Lemon Pepper Wings
We cannot presume that Rick Ross is a mastermind, a genius or even sober. We cannot attest to his level of education, his employment history, or his net-worth. We have no idea where he came from: he claims to be Mohammed, the son of Moses, and the reincarnation of Haile Selassie. But, as he tells us on his latest album: none of that matters.
by Andrew Sondern, Joshua Leifer on
Mixed Feelings, to Music
Bombay bicycle club is one of scores of bands with a slightly ridiculous name that falls loosely into the category of “alternative,” and can be counted on to release albums frequently with subdued critical approval. This group, like its Pitchfork-friendly peers, has a healthy fan-base, instrumental competency, and a distinctive lead vocalist, but falls through the cracks all too easily.
by Margaret Spencer on
In Memory of Philip Seymour Hoffman
It happens more often than perhaps it should: a celebrity, be it rock star, movie icon, or stud athlete, is upheld on a pedestal for many years during his or her career, only to come crashing down at some shocking revelation that leaves fans disappointed and disenchanted. Sunday, February 4th left me with a similar feeling, when it was proclaimed over various social media outlets that Oscar-winning actor Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead in his New York apartment with a needle in his arm and significant amounts of heroin in the vicinity.
by Tom Markham on
The Decline of Marshall Mathers
To my parents’ horror, I discovered Eminem at age twelve when my uncle gave me a copy of Encore for my birthday. I was enchanted; I loved the tenderness of ‘Mockingbird’ and the humor of ‘Puke,’ and the unbridled rage and violence that riddled the album were more visceral and real than any emotions I had ever heard in music.
by Aron Wander on
A Tribute to Lou
On November 8, Titus Andronicus, a New Jersey punk band, finished their set at Terminal 5 opening for Lucero with a cover of the Velvet Underground’s “Sister Ray” as a tribute to the late and great Lou Reed.
by Emily Kamen on
The Low Is What I Came For
Heart of stone, rind so tough it’s crazy / that’s why they call me the avocado, baby. Shouted alternately by a cheerleading squad and lead singer, this hook appropriately announces the return of Los Campesionos! in the single “Avocado, Baby” from their new album No Blues. It’s a little bit ridiculous, catchy and self-deprecating, and classic Campesinos.
by Margaret Spencer on
Monkey Business
This is not the first time I’ve written about Arctic Monkeys. There’s a good chance that this will not be the last time I write about Arctic Monkeys. And there’s good reason for that.
by Tom Markham on
Women of Hyperdub
In a genre ostensibly centered on themes of inclusion, liberation, and progressivism, the disregard for the remarkable role of women in both the development and advancement of the Electronic avant-garde is unfortunate, and even antithetical to the cultural aspects of electronic music that I find most appealing.
by Walker Carpenter on
Yeezus Walks
Kanye West is a puzzling man. When I first heard that his newest album would be titled Yeezus, I did what I do in response to most of Kanye’s antics: I burst into laughter. Weeks later, however, when I realized that the album had leaked a few days before the official release date, I was scrambling over the internet in desperation trying to find it.
by Kovey Coles on
Kiss Land
I have a confession to make: I’m not a hipster, especially when it comes to music. If anything, I’m a reverse hipster; I only hear about things that are popular way, way after they actually are. That’s why I have a Backstreet Boys poster in my room.
by Chithra Marti on
Dear Joanna Newsom
In a directory on my computer titled “smiles” is a collection of short recordings, musical ideas I wish to return to without going through the trouble of proper notation. The longest and least interesting of them I listen to every few months to ground myself. I’ve renamed it again and again, attempting to remove it from the series of events that surrounded its recording. Now, it is simply the inconspicuous “note 2.aup.”
by Hildegard Krieger on
Bye Bye Blumberg
The first time I saw the band Yuck perform live, I had never heard of them. They were simply the group warming up for Smith Westerns on a Friday night at a hole in the wall in downtown Nashville. I saw their name on the marquee above the venue and thought “Yuck” sounded weird and off-putting. When they took forever to set up on stage, I went from skeptical to hostile: “Who do these guys think they are? They’re just the warm-up act!”
by Tom Markham on