Sometimes I forget that Bruno Mars is not a real name, the same way that I forget that he sang “Nothin’ on You” or that B.o.B. still makes music. Peter Gene Hernandez has come a long way since his humble but banal as fuck, fedora-wearing, piano-crooning days. He’s graduated from flannels and pompadours to cuban links and designer minks, and a brand new “player” persona.
The early 2ks are cloaked in a certain level of camp, which tends to trick people into thinking it shouldn’t be taken seriously. Those people couldn’t be more misguided. Underneath the tacky, jewel-encrusted Ed Hardy zip-up lies some of the greatest music, television and film we’ve seen from artists we still consider iconic today.
Noname Confronts The Rogue Reality That Continues To Oppress, Threaten, And Intimidate On Her Debut Mixtape Telefone
Because life is unforeseeable, and death, undemocratic. Because there are times you leave a party, unsure if your friends will make it home. Recall: writer Durga Chew-Bose’s 2014 Instagram post, a screenshot of safety check-ins that she and her friends routinely sent each other. This is a world that cannot afford the polite luxury of a “goodnight,” but rather one that dubs the textual confirmation of “Home! You?” dangerously necessary.
But sometimes I wonder how it feels to live in the slow-moving, indie-darling dream world Forth Wanderers insists on creating: you spend days staring out the dirty window of your Brooklyn apartment, gazing languidly at trees and thinking about heartbreak. You get high at a basement show and walk home in the rain and meditate on how no one gets you. You occasionally go to your classes, but mostly you just stay home to write poetry in an oversized thrift-store sweater. Or something like that.
Take a listen to this criminally forgotten album; it is here that you will find everything you are dazedly looking for out your office window but got too distracted by the sight of Halal and the rumble in your belly to find.
Kids, if you are very very very late to the party, sit down, maybe roll a J–it’s what Rihanna would have wanted–and let Siya take you through some of the best tracks on this tape.
Let Vomitface clumsily chisel abortive idioms of your virtual coma. Let them pinch your nerves, hold your consciousness in a Vulcan death grip for the next forty minutes.
The Tough Guy Syndrome™ Wild Beasts wishes to paint in Boy King is hypersexualised, strong with fantasies of being like Colossus, and ticks all the boxes of the checklist of traits that lets men be perceived as wild beasts.
Blesst Chest tests how far art can go before it stops making sense. There are no lyrics to guide us through the album, no unifying melody or tone. There’s no escape rope. You end up either reeling yourself back in and breathing a sigh of relief, or forging ahead blindly through the dark, nonsensical insanity that is Wish We Were There. Whether you like it or not, WWWT is one hell of a ride.