. His fingers were never permanently fixed, and he often felt the same curling, rigid feeling when he played. However, the Botox injections helped keep the pain minimal. 

It seemed that with his mental and musical success also came advances in Fleisher’s personal life. He married again, this time to pianist Katherine Jacobson. With this new relationship, he was not only able to play two-handed piano pieces, but also four-handed ones together with his wife. Ms. Jacobson survives Fleisher along with his children from his first two marriages, Deborah, Richard, Leah, Paula, and Julian, as well as his two grandchildren. His son Julian revealed that his father had passed from cancer. 

In 2007, Fleisher received the Kennedy Center Honor. Although this award was given for his performing and musical talents, his personality and values are what truly came across. He wrote a letter to The Washington Post describing his deep moral disagreement with Bush’s policies regarding the Iraq War. He thought about the connections between art and politics, and was conflicted as to whether he should accept this award at the White House. When he did choose to attend, he said he was “wearing a peace symbol around my neck and a purple ribbon on my lapel, at once showing support for our young men and women in the armed services and calling for their earliest return home,” according to the Guardian. Beyond his music, Fleisher was a sincere person, and a role model for his pupils both in and outside of the classroom. As per the Washington Post, Fleisher believed that music was “a force capable of reconciling us to each other,” an idea that he got from Beethoven’s conceptualization of music. 

In 2006 also came the release of the short documentary film “Two Hands: The Leon Fleisher Story” by Nathaniel Kahn. By this time, medical science had found a name for his neurological disease, focal dystonia. This film about his miraculous recovery is an emotional one, and the title is taken from the 2004 release of his album “Two Hands.” This was the first album in about 40 years that he had released in which he was able to play with both of his hands. He also wrote a memoir in 2010, “My Nine Lives: A Memoir of Many Careers in Music” that took a more positive approach to his illness, detailing how it enabled him to have diverse musical opportunities that he would not have otherwise pursued.

Cornell University’s very own Bailey Hall welcomed Fleisher as well in 2011. He came to Cornell for a residency, in which he taught and performed all five of Beethoven’s concertos to Cornell and Ithaca college students. These concerts featured guest Cornell faculty Xak Bjerken and his wife, Miri Yampolsky, as soloists. Both of these music professors studied with Fleisher at the Peabody Conservatory of Music and they serve as remnants of the talent that Fleisher’s teaching produced and the effect that he had on the Cornell community. Shortly after Fleisher’s passing in August, a live stream by his students paid tribute to Fleisher— Professor Xak Bjerken closed off the video with one of Fleisher’s favorite pieces, Brahms’s Op.119 No.1.

Fleisher continued to create music up until the day that he passed. Ultimately, fans of classical music listened to Fleisher not because of the obstacles that he faced, but because he was Fleisher. No matter how many hands he had, his irrepressible talent came through in every piece from Beethoven’s symphonies to the Left Hand Concerto. The difficulties that came along with his life seemed to be a minor detail when it came to how people felt about his performances. Even when he was not playing, he had a profound effect on people. As his hand condition worsened, his love and dedication to music were only heightened. He adapted and found new ways to influence the world through his music. He is not just known as “the guy who played piano with one hand” because he did so much more. He shows young musicians that overworking themselves will only counteract their goals and that music can be found in many different avenues. Beethoven, one of Fleisher’s inspirations, once said that “to play without passion is inexcusable!” Beethoven would be proud of Fleisher, knowing that this pianist found a way to play with passion without even playing at times. The clarity and emotions in his sound combined with his perseverance and devotion to music created a passion for classical music unlike any other. 

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Singing La Di Da to a Screen

Lennon Stella and Betcha visited students’ screens for Cornell’s StayHomecoming. 

Excited comments flood in on the side of my screen, replacing the usual cheers of a crowd. The Cornell Concert Commission (CCC) introduces the event of the night through Zoom. This reminds me that instead of being a part of a lively performance in Barton Hall, I am sitting on the bed in my room with my laptop screen staring back at me as my only source of interaction. As sad as this might sound, I could not have had a more perfect night, lounging in my PJs with a bowl of popcorn in hand. 

