Been a while, eh? Life has been occurring for the both of us without even really paying attention. Work, occasionally play, occasionally indulge in a martini with a group of friends over a nice candlelit supper table. The candle’s flame is plastic of course; we don’t want any fire hazards disrupting our dinner.

Even still, music is still being routinely listened to and opined over for the two of us. I cannot speak for Julianna, but daily music consumption has been one of the main things allowing the days of the past few months to come and go without much attention being paid to how quickly time is really moving. No matter what a day, week, fortnight brings, art and passion prevail.

Which brings me to a track that I’ve been listening to quite a bit over the time that this blog has unfortunately laid dormant to allow for life’s rich engagements and responsibilities to enter stage left. “Out of This World” is the opening track on the Cure’s entrypoint into the 21st century, Bloodflowers. This record gets a fair amount of praise for being a relative return to form for the band, once again seeing Robert Smith embrace a more subdued, dare I say gothic aesthetic and image following the hodgepodge that was 1996’s Wild Mood Swings and the international smash of 1992’s Wish. As a pure composition, “Out of This World” wouldn’t sound out of place on Disintegration, harkening back to the hypnotic percussive repetition of a track like that record’s closer, the remarkable (but unremarkably designated) “Untitled.”

However, a stark instrumental difference can be immediately gleaned when comparing the two tracks. The Cure is a band that is essentially designed for perpetual metamorphosis, members and inspirations shifting seemingly from record to record. The earliest writing and recording sessions for what became Bloodflowers greatly embraced stylings adjacent with electronica, mirroring a number of once guitar-reliant groups (erhm, On a Friday…). This can be heard best on outtakes like “Possession” and “Split Milk.” As opposed to this, and even more so to the densely and markedly synthetic production found on much of Disintegration, “Out of This World” strikes an impressive balance, with the meat of the track grounded acoustically only to be heightened by a wash of sweeping drum loops and electronic manipulation, done in such a tastefully subtle way.

The track is one of Robert Smith’s absolute best ballads, beautifully summing up the internal and external battle we all much face at one point or another, and certainly more than once - that of saying goodbye, to a lover, to a friend, to a life once taken for granted that has slogged past without much of a thought.

When we look back at it all as I know we will

You and me wide-eyed

I wonder will we really remember

How it feels to be this alive?

This isn’t breaking new ground for a Cure track lyrically, but rarely have Smith’s words been so direct and poignant. The desperate longing in Smith’s vocal delivery is enhanced by its interaction with the sweepingly beautiful music within which it finds a home.

I know we have to go, I realize

We always have to turn away

Always have to go back to real lives

But real lives are why we stay

For another dream, another day

For another world, for another way, for another way

The song’s title is not uttered amongst the three verses and chorus that comprise the bulk of the track’s structure, but it fits perfectly nonetheless. Wishing to transport to a time or place somewhere out of this corporeal plane, somewhere where nothing exists but love and a comfort of knowing that everything is under control, that there is no unknown, no future or past over which to contemplate. Only a deep appreciation for the here and now, regardless of whether you know the moment is fleeting or not.

I absolutely adore this track and comfortably hold it amongst the finest Cure tracks, even though it often goes underrecognized. Robert Smith knows how, perhaps better than any other songwriter, to channel and exude an equally potent feeling of faith and despair, usually threading the needle to find a perfect middle ground between the two. And that middle ground is something that is incredibly difficult to comprehend, much less put into words. This track provides a path directly to that middle ground, and for that, I thank you, Robert.

Then again, you did write “Club America,” so there’s that, too.

Listen to “Out of This World” here.

The last time I had a crush was 2.5 years ago and he is now my boyfriend and obviously the wonderful co-writer of this blog!

The novelty that comes with having a crush has certainly worn off, but there are moments in our relationship that fills me with all of those fluttery feelings I had when we were first crushing on each other. Like, when I’m on my way to pick him up from the airport, or when we’ve had a bit too much to drink. Sometimes I feel it when he says something really funny I almost wanna slap him (but it lowkey reminds me of why I fell in love in the first place).

All of those feelings are fun and great, but they’re not as great as having a crush. My coworkers and I were talking about this a few days ago, and it got me thinking about why having a crush is the best (knowing that it’s also the worst).

I think we tend to fall in love with prospects and potential and the in-between moments of life. There’s a difference between dreaming of something and achieving it. I remember the moments of what was essentially crushing on my dream college when I was 17, envisioning who I’d be and the things I’d achieve once I got in. As much as I loved college, the thought of getting in was much more enthralling than when I had to hunker down in the library and write three 10-page papers within the same week.

All my life, I’ve essentially been chasing the adrenaline that comes with having a crush, in all of its forms, whether it was an actual crush, a hobby, school, career, etc. But the prospect of romantic love was always the most consuming and therefore what I’ve chased the most. Even when I was feeling shitty or anxious about it because my crush wouldn’t text me back or something, I loved that too. I loved getting to sulk in something that was, in the grand scheme of things, quite trivial.

Sometimes, you’ll have a crush on a person or develop a connection and it won’t develop into anything much more than that for whatever reason. I think about what would happen if the movie Before Sunrise wasn’t part of a trilogy and Celine and Jesse never end up meeting up again. But the reality is is that it is a trilogy, and if you’re lucky, a crush or a connection will fruitfully result in a relationship.

“Don’t Delete the Kisses,” by the English rock band Wolf Alice, is having a crush in the 21st century.

The title refers to something many my age are guilty of — overthinking the texts you send to your crush, deleting the kiss emojis at the end at risk of being too forward — but I think it speaks to a larger feeling about risking it all at when you’re on the cusp of something great: love!

The 80s-inspired synth-pop song contains lyrics so explicit to the feeling of having a crush that it almost feels violating.

When I see you the whole world reduces to just that room

And then I remember and I’m shy

That gossip’s eye will look too soon

And then i’m trapped, overthinking and yeah, probably self-doubt

You tell me to get over it

And to take you out

But i can’t, I’m too scared

And here’s the night bus, I have to go

And the doors are closing and you were waving

And I like you, and I’ll never let it show

And you won’t wait, and maybe I won’t mind

I work better on my own

Re-reading those lyrics makes me wanna swoon and vomit. I mean, there’s not really much analysis I can add. The best thing is to lay these lyrics bare and let the fireworks happen in front of our eyes.

And now I’m home, a little bit drunk

And I ask myself:

“What if it’s not made for me? Love,” Ellie Rowsell, the group’s lead singer, belts in the coming-of-age-movie chorus. There’s a vulnerability in her voice that hides behind the fact that what she wants (love) is maybe not meant for her, that maybe, it’s fine if she doesn’t go for it, “I work better on my own.”

Spoiler alert: there’s a happy ending for the narrator here. The title alludes to it, telling us to not delete the kisses. Risk it all for love!

When we catch eyes at that stupid party

I know exactly what to do

I’ll take your hand, and we will leave

French exits from me and you

And now I’m home, a little bit drunk

Some things don’t change

And I know how:

CHORUS

Me and you were meant to be

In love

In this jaded dating and romance culture, a song like this feels refreshing. We’re able to, maybe delusionally, just escape to the world of a bourgeoning, swirling romance between two people. I think at this point we’re all aware of the risks we take when we confess our feelings for another person. So to forget that for just 4 minutes and 35 seconds feels like an escape.

We should all take a leaf from Wolf Alice’s book: Take that hand. Ask that person out. Send that text, and don’t delete those kisses at the end.

Pink Moon by Nick Drake is about as flawless of an album as you’re going to find in my eyes, so I guess the ‘you’re’ in this sentence is a referential nod to myself in the second person. Don’t see that one everyday. But for real, Pink Moon is one of those albums that never wears on me, one that I can throw on at pretty much any occasion (maybe except for a darty) and be utterly satisfied. Coming in at under a half-hour in runtime, too, it doesn’t overstay its welcome. It barely gets inside the door before it up and leaves, all its sparsity exiting with it.

