I owe part of my taste in music to my older brother, Diego. It all began when he started driving; in other words, when my mom forced him to pick me up from school. After a monotonous day of classes and contemplating why y=mx+b, all I wanted was to go home. To my surprise, my (newly licensed) brother whipped into the car line, blasting “Tribe” by Bas and J. Cole. Though I was embarrassed, I had to admit it: the song is great. As our drive progressed, “Can I Kick It?” by A Tribe Called Quest and “100 Miles and Running” by Logic accompanied our regular conversation, so of course my Spotify Liked Songs were rapidly increasing. Who knew a trivial drive home would spark my affinity for music? Let’s just say I started looking forward to him driving me around because I knew I would at least have one new song to listen to.

As I got older and also acquired a license, my music taste flourished on its own. Yet, this came with the consequence of my brother immediately skipping the songs I would play. I’ll never forget the first time I drove him somewhere; long story short, I learned that the first 15 seconds of my favorite songs at the time were pretty nice (shoutout to “Petals on the Moon” by Wasia Project). That moment marked when I realized that, though we sometimes like similar songs, my brother and I have our own distinct music preferences. However, I will never deny his song requests because I still listen to “Tribe” to this day.

My Grandma loves Michael Jackson. She used to tell me about him all the time, and I loved dancing to "Smooth Criminal," "Bad" and "Beat It." I owe my love for upbeat, danceable tracks to my grandma. Yet I owe the rest of my taste to my brothers, who introduced me to EDM in the early 2010s, hip hop and R&B in the mid-to-late 2010s, and bedroom pop and hyperpop in the late 2010s to early 2020s. There were two moments when the concept of taste hit me. The first moment was when I sent a couple of songs in the brother group chat ("Doku" by Hakushi Hasegawa, "Pretty Cvnt" by Sewersvlt, "Clairvoyant" by MISOGI) and my eldest brother texted back: "bro your taste going down hill." For most of my life, my brother had messed with the music I sent him, so that surprised me. The other moment, or rather moments, was in high school: I met other music-enthusiast friends, discovered Rate Your Music, and started following the music collector Tsunaki Kadowaki. I realized I underestimated how infinite music can be, and that often, even the tastes of music-enthusiasts are homogenized. Looking through Kadowaki's playlists made me think "there are levels to ts," and that motivated me to dig for music that truly spoke to me.

I have a vivid memory of sitting in my booster seat half-humming, half-screaming to “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz with my Dad. That song defined what I can remember of my childhood, and was really my only introduction to music. I then ventured into a very unsuccessful piano career, and put the headphones away for a little while. I started to find peace in the SiriusXM top 50 hits, listening to them on long car rides and on an iPod I found.

My taste kept in this pattern for a while, eventually succumbing to the classic middle school boy taste of Travis Scott and Drake. At some point, I started skipping songs, looking for something else to satisfy my ears. The rankings were all good and well, but I wanted specific feelings through my music that the top songs couldn’t provide. 

I don’t think there was a singular moment where my taste became mine. There was more of a gradual awareness - listening to artists no one else cared about, creating playlists by genre. By the time I realized it, I couldn’t trace my path back to the start.

Honestly, I feel as though my music taste is less my own than it was as a child. Growing up, despite always hearing my parents play their music in the house, it was never what I would listen to on my own. Instead, what I listened to was mostly defined by what music videos I thought were cool and whatever I found online, resulting in music mostly made up of the type of EDM artists you would hear in overly edited videogame montages.

Then, sometime around my freshman year of high school, I started to pick up the music of the people around me and ask for more and more recommendations. My friends got me into rap with Tyler and A$AP, my dad introduced me to 70s rock with Pink Floyd and Genesis, my mom contributed the likes of Chaka Khan and Alanis Morissette, my sister recommended CSS and Funkadelic, and my brother added The Hellp and Yung Lean. Over the past four years, I have gathered hundreds of recommended albums from my friends and family, spanning across genres and languages, each of which has introduced me to new artists and styles.

I still find plenty of music on my own, and luckily, my methods have evolved beyond cool music videos and montages, but maybe now more than ever, a significant portion of the music I listen to is derived from my loved ones, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My music taste has evolved pretty chronologically throughout the last several years. During the pandemic, I discovered a YouTube channel Rousseau that uploaded piano “synesthesia” videos of mostly classical music. As a piano player myself, I thought these were really cool, and soon fell in love with the works of Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Ravel, Liszt, and various other romantic composers. Then a few years later, I remember watching La La Land and really getting interested in jazz – so Bill Evans, Frank Sinatra, and John Coltrane began to dominate my Spotify. My music taste shifted to classic rock after I started learning the guitar, and I would listen to Supertramp and Led Zeppelin. And most recently, it’s been a strong mix of influences from my friends, though my favorite artist currently would be Laufey (especially ever since I went to see her in concert!).

So I’ve always been influenced by different things. Maybe this means I haven’t defined a music taste for myself yet, or maybe it’ll just always be sparked by something that’s around me. 

I would remember the exact setting of every moment—the time, my thoughts, even my senses—in hopes of recapturing the lived experiences of my younger self. I grew attached to the past, unable to accept time and coming of age. Longing for comfort, I began physically retracing those moments, spiraling into obsession and becoming distant. I felt disconnected and misunderstood, like there didn’t exist a medium beyond my mind that mirrored the internal struggle. 

In June 2021, I discovered Music Has the Right to Children by Boards of Canada, which became my most impactful musical experience.

The bittersweet bass, cryptic samples, and melancholic melodies captured the distorted, inaccessible essence of memory. Disturbing and mysterious, yet innocent, the soundscape reflected my sentiment surrounding the past; for the first time, I felt understood by something external, as if I wasn’t alone in the way I experience memory.

I still struggle to fully understand myself and let go entirely, but discovering this album shifted my perspective from nostalgia to introspection as I grapple with time. It gave me a sense of direction.

Music Has the Right to Children was the first album I added to my vinyl collection as a symbol of my identity, a reminder of what it is that I’m looking for… 🍊

The Absurdist Anecdotes of an L.A. Childhood: I first discovered Gwen Stefani at age eight in the green fields of my neighborhood park, where her son and I played flag football in the recreational league. While Stefani sensibly kept a low profile on the sidelines, her confident musical persona resonated with an energetic child insistent on playing with the boys. My earliest memory of listening to her iconic “Hollaback Girl” was afternoon drives to practice, where it became a formative feminist anthem of my youth. The defiant, self-defining lyrics encapsulated the experience of finding my voice and personality within a male-dominated environment. Even now, I feel the song’s energetic percussion like the exhilarating force of a tackle to the chest, with a rush of adrenaline and childlike joy. 

