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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.
In June of this year, the Department of Justice served the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia with a subpoena ordering it to turn over medical records, provider documents, and even text messages related to gender–affirming care. It also demanded Social Security information, personal and medical patient history, addresses, and many other pieces of private information. This infringement violates HIPAA and the basic privacy rights to which all patients and families are entitled. The attack on transgender children and their families is scary—not only for them, but for everyone.
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.
I woke up with a start at the beginning of this summer. I had dreamt that a human–sized pig saved my life and then looked me in the eyes to say: “Please don’t eat me and my friends.”
Julia Ducournau has redefined body horror. She makes films about what happens when belief collapses and all that’s left is the body—hurt, grotesque, unrecognizable, still trying to mean something. Her breakout films Raw (2016) and Titane (2021), which turned her into a critic’s darling, obliterate the boundary between flesh and metal, motherhood and monstrosity. They’re some of the most emotionally destabilizing films I’ve ever seen.
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.
As the weather starts to get marginally cooler, it’s never too early to start preparing for Halloween. Here are ten of Street’s favorite horror flicks to take the guesswork out of celebrating spooky season.
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 warm and green. Twentysomethings speed by on bikes, and families snack on picnic blankets. Elderly couples walk their dogs together, holding hands. Though some people are quiet, most are silent. This isn’t Fairmount Park or FDR Park, but The Woodlands Cemetery, where the living and the dead have learned the art of cohabitation: The deceased are taking their final rest while the living rejoice around them. Just five miles north of here, Philadelphia residents engage in similar activities at Laurel Hill Cemetery.
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.”
For many students stepping onto a college campus for the first time—or for anyone, frankly—sex can be a lot. There is both the new opportunity to explore this formerly elusive world and a sudden thrust into the very real emotional and physical implications that come with sex. Induced shame, forced ignorance, and a lack of access to information and resources can lead young adults to feel overwhelmed about entering this new stage of their life. Navigating the world of sex health and reproductive justice on campus and in the city can be confusing—that’s why we compiled this list of resources for you.
From a young age, we are taught that rules exist for our own good. Wear a seatbelt. Get vaccinated. Don’t drink and drive. The idea that safety requires legislative intervention, even coercion, is propagated to the public as “tough love.” But where is the line between protection and control? A recently proposed Philadelphia bill tests the law’s bioethical bounds, allowing courts to involuntarily commit individuals suffering from substance abuse. Advocates argue it’s a necessary regulation in a city increasingly overwhelmed by overdoses, while critics contest it’s a blatant violation of medical autonomy disguised as care.
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.
Solutions by The State News