NEW YEAR, NEW ME
2021, baby [wolf howl].
As much as we’re all looking forward right now, it’s important to make sense of where we’ve been. I was captivated by Lawrence Wright’s piece in the The New Yorker, detailing the U.S. COVID-19 saga, who messed up and how badly (spoiler: everyone). It will make you furious. It also seems like it should be required reading for anyone in government responsible for crisis response going forward.
It’s not all doom though. I love the end of the year because of everyone’s end of year music lists, some of my favorites being write ups from The Alternative, Bineet Kaur, Drew Beringer, Hanif Abdurraqib, Keegan Bradford, Miranda Reinert (Part 1 and Part 2), and Pitchfork. I also found Miranda’s piece from August thought-provoking. It focuses on the ethics of outing abusers and the work that’s needed post-cancellation, in order to dismantle systems that perpetuate ongoing abuse (and the complicated relationship we have with art made by those that benefit from current institutions). This piece articulates something I’ve been struggling to put to words for a long time and is well worth your time when considering the need for restorative justice in creative communities.
Finally, if you are so inclined, I wrote about The New Abnormal by The Strokes as my favorite album in 2020, in addition to compiling my 30 favorite albums of the year. I was surprised at what the year gave us overall and shocked that some of the excellent metal/punk/hardcore releases from Drain, Emma Ruth Rundle & Thou, END, Gulch, Ulcerate, Umbra Vitae, and Stay Inside narrowly missed spots place on my round up. While little else went right in this hell year, at least the abundance of excellent music was present in our lives.
Still, there was some profound pain and sadness in 2020 that we’ll be unpacking for a long time. 2021 is here, we’re moving forward, but it’s important to think about where we’ve been because it informs where we’re going.
The Bronx - Night Drop At The Glue Factory
MF DOOM - Doomsday (Feat. Pebbles The Invisible Girl)
Travis Scott - The Plan
U2 - Stay (Faraway, So Close!)
LITE - Deep Layer
Bartees Strange - Fallen For You
Yussef Kamaal - Remembrance
BLACKSTARKIDS - Let’s Play God
Danny Brown - Shine (Feat. Blood Orange)
Prince & The Revolution - Purple Rain
The Bronx make my favorite kind of tough guy punk rock: confrontational, fast, and vaguely bluesy, or at least borrowing some diesel-soaked grit from The Stooges. “Night Drop At The Glue Factory” is a relentless blend of punchy riffing, fighter jet screams, and pulverizing drumming. It’s the kind of adrenaline rush that’s perfect for a new playlist, or a new year, depending on your perspective.
I’m not sure we fully grasp the profound loss resulting from MF DOOM’s passing. MF DOOM dragged the hip-hop into its most bizarre crevices, drawing from a kaleidoscopic mix of 60s comics and stranger that fiction life experiences. Rarely photographed without his signature Dr. Doom mask, MF DOOM provided the kind of mystery and mystique that is normally reserved for “eccentrics” like Kanye West, Jack White, and Axl Rose, but without the usual misogyny that often comes along for the ride. As left of center as his raps were, they were bursting with humor, joy, and effervescence. While I would probably say Madvilliany is my favorite MF DOOM project (I fell in love during the halcyon days of torrenting and have a weakness for Madlib), I chose “Doomsday” from his 1999 debut album Operation: Doomsday because his flow is simply extraordinary and only hints and the technical MC he would grow into. The song comes across like a stream of consciousness, alternating between classic kiss offs and deeply personal accounts of overcoming the impossible, all set to filthy smooth Sade and Boogie Down Productions samples. That, in a nut shell, really seems to capture MF DOOM’s legacy: the courage to reach for that which would ordinary appear just beyond our reach. RIP, MF DOOM. All caps.
Tenet is a beautiful mess that continues Christopher Nolan’s obsession of making pseudo sci-fi thrillers with James Bond slickness. The time-traveling puzzle pieces don’t really click until 2/3’s in, but the ride is fun and the deep midnight pulse Travis Scott’s “The Plan” adds real weight to the film’s expansive set pieces. I always tell myself that Scott is more of a curator and tastemaker than a songwriter, but there’s real urgency to “The Plan” that undercuts that criticism. The song has a melancholic psychedelia that’s very arresting—the sweeping synths and military grade crunch set against Scott’s reflections of the price of progress. The song’s musical motifs appear around the movie’s turning point (literally), and whether the film is any good I’m still not 100% sure, but I have to agree with Scott: It’s very fire.