I still hold a complicated love for the punk, feminist princess that Stefani personifies, an identity that her recent conservative political statements have undermined. In retrospect, the sexual yet innocent, alternative yet apolitical aesthetic she expressed was always a performative contradiction, though no more contradictory than the patriarchal demands of femininity in the public eye. Her discography continues to inspire unapologetic confidence and nostalgia, evoking Stefani’s persistent venture to discover herself in a turbulent pop landscape. Her music unquestionably empowered a tenacious tomboy who would have sweat and bled to feel worthy to her team, only for her to find worth within herself.

"Corrupted by a darkness, now you fall into an endless sleep."

Uneven Compromise by Lil Ugly Mane is one of those records that transcends the norms of what it means to be "Hip Hop." The track opens with an unnerving piece of prose that invites you to explore the world of the song — it's almost commanding you to succumb to its mystery. 

Lil Ugly Mane had been on my periphery for a while, but his music never really clicked. Maybe it was the awkward instrumentals and braggadocious lyrics of his first studio album or the slow, hypnotic fog of Volcanic Bird Enemy and the Voiced Concern; there was just something that kept throwing me off like a broken turntable. 

By some foul destiny, my first listen to this EP was on a winter night of my freshman year of high school. I was immediately entranced – seized for 11 whole minutes at 2 AM, completely in a daze. Every minute, I walked through the tantalizing and viscous dark of Lil Ugly Mane’s world. At last, when I thought dawn was breaking, the final seconds of pure distortion yanked me back. A harsh reminder of where I was.

The record was a confession in musical form. The fog lifted from there. Lil Ugly Mane and the artistic witchcraft of this EP made me love his art and artistry from that point on. 

When I was in 9th grade, the school bus would pick me up every morning at 6:20 AM. Since I was one of the first bus stops, I was in for a drowsy 30-minute daily bus commute to school. My favorite way to pass the time would be to listen to music. In an otherwise boring bus ride, I found entertainment in shuffling my favorite songs and searching for new albums. One morning, this commute was marked with pouring rain. I took this opportunity to finally give a full listen to an often-overlooked album in The Weeknd's discography: Kiss Land. Going in, I heard some of the XO classics, such as the title track “Kiss Land” and “Wanderlust.” However, I was unprepared for the cinematic listening experience I was about to embark on. The surrounding darkness and the heavy storm paired well with the thunderous drums, dark instrumentals, and bleak lyrical content. When the inexperienced, high school freshman version of me heard The Weeknd sing in despair about the downsides of touring and fame, I somehow found myself in the shoes of the dark and tortured Canadian pop star. Now, I look forward to seeing heavy storms in the nightly weather forecast, as it gives me a perfect opportunity to go back to that dark, rainy day and experience Kiss Land.

Album cover art does not just package music for me; it quietly defines how I listen. Sonic Youth is the clearest example. Their albums do not merely allude to contemporary art, they literally feature pieces by Gerhard Richter, Raymond Pettibon, Mike Kelley, and Richard Prince. Knowing that before pressing play changes the stakes of the listening experience. The distortion and abrasion feel less like chaos and more like an aesthetic position, a way of placing noise inside a larger visual and cultural conversation.

This lands personally because I grew up at the intersection of music and art: my dad with an emotionally tethered relationship to sound, my mom with a meditative immersion in the art world. A few weeks ago, I went to a curator talk on Mike Kelley at the Art Institute, and later that night put on Dirty with that context still on my mind. The covers stopped feeling like branding and started to read more like citations, signals that the music was in dialogue with other media. 

At that point, the album becomes more than something you hear. It becomes something you enter. The image frames the sound, and the sound retroactively animates the image. Listening turns into a kind of cross-disciplinary encounter.

I think for sure the cover art or title of an album changes how I understand the music. Simple portraits are the hardest to decipher how they influence my experience of the music. However, surreal portraits incorporate the themes of the album; for example, Desire, I Want To Turn Into You. Caroline Polachek is on all fours in a train cart but she’s crawling into the desert. There is something “mythicalogical” about her in this pose; there is a merging of two worlds, which we hear in the music with electro-pop elements (synths etc) alongside acoustic sounds or sounds from the natural world (bells ringing, cries, crickets chirping and other mimicry of ambient sounds from nature). The title alone is very evocative; how does one become a feeling? Usually, it’s abstract concepts that are personified, made physical. But Polachek wants to turn into the abstract. “Hope-drunk ever-asking / How does it feel to know / Your final form?” The absurdity is represented in the cover art and the incongruent (train in the city and desert life) are made congruent here.

Cover art is the first way a listener will engage with an album. Whether it’s a missed opportunity for connection or a continuation of artistic vision, an album cover showcases attention to detail and precision in storytelling (or a lack thereof). Some of the best album covers of all time- The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, College Dropout, Rumors- expand an album’s story, heightening the overall experience instead of just accompanying it. One of my favorite covers of all time is fromOutKast’s Speakerboxxx/The Love Below. The album is secretly not a single project, but two- disc one and two are almost entirely solo projects written by Big Boi and André 300, respectively. On the cover, Big Boi is dressed in a fur coat with large, chunky jewelry and is seated on a woven throne. The image was inspired by a famous picture of American revolutionary Huey P. Newton, who sat on a similar throne holding a rifle and a spear. André 3000 portrays his alter ego, Cupid Valentino, and holds a gun with a string of pearls around his wrist. The two were photographed separately due to mounting creative differences- on CDs, Big Boi’s image appears on the front, and André 3000 appears on the back. But on vinyl and digital, the image is split down the middle, with Big Boi on the left and André 3000 on the right. The better version is by far the half-and-half. The angles of the pictures themselves speak to either artist’s character on the album. Big Boi gives a more mellow, laid-back performance on “Bowtie” and “The Way You Move”, while André 3000’s distinct vocal tone and intensity sells songs like “Hey Ya!” and “She Lives in My Lap” (one of my personal favorites from OutKast’s discography). It is the perfect cover on an album that defies categorization and, at times, creates an alien, atmospheric soundscape. There is no way one cover could encapsulate this double-album, so why not have two? The two almost unrelated images are miraculously cohesive, and blend seamlessly into a cover that is as unique, timeless, and dynamic as the project itself. 

