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Ever since Taylor Swift released her 12th original studio album, The Life of a Showgirl, I can’t count the number of texts I’ve gotten from people I barely speak to asking how I’m doing after listening to the album as if somebody died.
I’d just finished watching A Portrait of a Lady on Fire when Spotify decided I wasn’t done feeling emotionally devastated. Up popped playlists like “do all lovers feel like they’re inventing something?” and others which sought to channel some form of yearning or heartache. None were soundtracks or platform mixes; just curators chasing a mood.
For more than a decade, Twenty One Pilots has built one of the most ambitious mythologies in popular music. Since the success of Blurryface, Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun have spent their last five studio albums creating the world of Dema: a city ruled by faceless bishops, an allegory for depression and self–destruction. Fans were cast as fellow travelers (dubbed “Banditos”) alongside Clancy and the Torchbearer (Joseph and Dun’s fictional stand–ins), fighting toward escape but always being pulled back into cycles of control. Breach, the duo’s latest record, finally closes this saga. But it doesn’t end in triumph. Instead, it insists on something quieter: Healing is cyclical, and survival is never permanent.
Ed Sheeran wants you to believe Play is a rebirth. The cover is Pepto–pink, the mission statement says he’s “leaving the past behind,” and the press cycle swears this is Sheeran embracing global sounds. Then you hit play and realize that beneath the tablas and Hindi hooks, he’s still the guy writing ballads for your cousin’s first dance. Reinvention? No. This is a man who treats world music the way most of us treat a new spice at Trader Joe’s—interesting in theory, but mostly there to garnish the same old dish.
I need you to think of someone who is killing it in pop right now. Take a second—notice how you didn’t think of a man? For the past two years, women have been taking the pop genre by storm. Sabrina Carpenter, Tate McRae, Chappell Roan, Charli xcx, Taylor Swift—female artists have led the charge in bringing the excitement and energy the genre is known for. While it’s good to see women at the top of the music industry, it does beg the question: What ever happened to male pop stars?
“There’s nothing more satisfying than the intricately curated playlists Spotify cooks up for you—sometimes, I feel like my Spotify knows me better than I know myself,” my roommate confessed when I asked her about the platform. She gushed about how Spotify has become a kind of emotional companion for her, but as a proud Apple Music user, I was skeptical about this “friendship” users feel with the app—is it truly as good of a friend as we like to believe?
Every generation has its own version of the "enlightened young man”—ours happens to wear thrifted sweaters and read Sylvia Plath like it’s scripture. He traded in his tie–dye shirts for baggy jeans, Beatles mixtapes for female indie artists on streaming, organic food for matcha, and rebellious protests for fabricated feminine appeal. He is ... the performative male (cue Darth Vader soundtrack). Turn your head in any direct, and your gaze will land on one of his many manifestations; from campus contests (yes, even ours) to newspaper articles breaking down the trend for Gen Xers, his reign truly knows no bounds.
I would like to start this article off by thanking Beyoncé and every other artist who has been accused of devil worship or being part of some occult group of elites whose main intent is to rule the world through mind control. For as long as music has been around, listeners have loved to imagine the person behind the songs as part of a satanic cabal, trying to snatch your soul for the sake of retaining relevancy. In the 1950s, with the rise of rock ‘n’ roll, performers like Little Richard, Elvis Presley, and Chuck Berry were victims of this moral panic, accused of “corrupting” young people with their provocative lyrics on race and sexuality. This “Satanic Panic” would resurface in the 1980s with heavy metal. This time, the perpetrators were Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath—even Michael Jackson was the subject of rumor and fetishized speculation, accused of selling his soul for fame.
It’s the music you'll hear playing in every Bushwick cafe. Listen to it for too long, and you may suddenly find yourself in knitted clothing, pasting stickers over your laptop cover and collecting throw pillows. The artists are legion—Laufey, beabadoobee, Clairo, grentperez, Lizzy McAlpine, and so on—but their purposes are all the same: making background music that doubles as self–medication.