Pink Moon is talent distilled into its purest form, as you can’t really get more stripped back than Drake’s harrowing swansong. Much ink has been spilled on the “tortured artistry” of Drake and the unfortunate lack of attention his music received in his lifetime. But Pink Moon, for all its well-documented strife and despair, ends on a note that itself reflects on the self-reflection present throughout the preceding 26 minutes of material. “From the Morning” is a catharsis of the experience of human emotion and leaves listeners off with one thing to keep in mind - maybe things aren’t that deep.

Now, I do not aim in any way to undermine Drake’s craft or the personal tribulations that inspired it, much of which will simply never be known or understood by the public, thanks to his enigmatic and mysterious way of being. But “From the Morning” reads to me as a plea to just enjoy life without any frills or garnishes. Such can be gathered from its opening verse.

A day once dawned

And it was beautiful

A day once dawned from the ground

Then the night she fell

And the air was beautiful

The night she fell all around

Drake uses the dawning and subsequent draining of a day into night as an allegory for life itself. Whether you like it or not, or rather whether you bother to see it or not, there is beauty in the seemingly conflicting facets of our existence. The sun wants to come up? Sure, that shit looks beautiful. Oh no, the sun’s going down? Wait, that shit is still beautiful. Two contrasting truths that defy logic in their joint ability to inspire. We hold these truths to be self-evident.

So look see the days

The endless colored ways

And go play the game that you learned

From the morning

Drake’s parting message to his listeners of both yesteryear and to-year (not my best work) is strikingly potent. It’s something we try to tell ourselves everyday, but hearing it outside of the confines of our superior temporal gyrus offers the clarity that is so often hard to come by.

Take a deep breath, appreciate the life that you have, and have fun, or colloquially play the game, as you do so.

The message is highlighted by the beautiful open Travis picking pattern that Drake has familiarized us with throughout Pink Moon’s course. The dead, bass-laden plucking of Drake’s guitar strings is one of the foremost joys in this life, and he saves some of his most infectious and blissfully serene phrasings close out an album chock full of them.

This is a call for you to listen to not only “From the Morning,” but the entirety of the Pink Moon album. Its cyclical thematic nature makes it endlessly replayable and sure to never leave you as a listener asking any questions or longing for any other auditory sustenance. If you got 28 minutes in a clinical waiting room, a buzzing water cooler and an aloof secretary as your only company, throw on some headphones and allow yourself to get immersed in Drake’s world. Knowing waiting rooms, you can probably make it through the whole thing twice.

I was mostly pleased with the awards given this year and felt optimistic about the state of music going forward, with Bad Bunny winning “Album of the Year” for DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS bringing the 68th Grammy Awards to a ceremonious end. It is not only the first Spanish-language album to win the award, but the first non-English-language one.

As the three-hour broadcast wrapped up, I impatiently awaited the results of “Album of the Year,” one of the “big four” categories. I wholeheartedly expected GNX by Kendrick Lamar to win. He was already the biggest winner of the night, and it only seemed like a natural progression. GNX was stacked with West Coast-infused bangers, and with many of those hits amplified by a second Dodgers World Series win, it seemed like a no-doubt winner. But I was pleasantly surprised when Harry Styles, the presenter of the award, proclaimed “Bad Bunny, DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS” as the Best Album of 2025.

*this was the only full clip I could find of Harry announcing the winner and Bad Bunny reacting and accepting!'

My relationship to Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, better known as Bad Bunny, and his music has always been kept at a distance, mainly because I don’t speak or understand Spanish, and as my French teacher in high school liked to remind us, “to know a language is to be able to think in it.” At risk of misconstruing or even appropriating Latin culture, it didn’t feel like mine to have. But after watching explainer videos on TikTok surrounding DtMF’s cover art and English translations of the eponymous leading single following the media buzz upon its release, I found myself deeply connecting with its message and loving sentiments toward his homeland, especially as a daughter of immigrants.

“DtMF” is nostalgia for Ocasio’s native Puerto Rico, wishing he had cherished those moments of playing dominoes with his grandpa or getting so drunk with his friends more. Though heavy with regret of “not taking more photos” (the English translation of ‘debí tirar más fotos’), it’s mostly minimalist in production, layered with elements of the traditional Puerto Rican genre plena, reggaeton and pop.

Debí tirar más fotos de cuando te tuve

Debí darte más besos y abrazos las veces que pude

Ey, ojalá que los míos nunca se muden

Y si hoy me emborracho, pues, que me ayuden

The above lyrics are the song’s chorus, which are repeated once by Bad Bunny and then followed by a chorus of voices in the style of plena. There’s some of that call-and-response structure sprinkled throughout the song too, adding to the more stripped-down, native-folk nature of the song.

I’m not Puerto Rican nor am I an immigrant, but I was raised by and grew up with immigrants. I was fortunate to have grown up around most of my dad’s side of the family, spending all of my Thanksgivings, New Years and Christmases, as well as birthday parties, casual hangouts and vacations with my cousins, titas, titos, lolos and lolas. When immigrants immigrate, they often do so with other family to create community, or find cities that have those pre-existing immigrant enclaves. Looking back, I was lucky enough to grow up in such a community, but growing up, I desperately wanted to have a normal American life like the rest of the people in my class.

Hearing the chorus always brings tears to my eyes, bringing a flurry of childhood memories with my family to the front of mind.

I really love this song and the album as a whole as a love letter to Puerto Rico, and it’s incredible to witness Bad Bunny achieve such critical acclaim, especially during last night’s awards. The Grammy’s are hardly a reliable metric of how good an album, a song or an artist is (many of my faves have been wrongfully snubbed), but I do think it’s worth mentioning whenever someone like Bad Bunny breaks through the gates of a historically white and elitist institution.

What I adore the most about DtMF is that at a time in popular music where reggaeton is becoming more and more commercialized, Bad Bunny takes a risk and returns to his roots, in favor of traditional/native genres and musical styles. I think it’s a signal to artists that they should take those risks and make something that feels authentic to them.

Bad Bunny, Rosalia and Charli xcx are bending the rules of popular music in ways similar to what M.I.A., Santigold and Sky Ferreira did in the 2010s, taking massive creative risks and trusting in their own unique vision. There’s also this embrace of authenticity this new class of pop stars are undertaking that’s unique to the digital age, where individuality is the most important thing. The more you try to sound like other artists or be someone you’re not, the more that’ll come through in your music (this was most evident with Taylor Swift’s The Life of a Showgirl, where I thought she was trying too hard to sound like Sabrina Carpenter).

We’ve come to a point in music culture not dissimilar to the poptimism era of the 2010s, where a diverse set of voices and musical styles were coming to define and dominate the mainstream. Both then and now, a range of external forces – political, social and economic – have influenced what we deem acceptable as pop music. At this year’s Grammys, the rampant ICE raids and the havoc it’s wreaked in cities like Minneapolis led many stars last night to sport “ICE OUT” buttons on the red carpet. Black Lives Matter, #MeToo, the elections of Donald Trump, the COVID-19 pandemic, and immigration raids have all shaped our attitudes toward music and the environment from which it’s born.

For Bad Bunny, it was evident that art is political. In his acceptance speech for Best Album, he only said one sentence in English, dedicating the win to “all the people who had to leave their homeland, their country to follow their dreams.” And as he takes on the country’s biggest stage in just under a week as the headliner for the 60th Super Bowl’s halftime show, that message is sure to keep ringing, even if the country desperately tries to plug their ears.

Alex G, or Alex Giannascoli, is rightfully respected as one of the preeminent singer-songwriters of the 2010s and 2020s. Giannascoli has written music at a prolific rate for the majority of his life. Perhaps he hasn’t exactly hit Bob Pollard levels of creative frequency, but who has, really? The road to filling out his robust discography, which currently sits at 10 full-length albums, two film soundtracks, and a dense smattering of miscellaneous material, has essentially been documented from its inception to the present day. It would be a terrifying scenario for many artists to have the work they accomplished as a high schooler proudly on display and relentlessly archived for the entire globe to consume, but Giannascoli’s early material shows a level of maturity and a sense of vision that many would be lucky to reach at any point in their artistic life.