Even as the corona virus plagues many aspects of our lives, Cornell’s flow of music entertainment continues. On October 10th at 8PM, instead of walking into a concert venue, I logged in with my Cornell NetID for a free virtual concert presenting Lennon Stella with special guest Betcha, part of Cornell’s StayHomecoming initiative. With Lennon Stella being one of my favorite artists, I knew I had to tune in. 

Betcha appeared on my screen and I was shocked by the atmosphere, as I was so used to in-person concerts. Usually, there are bright lights that project onto the stage and lots of background dancers, so the band’s creation of a casual ambiance in their basement served as a stark contrast to pre-corona times. Yet, at the same time, I did not mind this difference. I felt as though I was hanging out with the artists on their couch, just having a jam session with them. It almost felt more personal, despite them being miles and miles away from Ithaca. 

I was not familiar with Betcha’s music before watching this concert. Their musical artistry—the command of their instruments and the lead vocalist’s emotion-filled, gritty voice— combined with the genuine chemistry between the four musicians made me question why I had not listened to the band earlier. I found myself swaying to their retro, alternative rock sound and I could imagine how lively the crowd would have been if it had been in person. This feeling was intensified by the fact that their sound was a bit low despite being on the highest volume, making me wish I could hear each lyric better. However, their energy still managed to reach me through the screen. Their first performance “If That’s Alright” had the artists belting the catchy lyrics “Hey, Oh… Say So.” The gentle and insistent acoustic guitar met with the hectoring and proud electric guitar to create a unique sound. This was a mesh of instruments that I had not seen before, and the two distinct sounds blended surprisingly well. While showing their musical talents through other hits such as “Lucy Lucy,” “Deja Vu,” and “July,” the band was also able to connect to the audience and show their personalities. Between songs, they introduced themselves, joked around, and spoke to the audience of Cornell. Their lead vocalist concluded the performance by singing “Falling” while projecting pink lights around the room. By playing just his acoustic guitar, he took a more mellow approach to the original, upbeat tune. This acoustic setting gave off a warm sonority that made the whole performance feel more intimate even through the often arid medium of Zoom. 

After Betcha’s last song came a Q & A, led by a fellow classmate from MUSIC 2311, Miles Greenblatt. Even through Zoom, they could interact with the audience in this way. They were able to answer individual questions, something that an in-person concert rarely does. I found myself absorbed in the band’s words as they spoke about meeting their freshman year of college, the advice they give to young musicians, and their musical inspirations and influences. I loved getting to learn about this band, but I was also anxiously awaiting Lennon Stella to come onto the screen. 

A quick intermission came before the main performance, and photographs of the CCC’s past work were shown on the screen. It was definitely strange to see maskless students at crowded, outdoor concerts. As pictures of the members carrying speakers to the stage came up, I recognized that the members still have a lot of weight to carry on their shoulders because of the new virtual setting. This made me appreciate these Cornell students, and all they have done to flip around how they run their club and bring us this event. 

A CCC member emerged on my screen, from their own bedroom as well, to introduce Lennon Stella. Suddenly, Stella was staring back at me. Her joyous spirit immediately took over as her smile spread from one side of my screen to the other. She began to strum her guitar and the comments quickly streamed in, as fans recognized her hit song “Kissing Other People.” It sounded just like her acoustic recording of the song, stripped down with just her guitar and her soft falsetto. There was also one piano player in the background of her performance who simply accompanied whatever direction Stella went, and let her do the talking. I felt as though I was having a coffee chat with her and that she was playing her music solely to me. I wondered if her performance would have been like this in-person or if it would have been much more extravagant.

After finishing up her other popular song “La Di Da,” Stella said, “even though I can’t hear you, I can feel you.” A few songs later, she also said “it’s so weird to sing to a screen with zero interaction when I know people are there. But I hope everyone is having a good time!” I was glad that she mentioned how bizarre this experience was for her—it would almost feel weird if she had not. Of course, it was a new experience for the audience to be sitting at home watching a virtual concert, but it was just as strange of an event for the performer.

