Formed in 2017, the Chicago duo Angry Blackmen consists of rappers Quentin Branch and Brian Warren, who both brought their A-game to Gabe’s at 9pm on Friday. “Y’all fucking with that shit? We got some more shit!” they yell into the crowd after introducing their glitchy experimental rap. They fly through cuts from The Legend of ABM, their excellent 2024 album, the bass from their industrial beats pulsating throughout Gabe’s. It was fierce music, the type that grabs your attention from the start and won’t let it go. They included cuts from their earlier work as well, such as their 2020 record HEADSHOTS! For a sense of how their music translates live, check out Angry Blackmen on Audiotree Live, a nine track recording including the bangers “Vomit” and “Dead Men Tell No Lies.” 

Beyond the heavy production and tight rhymes, Angry Blackmen’s most impressive attribute was the duo’s synergy and crowd interaction. Warren grabbing and rapping into both microphones, falling into his flow, while the duo threw out call and response statements, engaging the crowd. “Angry” they shout, “Blackmen!” replied the crowd. The same deal with different words later on: “Fuck!” // “Off!” Halfway through the set, the duo memorably split the crowd in half to form a de-facto catwalk, bringing all the chanting together as one. “Angry,” shouts Warren before waving the microphone at me, “Blackmen!” I dutifully respond. 

The tragedy of this stellar crowd interaction was the dwindling number of people to recruit as the set progressed, the product of a brutal clash with Friday night’s headliner Mannequin Pussy across the street at The Englert Theatre. While the rappers were locked into their craft—“hit me with whatever Q,” Warren tells Branch without deliberation—the audience that should have stuck around to appreciate that high energy performance faded away. This is the way festivals go, like the music itself. People ebb and flow between the venues, but it certainly detracted from the incredible focus and passion Angry Blackmen were striving to cultivate at Gabe’s. 

The duo saved one of their best songs, “HEADSHOTS!” until the end of the set, making it an intimately intense performance for the remaining fans. The chorus—“Fuck with me if you want to, bang bang that’s headshots // Stuntin like I’m supposed to, bang bang that’s headshots”—remained stuck in my head for days after the show. They concluded by reminding the crowd that “tomorrow isn’t promised,” urging everyone to make the most of today. This was a show that will certainly live long in my memory, I just wish more people had stuck around to celebrate it.

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Oklahoma City industrial metal band Chat Pile caught up with us in the back alley of Gabe’s in Iowa City ahead of their exuberantly chaotic, sludgy set upstairs. The four members talked about their life on the road as a touring band, described their love of horror films, and bashed some of the many unsavory aspects of capitalism. Along with this, they pushed back against the idea of nihilism. 

Surrounding his performance for the Englert’s new concert series Track Zero, alternative jazz musician Sen Morimoto phoned in from his studio in Chicago. From there he went over his personal origins, his vast array of musical influences, and the unfair practices of streaming services like Spotify. He also brought up his excitement about coming to Iowa City back on November 11^th. 

You can check out the channel here, where you can watch all our videos from there. Like and subscribe and all that other cliche self-promotion. Stay tuned for more content to come in the coming months. This marks just the beginning. 

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For Rainey, the art that connects him to others is through music. More specifically, the music of language—how it escapes the tongue with rhythmic abilities, how it hides fascinating duality, how shouting a word holds as much emotion as a whisper. In short, Rainey plunges himself into the delicate art of spoken word. 

Rainey comfortably leans against a stool, looking out and preparing to tell something lost from the whirlwind of news clips and frantic headlines: a story. A University of Iowa graduate and author of two poetry books, Rainey is a magnetic storyteller. The story of the moment functions under the title, “The Making.” The making, in particular, of an identity—one that had been muffled and torn down by others. Rainey describes the piece as his “experiences as a black man in the Midwest, what it was like growing up black, and my interactions, specifically with the N-word.”