I am mainly referring to the album Race, generally accepted as Giannascoli’s second full-length project (though certain reports do conflict on the supposed 2011 release date). Listening to this album for the first time about a year ago as a total Alex G novice genuinely floored me. Though I am vastly familiar with the acts to which Giannascoli gets sometimes unfairly compared to (Elliott Smith, Sufjan Stevens, you know the jist), hearing the sounds captured by a 16-year-old Havertown, Pennsylvania native was jarring.

I think the record’s opening track, “Remember,” is fully representative of everything that captured my attention and induced my awe-stricken appreciation on my first listen. There is a charming quality to the, forgive me when I say this, cheap sound of the track’s opening guitar strums. You can hear in the timbre of the presumably nylon-stringed instrument that this is a well-loved hunk of wood and metal, one that has acted as the catalyst and inspiration for countless immeasurably personal and profound pieces of music. Maybe I’m reading a bit too much into what is ultimately probably not some grand artistic decision, but the inevitable result of a teenager simply working within his means to reliably record his songs. Still, I can’t help but feel like the chords here burst out of the guitar in a wholly familiar and comforting fashion.

A cavalcade of twanging banjo strings, a somewhat off-kilter and uneven arpeggiated guitar melody, a glistening tambourine and a lonely snare drum then come into frame, proving that even from an incredibly early age, Giannascoli had a refined ear for what he wanted on any given track. A shaky, trembling layered vocal comes in soon after.

I’ve come here to kill my maker

‘Cause I’d feel much safer alone

This chillingly simple line is followed by our narrator talking directly to someone, opaquely navigating a particular memory.

I remember everything

You’re inside singing

You look so different

You’re walking across the tile floor

You look like Jesus on the water

The final repeated mantra of Please don’t help me leaves us as listeners without resolution, simply drifting through the insufficient ramblings of whoever Giannascoli is attempting to channel, whether it be himself or a third party. I often talk on this blog about not wanting to read into abstract lyrics, partly because I do not want to put myself into the shoes of the songwriter and speak for them and partly because I value one’s own opportunity and ability to find meaning in a piece of music or literature. All that to say, I don’t know what this guy is on about, but it is intensely gripping. The slightly sour delivery of the entire vocal track meshes with the obtuse instrumentation fittingly. And for this to be the work of a 16-year-old already on their second album is mind-blowing.

Truth be told, I still have to listen to much of the Alex G discography. Still, his defining artistry and uncanny ability to craft an environment in his songwriting at such an early age is incredibly inspiring. I hope you feel the same way.

One of the first songs we wrote about on this platform was “Doe,” a track by the Kim Deal-officiated group the Breeders, a song off the 1990 album Pod that most have read into as being about a rather inappropriate act of intimacy that we shan’t go into on our family-friendly Substack. Almost two years later since our initial post, we return to the Breeders, having advanced from their initial incarnation to now include Deal’s twin sister, Kelley, and having just released their commercial breakthrough, 1993’s Last Splash. There is one track on this album that holds a special place in the heart of both of us (who, guess what, are co-authoring this post), due to the fact that the song acts as an essential gear in the development of our relationship. That song, far removed from the cheeky “Doe,” is “Divine Hammer,” track 10 and the second single released from Last Splash.

To be quite honest, we’re not fully sure what it means to need “one divine hammer,” as Deal so passionately sings in this pop-laden track. Thus, we put on our philosophical hats and went searching for answers.

In a 1993 interview she gave with triple J, where she revealed several answers to indie rock fans’ burning questions, she also talked about what their hit song meant.

Growing up Christian, she’d listened to all these religious folk songs that preached that if you had done the hard work, eventually some divine meaning would be presented to you at the very end. As a Catholic, I can attest to this sentiment that’s given to us through prayers and hymns that our life on earth is all working towards our eternal life in heaven, with God. Thus there’s a divine hammer awaiting us if we do our good deeds and give to charity and obey the 10 Commandments.

But Deal thought it was all bullshit. Which is how we got “Divine Hammer.” It’s a plea for some divine or spiritual meaning to come down upon her, to justify her existence here on earth.

And what a catchy tune Deal wrote. “Divine Hammer” can be added into the pantheon of incredibly happy sounding pop songs with less than idyllic lyrics. The song’s charming chord progression and bouncy performance style are infectious and represent a perfect example of what I like to call the “How did it take so long for someone to write this song?” paradox. I am still workshopping more inventive names for this principle, but as it stands, it’s pretty self-explanatory. “Divine Hammer” feels like such a ubiquitous tune. The melody is sugary sweet, and the harmonies add a tasteful garnish to the simply effective arrangement. In the vast history of pop music, and even alternative music for that matter, it’s astounding that it took until 1993 for this song to take form.

And Deal is the perfect conduit for the track’s existence. It seems a bit poetic and, dare I say, divine that Deal was the presumed “chosen one” to write a song that so perfectly encapsulates the instinctual human tendency to question one’s existence.

A cliche that’s so often tossed around about people in their 20s is that they’re lost. Searching for meaning. So it’s sort of fitting that this song resonated so heavily with both of us, as we navigate the murky waters of post-graduate life and our early-mid twenties (Julianna’s 24 now, and she heard someone once refer to 24 as mid-twenties).

I’m just looking for a faith

Waiting to be followed

It disappears this near

You’re the rod, I’m water

I’m just looking for one divine hammer

It seems like many of our peers are doing just that – looking for a faith that’s just waiting to be followed. Sometimes that means joining or reconnecting with an actual religion. A lot of people I went to high school with have reconnected with their Christianity or got baptized, and/or have started a family. As the subject of many many memes and internet discourses, it can also mean pursuing graduate studies, or quitting a corporate job to travel the world.

But while we have the chance, both of us here at cratediggerz see it best fit to enjoy the little things, like this song. It may just be a finite nugget of time (2:41 to be exact), but the unbridled joy we feel while listening to this song can’t be recreated. So we thank the Breeders for blessing us with, even just for a moment, a bit of reprieve from the anxieties and stresses of the day. Lord knows we all need it.

The last time the US saw a market trend like this was in 2013, when sales of DJ equipment and merchandise grew $34 million from 2009.

Look: I’m not an economist. I’m merely an observer of culture (and a writer at best). But I do know that when times are tough, when society’s material conditions are weak, we turn to electronic music.

Gen Z-ers and tastemakers of today call this phenomenon “recession pop,” which refers to the wave of electronically produced pop music that followed the 2008 financial crisis.

That term’s been in the cultural lexicon recently because there’s sort of a similar thing happening in pop music and electronic music as a whole. The catalyzing global crisis was, of course, the COVID-19 pandemic.

Though I don’t think the wave is nearly as widespread as was the case in the early 2010s. There were a few standout dance tracks that made explicit reference to the loss of nightclubs, festivals and overall large gatherings, like Fred again…’s “we’ve lost dancing,” which samples a conversation he had with American DJ The Blessed Madonna (Marea), where she describes the impact of the pandemic on live music. The song presents an optimistic view during the build up when Marea says “If I can live through these next six months, day by day, if I can live through this, what comes next will be marvelous.”

The song was and still is a smashing hit. I can’t remember how many times I’ve heard the song at parties in college.

But my personal favorite light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel COVID-19 dance track was The Chemical Brother’s “The Darkness That You Fear,” which was released in 2021. The song wasn’t necessarily appealing to newer dance crowds whose DJs of choice might lean more toward John Summit and Chris Lake, but rather those who preferred Daft Punk and Basement Jaxx. It was very much a song for those who spent their formative years in 90s warehouse raves.

The period of lockdown was a wildly nostalgic time. Especially those first few months, where each one of us was daydreaming about the menial aspects of everyday life that you share with the people around you.