For most, the end of freshman year is defined by the existential despair of final exams, the wistful feeling of knowing your first year is almost over, and maybe even some last–minute romantic debauchery. I, however, spent the final weeks of my college salad days obsessing over the greatest rap beef of my lifetime: Drake v. Kendrick Lamar. I had one too many data structures to study and a couple of friends to say goodbye to (no romantic prospects, unfortunately), but the thrill of infidelity, hidden children, and double agents enticed me more than anything else.
From the confessional lyricism of “Yeah, No.” and “Standing in Front of You” to the catchy melodies of “Yes Please” and “Right Now,” Elle Winter’s (C ‘26) discography displays the perfect balance of vulnerability and pure pop optimism. Six years after speaking to her last, Street catches up with the singer–songwriter and actress as she celebrates the release of her newest single “Never Even Met Her.”
In the now–dusty relic of 2010s pop–R&B, “Boyfriend,” Justin Bieber whispered threats of “swag, swag, swag on you,” hauling the term from the fame of 2000s rap stars to a new audience of white kids all over the nation. Not surprising, if you knew his affinity for Lil B, the West Coast rapper most associated with “swag” at the time. Thirteen years later, Bieber’s back on the same wave with his seventh album, SWAG, and the jury’s out: does it really live up to its title?
It has been just over two weeks since Tyler, the Creator dropped his ninth studio album DON’T TAP THE GLASS, and the surprise album is running the charts. This marks his fourth consecutive No. 1 release on the Billboard 200 albums chart.
Casual conversation fills the air in an audience of thousands. Excitement grows, anticipation roots among showgoers as curated playlists and light cues subtly tease toward the performance. Suddenly, the pop rock rhythm and guitar riffs from “Obsessed” break through, accompanied by the sounds of screams. From the relatable, angsty teenage lyricism of “Good 4 U” and “Brutal” to the heartbreaking ballads that are “Lacy” and “Enough For You,” it is evident to anyone who has seen Olivia Rodrigo perform (whether that be in person or online) the amount of sheer talent and passion she has for her craft. At just 22, the artist has reached extraordinary milestones: winning three Grammy Awards, selling out venues for her albums SOUR and GUTS, releasing a documentary with Disney+, writing a song for the major movie franchise The Hunger Games, and visiting the White House. Despite all her success, Rodrigo never fails to honor the musical giants who shaped her sound, spotlighting icons like David Byrne and Ed Sheeran for fans both new and old.
It’s hard to miss him on your TikTok feed—half–tucked into a glitter jumpsuit, leaping off a piano mid–ballad, or staring wistfully into a camera while the sound of his own breathy falsetto plays in the background. Benson Boone, the 22–year–old pop crooner whose music seems genetically engineered for Spotify’s Today’s Top Hits playlist, has become something of a walking paradox. He is both a phenomenon and a punchline, and it’s something he is all too aware of.
What does it mean to be a virgin when your body has never truly been yours?
It seems that some rappers are called to the art of streaming. Of course, there have always been guest appearances—like Nicki Minaj on Kai Cenat’s stream—but others have taken it further, launching entire streaming careers alongside their musical ones. With Snoop Dogg, T–Pain, DDG, and Soulja Boy, this career path is looking to become more and more relevant. While some see it as downtime, others use it as another platform to share their music or promote other parts of their brand. And for fans, it’s a uniquely fun and casual phenomenon that allows for more casual, accessible interactions with their favorite artists.
If you had told someone five years ago that the best pop album of the summer would come from Addison Rae, you would have been laughed out of the room. Rae has undergone quite the evolution since her TikTok days. Initially gaining traction for her dance videos, 2021 saw her become the second most followed person on the entire platform. Addison Rae’s extremely quick rise to fame landed her a golden ticket from her hometown in Louisiana straight to the glitz and glamor of the Hype House in Los Angeles.
What happens when a pop star commands the economy of a small nation, the allegiance of a cultish fanbase, and the attention of the entire internet?
In more ways than one, this past spring was slow to start. Cloudiness stretched through mid–April, winds were too harsh for comfort, and the sun seemed almost afraid to peek out for good. At a glance, the cover for Eiko Ishibashi’s Antigone reflects this same sentiment: a grayscale mass of fog looms over a city like a specter—an immutable force too far to reach but impossible to ignore.
Solutions by The State News