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Almost no one had heard of Dominic Fike when Columbia Records signed a whopping four million dollar record deal in 2018 with the Florida native. Virtually a ghost online, with no music out on any platform, Fike had industry giants enter the ring for a dirty, no–stops bidding war on what was a risky—and pricey—record deal.
Alexander Guy Cook, known to most as A.G. Cook, has been busy. The super-producer behind some of Charli XCX's biggest hits and founder of the experimental pop music collective PC Music has only sped up in quarantine. While the world reckoned with COVID–19 back in March, he produced Charli XCX's How I'm Feeling Now, in addition to co–producing Jonsi's Shiver. Then, just a month ago, he released his "debut album," an ambitious 7–disc, 2–hour record called 7G. The record was a revealing peek inside the music wiz's toolbox, albeit overwhelming upon first listen.
On Sept. 17, 1990, the Cocteau Twins released their sixth studio album, Heaven or Las Vegas. 30 years later, this collection of intricately–woven dreamscapes remains as innovative as ever. From Elizabeth Fraser's stunning–yet–unintelligible vocals to Robin Guthrie's transportive guitar work and Simon Raymonde's buttery bass, Heaven or Las Vegas' beauty has been a constant reference for many bands since its release. The trio's psychedelic, dreamy, all–encompassing style have influenced woozy bands like Beach House to heavier bands like Slowdive and Ride. Similarly, Heaven or Las Vegas remains as significant now as it was when it was released three decades ago.
2020 has been anything but peaceful. This turbulent year has seen everything from the COVID–19 pandemic to a series of worldwide protests. Even though the elections have seemingly taken a back seat until now—36 days out from election night in November—it's important to keep in mind the prescient social issues that have been at forefront of public conversation, particularly protests against systemic racism.
Close your eyes. Imagine, if you can, what the '90s were like. Not the literal day–to–day hustle and bustle, but the general mood. It's the middle of the night, and you're walking down a street. Sewer fumes obscure your vision, but it doesn't matter, because you haven't decided where you're walking to yet. Your baggy jeans and Nirvana tee are fashionably grimy, covered in tiny circular burns and beer stains. You take a long, last drag of your dying cigarette before stamping out the embers, extinguishing the final light of the dark alley you just turned down. Your headphones drown out the incessant rumblings of city life: ever so slowly, the hiss and crackle of vinyl pops fade in, washing out your ears like auditory smoke. "Give me a reason to love you," the lead singer croons over a wailing guitar solo.
Taylor Swift spent the first decade of her career building a brand of political apathy ensconced in a world of glittery guitars, red lipstick, and glamorously homey Fourth of July parties. She’s the kind of celebrity that stands in for an identity. I spent the middle six years of my life cataloging her every move on a Twitter account named after her cats, and I would introduce myself as a Swiftie first, Puerto Rican woman second, and eventually, a Democrat third.
On August 28th, 2020, the news of Chadwick Boseman’s tragic passing broke the heart of a young Black boy from Saint Louis, Missouri named Kian. Standing beside his Avengers action figures lined up against his garage door, he folded his arms over his chest to resemble Boseman’s famous “Wakanda Forever”; a memorial for the fallen King.
Most of us remember singing and dancing along to songs such as “California Gurls," “Teenage Dream,” and “Last Friday Night” during middle school. In the past couple of years, "Roar" has turned into an empowering anthem. It is undeniable that Katy Perry has been a major player in the music scene from our childhoods until today.
To occupy myself in this endless quarantine, I've taken to going on walks around my neighborhood. I always bring headphones with me, so I can bury myself deep into the sonic worlds of whatever albums I'm listening to. However, when British pop star Dua Lipa dropped Club Future Nostalgia, I avoided listening to it on my daily walks. Instead, I waited until it was late at night and everyone else in my house was asleep. Then, I lay on my couch in the dark in an attempt to recreate the atmosphere of a club: the space where the music was meant to be heard.
The music industry has felt the negative effects of the pandemic like many others. Countless artists had to cancel scheduled performances and production stalled while debuts and new releases were delayed. However, this hasn’t stopped the industry from trudging forward. In fact, artists have pushed the boundaries of their creativity and compassion in this unique moment. Through their music, they have shared their very own experienience. Some serve as reminders to be disciplined in keeping others and yourself safe. Some have dedicated their profits to charity and donations for crises related to COVID–19. Certainly, we wouldn’t have been able to survive this pandemic without our delivery service and medical professionals. But music has always helped us cope during stressful times, and this is no exception. Here is a playlist of some diamonds in the rough that wouldn’t have been created without the painful and collective experience of this pandemic.