“The Darkness That You Fear” is a glimmering dance track that yearns for something slipping from our fingers. Like James Murphy said, “it’s the memory of our betters, that are keeping us on our feet.” It’s all we have to keep us going, squeezing every joyous memory into the cups of our days that dragged on and on and…

But similarly to “we’ve lost dancing,” there is that shining element of optimism, that something greater is awaiting at the end of it all. Or at least, it allowed us to believe that.

The music video, directed by Ruffermcy, who did videos for Thom Yorke and Run the Jewels, utilizes pre-covid music festival footage with hand-drawn animations laid over them.

I turned to this song not during the COVID lockdowns but during one of the more difficult transitional periods of my life, and it’s the song’s lyrics that really resonate with me:

Let your heart see the colors

All around you

And the darkness

That you fear

Will disappear

I’ve been going through a bit of a Rolling Stones phase as of late. Though I always knew they were a revered blues band with arguably one of the great discography runs of all-time from the late 60s through the early 70s, I never was much of a Stones listener. Their best albums littered the depths of my father’s CD collection that I acquainted myself with throughout roughly the first decade of my life. But they were never more than a few funny album covers and the band that I knew wrote “Satisfaction.”

As I grew a bit older and into my middle school years, I came to appreciate tracks like “Ruby Tuesday” and “Gimme Shelter,” very surface level, agreeable rock and pop tracks that proclaimed more about my allegiance to the Beatles than my interest in their offhanded, hard-rocking English brethren.

This year, I decided to finally close that blind spot in my musical lexicon by going through all of their stuff. I tend to be a bit of a completist when discovering a new band, seeking out all the non-album b-sides, EP cuts, odds and ends that I can get my hands on. I finally have come to my wits that the band’s run from 68-72 is nothing short of excellent, though perhaps not to the astounding heights of Neil Young’s 70s run or the entire second half of the Beatles’ lifespan.

On my listen through of what I consider to handily be the greatest Stones album, Exile on Main St., I was reminded of my junior year of college when I initially considered going on my Stones journey. I gave that full album a listen - a bold move considering its double-LP runtime and reputation as the dirtiest, dingiest, most unabashedly and proudly filthy release by a band that fits all those same descriptors. I enjoyed the album, but ultimately didn’t decide to take the full plunge, clearly. I now accept that my admittedly timid reception the first time around was necessary for me to now hold Exile in the same realm as an On the Beach, a Master of Reality, or a Ziggy Stardust. That is to say, an all-time great, and perhaps the single most quintessential, rock record.

There was one song that never left my mind from that first listen. The only track from his deceptively short stint with the band to warrant an official Mick Taylor co-writing credit, “Ventilator Blues” is maybe the most Rolling Stones song there is. Though Taylor was only a member of the Rolling Stones from 1969 to 1974 and for only 4 complete LP releases, his impression as one of the most influential rock guitarists was practically set in stone from his first licks on “Honky Tonk Woman,” the first officially released Stones track of his tenure. Despite his credit on the track, the jury is kind of out on how much input Taylor had on the song. Taylor himself doesn’t recall having a sizable impact on its foundation, and though he is credited with shredding on the back half of the track, it is widely believed that the iconic riff is that of Richards’.

The Stones have riffs for days, but “Ventilator Blues” is the single grungiest, sleaziest, trashiest figure of the band’s career. The way the neck of the guitar succumbs to the slide could have only been accomplished by the Stones of the early 70s. Growing up, my grandmother had a boiler room, or more accurately, a hapless dungeon, in her basement. Cans of food from the Cold War stacked the walls. Newspaper clippings were strewn across the floor. Going down there ensured that you wouldn’t be able to breathe for the length of your visit, lest you fancied inhaling the dustiest, hottest, densest air on the planet. This song aurally captures that boiler room in all of its glory, or rather its despair.

And I can’t get enough.

The song’s namesake was drawn from much of the same inspiration. The recording of Exile is infamous for its drug-infused party atmosphere. Basic tracking took place at Keith Richards’ Villa Nellcôte in Paris, which became a de facto home studio after the band fled their home country in an attempt to evade taxes (hence the album’s name). With Richards fully in the throes of a brutal heroin habit and the sessions employing a no-rules attitude, chaos predictably ensued. Recording was especially stuffy, considering it occurred in a tiny, non-ventilated basement space. Breathing (or doing much of anything, really) in these circumstances was not designed for the faint of heart, both figuratively and literally. The lyrics can be read as an allegory for these claustrophobic living conditions, or more broadly, the toll that such a hard-rockin’ lifestyle can take.

When your spine is cracking and your hands, they shake

Heart is bursting and your butt’s gonna break

Woman’s cussing, you can hear her scream

Feel like murder in the first degree

Ain’t nobody slowing down, no way

Everybody’s stepping on their accelerator

Don’t matter where you are

Everybody’s going to need a ventilator

Drummer Charlie Watts passes the assignment here with flying colors, laying down an undeniable groove written by auxiliary Stone, saxophonist Bobby Keys. And when those horns come in to punctuate the rhythm, whoo, boy. And Nicky Hopkins’ piano work on the track is not to be ignored. Everything comes together in one slimy, rancid rock cacophony.

This is the purest distillation of rock music that one can find, for all of its benefits and its pitfalls. If one Stones song must stand alone to be uncovered hundreds of thousands of years from now to stand for the enterprise of rock music, it shouldn’t be “Paint It Black,” “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” or “Sympathy for the Devil.” While I adore each, none can step to the boiler room boogie that is “Ventilator Blues.”

It’s no surprise that while I was consistently listening to 2000s “indie” music for months, I was also watching The O.C for the first time. I fell hard and fast for the show’s geeky heartthrob, Seth Cohen, and so did the hundreds and thousands of millennials when the show first came out. At a time when teen heartthrobs all looked like Hollister models, Cohen — an outsider in the world of hot Newport socialites — was neurotic, into comic books, listened to Death Cab for Cutie, and owned a toy horse named Captain Oats. He gave geeky guys around the world hope for long-lasting love when his character stole the heart of the seemingly superficial but lovable Summer Roberts.

The show’s creator, a 26-year-old Josh Schwartz, saw himself in Seth. He too was a Jewish kid from the East Coast living among “water polo players and their girlfriends.” Seth’s music taste was also similar to his. He listened to Death Cab, Bright Eyes and the Shins, made evident when he gifted everyone close to him a “Seth Cohen Starter Pack” for Chrismukkah (a portmanteau of Christmas and Hannukah). His music choices explained why he was this frumpy teenager, but it also showed a side to him that was central to his personality — his taste.

Alexandra Pastavas, the show’s music supervisor, brought her love of alternative music to the show, soundtracking critical scenes with Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek” and Placebo’s cover of “Running Up That Hill.” A famous needle drop and Cohen quote happens when the gang (Marissa, Ryan, Summer and Seth, as the driver) is on its way to Tijuana. Seth is driving slowly and playing “A Movie Script Ending” by Death Cab, which annoys Summer.

Here’s that scene.

“It’s like one guitar and a whole lotta complaining” is etched in my memories.

To Death Cab’s surprise, they were name-dropped in a teen soap opera on Fox. They were sitting on the couch when that show dropped, sending them into full-fledged panic. This undoubtedly gave them a leg up in their career, but that didn’t erase all the work they’d been doing to get up to that point. We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes is a fantastic album. But what The O.C. did was propel them to audiences they normally wouldn’t have reached. It achieved the same for other, more under-the-radar bands as well.

“The OC’s use of indie rock normalized the aesthetic of the genre’s most user-friendly acts in ways that would seep into pop culture in the years to come,” said De Ville. “Essentially, the show laid the ground for indie rock as a lifestyle brand, creating a context for bands like these to be packaged and sold to a mass audience and incentivizing them to soften and brighten their sounds.”

It’s not difficult to get into Death Cab, and especially not The Photo Album, the record the song appears on. Gibbard is a sensitive writer who can make poppier sounding indie music, fit for arenas.