Yet, Stella did an incredible job at still connecting with the audience. She made an effort to look directly at the camera, and talked to us between performances. She explained the meaning behind each song, citing her “very cheating boyfriend” that inspired her song “Bad.” She even had an iPad next to her in order to read the comments coming in. Stella also made a fun production out of her otherwise bland living room scene. Even sitting on her stool, she swayed along to the melody, making me feel like I was truly watching a concert, rather than listening to a recording.

With Stella’s last song “Goodnight,” it was time for her to say goodbye and goodnight to the audience as well. Just like that, with a click of a button, she exited the screen. Concerts that I have attended in the past do not end this abruptly— there is this lingering excitement even after the singer exits, there is merchandise to buy, and conversations with friends as you walk home, reminiscing about the event. Despite this unusual setting, I was pleased by this performance. It could have been my introverted self who liked sitting in my room instead of going out, but I also believe that Betcha and Stella made the best out of the situation. This first virtual concert of mine surpassed my expectations, and my respect towards these musicians grew immensely, even if I had not left my bed the entire evening.

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All Time Low’s Basement Noise, but Make it Virtual

“We’ll See You Next Time for Another Installment of Whatever the F*ck this is,” says Alex Gaskarth at the virtual All Time Low concert on October 23rd.

The flyer for All Time Low’s virtual concert series.

Take a second to reminisce on your last hurrah of a concert before the pandemic hit. Do you remember it more than others? Does it give you a feeling of nostalgia like no other concert has given before? This is how I feel about my own last in-person concert on December 29th of 2019. That end-of-the-year concert also brought an end to the era of jam-packed, obnoxiously loud venues. The concert that I went to was given by All Time Low, a pop punk and rock band that I have been obsessed with since my emo middle school days. I remember buying the ticket as I sat locked in the library during finals season—my only motivation to get through exams was the prospect of being in the same room as my favorite band, screaming the lyrics with them. It seems unreal that I now go from studying for my prelims to watching a virtual All Time Low concert all in the same room. 

Virtual concerts seem reasonable for a performance by an artist with an acoustic guitar, or one who plays soothing classical piano music. However, an All Time Low concert is not meant to calm the soul. The band brings an exhilarating atmosphere to its tours, with risky crowd surfing above heads and screaming fans drinking to the sound of electric guitars and loud drums that pierce everyone’s ears. For this reason,  I was shocked at how jittery and excited I still managed to feel as I sat in bed, logging onto the website for All Time Low’s Basement Noise Concert Series.

I arrived at the “venue” about 15 minutes early out of eagerness, but also curiosity. Would the pre-concert ambience still be the same? Would I feel like I was alone or as if I was watching with other fans? Would I feel the same rush with every change in lighting as I anticipate the lights going down and the band coming out? These were the thoughts that consumed my mind before the page loaded and a rectangle with All Time Low’s logo appeared on my screen. On the side was an influx of comments flooding the screen every second with all caps “WHY AM I SHAKING IT’S A VIRTUAL CONCERT” to a slew of crying emojis. This feature truly created a community amongst us fans who were joining from all around the world. There were people commenting that it was way too early in the morning for them, and it was mind-boggling that in Ithaca it was 6pm. I realized that virtual concerts are significant not only for the times that we live in, but also for people that usually do not have the opportunities to attend a real-life concert. The ticket for this event was inexpensive compared to the in-person one that I had to save up money for. It also required no travel, so is perfect for people who live far away from places that the band generally tours. In this way, I felt connected to even more fans than I would in a small, limited capacity room. 

All the names of the commenters were in yellow, thus confusion arose when a few green names began to pop up. Then, I read those green names—Alex, Jack, Zack, Rian. They were the members of the band, virtually interacting with us! This filled me with happiness, and for a moment I forgot that the band was across the country and not with me in my room. As I sat wondering how they were commenting so close to the start time, the band appeared on my screen right at 6pm. This is when I grasped that the concert was going to be a pre-recorded event, not a live performance. This was one disappointing aspect, but with the band’s comments on the side, I still felt as if they were with us, albeit in a bizarre way. 

The band’s virtual performance was complete with bright lights and colors.