At first, Rainey gently eases the audience into a personal and intimate tale of grappling with an identity imposed by others, surrounding a word with jarring constrictions and massive layers of demeaning history attached. Rainey wonders what such a label can mean for him by delving into the family around him—although not the most glamorous or fortunate, the poet fights to show their humanness, not the labels they fought against. The gentle rhythm of rhyme patters through his voice steadily: “and some of my cousins yell and can’t spell and seen the inside of a cell, but when they see me, they always wish me well.”

But then, the downpour of staccato shouts detailing moments of hatred course through Rainey—there are bullets and death and racist fathers and lingering police presence. A captivating play on words stands out in the thick of it all that could break hearts and batter souls. Rainey says of the cop’s parting words, that “only criminals like the light of the moon. And that’s when I knew he was afraid of the dark.” Children may start afraid of the initial, literal dark that envelops their rooms, but they may soon learn to fear the dark of another’s skin from the racism that drenches the world. These words pour out of Rainey until he looks defeated. 

This place of defeat is how Rainey has learned to become strong. His full stage name reads Caleb “The Negro Artist” Rainey, tying back to a Langston Hughes piece titled “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” The famed poet sorrowfully examined the very identity struggle and tendencies to not embrace black heritage that Rainey echoes. Langston writes, “One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, ‘I want to be a poet—not a Negro poet,’ meaning, I believe, ‘I want to write like a white poet;’ meaning subconsciously, ‘I would like to be a white poet;’ meaning behind that, ‘I would like to be white.’”

Rainey knows his chosen name is controversial and makes many uncomfortable, but that’s part of the reason it was chosen—to eliminate discomfort and claim it as a triumphant identifier instead. As Rainey puts it, an integral part of his “unapologetic blackness.” Through spoken word, Rainey allows such an attitude to be accessible to all through the musicality of his words. One could easily sit and listen to someone who has a lot to say with good intentions, but the words could drift over their heads. When you add a melodic aspect to language—an everyday human object that is begging to be explored for its fragrant sounds of sharp t’s and smooth s’s— words become hypnotic as the viewer gets swept away in its natural flow.

That’s what also makes Rainey’s feat more vulnerable and impressive—the music has nowhere to hide. Lackluster sentiments and lyrics can’t be hidden under overbearing synths or atmosphere; the words assume center stage, Rainey’s hands the only musical accompaniment. He also recognizes that silence is music too, as he takes intentional pauses for necessary impact and suspense that cuts deeper. 

Speaking of Rainey’s hands, they’re a pivotal and theatrical aspect of his performance, particularly as he flowed to the next piece, “What You Need to Hear.” The audience finds the poet to be expressive, filled with a brighter enthusiasm revolving around five points. As the viewer prepares for point one, Rainey takes the word “you” and stretches it to dynamic proportions. His voice continues to rise as the air fills up his lungs and his shoulders tense. Then, in an instant, the word is released into the world, and Rainey completes the thought: “You matter.” The theatrics perfectly highlight the joyous nature and meticulous craft Rainey brings. Every inflection and hand movement is intentional. 

This is where the body language bleeds through the screen with uproarious fun. As the wordsmith compare strands of spider webs to human connection, Rainey stretches out his arms while fingers dance and twinkle. After allowing his language to expand, he also utilizes his sole instrument to show the world in its claustrophobic features: “They say the history haunting you or the system shackled around your ankles or the trauma noose tightened around your neck should direct your every step.” Rainey acts as the aforementioned “history,” grasping at his neck and self-inflicting a chokehold in the name of visual poetry. 

The fifth and final point is simple: “I love you,” said with plenty of suspense and thematic delivery. Rainey lets his hands drop to his sides, signaling the end of the show—his instrument’s been put down and laid to rest. 

Rainey introduced the second piece by simply saying, “It’s about what we all need to hear and I think that explains it.” And it does; Rainey recognizes that it’s in uncertain times that the world needs grounded encouragement—you matter, you have power, you are not finished. At the same time, there’s also a need for heightened, unexpected levels of creativity. In the world of spoken word, there are no concrete sentences or periods. As with a lot of activities at the moment, conventionality has to be suspended, as the viewer must surrender to the natural rhythm of speaking and fill in the instrumentation themselves. 