“A Movie Script Ending” is instantly recognizable by its freestyle-like drum pattern. The production on this track is lighter and spacier, giving way to a brighter kind of sound. Here, Gibbard sings about returning home after being away for a while; his town has changed, but its soul has remained. I love this one line:

“New bottoms on barstools, but the people remain the same.”

What I love the most about this song is that it’s hardly about complaining; in fact, it was probably one of the happier sounding songs Death Cab had put out at the time.

It’s hard as a songwriter to get away with writing music that consistently sounds the same. In fact, there are a handful of artists that I can’t bring myself to appreciate for this very reason (certain people know who I refer to when I say that). What’s even more astounding is the practice of writing the same song multiple times. And when I say the same song, I mean the same song. Structurally, melodically, and texturally, there isn’t much of a perceptible difference.

Leave it to one born Robert Allen Zimmerman to accomplish this feat handily. But what Zimmerman, better known by his now legally-bound name Bob Dylan, has that isn’t easily imitated or emulated is pure, unadulterated aura. The Dylan Aura has a long and storied history, from his blurry, autumnal fold-out portrait located on the record jacket of the seminal Blonde on Blonde to his equally inexplicable yet somehow perfectly appropriate captionless reposting of a Machine Gun Kelly performance on a seemingly personally kept Instagram account.

Perhaps the greatest flex out of all is the dichotomy of two Dylan tracks, the musically identical “Girl from the North Country” and “Boots of Spanish Leather,” originally released on 1963’s The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan and 1964’s The Times They Are a-Changin’ respectively. Dylan credits Martin Carthy’s arrangement of the timeless “Scarborough Fair” folk tune as the basis for these two pieces. Though the reappropriation and continued use of musical patterns and structures is commonplace in the ageless pantheon of folk and especially gospel music, the art form through which Dylan first made a name for himself, these two tracks are striking in their similarity. But what gives their existence that patented Dylan Aura is the simple fact that these are two of the most beautiful songs ever written.

I could go into why each of these masterpieces are uniquely special, but I’m going to instead opt for yet another layer of Dylan Aura to lie on top of this all. It’s one thing to get away with writing the same song twice, another thing entirely to release both within a year of each other, and yet another for them to both become lauded pieces of storytelling.

It’s intergalactic to record one of those songs not once, but twice.

“Girl from the North Country” was re-recorded in 1969, six years after its initial incarnation, for the Nashville Skyline album, an undeniable deep dive into full-on country music. Oh, yeah, I must’ve forgot! This version of the song also acts as a duet with Johnny Cash. Yes, that Johnny Cash. Wait a second, you know another Johnny Cash?

The 1969 retelling of “Girl from the North Country” is a soothing, flowing reinterpretation of the 1963 version’s tight Travis-style fingerpicking and tense, hunched atmosphere. Whereas the original version reads like a pained, first-hand retelling of a love lost, the subsequent duet plays to the folk playbook that Dylan often employed - a story passed down through generations that plays as a fable for the uninitiated. For Dylan to go from apprentice to master so quickly speaks to his artistry.

If you’re traveling in the north country fair

Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline

Remember me to one who lives there

For she once was a true love of mine

The pairing of Dylan’s newfound guttural croon (partly the result of a cigarette free period) and Cash’s deep, soulful and already iconic buzzing works surprisingly well. And for as similar as “Girl from the North Country” and “Boots of Spanish Leather” are, there is far more to be said about the comparison between “Girl from the North Country” and “Girl from the North Country.”

Bob Dylan’s aura just goes to show that some people are born to radiate coolness. Look at the cover of Nashville Skyline for proof of this. Most of the time, they don’t even have to try.

Let me just begin by saying that The Life of a Showgirl ranks in my bottom three Taylor Swift records. I had higher expectations than I did for The Tortured Poets Department and even Midnights, mostly because I resonated more with the themes Swift was describing in the weeks leading up to the album’s release. Showgirl rarely had any showgirl elements, the production was disappointing, and the lyrics even more so. I’m of the camp that Swift is allowed to be happy and put out fun, glitter-pen albums, but that’s not the problem here. The problem is that it was disappointing. It was a regression in the lyricism for which Swift is consistently venerated.

But for all my quips and qualms with the album and Swift’s direction in general, I would describe myself as a fan, and I do genuinely try to find the best in her albums. There are standouts on this album, and one of them is “Father Figure.” The music journalist Shaad D’Souza wrote in the New York Times that Swift is at her best when she’s in a defensive pose, and this is certainly the case with “Father Figure.” I was a bit hesitant about the chronically online clickbaity title, similar to Eldest Daughter and CANCELLED!, but unlike the other two songs, “Father Figure” delivered and stuck to its theme.

“Father Figure” takes the perspective of both the mentor and the mentee. The feud between Swift and label execs has been part of Swift’s public image since 2019, when Scooter Braun, with the backing of private equity firms, purchased Big Machine Records (Swift’s former label) from Scott Borchetta and became the owner of her master’s. From 2021 to 2023, Swift began re-recording her old albums and released them as “Taylor’s Version.” Her fan base rallied behind her; her incredibly ambitious project and the feud driving it only made them more defensive.

The song begins with a story:

When I found you, you were young, wayward, lost in the cold

Pulled up to you in the Jag

Turned your rags into gold

“Father Figure” is Swift’s best because it’s the most her. She doesn’t bore fans with vague details. We, the Swifties and those who are up to date with her, are acutely aware of the dynamic she’s describing.

It’s straight from the heart. It’s vindictive. It’s feisty. “I made a deal with the devil because my dick’s bigger,” she sings in the chorus, interpolating George Michael’s 1987 song of the same name.

To be a Taylor Swift fan is to be so enmeshed in her private affairs, feuds and relationships. Swift is at her peak when she invites people into her showgirly world, clawing back at the curtains to reveal what happens behind the glitz and glamour of being her.

It took me a while to come to the realization that Moon Pix by Cat Power is a flat-out masterpiece. On my initial few listens around a year ago, I recognized the album as one that is rich in its sparseness and makes up for what it lacks in conventional song structure in unadulterated, almost suffocating honesty. I now know, as I wish I did then, that the record’s bare aesthetic and oftentimes freeform approach to songwriting and performance is perhaps its greatest strength, not in spite of its honesty, but because of it. The transformation in my opinion on the album seems to mirror the critical (re)assessment that it has undergone in the years since its 1998 release on the titanic Matador Records (including a boost in the eyes of Pitchfork from a modest 7.4 to a staggering 9.5).

Cat Power is Chan Marshall, and I kind of spoiled the fact that her brand of ambiguous, simultaneously sleepy and hyperaware indie rock has become known as her “brand.” I don’t necessarily like the distillation and commodification of this style as just her “brand” because this kind of striking vulnerability and honesty is hard to find amongst her contemporaries. It is immediately commendable and certainly a factor in the lasting allure of not only Marshall’s music, but her, for lack of a better word, aura. Every album of Marshall’s up to this point followed a similarly musically reserved but emotionally potent blueprint, but Moon Pix presents the most holistic statement of Marshall’s career up to that point.

After much deliberation, I think I’ve come to the conclusion that my favorite song on the album is not the surprisingly groovy “American Flag,” the heart-wrenching “Colors and the Kids,” or even the legendary music video’d non-single “Cross Bones Style,” but the eerily still (even by Cat Power standards) “Say,” which sits as the fourth track on the record.

Musically, it cannot get more bare-bones than this. A singular, floating electric guitar figure that repeats throughout the song’s runtime and the chilling disembodied voice of Marshall, double tracked for maximized ethereal cilia transmission. The chord progression here can best be described as “fucking heartbreaking,” and the words over the music are similarly comfortingly hopeless.

Learn to say the same thing

Let us hold fast to saying the same thing

I hope all is well with you

I wish the best for you

When no one is around love will always love you

It is now common knowledge that much of Moon Pix was written in a singular session following a hallucinatory waking nightmare that understandably shook Marshall to her core, her quaint South Carolina farm home infiltrated by menacing spirits in the night. What should also be known is that the album was also written and recorded in the wake of Marshall’s split from Bill Callahan of Smog fame. It can be, therefore, speculated that this song can be traced back to this major life event. This is, of course, pure speculation, and I would never mean to put words in the mouth of any musician about what their music speaks to, though Moon Pix’s newfound reputation as a breakup album can certainly draw some parallels to its dire, self-assuring lyrical content.