Let’s take this in the negative; after all, you learn more about the value of something in its absence, not in its presence. Kendrick’s untitled unmastered and Gambino’s 3.15.20 are two sides of the “absence” coin, both demo tapes released to feed fans, and both oddly frustrating  to talk about because their songs don’t have titles. (Gambino’s 2024 re-release of Atavista came with names, yes, but real ones remember the pandemic era version where the song titles were just timestamps and the cover was a blank white canvas.) Cast aside the fact that untitled unmastered is mostly awesome and (both versions of) 3.15.20 are mostly shoddy. A universal part of music appreciation is being able to share what you love with others, and it’s so much harder than usual to reference tracks from either album in discourse with others, not to mention just remembering one from another on your own. With these, you’ve gotta actively associate a song with a track number, instead of a title that (usually) follows concretely from its hook. Sure, the songs are still songs, so the initial listening experience might not be impacted much, but the communal experience and repeat listens definitely are. An album’s metadata helps it stand out, but you might not realize that until you don’t have any. 

Today, mainstream musicians face two options. The first: going all-out with their visuals, creating multimedia "eras" that can transcend music and become cultural movements. Sometimes, this entails a maximalist production, and other times, it's a green square with some black arial text slapped onto it. (Whatever works.)  Good eggs like Charli XCX or Tyler, The Creator embed a narrative depth into their visuals, embodying and expanding upon their respective sounds. 

The alternative to this, though, is utter laziness. It seems as if there is an industry-wide epidemic of uninspired, press-photo-esque covers currently plaguing non-conceptual projects across all genres. 

Considering this, it's hard to argue against the idea that extramusical presentation affects the listening experience. Even before pressing play, an album cover can determine whether or not a project is deemed worthy of a listen by those on the fence: For Katy Perry's 143, for example, my answer was "probably not.” (Given its reception, this may have been the right call.) 

Sure, in a world perfectly reverent of music, we wouldn't have to judge a book by its cover in such a manner, and aesthetics could be left for the inspired listener to abstract upon in their mind. But in the era of the attention war, if an artist doesn't care enough about their work to put it in an appealing package, then why should I?

 A new romance, in my experience, has always felt playful, flirty and just a little mysterious. Fostering the perfection of those fleeting moments with a new person comes with the precise consideration of my desire to reveal (and simultaneously conceal) whatever my true intentions could be. My choice of song would be the first move in the secret game of reading my partner’s unknowable mind. 

To this end, I’d almost certainly choose Bumblebee by Dora Jar. The light, upbeat melody and tongue-in-cheek lyrics make the song endlessly repeatable and an earworm I’ve yet to lose even after nearly four years. It's an all-around crowd pleaser for anyone’s music taste, but unique enough to be memorable in its own right. The song describes the psychedelic blend of romantic sweetness and potential heartbreak I always find myself navigating giddily in a new fling. In the end though, it maintains the kernel of truth that I’d want to get across: I’ve started to feel something more but I’d love to stay in my dreams and enjoy before coming back to reality. 

One of the common acts many insecure men can make is the phenomenon of “speaking through the aux,” or sharing one’s feelings without having to say a word. A song can capture an indescribable feeling that strengthens significantly with context, so why muddy the moment with words? Typically this phenomenon is reserved for feelings of sadness, loneliness or yearning but I’d like to break the proverbial wheel. I’m not an acne-covered high school boy anymore. My social skills are no longer comparable to that of a confused orangutan. If I’m passing the hypothetical AirPod to a hypothetical someone whom I hypothetically care about, I’d like to see if they grasp the same, unique feeling that a song has planted within me; feelings orbiting the realm of gratitude, joy, excitement and beatitude, not despondency. With all that in mind, I’ll go with “I’m God” by Lil B. If they don’t get it, they don’t get me.

I’ll go with some songs I actually sent my girlfriend a few weekends ago: “Legacy” and “Life Sentence” by J. Cole, both love songs from his new (alleged) retirement effort The Fall-Off. The tracks work well together: “Legacy” sees Cole searching for the one who got away while “Life Sentence” finds her. The latter is a great song about “doing life” with your partner (Get it?). One of the highlights of Disc 39, vulnerability is the name of the game here, and Cole expounds on dreams of a white picket fence while juggling his seismic presence in the rap game, not to mention the temptations and trappings of it. When you put it in the context of the rest of The Fall-Off—Cole said his mindset was at a crossroads between his woman, his craft, and his city—“Life Sentence” stands as a touching tribute to his wife. Don’t just take it from me; Cole calls it the “realest shit he ever wrote.”

This is complicated. First, it is as much a question of where as it is what. Are we sharing a pair of wired headphones on a brutally cold winter evening? Driving down the beach with the windows open? Sitting on a bench on a lazy fall afternoon? I have different answers for each one. So, instead of just the song, I’m picking the scene. Disco 2000 by Pulp, loud enough that I could sing my heart out without fear of actually being heard. I’m driving my Subaru with the windows down on a late afternoon in August. It’s chilly but we both have sweatshirts on. We’re driving back from something fun and tiring — the beach or a day on the North Shore. This song is everything I hope to come across as: brash, enthusiastic, and not afraid to make a fool of myself.

“Bleed” by Malcolm Todd and Omar Apollo asks a loaded question: “Do you wanna know / Know, know about me?” It’s not a confusing line, but it does encapsulate the immense amount of fear that comes with caring about something new. 

“Bleed” is a pure “lover boy” anthem, representing those who truly just want to be loved and seen for who they are at their core, to the extent that they’d submit themselves to being controlled by another person. Love, to a degree, should have this back-and-forth quality to it, driven by empathy (not to be confused with surface-level sympathy)—their emotions matter to you and vice versa.

Nevertheless, “Bleed” doesn’t ask for that at all. In this initial stage, Todd and Apollo represent someone willing to let this person have total control over them, as long as it means an effort will be made. There is no guarantee of anything, just a potential reward that you will be loved—a feeling that can be so close to infinity that the associated risk grows insignificant. The video features an underground boxing club, each member covered in cuts and bruises, but not able to fight their addiction to the feeling. The shared AirPod lets you follow their facial expressions with the song, hoping to derive some tell on if they feel the same; you may not be ready to say it, but you want them to hear it.

Music fans love to throw country under the bus. You hear it constantly: "I listen to everything except country." The genre gets treated like some embarrassing stepchild of American music, dismissed wholesale while every other style gets judged artist by artist. 

The double standards are ridiculous. No serious music listener compares Lil Pump to Johnny Cash and declares rap inferior, yet people do this in reverse all the time. Critics claim country is all guns and drinking, then turn around and blast hip-hop and pop tracks about the exact same things without blinking. There's this lazy assumption that country equals racism, that the music and its listeners are irredeemably backward. Sure, that element exists, but apply that same scrutiny to other genres and you'd find plenty to condemn there too. 

Even when people admit country has merit, they treat it like a guilty pleasure instead of giving it the serious analysis they'd lavish on any other genre. They act like it's fine for a barbecue playlist but not worthy of real critical attention. 