Watch the full performance below:

Mission Creek’s Underground Festival may be over, but you can still watch the performances from April 1-4, 2020 on their Website, Facebook, and Instagram . The rescheduled Mission Creek Festival is currently set for September 17-19, 2020.

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Moen, a jewel of the Iowa City music scene, kicked off the offbeat festivities premiering on Facebook and YouTube with a lovingly crafted 15-minute set. “Music is definitely the primary way we as people tend to process our emotions, whether it be creating it, listening to it, or both. I think right now, a lot of people’s feelings, including mine, are pretty jumbled and a little erratic,” Moen said during the set’s video introduction. “I’ve found that writing songs have helped me kind of calm those waves down.”

Just as songwriting calms Moen, the set offered up for her Mission Creek performance was similarly comforting. Clad in her signature blazing red lipstick, Moen’s voice took on an ethereal and meditative quality thanks in part by the echoes of the empty theatre—a natural reverb for her delicately booming voice. 

Joined only by her guitar, Moen began with “Where’s My Bike?,” a track, along with the other performed songs, off her upcoming album partially funded by Kickstarter supporters. As Moen deeply processes every lyric and note, it seems to the viewer that she’s playing with her voice—a wild, raw entity ranging in volume and intonation. Moen molds its dynamism, taming it with effortless control, until, with a sly smile, she lets her grasp slip revealing surprise playful adjustments at the end of her musical thought. 

Going from soft and silky to rough and rioting, Moen abandons all control as she wails: “I’m sick of singing songs about my exes.” In emotional bursts like these, Moen shines throughout the performance, making her fascinating to watch. Even on a constricting computer screen, Moen comes across as expressive and warm; it’s impossible to look away from her emotionally-etched facial expressions and all the better, because this time, all 2,000 Facebook viewers have a front-row seat. 

The final, ringing guitar chords transition quickly to “What’s the Rush?,” a track where Moen employs a soft, Billy Holiday-esque growl. The track feels especially comforting as Moen’s emotion intensity is palpable as she sways. This emotional commitment that trickles through her honeyed voice extends into Moen’s ending track: “Headgear.” 

Her performance opens with fluttering guitar and intense concentration. Moen leans into herself with eyes closed, utterly connected to each breath of music. This track, in particular, feels like a welcome treat for those holed up in their own homes as Moen’s presence expands to fill the stage— occupying the role of drum rhythms and responsive audience approval. The gaps of silence instead create a unique concert experience; Moen nods along to imaginary downbeats along with her handcrafted jam session. The fact that Moen is able to project all energy solely to her audience rather than out to an audience creates a more full-bodied power to her delivery. 

The lyrics of her three-song set, though not intended for these unique times, fit nicely into a collective yearning for calm felt throughout the world. “Where’s My Bike?” goes beyond an individual whose stuck in a rut not progressing with ambition left behind, along with her bike, at an ex’s garage. Now, its lyrics feel like a wakeup call for all who are caught up with pandemic-caused inconveniences: “I could keep wallowing all afternoon / And only think about my own problems…But now I’ll put my feet back on the ground.” “What’s the Rush?” leaps off its bars of music with a beautifully personified characterization of loss, who “sits at the table / In tattered silks and sulking eyes / too tired to dance to even speak.” “Headgear” acts as an anthem to fight the anxiousness of historic times: “I thought my mind was out to get me / Much faster than my body,” Moen quietly sings. “My mind is faster than it thinks to run / to where it doesn’t need to be.” All of her selected song’s lyrics seem to resonant more than ever, speaking toward uncertainty and not the loss of exes, but loved ones. 

Mission Creek Festival is here to comfort its audience during “weird and challenging quarantimes,” as they put it. So far, the festival is already delivering with Moen’s lowkey but refreshing performance and video production that is thoughtfully executed. Although brief, Moen’s act is intimate in the best of ways, even in the least ideal of circumstances. Moen ended her enrapturing set with a simple and endearing sign off: “Cool, thanks.” The humanness of the moment felt like the perfect way to end the start of Mission Creek, with Moen bringing life to Iowa City like she always has. 