Never give up, no, never give up

If you’re looking for something easy

You might as well give it up

Marshall makes music that can be relied upon to look at our inner turmoil when we are most scared and grant us the courage to stare these realities in the mirror and the strength to make peace with them. “Say” is a picture-perfect example of that. And as I said earlier, that kind of artistry doesn’t grow on trees.

Every year, without fail, the turning of the calendar to autumn encourages music listeners round the globe to discuss and mull over their favorite “fall albums.” What exactly constitutes a fall album? I tend to notice trends of acoustic or orchestral instrumentation, lush and enveloping production, and nostalgic, oftentimes abstract lyrical material remain somewhat constant through some of the most popular. Think your Sufjan Stevens and Nick Drake on the folkier side and your Ride and Yo La Tengo on the shoegazey, psychedelic side.

I think I’ve recently found one of my personal favorite fall albums in a somewhat unexpected space.

Jeremy Enigk, frontman of REAL (despite what the haters may say) emo band Sunny Day Real Estate, is an interesting figure. The underground darlings unceremoniously and mysteriously came to an abrupt end in 1995 following a tour of the United States and the recording of their second full-length LP for Sub Pop. Interestingly, the band had already made the pact to call it a day on the group before either of those events came to pass, as described by drummer William Goldsmith. Also confirmed by Goldsmith was one of the main reasons for their seemingly out of left field disbanding - the conversion to hardcore Christianity undertaken by Enigk.

The next year brought Enigk’s first solo effort, Return of the Frog Queen, once again released by Sub Pop. The music here bears almost no resemblance to the work of Sunny Day. I say almost because even though the record combines low-fidelity acoustic-based sonics with grand string and horn orchestration, you can still hear Enigk’s pure songwriting sensibilities carrying over from the abrasive, tortured sound of Sunny Day.

Yeah, I mentioned the acoustic arrangements and orchestration present throughout the album, so perhaps it’s not so surprising that the album is essentially built for fall. Even the quieter tracks are recorded so intimately and with such proximity to the microphone that it feels as if Enigk has implanted himself in your cochlea. And the best example of this is the album’s third track, “Lewis Hollow.”

The Lewis Hollow site off the Overlook Mountain in upstate Woodstock, New York consists of 38 acres of land accented by numerous rock formations of supposedly ancient origin. Regardless of their age, their existence is shrouded in mystery and allure, much as the original incarnation of Sunny Day Real Estate was. The woodsy inspiration for the song’s title is accurately reflected in its writing and execution.

Instrumentally, the song sees Enigk accompanied only by a lone acoustic guitar, perhaps one of a nylon-stringed classical build. The arpeggiated chord progression harkens to the songwriting of Vashti Bunyan, whose debut album Just Another Diamond Day, can amazingly be applied in really any seasonal context. There is a subdued beauty in the deceptively strained vocal performance.

Gaze glow and rowing under silver moon

Collide argue tether and fall down again

Enigk weaves these words together with an elegance rarely seen in popular music, and his ability to do so in such confounding sonic atmospheres is remarkable.

Though the track lasts at a miniscule 1 minute and 58 seconds, the visceral punch it packs reaches far beyond its constrictive runtime. Much of the same can be said about the rest of the Return of the Frog Queen album, as it in itself lasts under a half-hour, a mark of a short release since the LP became the dominant format for musical statements. I find myself not being able to get enough of it though. Its impermanence makes it all that more precious. Especially when the leaves are changing colors.

Beginnings - Talkdemonic

Talkdemonic, the now solo project of Kevin Timothy O’Conner, has been delivering vast, drowning soundscapes for over 20 years. Joined at points in the past by Lisa Molinaro, who has also been affiliated with the Decemberists and Modest Mouse, O’Conner resurrected the moniker in 2022 to continue releasing hypnotic, ethereal electronic music. Very Cool Yesterday came out last month, and “Beginnings” is the record’s opener. Submerged in droning, Fripp-esque guitar and staying true to its beautifully simple chord progression, the track (and much of the album) finds a middle ground between the experimental analog mastery of Brian Eno and the fuzzy mysticality of C418. Much easier said than done, this track and record is a very pleasant listen and a sign that the state of modern ambient is right where it should be.

The Ledge - Worldpeace DMT, Rowan Please

If you’re a fan of The Go! Team, you’ll like this little tune from Worldpeace DMT and Rowan Please. It’s got that hopscotch/cheerleader vibe to it with a mix of some Violent Femmes. The album, The Velvet Underground & Rowan, rides on the anti-folk movement of New York City’s East Village in the 1980s/1990s, bringing an experimental and barebones genre to the internet.

NEW AGE - sleepazoid

This is a group out of Australia that just knocks your socks off on first listen. Fuzzed out, angsty, tightly arranged and performed, and highlighted by soaring atmospheric guitar and a blissful chorus. This is the kind of song that addicts you off the jump. That opening riff comes back just when you forgot that this band can do breakneck punk with the best of them. Such a cool fusion of sounds coming together here. Don’t be like me and let this band escape your view for as long as I have. URGH! A Music War for a new generation.

peaches - Total Wife

“Peaches” is a song that meets you in between that dream and lucidity – at least, that’s what the Total Wife says. The experimental pop duo hails from Nashville, creating poignant dream pop music reminiscent of its 90s predecessors. I love the production on this song, particularly that drum beat in the background that pushes it into triphop territory.

Half Real - Geese

I’d be remiss if I didn’t include a song from the new Geese album on this list. Geese has really blown up in the past week, drawing huge crowds at their surprise shows throughout New York. Their frontman, Cameron Winter, surely has something to do with this. I fear we’re witnessing one of the greatest new rock voices, and it’s incredible just to see Winter’s and Geese’s career take off. “Half Real” is a brighter-sounding ballad with darker meaning; in an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind fashion, Winter begs, “I’ve got half a mind to pay for the lobotomy, and tell’em get rid of the bad times and get rid of the good ones too.”

I say pleasantly surprised because 1) I was really there for LCD Soundsystem, 2) I only know a few Pulp songs, and 3) I was a tad late to the concert and didn’t want to feel bad for missing the first bit.

The lead singer, Jarvis Crocker (the most English name possible), was hilarious, and I loved his storytelling throughout the concert. Right after performing “Babies,” which came after “Got to Have Love,” where his dancing silhouette played in front of a sunset-like background, Crocker got to telling the story of when he moved to London from Sheffield for university.

You probably know how this story goes. He was in a pub, he rubbed against the shoulders of an out-of-touch rich girl, who essentially told him she wanted to live like and among the “common people.”

So here’s a bit of a throwback for my bit of the blog this week. “Common People,” my personal favorite Pulp song, is a fun Britpop tune poking at the metropolitan bourgeois that many common folk encounter for the first time in college. And vice versa. What results are many slum tourism-like interactions that are similar to the ones described in “Common People.”

One of my favorite lines: “I took her to a supermarket / I don’t know why but I had to start it somewhere / So I started there.” The thought of Crocker taking this girl around showing her what milk and eggs are in a Tesco or something was just really funny.

“Common People” arrived in 1995, during the peak of Britpop bands (Oasis, Blur, Verve, Suede). Like the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony,” it aims to be arena rock anthem, and it does a great job at that. The alt-rock and art poppy song begins with a talk-sing style before breaking out into a smashing instrumental with an addictive guitar riff that annoying people (like myself) will hum at concerts (which I did).

The song appears on the album with a fitting name, Different Class, alongside critically acclaimed singles “Disco 2000” and “Something Changed.”

I was reminded of the song when it was referenced in the movie Saltburn, where Rosamund Pike plays an extremely wealthy, detached, but well-meaning matriarch. She lied down on a lawn chair to sunbathe by the pool while Babybird’s “You’re Gorgeous” was playing.

