Musicians are constantly reimagining their discography, and nowhere are these changes more radical than the stage. Tiny Desk provides a uniquely intimate platform for these reinventions to take place — everything from hip-hop to classical to the pretentious indie rock that gave the show its claim to fame has a home in the snug nooks of the Tiny Desk stage. Join The Michigan Daily’s Music Beat writers as we explore our favorite Tiny Desk reinventions.
— Music Beat Editor Amaya Choudhury and Senior Arts Editor Nickolas Holcomb
Little Simz
“There’s a war.” Not a suggestion, not a question — a statement. Marching drums and low-end piano chords enter first. Then a fade-in from black reveals a living room situated in the middle of a pitch-black space and a garrison of musicians. The camera moves in, coming to settle close on London-based rapper Little Simz’ face, stony and resolved as she utters these first words of her song “Introvert” off the then-upcoming 2021 project, Sometimes I Might Be Introvert. She sits cross-legged, staring down the camera as she preaches about corruption, oppression and family with uncompromising precision.
This is a fitting beginning for Little Simz’s Tiny Desk Concert, set in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic and the Black Lives Matter movement — a context that’s impossible to ignore. Aside from the lyrical content of the opening track that alludes to an outer world torn asunder, Little Simz finds herself physically outside of the NPR Tiny Desk room. She is instead perched on the couch of a faux living room (one of many personalized sets built for NPR’s Tiny Desk (Home) concert series), spotlit in the middle of inky darkness. The staging is curated, reading as both intimate yet menacing; cozy, but polished.
It’s not the decor that controls the energy of the space, though — it’s Little Simz herself. The tense opening turns defiant by the end of the first song, as she raises her fist and declares, “as long as we’re unified, we’ve already won.” Her second performance, a debut of “I Love You, I Hate You,” is similarly pointed, but trades the grandiosity of “Introvert” for a percussive groove and a repeated vocal sample of the track’s title. The expert musicianship of Little Simz’ band moves with her, malleable in the palm of her vocal agility. The song rises to a fever pitch, then breaks down into spacious pockets and harmonies from her trio of background singers. As Little Simz dances, eyes the camera gliding through the set and pierces through the song’s jazzy backdrop to deliver her message straight to the song’s target — her father — it’s clear who is really in control of the room.
Though she performs in a staged living room, Little Simz may as well be in her own home as she leaps into another new song, the bouncy afropop track, “Point and Kill.” It’s a transition that exhibits her equal comfort with confrontation and simply vibing out. She invites an impeccably dressed Obongjayar, rising Nigerian R&B star and the song’s feature, onto the carpet to sing with her and introduces each member of her band with the ease of a host flitting about a house party pointing out her friends and esteemed guests. The performance closes with “Woman,” an ode to her mother and a lush neo-soul track that loses none of Little Simz’ signature swagger; she stands in the middle of the room, a maestro of the rich music around her, thanking her audience. She sinks back into the couch where she started, puts her hands behind her head and lets the band play her out. It’s a move that oozes effortless ease and class, a punctuation on her masterclass in storytelling, versatility and utterly compelling cool. Little Simz was born at the top of her game, and her Tiny Desk is certainly no exception.
Daily Arts Writer Matt Popp can be reached at poppmatt@umich.edu.
The Roots feat. Bilal
The Roots and Bilal’s Tiny Desk Concert perfects the three-act structure.
The Roots begin with a jazzy prologue, a cover of the funky “Gimme Some More” by The J.B’s. With a bigger band, the Tiny Desk version’s well-layered saxophones sound noticeably thicker than the original. There is no bass or tambourine in the cover. Instead, some claps and Questlove’s lively drums take their place, giving the song less of a funky and danceable edge. The lack of groove works to push the listener aside. Where the original might inspire us to move to it, this version feels communal — inspiring us to move alongside it, as though we’re in a street parade.
It’s perhaps this marching, parade-like quality that allows Bilal to shine. When he comes in, we all feel ready to celebrate, but the whole band winds down instead. They put on a sparse layer of instrumental smoke, and Bilal’s voice pierces through it on “It Ain’t Fair.” He’s calm yet sharp — so justified and certain of his anger that his verse reads like a pointed sermon: “I pray the Lord their souls to keep / Because wolves disguised as sheep patrol our streets.” Black Thought follows Bilal’s lyrics with a complex verse about ignorance and its sources, and the band complements his delivery, upping the tempo. It’s a remarkable one-two punch which The Roots and Bilal repeat twice more — each time with rising intensity. The band’s instruments thicken as the concert progresses, reaching the same level of fullness as the prologue but with a darker, more somber edge. Clapping and lively drumming turn into a howl for justice, with trombones and tubas passionately wailing away. All the while, Bilal and Black Thought continue to develop the song’s themes, pointing out things that contribute to rising racial tensions like social media, the lack of education and the misuse of religion.