Watch the full performance below:

Mission Creek’s Underground Festival continues April 1-4, 2020 and will air on their Website, Facebook, and Instagram .

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Arun Chaudhary answers this question and more as the first official White House videographer on the second day of the Witching Hour festival at the Englert in Iowa City.

Chaudhary began his speech joking that although now he’s “the most artsy guy in the White House,” he used to be “the most political guy in art school.” He then dived right into the content of his Power Point, explaining that because the digital age we live in is so different from what people have ever seen before, the way we present politics should change, too.

And he has a point – following President Barack Obama, who hired him in the very beginning of his 2008 campaign, the filmmaker has had a chance to see how storytelling works in today’s politics, and has aimed to focus less on the “sleek,” finished look of political photography and more on the backstage, personal, and human aspects of a politician. The main point with which Chaudhary led his talk was the fact that today, with all this instant access of information, people first have to care about something before they look it up. He says, “we need to make politics compelling.”

Chaudhary broke the rest of his speech into two parts, (and this is where the talk’s title begins to make more sense): Authenticity and Authorship.

The filmmaker explained that authenticity had quite a bit to do with narrative. “Put facts into an emotional framework,” he said, as he talked about the narrative he found in our president. He talked about how in order to be authentic and grab attention, he focuses not on what is happening, but about how the character reacts and changes as a response, how the narrative of a politician shows a hero’s journey.

Chaudhary also showed us his recent work as creative director of Senator Bernie Sanders’ presidential campaign, calling him “the time stamp of authenticity.” For this campaign he basically took the message Sanders was trying to relate to the American people, that “someone gives a shit about you,” (in Chaudhary’s own words), and applied this narrative for everything media. He showed us a “404 Page Not Found” video featuring the senator standing against a brick wall, telling us to “scoot” to the bottom of the page to get back to the homepage. This video is a perfect example of the narrative in authenticity Chaudhary was explaining – this nice old man cares to personally guide us back to “home,” which follows Sanders’ initial message, and there is nothing staged or fake about it.

Authorship was the next step. Chaudhary’s style is very “hand-painted,” as he said. He wanted to be sure to be as real and gritty with the public and show as much truth and “behind-the-scenes” of Obama and Sanders’ personalities as possible, and we audience members were lucky enough to learn how he did just that. As a cinema major at the University of Iowa, I took avid notes that I am going to share with you now in points:

• A bit of humor makes the dark things seem more okay.

• Authorship in an editing timeline: Cutting audio and video together without overlap reminds a viewer that he or she is watching something from real life.

• “Editing is the ruthless suppression of being insignificant.”

• Be gritty, not glossy. Don’t stage, capture.

• Videos do not educate! Film is art, which represents ideas and points, but words educate. Represent to capture attention, then explain.

• Before you can have an idea, you need a notion.

• Match form to content, not content to form. Chaudhary showed a good example of this in a video comparing George Allen to a prescription drug. The video could be no longer than 15 seconds, which forced the creative way they showcased the content.

• Connect to the people and today’s culture.

• “The medium is the message” (Marshall McLuhan)

• Facts can be superfluous

• Propaganda is making the mundane seem extraordinary. Chaudhary’s grit comes from making the extraordinary seem mundane.

All this takes part in Chaudhary’s definition of authorship.

I feel really grateful to have been able to experience this talk – Arun Chaudhary is a very talented filmmaker as well as a funny, charming speaker who gave me a real look at a type political media most have never seen before. I do believe that soon politics will catch up to the rest of the rapidly evolving world, and it was very exciting to see the man who did it first.

If you’re curious to see what else Arun Chaudhary has done, check out Revolution Messaging or his Tumblr page. To keep up otherwise, follow him on Twitter!

The post Witching Hour: Authenticity and Authorship: Political Storytelling in the Digital Age @ The Englert 11/05/2016 appeared first on KRUI Radio.