Known for mixing elements of First Nations music with EDM, Canadian DJs A Tribe Called Red explore a range of genres on their third album, We Are the Halluci Nation. Pitchfork praises the release as “some of the heaviest and most infectious sounds around,” going as far as to say, “This album is critical listening for everyone.” A Tribe Called Red will be performing at The Sinclair on Saturday, March 18.JK: I’d love to start by talking about the intersection of art and politics. Do you see yourself primarily as an activist? As an artist? Do you think the two are fundamentally tied together?BW: They can be for sure. In my case personally, I don’t really see myself as an activist. I see myself as indigenous. The activism isn’t really a choice for an indigenous person. It’s a part of life.JK: Is it irritating that the public perception of your art can be connected to your heritage and political causes that you haven’t necessarily chosen? Or does it feel like an honor to be part of that tradition?BW: It’s a responsibility really.
(Arthur Sze’s ninth book of poetry, Compass Rose (Copper Canyon, 2014), was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. A new collection, Sight Lines, will be published by Copper Canyon in February 2019. His poem "Dawn Redwood" is included in the Harvard Advocate's upcoming Cell issue.)EE— First of all — thank you so much for taking the time to meet! We at the Advocate are huge fans of your work and incredibly excited to be publishing “Dawn Redwood” in Cell. In reading your poems, something that’s really struck me is their sort of contemplative traveling energy — reading them we transit through their images, say, from a landscape into the cells of a tree into the cosmic scale of stars. Are your poems driven by memory, by research, by invention — what would you say is the driving thread connecting the images of your poems?AS— That’s one of the mysteries of art, and I’m not sure I can be the best articulator of it! But I can say that my work has to do with braiding, and with exploring what’s happening in different spaces, allowing the imagination to jump or move, in a way that isn’t linear but still convergent, so that the disparate worlds going on are braiding different narratives or lines of exploration, influencing and affecting each other.
In a 2011 article for GQ, John Jeremiah Sullivan opens with one of those long, self-referential ledes about the story he was assigned (the future of the human race), the story he ‘thought he had’ (a look into the Future of Humanity Institute at Oord University in England), and the story he ultimately found (a fundamental change in the nature animal aggression toward humans) –– the kind of delightful decoy lede that seems to take you away from the story but actually crystallizes its central theme. When Sullivan finally gets to his nugget –– the idea that takes him from ‘the future of the human race’ to animal attacks––– it seems simultaneously obvious and unbelievable: “no one knows what’s going to happen in the future.”A minute of reflection will prove this claim true. No one is a fortune teller.
The air of urgency came as little surprise. It read in the face of the woman who closed her parchment store early for a front row seat. It read in the wringing hands of the man who wore a Hillary campaign hat and a fixed scowl in upper left corner of the auditorium. It read in the feet of a pack of book-toting poetry students rushing over late from their Monday night workshop. The silence that sits before speech had never felt so fitting.A poetry reading was held in the basement of the Cambridge Public Library this past Monday, the 30th of January, to premiere a deceptively small and unassuming chapbook of thirty-five different poets titled "Poems for Political Disaster." It was jointly hosted by the library staff and Boston Review, with Review poetry editor B.K. Fisher making the opening remarks.
We have run out of cinematic heroes. All we have left are entrepreneurs. Tired of watching movies about Steve Jobs? This time you can see one about Ray Kroc. Who is Ray Kroc? Ray Kroc is nobody. He’s an idea. A Placeholder. How do we know this? His character is plastic. He has misgivings, but they are only intimations. He drinks too much, he tramples his fellow man, he estranges his wife. Does he lament these qualities? We do not know. Does he desire like a man desires? Surely not. His are the desires of capital: expansion, accumulation, domination – never demonstrated within the experience of his person, but only suggested in the rabidity of Keaton’s eyes, the frenetics of his motion: skewed bites of burger, zigzagging approaches to golf partners, quasi-humping of the hood of the McDonald brothers’ car.
The following are digital flyers using text hidden in the background of spam emails. Spammers use the scrambled pedestrian language to trick Bayesian spam filters into categorizing the messages as non-commercial, thereby sending the emails to an inbox rather than a junk folder. The text is scraped from Christian romance novelist Judith Bronte, whose works are available free online and appears unaware of what her words have been up to. The colors palettes are taken from font colors in the original emails. All of the emails were received at a single gmail address, which a virus renamed “HOLIDAYS IN THE UNITED STATES.” No one of the emails successfully fooled the filter. 1. LAY YOUR LIFE INTO OUR HANDS AND WE WILL MAKE YOU HAPPY.2. WHY BE AVERAGE WHEN YOU CAN BE THE ELITE?!!3. WE'RE MORE THAN JUST YOUR LOCAL DRUG MAIL, WE'RE YOUR FRIENDS4.