She says, “I used to hang out with them all, actually when I was modeling. Britpop, Blur, Oasis. God the parties. But then of course “Common People” came out and everbody thought it was written about me, which was completely mortifying and ridiculous. I mean, I barely knew Jarvis. But she came from Greece. She had a thirst for knowledge. It couldn’t have been me. I’ve never wanted to know anything.”

I mean if you’re gonna be out-of-touch, at least have a sense of humor.

I am proud of myself for restraining myself from talking about Elliott Smith on this blog for as long as I have. It’s no secret to anyone that knows me that Smith is probably my favorite songwriter ever, and certainly in consideration for my all-time favorite musician. I am comfortable making the argument that he never wrote a bad song.

This statement is even more impressive when you consider the scope of his output. Though he only officially released 6 full-length albums (5 in his lifetime, plus the posthumous From a Basement on the Hill), Smith’s vault of unofficially released material is vast. Maybe not on Prince level, but the traditional Elliott smith canon is only the tip of the iceberg.

The first (and to this point, unfortunately only) “vault” release, so to speak, that we have is the sprawling 2-disc New Moon collection, which is nearing its staggering 20-year anniversary. New Moon stands as probably my favorite Elliott release all things considered. Out of its remarkably consistent 24-track length, I can probably formulate what would undeniably be my favorite album of all time. And these are all leftovers.

Even more amazingly, this is simply a selection of the outtakes over the course of roughly 24 months of his career. The one-two punch of his eponymous second album and the brilliant Either/Or is certainly a high point of his catalog, but when you can craft a melody to contest with both Lennon AND McCartney, your entire career is a highlight. It befuddles me that “Talking to Mary,” “New Disaster,” “Placeholder,” and “Going Nowhere” were deemed insufficient for release at their conception.

The track I’d like to discuss today is the opener of the collection’s second disc, “Georgia, Georgia.” This track dates back to the sessions for his self-titled album, the recording process of which is documented in an absolutely vital Life of the Record podcast episode. I highly recommend listening to this podcast to get an idea of how seamlessly and effortlessly this stuff flowed out of Smith.

At a mere runtime of just 1:46, the amount of creativity and ideas seen to fruition here is remarkable. The track employs a jaunty rhythm evoking images of the Wild West and a relatively simple chord progression by Smith’s standards. Lyrically, the track explores themes that, though not revolutionary and actually quite recurrent in Smith’s writing, impressively come off with as much emotion as ever. It is difficult to navigate discussing troubled relationships, substance dependence, and violent tragedy with unwavering sincerity and while avoiding cliched tropes, but Smith pulls it off every time.

Georgia, Georgia

It’s been many miles

Since I’ve seen your fallen smile

Close up and personal

Your arsenal of excuses you never told her

When you walked out on the Savannah shoulder

A lot is left up to interpretation, as per usual. I love the interweaving of the song’s subject, presumably one Georgia, and its location, which according to that last line, is the state of Georgia. I am not here to speak to what this song meant to Smith personally, if it was partially inspired by real world feelings or simply a storytelling vehicle, but that uncertainty makes the subject matter even more pertinent.

With your veins all full of beer

Thinking well at least now everything is clear

But oh man, what a plan, suicide

It’s just not that much different from my own affair

All ends in cussing and crying

Did the titular Georgia take her own life? What is the relationship between the speaker and Georgia? Is the “her” mentioned in the first verse Georgia or an entirely separate third party? All of this is left up to relative interpretation. I don’t personally like asking myself these questions when listening to Elliott. It still hits all the same.

Maybe my favorite portion of the song is the contemplative, almost snarling bridge. I love the complete shift in atmosphere in the chord progression and melody.

How about if you

Tell me something new

Tell me what will make you happy

Oh, you so deserve to be

I can see why this may not have been considered for placement on the Elliott Smith album. It seems a bit more direct and perhaps hostile than some of the other material there. Though, this is purely speculative. I am just glad that this song and the many others that Smith wrote in his lifetime are available to consume. Like so many others in his canon, I can’t see myself ever getting bored with this track. Thanks, Larry Crane.

Listen to “Georgia, Georgia” here.

The French electronic duo performed at Los Angeles’ Hollywood Bowl this past Sunday, continuing their North American tour playing their debut album, Moon Safari, in its entirety.

If you’re not from Los Angeles, or aren’t aware of the Hollywood Bowl, it’s kind of okay to sit down during concerts. Maggie Rogers fans slightly ranted about this after her show at the venue during her Summer of 23 tour. Fans described a disconnect between Rogers and the audience, poor concert etiquette and low energy. All’s this to say that while this isn’t solely due to the Hollywood Bowl directly, the set-up and culture of the venue lends itself to poor concert etiquette.

The Bowl is a large outdoor music venue that hosts summer concerts and orchestra performances throughout the year. They put on July 4th fireworks and performances that my family and I have gone to every year. It’s usually a packed show and people are encouraged to bring wine, food and snacks to have throughout the night. For LA Philharmonic-presnted events, like the 4th of July, you’re allowed to bring your own wine and beer, but for lease-events you’re not. At any and all Bowl events, you can bring your own food. Does that make sense?

Many seasoned Bowl-goers bring their food and wine to munch and sip on throughout the night, which you can’t really do while jumping up and down and singing along during the performance. So it’s a more of a relaxed, choose-your-own adventure, low-stakes concert vibe. Some attendees choose to dance the whole night while others prefer eating and sitting down. Or somewhere in between. So I can understand why this type of venue can be jarring to someone who doesn’t frequent the Bowl.

As many quips as I may have with the Bowl, I do really love it. It has a special place in my heart, though it wouldn’t be my first pick to see someone like Charli xcx or Tyler, the Creator, whose shows bring a lot of energy with them. Which brings me to Air.

I really think the Hollywood Bowl was the best venue to play Moon Safari in Los Angeles, because not only did they have members of the Bowl’s orchestra play with them, but also, the album is more ambient and spacious.

Air, made up of Nicolas Godin and Jean–Benoît Ducknel from Versailles, brought those atmospheric sounds enhanced by the backing of the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra, to Los Angeles. The duo is propped up onto a rectangular structure draped in all-white suits like they’re playing onboard a spaceship.

While I love Air and genuinely do enjoy Moon Safari, I’m not sure that the album was the best choice to play in-full, especially when you haven’t gone on tour for years. Sure, there were some air wave hits like “Sexy Boy” and “All I Need,” but I don’t think Moon Safari requires that much revisiting. Needless to say, the duo put on a stunning performance that enhanced its mysterious spage-age sound, and I especially enjoyed the live orchestra. The duo rarely engaged with the audience or took breaks from performing, which I think would’ve helped break up the hazy, in-trance performance and given much needed context/reminders to the audience about the album, like details about its recording, its place in culture, etc.

As an Air fan, I would’ve much prefer hearing Talkie Walkie live, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I’m hopeful we’ll get a Talkie Walkie tour once the time is right.

If you’ve seen Air live on this tour, let me know your thoughts!

As much music as I continually ingest, I find myself always needing to dive deeper into the world of bleeps and bloops. I am a relative electronic music novice. I cannot always tell the difference between IDM and EDM, cannot distinguish ordinary house music from its ‘deep’ variety, and am hard-pressed to point out the origin of most samples scattered throughout the style’s most acclaimed records (though I do love me some Amen break). I love the electronic music that I know, but the trove of material there is to sift through tends to overwhelm me.

Alongside many other music lovers who began their listening journey immersed in the rock sphere, Aphex Twin was one of my first gateways into digitally processed and produced compositions. Richard D. James is probably the most beloved electronic musician in the genre’s history, and for good reason. The transitory atmosphere of much of his work - from Selected Ambient Works 85-92 to Selected Ambient Works Volume II - continues to inspire awe in many a guitar churner. I kid of course, as those records barely scratch the surface of the shitload of music this guy has released. I mean, he’s gotta be approaching Buckethead levels at this point.