Here's what gets me: put on Hank Williams, Kris Kristofferson, or Willie Nelson for anyone with functioning ears and an open mind, and try telling me those songs are poorly written or emotionally hollow. You can't. The songwriting is devastating. The storytelling is masterful. 

Country music basically built the foundation for American musical narrative. That lineage runs through everything we listen to today, yet it gets completely overlooked. If you're going to call yourself a serious music person, you need at least a working knowledge of country. Most self-proclaimed music aficionados don't have it, and that's a genuine gap in their understanding.

Nightcore was the start of the pipeline to the music I enjoy now. One of the first songs I downloaded and listened to on my own was a nightcore version of Zedd’s “Clarity.” Alongside my preteen obsession with artists like Skrillex and Alison Wonderland, it kickstarted my passion for EDM. Throughout my teen years, this developed a love for experimental electronic music, hyperpop, and 2000s emo kid music as well. I discovered the rest of the genres I love now from there on out. Good nightcore extends beyond just speeding and pitching up a song. A true nightcore banger has an intoxicating energy to it like a sugar rush. Think big, punchy kick drums and aggressive synth layers. Think booming basses and obscene BPMs. The best nightcore songs are a blend of happy hardcore and 2000s dance pop. “Pretty Rave Girl” by S3RL and the nightcore version of Cascada’s “Everytime We Touch” will always have a place on my party playlists regardless of being “cringy Gatcha Kid music.” I still remember all the lyrics to “Angel With A Shotgun” only somewhat ironically. In summary, IT'S NOT CALLED "SPEED UP" or "Tiktok Version" IT'S CALLED NIGHTCORE AND YOU PUT AN ANIME GIRL ON THE THUMBNAIL!!

My most listened to artists all circle around the guitar-centric, heavy rock sphere–plenty of blues and classic rock and even grunge or pop-punk–songs chock full of distortion, shredding, loud and proud energy.  Some of those artists are cheesy in their own way, maybe in being so intense, but certainly not the wacky, camp, over-the-topness that is the B-52’s.  The B-52’s were ridiculous and silly in the best way, the height of the 80s party and new wave sound–and that was what made them such a fun detour from what I usually listen to.  There are certainly still rockers at heart, with plenty of punk and surf rock influences, but so unabashedly strange and all their own, yet with a funky feel that was impossible not to groove to.  “Rock Lobster” is an all-time catchy guitar riff that evokes shredding some waves.  “Love Shack,” like it was at my high school’s prom, is the consummate party anthem, over the top and infectious.  And “Roam” is euphoric, full of iconic harmonies, and of course catchy as hell (and perfect for a travel playlist), impossible to hate.  In a world of musicians either taking themselves too seriously or trying too hard to be different (while just coming off as manufactured and plastic)–peak 80s cheese or no, the B-52s are in their own lane, just plain fun and on

Musicals are my first love and what I play on winter mornings, when getting out of bed feels impossible. As a kid, I used to watch the 1961 West Side Story movie and sing along to “America,” dancing in front of the TV, swinging my dress like Rita Moreno. Recently, I've been listening to Hamilton and Lin Manuel Miranda’s lesser known In the Heights. Once I’m singing, I’m up. It’s a bit of a secret pleasure because my friends don’t always enjoy impromptu, impassioned, and public sing-alongs. 

I have another confession to make to the jazz purists among us. I love the jazz giants; Clifford Brown, Anita O’Day, and Carmen McCrae are my top artists on Spotify. But I love musicians who break genre conventions and redefine them in the same breath too. Recently, I’ve been discovering the expansive portfolio of the inimitable contemporary jazz vocalist Cecile McLorin Salvant, who switches between the style of the operatic aria and the breathy pop ballad then falls back into the swing rhythms of a jazz standard with ease. And Herbie Hancock’s 2005 Possibilities is an album in which each song is a collaboration, featuring artists like Sting, Paul Simon, and Santana. Elements of jazz dominate many tunes, although “Stitched Up” (feat. John Mayer) has a pop feel and a simple, driving beat; Hancock provides blues licks underneath Mayer’s vocals. Admittedly, these are only minor offenses to those who aren’t sticklers. 

I wouldn’t call my listening habits seasonal, but I definitely find myself listening to bleaker stuff—Cranes, Cocteau Twins, Katatonia—over the winter months. I used to listen to The Chameleons a lot when taking cold walks around Madison, so occasionally I’ll put them on to remind me of those strange times. Most of the music that I like is music that I discovered in the winter, mostly because that’s when I’m cooped up in my room, so the cold months bring their own set of melodic associations.

Recently, I’ve been listening to a lot of Baroque organ works. Pachelbel’s Chaconne in F Minor is a beautifully somber piece that deserves to switch places with his Canon (or not, because then it would be overplayed). Dietrich Buxtehude’s Passacaglia in D Minor and Chaconne in C Minor are genius in their own right, but they also heavily inspired the melodies of my favorite of Bach’s works, the Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor (BWV 582). Constructed around a simple bass motif that he also “borrowed” from an Italian composer, it gradually builds towards a climax of overwhelming, spiritual intensity, before dropping off and doing it again. As I have experienced first-hand, it is music to get caught in a snowstorm to. More importantly, though, it is music to get lost in—on its own terms.

As an avid indie-folk listener, winter is my favorite season to enjoy my favorite music in. Firstly, walking around in the Chicago cold is a whole lot more bearable with headphones on to distract you from the windchill, regardless of the genre of music you’re listening to. However, I think there is something to be said about how folk music comes to life in these colder months. I don’t know if it’s the pensive nature of these cloudy days that makes the lyrics stand out, or the warm strums of a guitar that keep me from freezing inside, but I find myself abandoning my recent, experimental finds for my long-time folk favorites. As much as I loved my rotation of Oklou, Caroline Polachek and Lorde, come winter time I find my way back to classic albums from Bon Iver, Adrienne Lenker and, of course, Elliott Smith. To back my claims up with some data like a true scientist (!!), according to Stats for Spotify, Elliott Smith has, once again, claimed the number 1 spot in my top artists over the past four weeks, compared to number 12 over the entire past year. This winter, I found my self revisiting his self-titled album the most, especially the track titled Clementine. From its lyrics to the lo-fi guitar and minimal production, it is my pick for a perfect song to listen to on a walk home among the snow.

There are genres that stick to the cold like a tongue on a frozen flag pole. Walking into the Dallas winter kept me paralyzed before I landed at UChicago: my strategy for conquering my mom’s cold car every morning was to move as little as possible and pretend I decided to wear more than a zipup. 