By the end, Bilal cries “It ain’t fair” and practically wages a war on the now foreboding, aggressive-sounding band. Those last three minutes are a grand explosion of passion and anger, of dissatisfaction and restlessness, and they are by far the most moved I’ve ever been by a Tiny Desk Concert. Over the course of only two songs, The Roots and Bilal take us on a devastating journey about community. The concert pulls us close together, prompting us to clap and chant. Then, they remind us of the power of community; of how, together, we can prevent all this violence, yet we consistently let it persist.
Senior Arts Editor Ben Luu can be reached at benllv@umich.edu.
Action Bronson
Action Bronson’s Tiny Desk Concert is proof that some artists are meant to live outside the confines of studio recordings. From the moment he begins pacing across NPR’s cramped stage, his booming voice rises and falls, creating a sense of space with his words. His music is expansive and stretches beyond the confines of even the Tiny Desk; every bar feels more conjured than rehearsed, as if improvised on the spot.
His band amplifies his unorthodox instincts. Backed by Human Growth Hormone, Bronson and his bandmates speak to one another through their music. Saxophonist Matt “Yung Mehico” Carrillo turns “Dmtri” devotional with his solo. Bronson clasps his fists in prayer, feeding off every note as if it is charging him up. “Live From the Moon” weaves rain sounds and jazzy piano into bongos and Bronson’s frantic pleas. It’s tropical and meditative, exemplifying music’s transportive abilities. Clearly, Bronson is taken by the sweet sounds of the saxophone: He takes a knee, temporarily swapping the spotlight with “Yung Mehico,” joining his audience in spirit. Throughout the set, Bronson remains animated as ever, gripping his skull fervently. In a later aside we learn that this is his attempt to “download the words.” What begins in his mind finds its way into ours. He knows what to say, and he feels every word. “I told you I couldn’t stand still. How do you play music still?”
But Bronson’s real genius is how he folds his persona into the performance. “I also want to let you know the edibles just hit,” he announces with a grin, a minute into “Terry.” His lyrics dissolve into gibberish, forcing him to restart the track: “If I don’t do it right, it’s not right.” He comes back stronger, bigger, louder, fiercer. When he apologizes — “I was in another world, excuse me for a second” — it’s unnecessary. He’s already brought us with him.
On “Latin Grammys,” Bronson bends the chorus into stand-up. “I might not be able to touch my toes, but I still fuck these (hoes),” he raps, only to undercut himself with a perfectly timed aside: “I’ve been able to touch my toes for about three years now.” He makes conversation musical, riffing until even throwaway lines land like hooks. Later, a soundboard of eagle cries, thunder and crashing lightning turn the NPR office into a cartoon storm, another reminder that Bronson can’t resist chaos.
For most artists, Tiny Desk strips the performer down to their essentials. For Bronson, it magnifies him. We are able to see his true voice as it fills his song’s gaps with personality as much as melody. The set is devotional, chaotic and funny in equal measure — a reminder that his greatest instrument isn’t his voice or his band, but rather his refusal to stand still.
Daily Arts Contributor Esha Nair can be reached at eshanair@umich.edu.
Alice Sara Ott
The tumultuous roar of Chopin’s Prelude No. 24 opens Alice Sara Ott’s Tiny Desk Concert, as the German-Japanese pianist makes the singular upright piano sound like a Steinway at Carnegie Hall. The right-hand melody rings out before exploding into arpeggiated releases. Tension rises in Ott’s playing as she grapples with the simultaneous anguish and triumph this prelude emits. There’s a sense of finality as the dramatic final notes (popularly referred to as nails in a coffin) are stabbed into the piano. However, Ott is just getting started.
Opening with the final prelude is quite a statement — one that is extremely hard to follow up. Ott meticulously chooses not to push the boundaries of this extreme, but instead approach the Preludes’ connection to life, memory and emotions from the other end of the spectrum. Chopin’s Prelude No. 7 is played next, charmingly and innocently for less than 40 seconds, sounding like an afterthought compared to Prelude No. 24. What makes Ott’s Tiny Desk performance so rewarding is that while she juxtaposes the extremes of pianistic skill in Chopin’s writing, she underscores the importance of emotional depth and context in music.
Context is a driving force in Ott’s performance of her 2021 release, Echoes of Life. Almost as an intermission in her program, Ott breaks to discuss the necessity of context, suggesting that our perception of music — whether as “old, dusty and elite,” or as “modern, relevant and inclusive to us” — shapes its accessibility and emotional meaning. She drives this point home by combining Chilly Gonzales’ 2018 “Prelude in C-Sharp Major” with Chopin’s “Raindrop” prelude to close out her Tiny Desk session. By connecting these preludes as if they were always meant to be played as a pair, Ott asserts that “Music is timeless” and displays the beauty of taking risks in music.
Ott’s grasp of emotional complexity and meaning makes the connections between music spanning 200 years feel tangible. Both preludes open meditatively, turn dark with dissonant harmonies and louder dynamics, before returning to their beautiful beginnings. They are portraits of the same conflicting moments of joy, fulfillment, pain and uncertainty that make up our lives. It doesn’t matter if the music was created this year or centuries before; if one is playing on a keyboard or grand piano; for an audience or not. It is the context — the stories, emotions and catalysts — beneath music that makes it such a profound representation of life. This Tiny Desk session is a perfect illustration of Ott’s keen ability to make music transcend time, space and expectations.