Regardless, the man has reached the apex (maybe even the Apex Twin) of influence and praise in the greater music landscape. I’ll be completely honest, I haven’t listened to nearly as much Aphex Twin as I would like to say I have. Records like Syro and Drukqs are downright intimidating. And don’t even get me started on the Polygon Window, Caustic Window, AFX, and GAK of it all. This man has enough pseudonyms to fill out an entire Electronic Hall of Fame. Probably my favorite of the bunch of releases that I have consumed, the Come to Daddy EP/album/mini-LP….. thing is probably my favorite.

Initially latching onto memeified tracks like “Flim” and “Bucephalus Bouncing Ball” and the multitude of completely unrelated remixes of the title song, the track I find myself identifying with the most now is the closer, the mysteriously titled “IZ-US.”

The track begins with a sample of an equal parts amused and vexed child pleading with some individual to “Stop making that big face!” Adorably, the bite was revealed to be James’ nephew, I imagine exasperated after dealing with such an unserious uncle for some nondescript amount of time. The listener is then immediately disposed into a world of sonic wonder that can only be described one way - chill as hell.

Seriously, the splashy ride cymbal groove and unfathomably catchy synth line can provide the backing track for any of a multitude of dancing GIFs. And for a man who routinely disparages rock and R&B music (though how much of this is genuine is up in the air), the tambourine and handclaps accenting the percussion here are surprisingly commercial. Even more surprisingly, they work incredibly well.

The track rides this out for most of its subdued 3-minute runtime, though in the last 40 seconds or so, James’ trademark glitchy and unhinged sensibilities begin to shine through. Still, this adds just another flavor to the already tasty song and prove that no matter how far James may stray, his heart still belongs to the breakbeat.

I plan on listening to a load more of James’ work in the near future. Just listening back to this track for this blog post reminds me how rich so much of his work is and how repeated listening is rewarded twice over. I will get back to you guys after combing through his infamous heaping SoundCloud dumps. Godspeed.

Sure, there were always the Pitchfork darlings — Radiohead was predestined to receive 10s due to founder Ryan Schreiber’s affinity for the band — but their success wasn’t contingent upon the publication’s approval.

The band’s rise to fame, accelerated by hype from a 9.0 Best New Music rating from Pitchfork (one of the highest honors for up-and-coming bands at the time), represented a shift in music discovery, not just for the listeners, but the artists themselves. You could go from playing church basements in Philadelphia to headlining major music festivals within a year.

“The praise took on a meta quality as people celebrated not just the band’s music but the way they rose to fame—i.e.without industry support,” said Sterogum’s Chris DeVille in his new book, Such Great Heights. “It suggested that there was a path forward for artists too arty or obscure to attract the attention of legacy print magazines.”

Say what you want about Pitchfork (and trust me, I have lots to say as well), but it was the closest we got to democratizing taste-making and what’s considered “cool” in music. Pitchfork’s heydays were part of the pre-AI slop, pre-enshittification era of the internet that many of us yearn for and are probably trying to recreate here on Substack.

The rise of Pitchfork and its ilk was coupled with the rise of indie, a genre that’s too often tossed around and misused but somehow makes its way into characterizing anything that isn’t your run-of-the-mill pop. One time, my younger brother called me “indie” for playing a Beatles song in the car.

The simultaneous rise (and fall) of these things wasn’t a coincidence. They were a response to the emergence of a millennium plagued by anxiety, defined by the 9/11 terror attacks, the Internet, Hollywood, and rapid changes in culture as a whole.

DeVille called CYHSY as part of the “blog rock” phenomenon, or left-of-center music that gained popularity thanks to MP3 blogs like Pitchfork. The term was and is sort of derogatory. It implies that their success was mostly due to and could only be found online. In fact, in some sort of forewarning in what would come with the dominance of algorithmic-driven social media models, just as fast as CHYSY rose to fame, they faded into obscurity. Being online, yes, meant more visibility, but that also came with more scrutiny.

CYHSY has had a bit of a resurgence. We’re in the business of nostalgia now, if you didn’t know. Four months ago, the band released a music video featuring the comedian Eric Rahill for their indie-rock power anthem, “The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth,” which was released nearly 20 years ago. 20!!!!!!!!

I discovered CHYSY one early morning as I walked into Barnard College’s WBAR studio for my weekly show. The bright yellow and pink album cover of the self-titled album laying next to soundboard caught my attention, so I took a picture of it to listen to later. I admit, I very often judge albums based on their covers. I forgot about it for a couple of months, then randomly decided to listen to it on the train.

The song has everything a great indie-rock anthem had back in the day: synths, mellow guitars, painfully earnest lyrics, and a dancey drumbeat. Some may cringe at or fondly embrace the yodeling-style of singing employed by the band’s lead singer, Alec Ounsworth. I personally love it.

In many ways, it makes sense that the song and band gained popularity through blogs. The internet opened worlds for young people, especially those in small towns. That’s what “Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth” is about — yearning for a life outside your hometown in West Virginia in some place like New York City. The song, like the online world that held it, offered an escape for young people in an increasingly anxious time.

I generally have an aversion to what I’ll call, for lack of a better term, butt dad rock. While it’s true that there is some classic rock that gets my groove going (love that Zeppelin, Rush, Stones, most of the basics), some of the, say, more boneheaded rock from the 70s and 80s doesn’t quite do it for me. Think ZZ Top, AC/DC, even some Aerosmith. I often feel that this music just doesn’t have enough substance for me to reliably get behind. Some call it hating fun, others call it high class living.

I joke, of course, but there is one band, perhaps even THE butt party rock band, that I consistently find myself enjoying. When it comes to Van Halen, I am for the most part able to take off my snob-filtered glasses and simply let loose. Let’s fuckin’ party.

The first Van Halen record is a great selection of classic rock tunes, one of those albums where seemingly every track still receives relentless airplay on Q104.3 and other stations of the like. By the time you get to albums like Fair Warning and Diver Down, though, it gets a bit harder for me to tread water. However, one song on the latter release stands out as maybe my favorite Van Halen song period. And no one ever brings it up.

“Hang ‘em High” is the second track on Diver Down, a record that’s infamous amongst Van Halen and hard rock fans for its very apparent unevenness. Though the band’s cover of Roy Orbison’s “(Oh) Pretty Woman” is unbelievably killer, a haphazard selection of cover songs and some less than stellar originals come together to create one of rock music’s quintessential “rushed” albums, a release that is squeezed out of the depths of a band’s creative well to appease hungry, rabid fans. “Hang ‘em High,” though, is truly a shining light here.

Staying true to the classic move of repurposing old material while searching for tracks to fill out a “rushed” album’s runtime, the track is actually a reworking of "Last Night,” a track recorded but ultimately not selected for inclusion on the band’s debut.

Starting with a classic galloping Eddie Van Halen riff before busting out into a full band stomp, the track’s verses see legendary vocalist David Lee Roth sticking to a more talk-sing approach. Lyrically, the song is a partially sarcastic ode to the institution of the western film, and particularly, actor Clint Eastwood.

Somewhere, he lost it in a turn

Now trouble seems to fit him like a glove

First come, first served, he's serving it back

Travels light, without a pack, without love

The real star of the song from a melodic standpoint is the outstanding bridge which occurs both before and after one of my favorite EVH guitar solos.

Alone to himself, he's laughing up his sleeve

Looking back in anger, the city is relieved

Vision of light, child of the night

Passing by

The way DLR’s voice soars on that last line is about as satisfying as the band’s composition gets for me. In fact, the song is one of the most triumphant in the band’s catalogue, which is saying something for a band that wrote “Jump” and “Unchained.”

I can’t tell whether I am appreciating Van Halen more or less as I mature and grow older. They’re a real weird band for me. Everything tells me that I shouldn’t like them, but I keep crawling back for more. You know what? I’m gonna give Diver Down a listen after I finish this up just because I love this song so much. Fuck it. Van Halen rules.