Shoegaze is a rotating genre for me right now, but it was my entire playlist the autumn of my junior year of high school. It was a particularly frigid time, and a song I still remember playing on car rides and walks was “Kiss a Girl in Black” by Fleeting Joys. The boundless droning guitars altered the bleak grey in the sky and frigid cool drifting in and around my ears into something new. The world I made out to be so dull expanded infinitely into a chamber for unwinding and repose. 

I could sit completely still, but now I’d take everything in. The collapsing sidewalk panels I’d trip on merged with thoughts of doritos I’d had for lunch and what my feelings from yesterday would murmur at me. 

As an exchange student, I have the privilege of enjoying just one Chicago winter before I return to the very not-snowy Paris in the fall. Even just walking to class has taken on this strange drama and magic, like the moment is way bigger than it should be. To me, no song represents this feeling better than the Tedeschi Trucks Band’s “Hear My Dear.” 

The song begins, shy, with just a few wistful guitars. Then a sort of marching beat fades in, right before a drum fill that slowly creates this incredible momentum, drawing in the rest of the band’s instruments. Suddenly we’re in this very sweet, wholesome 6/8 groove that does exactly what these Chicago winters feel like: it rocks you into a peaceful rhythm, but powerfully forward. Walking to school, I feel like a tiny twig figure, it’s just me and white, it’s all massive and quiet and muted; but how much energy there is packed inside the little figure, excited to be there. The music builds and builds, with the guitars singing wild, the trumpets and the organs and the vocal ad-libs, the song now bursting and I can’t help but think, holy shit I’m in Chicago! And the song fades, back into serenity, voices humming. The waltz-feel wanes to a close and the moment passes; class is about to start. 

You should definitely give this song a listen!

I tend to associate different seasons with different music genres. To me, winter is goth rock/new wave, spring is twee pop, summer is “pop” pop, and fall is folk. So my listening moods change day-to-day, but especially seasonally. A song that’s kept me company this winter has been “Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House. I listened to this song for the last year when the weather was winter transitioning into spring, just because it’s a reminder to keep going. I’m sure that probably sounds corny, but there’s something beautiful about a song that perfectly captures the wistful sadness of winter and ties it with an idealistic, spring-like message.

On the cold winter days, more than ever, music isn’t something I set aside time for, it’s something that runs alongside everything I do. Walking to class, answering emails, cooking, waiting. Nearly every task has a soundtrack now, and in the winter, silence feels harder to sit with.

I move away from anything loud or frantic and lean into the slow, steady pulse of jazz, R&B, and piano ballads. These genres hit an all-time high for me right now because they have a weight to them that matches the heavy air. I will also occasionally mix in the expansive soundscapes of instrumental rock, where the guitars stretch out to meet the vastness of the season.

The song that has been keeping me company lately is "I’ll Wait and Pray" by John Coltrane. It carries a timeless, soulful quality that feels effortless and intimate. The melody serves as the heartbeat of the track, landing with a soft, rounded tone that provides a direct warmth against the frost on the windows. It captures the vulnerability of a great R&B ballad, with a subtle rasp on the saxophone that makes the slow tempo feel purposeful. Much like the instrumental rock I gravitate toward, the song swells as it progresses, filling the room and mirroring the way the wind picks up outside while you stay perfectly still.

“Trains Across the Sea” by Silver Jews was a frequent listen for me in 2025. The song is simple, consisting of two chords and a few aphoristic reflections on life. David Berman, in his signature subdued tone, invokes optimism, regret, nostalgia, and calm acceptance.

My life changed a lot throughout 2025, and I often felt as though I was “between stories” (to borrow a phrase from Raymond Carver), constantly finding myself in a new moment yet still lost in the past. I was overwhelmed by my life and didn’t know what to do with my time: “Half hours on earth / What are they worth? / I don't know.” This kind of attitude didn’t feel new. I had felt lost before, and it felt natural: It’s been evening all day long / And how can something so old / Be so wrong?” But as I moved through the year and found more of my footing, I began to accept that I had moved from where I used to be in life, even if I never got to say goodbye. To quote again from Carver, I was “sure my life … had happened in the way [I] said it had. But it was something that had passed. And that passing—thought it had seemed impossible and [I’d] fought against it—would become a part of [me] now, too.”

By July, I knew I could sit back, dream of “trains across the sea” and let my nostalgia “just wash against me / Like the sea into a pier …”

The song which takes me back to 2025 is a song that came out in 1990. During the last quarter of 2025, I started exploring Mariah Carey’s discography because I felt like she had a lot of “forgotten” hits and hidden gems on her albums. This is also around the time that people start making the defrosting memes because Miss Carey has been relegated as a Christmas artist. Songs from Daydream soundtracked moments from my year, but this song from her self-titled album did something much more for me. “Vision of Love” made me fall in love with singing again. From the hauntingly beautiful beginning to the soaring final chorus where she performs an extended vocal run on “all,” this song inspired me and showed what to aspire to in terms of vocal agility. Also, the fact that this was her debut and she came out the gate swinging? She was and is here to stay, and my obsession with her—pun not intended—will continue through 2026 as she continues to inspire the artist I am growing into. 

Much of my 2025 was spent abroad, so the song that defines the year for me is “Give Life Back to Music” by Daft Punk, though in practice, it is really the entire A-side of Random Access Memories. Daft Punk’s swan song became my unofficial soundtrack across European transit systems: trains, metros, airport walkways, and long, anonymous stretches of movement. The run from “Give Life Back to Music” through “Lose Yourself to Dance” feels engineered for motion, almost cinematic in its pacing. 

I found myself returning to it constantly, often without meaning to. There is a clarity and forward momentum to those tracks that made even the most mundane travel feel intentional. Looking back, I almost wish I had appreciated the album sooner, beyond the omnipresence of “Get Lucky.” In 2025, it stopped feeling like a nostalgic pop artifact and began to feel like a living environment, something you inhabit rather than simply listen to.

What takes me back now is how physical the album feels: basslines that sync with walking, steady grooves that flatten time. It reminds me of being between places, moving without urgency, letting repetition become grounding rather than dull. Hearing it again does not return me to a single city or moment, but to a rhythm, defined by transit, independence, and the quiet thrill of being in motion, unsure of what comes next but enjoying the forward pull anyway.

In 2025, I finished my first year at the University of Chicago, and my first year living in America. That year was defined by two competing feelings: the excitement of everything being new and a constant pull toward home. When I looked back on freshman year during the long summer break, all I could really muster up was a bittersweet nostalgia I didn’t quite know how to explain.