Daily Arts Contributor Tobin Saxton can be reached at tobinsax@umich.edu.
Tyler, The Creator
Tyler, The Creator’s Tiny Desk Concert highlights Tyler Okonma’s most important attribute: his humility.
In the midst of his Tiny Desk performance, Tyler, The Creator openly admits that he cannot sing. It’s easy to think this would limit his musical capabilities, but that’s not the case. Tyler’s ability to admit to his shortcomings and relinquish his ego makes him one of the most impactful musical powerhouses of the last ten years, emphasized by his stunning Tiny Desk performance.
This humility is present from the moment the Tiny Desk begins. For a minute and 29 seconds, Tyler doesn’t even appear on screen. He allows the sweet melodies of his fellow pianist Jaret Landon to beautifully weave in and out of Kaye Fox and Kiandra Richardson’s lush vocals. The first shot of Tyler is him in the audience, looking incredibly proud of the talents onstage.
Unlike any other Tiny Desk up until that point, Tyler decided to set up his own lighting for the stage, giving himself a way to capture the mood of his music visually as well as sonically. The gentle blues, purples and reds complement the easygoing, nocturnal palate of Tyler’s compositions without taking away from the performers’ presence. As an innovator in fashion and a man with directing under his belt, Tyler thinks holistically. While sound might typically be the main star of a Tiny Desk, Tyler engages your full array of senses to bring you into his world.
The way that Tyler builds the energy of the room during “Boredom” is emblematic of the way that he keeps his ego in check. Tyler’s musical genius is on full display, as he invents melodies on the spot and finds phrases for Fox and Richardson to perform. But, at some point, after priming his band to think a bit more improvisationally, he allows these same singers to start making up their own phrases and allows the singers to have the spotlight.
This same back and forth is present in their dreamy performances of “See You Again” and “Glitter”, where Tyler often begins verses by himself, but slowly allows the more expressive voices of Fox and Richardson to take center stage. His gravelly, goofy inflections are a fun contrast to the silky soft chords in the background. That authentic, fun-loving vibrancy stitches together a meticulously crafted series of songs.
The medium of Tiny Desk is, well — tiny. For most artists, this poses a challenge in adapting their songs. For a man as humble as Tyler, however, this challenge is a strength, and that strength is what makes his Tiny Desk so irresistible.
Daily Arts Contributor Nathaniel Evans can be reached at natevan@umich.edu.
PJ Harvey
“Absence, absence, absence,” PJ Harvey croons a cappella at the beginning of “A Noiseless Noise,” a selection from her recent album I Inside The Old Year Dying and the second song in Harvey’s Tiny Desk Concert. It’s not a bad word to describe the performance she offers. Garbed in a simple gray dress and accompanied solely by long-time collaborators John Parish and James Johnston, Harvey forsakes the cluttered aesthetic of the desk in favor of a simple production consisting primarily of her voice and guitar. The signature gaudy attire and roaring electric guitar that brought her fame in the ’90s are completely missing here — instead, with an offering of five (mostly) new tracks stripped to their essentials, her stunning songwriting abilities are placed on full display.
With Harvey’s instrumentation as streamlined as it is, her lyrics — mostly adapted from her 2022 epic poem “Orlam” and written in a rarely-spoken dialect of her native Dorset — are given expansive room to captivate. Strumming the acoustic guitar and enunciating each word with purpose, a tangled fairytale emerges as she begins her performance with the song “I Inside The Old I Dying.” Close your eyes and you are transported to the English countryside, hiding from the chalky children of evermore with the beech buds, twoads and all the other creatures as she sings in her clear, cutting upper register. With no grand accompaniment to distract, it recalls treasured childhood memories of hearing your favorite story, putting the listener in a different world filled with magic.
The overall minimalism of the performance means that the few moments in which Harvey does decide to crescendo have intense impact. Following the quiet introduction to “A Noiseless Noise,” Harvey’s deadpan expression betrays no warning before she abruptly starts striking fervent guitar chords that jolt us out of the established lull. When John Parish joins in with a dissonant violin accompaniment, the sudden forte starts to feel apocalyptic. But not long after Harvey brings her musical world crashing down, the storm passes — the guitar is returned to a calm strum as Parish lightly sets down the violin. It’s such an intense moment that it almost feels metal, quite a feat for a primarily acoustic folk song. The raw emotion that she packs into the song is both terrifying and electrifying.
Harvey concludes her set with the only song not taken from I Inside The Old Year Dying, the title track off her 2007 album White Chalk. It’s an apt selection, as its folky vibe and beautiful descriptions of Dorset pair perfectly with the mythos of her more recent material. It connects the twisted fables with the real artist, the prolific poet of today to the rock star of the past. The performance reminds us that Harvey’s constant musical pivots have never been gimmicky or inauthentic — in fact, her versatility has always been her greatest asset.
Daily Arts Contributor Max Janevic can be reached at janevicm@umich.edu.