In the introduction, the band explained that they wanted to give a true performance on a stage with colorful, flashing lights surrounding them. This October 23rd concert was a part of a series of concerts that the band prepared. In July, they tested negative for the virus along with their crew, and were able to record the performance for the fans. Each concert in the series had a distinct setlist that was decided by one of the band members. This particular concert was curated by Rian Dawson, the quirky drummer. Everyone in the fandom, from the comment section to Twitter, was commenting that Dawson would likely pick the most obscure songs to play because that is just his personality. 

To my surprise, Dawson had some incredible picks for the setlist. They were unexpected, yet all songs that I had been craving to hear. In about 45 minutes, they were able to cover 12 songs. The majority of these songs came from the 2015 album Future Hearts, which is (objectively) the best All Time Low album. These are songs that I use to jam out to in my bedroom, and still do to this day when I need to get my teen angst out. In the upcoming concerts of the series, the other members will have a lot to live up to after Rian’s setlist. 

The band could not have chosen a more vocally challenging set. I suspect that with the virtual concert, they were able to take more breaks between songs because each song still managed to have crisp vocals and lots of movement without excessive sweating from the members. Starting with “Kicking and Screaming,” I could already tell that this concert was about to be incredible. The band stood on the stage with their usual formation, and as the camera moved between members, I could see each of their faces and movements more than I could on my tippy toes at the back of a concert hall. Instead of hearing screaming fans, I could hear their vocals much more clearly, and Alex Gaskarth’s range did not fail to impress. As the songs came on, one after another, I could not help but smile to myself at how well done this entire production was. 

When “Cinderblock Garden” came on, lead guitarist Jack Barakat commented on the side, “I’m killing this verse” and he was not exaggerating. His guitar solo gave me chills as his roaring sound consumed the stage. I bopped my head along to the rhythm, and squealed out loud when Gaskarth took off his flannel and threw it at the camera and made eye contact with the viewers. For many of the songs, the band changed it up a little by incorporating harmonies or solos from various members. When they sang “Kids in the Dark,” they told us to turn off the lights in whatever room we were in, and they dimmed their blue lights on their stage too. It was evident that they tried their hardest to make the concert feel as “normal” as possible and that thought alone made me love the band even more. 

My favorite part of the All Time Low concert that I went to in December was their commentary in between songs. The band’s music is what initially drew me into the fanbase, but after years of watching interviews with them, I fell in love with their personalities as well. During the short intermission video, the band joked around together, debating the pronunciation of the word “wolf” in the song “Dancing with a Wolf” and making fun of Barakat for being a not-so “Life of the Party.” Gaskarth laughed off the crazy times that we find ourselves in, saying that “You don’t want to be near us anyway. We smell bad.” 

I was honestly having an amazing time at this virtual concert, sitting in bed with my punk eyeliner on. I found myself tearing up as the band announced their last song from the classic Future Hearts album. The white lights shone in every direction and the band jumped up and down, creating the sparkling, energetic atmosphere that any All Time Low concert has to end with. In any other year, I could imagine myself being in the middle of a mosh pit, getting crushed by the crowd. For this concert though, I was satisfied with the idea of moshing in my room alone. It was a different type of rush for sure, and I think for a band like All Time Low, a virtual concert will never live up to its live counterpart that causes deafening of ears and packed bodies. Yet, shutting my computer with an increased love for this breathtaking band was not the worst way to spend my Friday night and I will be forever grateful for “whatever the f*ck” they provided.

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Good Morning from Bingalee Dingalee

Every morning, the clocktower rings over the entire campus to signal another day. The chimes and their masters remain an integral part of the Cornell experience. 

A Cornell music performance cannot get more local than the glorious clock tower that rises over the Arts Quad, serenading students every day with its powerful chimes. This past Friday, Emily Liu, a Masters Engineering student at Cornell, began her morning at the bottom of the clocktower steps to meet me. As we breathed in the crisp, morning air and trudged up the 161 steps, she asked me to choose the songs for the concert. I started rambling off some of my favorites, chuckling at my intensely eclectic mix of choices. She nonchalantly responded, “Sure, works for me!” and my heart raced with excitement (and from the steep ascent).

As the chimes came into view, Liu turned to the cabinet and started scouring through the thousands of files of sheet music to fulfill my requests. She then kicked off her shoes, set up the papers on the music rest, and proceeded to adjust the bells.