Around the same time, I was stuck in a draining internship in France. Most days, I rode the metro to work at 8am and listened to “Let’s Go” by Danny Brown looped. Released in 2008 and somehow only reaching me last year, the song samples the opening of “Tender Things” by 70s R&B Singer Bill Withers, a soft woodwind melody that feels suspended in time. The song is overtly nostalgic in both its melody and lyrics. Brown raps about the halcyon days growing up in Detroit, about the days when there was “nowhere to go,” just rolling around the neighborhood with some of his friends. He seems to find a beauty in the simplicity of it all, and it made me start seeing my days in Chicago as something I’d eventually look back on.

Whenever I play the song now, I’m pulled back to my 2025, my first year here. It holds the concerts I went to, the people I met, and that feeling of being new to everything, but it’s also tinged with an unexpected nostalgia for high school, and for a life that felt simpler. I played it on the metro after a long day and realized, without any big emotion attached, that that year was already over.

Strangers by Car Seat Headrest. It’s a song about being finally grateful for change, and it’s a song that resonated with me quite well leading up to college. There was a lot I was looking forward to leaving behind, and the lyrics seemed to know it. Will Toledo, the writer, doesn’t exactly remark fondly upon his town, and neither did I. Listening now, I see my pessimism has faded. I see my family, I see my friends, and I see what the last four years have made me. And, I believe most importantly, I see the formation of some kind of nostalgia. I see myself alone, driving on an empty country road. I see my arm out the window, pushing against the fighting winds I have made. And I see my speakers- pushed to their limits- all for those last few lines: “I won't last too much longer/I'm already starting to run out of places/For faces in my head/They're all starting to look the same.”

I would be instantly brought back to my summer in Hong Kong with Akina Nakamori (中森明菜), Abunai Mon Amour (危ないMON AMOUR). I had just had my bone-conduction earphones shipped from Shenzhen. The commute between my dorm and workplace was a one-hour single trip, and I frequently traveled, by bus or metro, to all corners and secret hideouts of Hong Kong. Abunai Mon Amour, as I played it, was frequently drowned by the deafening whooshes and lengthy announcements in three languages. But more often than not, it accompanied me as the bus went uphills and downhills, sewing its way through lush greenery and futuristic residential buildings. 

I remember my nighttime ventures, descending 10-stories-high outdoor stairs down to a shopping mall for discounted groceries. Skyhigh buildings stood far but remained perceptible, I felt their silent presence. The nights were humid. Vapour came off you. Abunai Mon Amour vibrating with the bones in my head, windows twinkling—the combination of those things oddly comforted me. Everything was to be alright; though I have little idea what the lyrics meant (they were in Japanese), I felt that all of us, me, my cohort, college students, everyone, will have a promising future, brightly lit, bobbing up and down.

The Weeknd and the Grammys are in the midst of a lovers-to-enemies arc for the ages. After racking four wins in two years in the mid 2010’s, one would be forgiven for thinking the Weeknd would continue to dominate the awards for the next few years. But in 2021, after receiving no nominations for his album After Hours, he publicly declared he would no longer be submitting his work for Grammy consideration. This stirred up enough controversy that the Recording Academy CEO, Harvey Mason Jr., acknowledged the Weeknd’s issues, and after the artist performed at last year’s Grammys, it seemed like the feud was resolved. But the clear Hurry Up Tomorrow snub for the 2026 Grammys calls that into question. 

Hurry Up Tomorrow’s accompanying film, written and starring the Weeknd as himself, received enough terrible press that it almost certainly infected the album’s reception. Whether the cross-contamination of public opinion is deserved or not, the album as a standalone work is neither the Weeknd’s best nor worst. The album wants chaos, grit, and to float between LA house parties and spiritual psychosis. It pulls off chaos, but is too vague to be affecting. Previous work, such as Dawn FM, succeeds in large part due to its laser-sharp focusing on theme and clear-eyed direction. 

Though the album as a whole was slightly disappointing, individual songs off of the album absolutely deserved to be nominated this year, both in cultural impact and pure quality. “Timeless” ft. Playboy Carti was one of the biggest songs of the year. Produced by titans of the music industry Pharrell Williams and Mike Dean, the song achieved both commercial and critical success, peaking at number three on the US Billboard Hot 100. Less recognized, but a personal favorite off of the album (and maybe out of the Weeknd’s discography) is São Paulo ft. Anitta, a vibrant dance track produced by Mike Dean with deep roots in Brazilian funk. It’s a bold departure for the Weeknd, and it blends effortlessly with his existing sound, creating an energetic and woefully underrated track. 

Out of every album I have listened to that was released this year, hands down the best one is Something to Consume by Die Spitz. It’s enthralling. It’s heart-wrenching. It’s Punk. It’s Metal. Full of obsessive yearning and a gripping hunger that will not be apologized for, Something to Consume has a track for every listener. This unsubtle debut album builds seamlessly on their frenetic yet cathartic EPs, Teeth (2023) and The Revenge of Evangeline (2022). With inspirations like Black Sabbath, Pixies, and Nirvana, Die Spitz has crafted the perfect modern Metal sound. This album polished their energy into something that leaves you on the edge of your seat after every song, dying to know what will come next. I had been a fan of Die Spitz for about two and a half years by the time Something to Consume was released. It instantly became my favorite piece of their work. “Sound to No One,” “Voir Dire,” and “RIDING WITH MY GIRLS” are all standout tracks, but the real crown jewel of the album is right at the top: “Pop Punk Anthem (Sorry for the Delay),” a melting, bubbling, story of all-consuming queer love that feels like sound waves catching fire in your earbuds. This album is new and fresh, and I think it more than deserves to be an instant classic. Tragically it was overlooked for this year’s Grammy nominations, but in my heart, Something to Consume easily wins album of the year.

Wednesday is a wholly unique band. Notably absent from the recent 2026 Grammy nominations, the band has gained lots of attention in recent years for albums like Twin Plagues (2021), Rat Saw God (2023), and Bleeds (2025). What makes Wednesday stand out is not only its syncretic blend of indie rock, shoegaze, and alternative country, but also the novel songwriting style of frontwoman Karly Hartzman. 

Hartzman’s songs move between vividly described particulars–memories, images, and references–and memorable introspective one-liners. “Wound Up Here (By Holdin On)” starts with a storyline based on a memory of Hartzman’s friend pulling a body out of a lake and then rips the start of its chorus, commenting on the fragility of life, straight from a poem by Evan Gray–“I wound up here by holdin’ on.” Hartzman’s lyricism also highlights the surrealities of modern Americana. “Turkey Vultures” speaks of “...a sex shop off the highway/With a biblical name,” while Twin Plagues has a whole song about “The Burned Down Dairy Queen.”

