Music is never just background noise; it’s ingrained into our selfhood.
According to Kanye West, “this is, like, the beginning of the new world.
Growing up, I found solace in television. TV felt easy, like instantaneous access to hyper-beautiful realms. My go-to programs were “Dawson’s Creek,” “The Real World” and anything else laced with heavy melodrama.
I unashamedly watch E! News every weekday evening. The mostly Kardashian-related coverage might seem vapid, but I find celebrity culture pertinent to the films, music and other media I consume on a daily basis.
Upon the surprise release of Drake’s “If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late,” a 17-track “mixtape,” on Feb. 12, fans and critics alike devoured the music, consuming it with gluttonous determination.
The Grammys encourage impressive collaborative performances, eccentric fashion and plenty of think-piece discourse about the music industry’s direction.
The hype surrounding Sleater-Kinney’s “return” has reached a high point. This week, the punk band released its first album in 10 years, No Cities to Love.
My 2015 began with a text: “You hear that new Kanye?” West released “Only One,” a collaboration with Paul McCartney, on New Year’s Day. The song is an exhibit of Kanye’s poetic deftness and spiritual depth, a departure from Black Skinhead-esque machine-gun rap and a nod to the introspective, vocally dominant Kanye of 808s and Heartbreak. Written from the perspective of Kanye’s late mother, Donda West, “Only One” is an honest expression of the coexisting happiness and sadness of lifelong grief.
Hip hop isn’t my first language. As someone who is white and a woman, I never saw myself reflected in the scene.
I have a confession: I own Taylor Swift’s Christmas album.
