Like musicians whose songs you might instinctively call “angular” or “twee,” the singer’s debut album strikes immediately as “atmospheric”—whatever that means.
Figuring out the force behind Taylor Swift’s new song, one component part at a time.
“Poems are a record of failure,” says the poet Ben Lerner—art, too, by extension. But does that argument apply to the stranger corners of the Internet?
Prince’s new albums fit in with his recent output: variations on conventional songcraft spelled by stretches of self-quotation. And yet, there’s still every reason to look forward to what’s next.
Vaguely feverish notes on a few days of Ronnie Spector, Fagen-esque forgettable lyrics, the reunited Unicorns, and pastries unclassifiable in French or any other tongue.
Notes on an evening of charming Canadian earnestness punctuated by at least one moment of indisputable triumph.
Butts, contrary to what the tastemakers at The New York Times might have you believe, have always been pretty popular. What’s unique about this particular vogue is that, for once, it’s women-driven.
“Blurred Lines” may sound like “Got To Give It Up,” but the true connection between the two singers is revealed in the pages of Thicke’s strange and sad deposition: a tendency toward self-pity.
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