To me, these descriptions call to mind experiences of strong, yet contradictory emotions, living between big cities, between big things, and outside the kinds of obvious, culturally-engrained symbolisms of time and place that pop-singers try to encapsulate in archetypal, universalizable experiences. To that end, I always find myself much more willing to listen to a collection of moments from Wednesday than a contrived dramatism made to attract big audiences by someone else. But the GRAMMYs have a right to their own opinions.

Although I admittedly don’t pay much attention to the Grammys, the one band that I was really hoping to see nominated this year was The Fearless Flyers. 2025 saw the air-tight, syncopated speed-funk quartet finally part ways with Vulf Records, a label that, while responsible for the band’s creation, bound them to a curated sound and image and limited them from operating at their full creative capacity. The Fearless Flyers V, their first record since the split, has proven that they’re anything but a gimmicky spin-off group and distinguished them as key players in the modern jazz-funk and instrumental music scenes. 

FFV sees the band firing on all cylinders—shedding the rigidity of their signature sixteenth-note shredding style in favor of genre-fluidity, they soar from peppy, crisp, and flawlessly metrical funk jams to spacey and dissonant long-form pieces with startling cohesion and virtuosic proficiency. Although this album’s tracks haven’t yet achieved the same popularity as the band’s old school hits, its innovation and versatility are the hallmarks of an exciting new era. If not a nomination for best album in the “Contemporary Instrumental” or “Alternative Jazz” categories (like the one that their previous record received), some of FFV’s standout tracks could at least have garnered individual attention (my vote would go towards tight tracks like “Flyers Crusade” and “Exotic” or the sweeping sonic odyssey that is “Autobahn”).  

Regardless of this record’s lack of recognition, it’s undoubtedly a signal of great things to come—it’s safe to say that these funk olympians have taken fearless flight towards bright new rhythmic and harmonic horizons. 

Let’s be honest. The Grammys are a real hit-or-miss awards show. The main problem with the concept—of a show that awards the best of the best in all prominent genres of music—is that there is so much music released every year, it’s incredibly difficult to familiarize oneself with the major releases in any given genre, let alone in general. So logically, when the nominations come out in November every year, a whole lot of standout releases will be overlooked.

If they were to have gotten around to it, I have no doubt that Recording Academy voters would agree with my assessment that Ninajirachi, who released her debut album, I Love My Computer, in August, belongs in this year’s Dance/Electronic category. Bringing both infectious pop vocals and bouncing electro house tracks to the table, the record pays tribute to the dance records and the internet landscape that she grew up on while pushing the genre forward. Songs like “iPod Touch,” “Fuck My Computer,” and “Delete” all display instincts for rhythm and melody incomparable among peers in the genre. Beyond her musical prowess, I also extol the virtues of Nina’s debut because of how deeply relatable it is for me. The image of a pre-teen kid exploring the depths of the web and developing a deep love for listening and making music is not just one that she weaves on the record—it’s one that I can distinctly recall from my own youth. It probably helps that she’s only a few years older than I am, but that shared experience of growing up on a computer and combing the depths of the massive digital world is conveyed incredibly through Nina’s lyrics and instrumentals. If you hadn’t gotten around to listening, I implore you to take the plunge. The Recording Academy may not have caught the wave yet, but I certainly have, and I hope you can, too.

He dropped at the 11th hour of the eligibility window, but I'm shocked STAR LINE by Chance the Rapper got shut out. We know the Academy plays favorites, so Chance's history of success at the GRAMMYs—he was the first male solo rapper to win Best New Artist and collected multiple wins for Coloring Book at the 2017 Awards—makes his exclusion surprising. Maybe 2019's The Big Day was just that bad. Even Chance acknowledges that he "had an F-minus, but that's behind us" on "Star Side Intro" and retorts "Surprise! It's the boy from the premature burial" on "Back To The Go," so I'm sure he heard the noise.

But STAR LINE is a return to form. Chance delivers witty punchlines laced with lucid commentary on the world around him. Some of the heavier elements are balanged by breezy delivery and Chance's naturally high-pitched cadence, so it never feels like he's preaching, but the content is there for those of us with eyes to see it and ears to hear it. Look no further than the name of the project, named after Marous Garvey's back-to-Africa shipping line, to understand how unapologetically Black STAR LINE is. Chance delivered one of my favorite projects of the year. I would've liked a Best Rap Album nomination, or even a Best Rap Performance nod for any of "Letters," "Back To The Go," or "No More Old Men," all of which are better than every song nominated sans "Chains & Whips."

As a self-proclaimed concert junkie, I feel overly qualified to answer this question. No matter how much I hate crowds, the screaming ache in my feet after hours in a GA pit, or the inevitable moment when an egregiously tall man plants himself right in front of me, you’ll still find me there. Because nothing compares to live music. It scratches an itch in my brain that Spotify could never reach, even on its best day. It’s the physicality of it—the bassline vibrating through your ribs, your heartbeat syncing up with the drums, the lights pulsing along in perfect harmony. Lighting techs, by the way, are the unsung heroes of the music industry.

There’s a reason so many people first fall in love with music in church. Live music feels spiritual. The collective effervescence is like a drug. It dissolves the distance between performer and audience until everyone’s caught in the same current. Even the worst bands and the most mediocre songs can feel sacred once performed live. For those few minutes, the world stops, and all that exists is sound.

The La Femme Lolla Aftershow this August at the Outset. La Femme is a band that is inextricably linked to my second year of college and, sorry, my first love. I initially started listening to the band to impress this person, but, quickly, this ulterior motive transformed into an absolute obsession with the music. I had never heard anything like it. I don’t speak a word of French, yet they make me feel like I can understand. La Femme ranges between frenetic, head banging, wild dancing energy to soft, resonant, aching, other-wordly tunes. When my now-ex (hey, no hard feelings) told me he’d seen them live like, six times or something, because, quote, “They’re just the best, Roxane,” I knew I needed to see for myself. When Lolla dropped their aftershow lineup and La Femme was playing a few days before my boyfriend was moving away, it felt like the universe was giving us a lovely little parting gift. 

They played a wicked set–some of our absolute favorites like “Cool Colorado” and “Antitaxi” come to mind first. As I had been told, the two female band members, Fanny Luzignant and Yse Grospiron, were absolutely mesmerizing, dancing whimsically across the stage throughout the show while tearing up keyboards and tambourines and singing beautifully. The best I can say to encapsulate La Femme’s stage presence is this: They played a healthy 2ish-hour set, and I felt like it all happened in ten minutes. I’m sure everyone around was dancing, but I honestly didn’t notice. In a rare, beautiful instance, I was in the music and nowhere else.