It’s difficult to understate how just impressive a run U2 had between 1987 and 1997. The arena-ready gospel of The Joshua Tree gave way to more electronic and dance experimentation but it also provided an avenue for personal confessionals with Y2K firmly in focus. For that reason, I’ll always take their 90s output over anything that pre-dates The Unforgettable Fire. It was refreshing to see the ‘Fork shine the spotlight on Zooropa recently, an album that’s often lost between the Earth-conquering singles of Achtung Baby and the maligned discotheque bump of Pop. Zooropa seems to be the black sheep of the U2 catalog, possibly because of its muddy mix and fractured assembly, but it also features some of the more garish trends in 90s electronic music made by guys who didn’t really understand the genres they were playing with. But that’s sort of why I love it—this clumsy honesty and naiveté casts U2 in a different light. Zooropa presents an stranger version of the band, one that is unafraid to shy away from the humanity of our imperfections, while creating an all at once quieter and braver album than anything else in their discography. My generation grew up with the iPod-hocking “Vertigo” but it’s wild to think that the same band also wrote “Stay (Faraway, So Close!),” a song that weaves the tragedies of abuse and hope of a better life against a swirling fog of sleepy drums and broken guitar twang. There’s a raw honesty here—do we leave those hurt us for the promise of an unknown future? How do we face the facelessness of an uncaring city or world? How do we find the strength to love ourselves? The answers are not always clear. “Stay” isn’t easy to categorize but its soft drift and twisted tension come from a place of real authenticity at time where U2 cared more about genuine human connection, rather than putting new music on your phone.
There are waves and waves of little intricacies on “Deep Layer.” I love the rubber band twitches, the distorted grind that folds over itself, the spidery fret work that climbs alongside endlessly rolling drums. I’ve been obsessed with this LITE album for the better part of a year. Do yourself a favor and get lost in it.
Bartees Strange’s songs are haunted with an omnipresent anxiety voice. Throughout Live Forever, Strange seems to be preoccupied with the regret of failing to measure up to his own expectations. This is where I say “bruh, I can relate” but that kind of honesty leads to some powerful songs (and seems misplaced considering Strange’s considerable skills). “Fallen For You” is my favorite song off of Live Forever because there’s something magical about how plainspoken his longing comes across. Acoustic guitar lines dissolve upward like spiraling smoke while Strange holds a reverie for paths untaken. With just his voice and a guitar, Strange’s tender exploration of the games we play (with ourselves and with others) holds real gravity.
“Remembrance” is the kind of jazz that shifts between transcendent and organic without ever showing you the strings. If you don’t believe me, check out that sublime and rippling release around the 3 minute mark. Everything has its place: the Rhodes sparkles with warm resonance, the low end is curious and exploratory, the drumming tumbles on a cloud. Yussef Kamaal fashioned a rare musical moment that feels revelatory and human all at once. While Black Focus is billed as a jazz-funk album, or maybe a fusion record depending on who you talk to, the deeply meditative quality of this music transforms it into more than just an exercise in genre. This is worship music without feeling churchy, celebration though tranquility, love as appreciation—a triumph for its creators and its listeners alike.
I discovered BLACKSTARKIDS last night after reading Hanif Abdurraqib’s wonderful end of the year music list. Abdurraqib stopped short of calling this group “the future” but it’s hard not to be excited about a group that can deftly blend synth rock, power-pop, R&B, and pop into a dizzying technicolor daydream. In 2021, nothing sounds like Whatever, Man. “Let’s Play God” is my favorite so far, a wild closer that features a propulsive Moog and layers of spacey keyboards while TyFaizon, Deoindre, and TheBabeGabe’s spoken-word reflections orbit around our personal connections as the real gifts of this timeline. TyFaizon’s love of Weezer and tight song construction is present everywhere on Whatever, Man—this thing is jammed to the gills with ear worms—but BLACKSTARKIDS really shine because nothing feels off limits to them. In an era where people are ruthlessly compartmentalized by the Internet and corporations, that’s real freedom.
I normally listen to Danny Brown to go absolutely bananas and rage against the dying light of day. Rarely, however, am I able to say “Listen to this Danny Brown song, because it’s chill and technically proficient at the same time.” Such is the case with “Shine.” I can’t say the Blood Orange influence is really felt but the whole arrangement is cast in beautiful gothic synths and molasses thick drums, while Brown holds on for the prospect and need for black joy despite the violence of our world. The message is clear—Brown isn’t someone you can pigeon hole as a performer and he continues to evolve as an expert songwriter. He also has been known to bump Incubus from time to time.
“Purple Rain” is the kind of widescreen requiem that removes all pretense—the ultimate long goodbye in exchange for a new beginning. The solo says more than I ever could, a pyrotechnic display of joy and pain that is as bittersweet as it is monolithic. Prince was an incredible singer and songwriter, both of which are front and center on this Earth-shattering track, but the guitar playing on this song is something else. Without a word, he moves mountains and time itself.
Originally published January 3, 2021 as part of Hella Vibes.