The clock struck 7:45 and the concert began. Every morning concert starts with the “Cornell Changes,” also known as the “Jenny McGraw Rag.” The level of physical movement shocked me, despite hearing the song every day. The songs seem almost automatic from down below, and one tends not to ponder the lively acrobatics that are actually taking place up above. Liu swiftly glided across the floor with her socks, with frequent one-footed hops to depress the large keys as her arms crossed over one another in order to quickly transition between notes. I could feel each vibration, each undertone of the piece that I had not recognized before. Liu’s rendition was vivacious, and at the same time, heartwarming. As the strings moved up and down, it looked as if they were cheerfully dancing to this lively melody. I could feel the Cornell spirit seeping out of her and onto the bells. 

Up next was my first song request, “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles. This song has a prominent chorus that is repeated throughout, so it required less side to side movement, but Liu’s short height required her to fully reach her legs out to get to the lowest note and operate the hulking levers. Despite the extra time it took to do this, she was able to continue with smooth, effortless transitions. The meaning of the song rang true, and even my not-so-morning person self was happily woken up as the sun was pulled from its own slumber by the echoing chorus.

My bizarre music taste chose “La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin” by Debussey to follow the Beatles. This slower melody still required Liu to move her diminutive frame with energy and expertise, but this time, her movements matched the mood of the song. She looked graceful, and carefully lifted her hands up in the air before softly placing them on the handles. She expressed the emotions of the song through beautiful dynamics, progressing from subdued, calming sounds to more forceful at times. 

To satisfy the Disney fan in me, Liu played “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid. This was the only slightly weaker performance due to a few errors and pauses. I was still impressed that she was able to spontaneously play such a fast-paced song, and again, make it so animated. If I were a student walking by the tower, her performance of this song would have added a beat to my step. 

To end the concert, Liu played “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. The chimes are a loud instrument, but Liu’s command of the different volumes throughout the piece was incredible. She clearly knows the lyrics and the dramatic sentiments of the song, playing with a crescendo as the man in the song “pulls out a ring and says, ‘marry me Juliet.’” I could feel the emotions behind the lyrics, despite it being fully instrumental. Liu perfectly encapsulated the poetic expressiveness of the original through her subtle hesitations and dynamic swells through the song’s different fragments. 

After the performance, we climbed to the highest point where we could see the verdant hills with their first blushes of fall color crossing over the landscape of Cayuga’s Waters. As we overlooked the buildings and students from above, I realized how quintessential this clocktower and its chimes are to the Cornell experience. As the tunes drift through the air and into libraries and classrooms, there is this overwhelming sense of belonging to the common rhythm of Cornell. Liu showed me her talents that day, of course, but her concert also represented how some simple bells can bind a community together. 

 

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The Tempo of the Summer

This summer played out in a somber minor key, adagio with seemingly no cadences. The pandemic and continuous acts of racism have brought a sense of perpetual doom to many.

After the sadness that came with going home, Cornell students were still able to experience a virtual Slope Day filled with exciting live performances. This made me realize that music can exist no matter the situation, even during a pandemic.

At Cornell, I had to desperately find time to visit the practice rooms in Lincoln Hall. But going back home was actually a blessing in disguise. It gave me the opportunity to fall back into my routine of daily piano playing. The keys under my fingertips transported me out of quarantine and into the worlds of Chopin and Debussy, swiftly evading any feeling of being trapped inside.

Not only did I get to play more, but I also listened more. My favorite artists including keshi, UMI, and Taylor Swift took advantage of this time to bless fans with new releases. I discovered emerging artists too, spending hours browsing through Spotify. I also made a playlist for every possible occasion, from a “oui oui baguette” French playlist to a “my essay is due at 11:59” one (my procrastinator self is listening to this currently). Blasting these in my room felt like my own personal concert, and my appreciation for the artists only grew for giving me this newfound vitality.

After the adagio came, the harmony modulated towards a more light-paced, cheerful tempo. Even with all the minor chords of the summer, musicians, including myself, adapted, creating and listening to more music than ever before. The barriers of masks and social distancing mean little when there is so much music to be heard.