It’s Friday last week and I’m accompanying my mother on one of those annual visits to the doctor. I’m thinking about how it used to be the other way round when I was younger - accompaniment was a grown-up enterprise entirely, and the idea of going anywhere at all by myself would mean tumbling into the jaws of the world of strangers and their lairs for lost children. Emerging from my thoughts, I check my wristwatch: we have been sitting in the waiting room for just over an hour, and I, all too rapidly, seem to be running out of patience. It’s not that I’m not used to waiting, or that there’s some environmental quality to the beige-grey waiting room that makes me physically uncomfortable; rather, I have never been in the presence of so many pregnant women all at once. Bellies bulging like those of malnourished children – nature has a mind of its own – the women have more than simply the obvious in common.
1. Some people think the children should be confiscated and raised up by the state, but I think the state should be confiscated and raised up by the children.1.1 "Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish and he'll eat for a lifetime." 1.11 But who around with a fish-surplus really would let the fellow starve on his way to learning, or if he could not learn? 1.12 The president-Electoral’s candidate to be the next Secretary of Housing and Urban Development says that the best thing the state can do for recipients of welfare is to "get them off it."1.121 By way of our ethical fish-rubric we may understand Dr. Carson to be in favor of the prompt cancellation of any general program of fish-provision: no comment as to fishing-education. 1.1211 Whence this callousness? Generalized disdain for herd-immunity?1.
The Chainsmokers, those guys are legends. The DJ duo of Drew Taggart and Alex Pall has taken the pop charts by storm over the last year, particularly with their smash hit “Closer” which reigned number one on the Billboard charts for a full 12 weeks, making it, for all intents and purposes, the song of 2016. They’re hot, young, totally chill, and on top of the world. Perhaps we’re left to wonder how history will remember The Chainsmokers and Closer because we’re left to wonder how history will remember 2016 – the year when everyone we loved passed away and Donald Trump was elected president. I can only imagine the memories we’ll have of Closer flooding from Uber radios, dining hall serveries, and party rooms (somehow always playing but never at your own volition) will intertwine in the soup of our subconscious with our memories of the election (it was rocking out at number 1 on November 7th).
Took the Manifesto to the playground today— it was a new white day,and I went to the playground with the Manifesto and with Josephine, Adam, Adam’s new girlfriend— who is beautiful in a looks-way that I would like to be— and her child. They were mediating an old story of themselvesin winter— arms out, sparse trees, pink light on a range or a smudgeon a viewfinder unperturbed by sunset, not clear which. Too cold to read a magazineor have idle conversation. Too cold to have idle conversation next to a stack of magazines,so the story came out like it otherwise might not have, and Josephine left with her black hair.We all missed Josephine naked in the Yukon, swearingshe might dedicate all of the real estate on her back to an excerptof Neruda’s speaking voice. Josephine, with the Manifesto spread to a headerthat made her laugh, who never thought about motives.
There was once a girl with a terrible gift.The girl could pull any kind of fruit out of any kind of pocket. Oranges, quinces, lemons, kiwis; bananas, watermelon, guava. Even dragonfruit. The most difficult were blueberries, becausenobody ever wanted just one and the girl could only pull a piece at a time. She didn’t mind, though. Nobody else did, either: in her city, fresh fruit was hard to come by, and most people were willing to wait. So it took a long time for her to realize the secret horror of the gift. Because all things considered, fruit is more useful than other kinds of terrible talents. (Her best friend, for example, could produce flowers from any kind of hat, which caused all kinds of problems, like pollen allergies and bee-stings and the inevitable scratchiness of a hat with flowers poking out of it).
“If we don’t ever sleep again, so much the better,” José Arcadio Buendía said in good humor. “That way we can get more out of life.” But the Indian woman explained that the most fearsome part of the sickness of insomnia was not the impossibility of sleeping, for the body did not feel any fatigue at all, but its inexorable evolution toward a more critical manifestation: a loss of memory. She meant that when the sick person became used to his state of vigil, the recollection of his childhood began to be erased from his memory, then the name and notion of things, and finally the identity of people and even the awareness of his own being, until he sank into a kind of idiocy that had no past. —Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude I read this, appropriately enough, just after four in the morning, in that languishing time of night when falling asleep is depressingly unlikely and sunrise is equally depressingly far-off.