On July 24, Billie Eilish broke what seemed to be a month–long Instagram hiatus. She posted a simple photo of herself standing on a dirty roof in her typical baggy sweats and oversized hoodie, the dark grey of her matching set stark against the cotton–candy sky. The caption was brief: “‘my future’ out thursday.”
Mike Polizze’s Long Lost Solace Find is utterly without pretension. There are no heady concepts and few complex metaphors: Polizze simply quietly reflects on things that have happened to him and things that he wants to do. It’s confessional in that way; Polizze says exactly what he feels without obscuring it behind unwieldy rhetoric.
Evan Thomas (W ’20) has been soloing for decades. As a kindergartener, he was already stealing school stages singing “God Bless America." Throughout high school, unsatisfied by the absence of an a cappella group, he created his own and started doing arrangements. It’s no surprise that he has been Dischord A Cappella’s co-music director for years, even soloing Sam Smith’s “Fire On Fire” in quarantine isolation for the group’s Zoom concert last May.
Taylor Swift, for once, has thrown a curveball. Announced just 24 hours before its release, completely disregarding the lengthy release campaigns of her seven previous albums, folklore is a strange little gem in Taylor's long and illustrious career. Created remotely with Aaron Dessner and longtime collaborator Jack Antonoff, folklore sees Swift diving headfirst into folk pop and soft rock. Although an unexpected turn from a global superstar who perfected her craft in synth pop, it's not completely without precedent.
Going into my fourth month of lockdown, I felt like I didn’t have much to look forward to. That is, until I realized that July 23rd, One Direction’s ten–year anniversary, was coming up.
In decades past, signing with a record label literally meant having a company produce and distribute a musician’s records. The nature of music production and dissemination made musical fame a club that was difficult, if not nearly impossible, to break into. According to Statista, the "Big 3" music companies, Universal, Sony, and Warner Music, “exert control over nearly every aspect of the music industry by serving as music distributors, owning record labels, and coordinating artists’ performance rights.” Today, however, shifts in music consumption and production seem to be tempering the stronghold that the “Big 3” have over the musical world.
Very little compares to the enthralling experience of attending a concert. The feeling of singing along to your favorite songs until you lose your voice, looking towards the stage and realizing that your idol is, in fact, a real human being, is indescribable. But what truly creates the buzzing atmosphere is the crowd, a huge group of strangers who unite for a couple of hours of pure happiness, dancing along to what will likely be an unforgettable night.
The Chicks, composed of lead singer Natalie Maines and sisters Martie Maguire and Emily Strayer, were cancelled. Emphasis on the word "were": before the term became ubiquitous in social media vernacular, the trio faced backlash in 2003 for Maine's critical remarks of President Bush eight days before the U.S. entered the Iraqi War. Her simple expression that she was "ashamed" Bush was also from Texas at a London show sparked outrage among country fans. Radio stations arranged for protests burning the band's CDs, and their discography was banned from airplay itself. The women were called traitors and "Saddam's Angels." In response to the controversy, The Chicks released 2006's Taking the Long Way, with the bitterly defiant hit "Not Ready to Make Nice." Taylor Swift, a recent collaborator and clear successor of the the Chicks, has said that she was told not to be like them.
Given their meteoric rise in popularity, the duo 100 gecs has often been described by music critics as ‘abrasive’ and ‘genre–crushing.’ But, at the heart of things, all 100 gecs want to do is chug a Monster Energy, make music they want to mosh to, and have fun.
Arca's KiCk i is simultaneously the beginning, end, and continuation of multiple eras. The Venezuelan producer Alejandra Ghersi's past four albums, which mostly took the form of abstract electronica, with the notable exception of 2017's self–titled effort, lapsed toward an insular, isolated loneliness. Her prior works were more centered around her own personal growth rather than mass appeal; the music twisted and turned away from easily recognizable meaning and value. On KiCk i, appearing (for the first time) in a full–body shot on one of her album covers, Arca makes a gleefully genre–defying, compelling case for herself as the mutant popstar of 2020.
Solutions by The State News