July 10, 2012, was a life-changing day for me—the day of my first concert. I put on my best Justice top and denim shorts before my mom, sister, and I made our way to Lakewood Amphitheater to see Big Time Rush perform on their Big Time Summer Tour. We met up with a few of the girls from my Girl Scout troop and waited patiently for Cody Simpson to take the stage as the opener. Once the Australian teenager hit the stage, the rest of the evening was a blur. Somewhere between “All Day” and “iYiYi”, my memory starts to fade. By the time Big Time Rush came out, I was so overcome with excitement that I have no recollection of their performance. 

That’s what makes live music great. It suspends time. The lights dim, the professional sound system envelops you, and suddenly nothing matters except the music and the people sharing it with you in that moment. The roar of the fellow concertgoers, the handpicked visuals, and creative liberties an artist can take at a concert are the perfect storm for a euphoric experience every single time. 

My personal favorite aspect of the performance is the humanity granted to the artist. Your favorite artist is no longer a disembodied voice in your headphones. When Tyler, the Creator is within 30 feet of you, it’s hard not to see him as a man getting to live out his wildest dreams. Experiencing that makes me want to live mine. Every concert I’ve been to has changed how I listen to music and how I live my life, and I hope to experience many more in my lifetime. 

The crowd always. While it’s obvious most people go to concerts to see the artists, having seen so many different artists live, there’s no doubt that the energy of the room is carried by the audience. From pits, crowd surfing, and two-stepping at DIY shows to chorus of voices as fans sing along to a ballad. That being said, artists who directly interact with a crowd to incite such liveliness create those moments. I remember earlier this year seeing IDLES at Riot Fest. The way the crowd lit up as they surfed across the ocean of fans. Or when I saw Julip open for the band After at Schubas—she might have forgotten some of her lyrics, but the jokes she cracked with us in the audience made it so memorable. These audience interactions and moments of collective energy are what make these live performances so unique, and so much more enjoyable than just me and my headphones in my room.

Live performance is an art that elevates (or derails) any setlist. To be fair, the floor is high: as long as the artist isn't up there relying on a backing track with studio vocals, I’ll enjoy myself. But live music is often so much more. Your fellow audience members elevate the experience. Yes, singing along to your favorite song with a bunch of people who share the same favorite song is exhilarating, but it's deeper than that. Hundreds, thousands, or even tens of thousands of people can unite because of one set list. Concerts are one of the last shared spaces that we as humans can gravitate to in a world that continues to fracture. When an artist understands the sanctity of that shared space, you'll never question their commitment to the bit. Outfit changes, special guests, live bands, remixes you'll never find on streaming services, encores, tributes, crowd work, breath control. Everyone's got their niche. Performance is a special talent that rewards inventiveness and artistry. It will always be special because no opaque social media algorithm or label-funded bot farm can bless you with it.

In a situation like this, any introspection or melancholy in the music I often listen to becomes a virulent plague that leeches the positive energy I’ve accumulated over the course of a hypothetical party. As I experience the jarring transition between a crowded space and the lonesome walk home, I find it best to ride the high, letting the party bleed into that exodus. I’d lean towards something instrumental with a healthy dose of funk, something like “Dallas” by L’Eclair. I previously used the song in a satirical video I made with some friends so listening to it by myself creates that illusion of togetherness, vaguely and briefly relocating my own December 2023 to the present day. “Dallas” has a smooth, brilliant sheen about it. Its downbeats uniquely compliment my footfalls on the concrete sidewalks that support my saunter home. I’d say either that or Kevin Gates’ herculean masterpiece, “Two Phones.” I don’t think I have to explain why I would at any point listen to one of the greatest musical works of the modern era. 

Perhaps it’s not the most spooky choice, but “Do You Think I’m Pretty” by Racing Mount Pleasant has been my choice for an end-of-the-night song for a while now. I always feel unsettled after the adrenaline rush of a good party, and the intensity of those feelings take some time to fade from my mind. So, I tend to gravitate towards something contemplative which matches the pace of my wind down and this song fits perfectly. It starts quietly with just a voice and guitar but quickly expands into the full range of the band. The lyrics are intimate and honest, with a raw vocal delivery to match. The song itself has this ebb and flow, a pulse, building until you’re drawn in and completely surrounded. Its culminating moment feels very intense, like an overflow of sound and emotion. And then the music slows and you emerge again just listening to the same voice and guitar from the beginning. While it is a very melancholy song, it also feels relaxing to me somehow. The immersion of the music breaks whatever dregs of excitement I carry home with me. It's the perfect song to keep me company whenever I wander back from a party through empty streets before sunrise.

The walk home after an apartment party is unparalleled, but the soundtrack depends on how the night is going. Am I still riding a high—there's a double entendre in there somewhere—or have I already mellowed out a bit?

If I'm looking for more energy, I can queue up "FOMDJ" from Playboi Carti's MUSIC. Teased during MUSIC's never-ending rollout, I was surprised this song wasn't on the standard edition of the album; we just had to wait a few more weeks for him to put it on the deluxe. "FOMDJ” sees Carti drop the middling Future impression he's done a ton since "FE!N" in favor of vocals closer to the inflection we’re used to. But I barely care about what he sounds like here; just listen to the beat. Carti ditches the basic trap that infects most of MUSIC and picks up swirling synths that swirl even more when you're not quite sober.

On more relaxed walks, I'll turn to a song like "Champagne Shots" by Sainte. In barely two minutes of rapping, the Leicester City MC oozes charisma and lets you know he's the HNIC. His frequent producer Parker Jazz provided a stripped back instrumental that simultaneously leaves a lot of open space and has a nice momentum to it; those bass kicks scratch an undeniable itch I can't quite pin down. "Champagne Shots" feels like having a silk robe on, gazing out of floor-to-ceiling windows from the 20th floor: a great nightcap.

After a night out I pretty much always want to listen to Lucki. It’s probably something about the relatively monotone vocals compared to the somewhat funky and at times energetic beat selection. My Go-to has to be 197 trap talk, with its strange and almost homey instrumental while Lucki raps about his thoughts on the debaucherous life to which he is committed and the feelings that he has about. The lyrics are simple, witty, and at times hard hitting, with nostalgic interludes where others speak braggadociously about the lifestyle and the glamour that comes with it. I think what really attracts me to the song is the calm simplicity and honesty with which Lucki speaks about his own trepidations and pride regarding the drug-ridden and violent reality that his album “body high” is centered around. The lyrics almost actively contradict the old fashioned and grainy production. In some ways the silences and absences of action or activity in the song become one of its greatest strengths. The interludes also give the song enough flavor and happiness to bring the night to a calm close while I wind down and maybe play some fifa, and the silences and slow pace of the song make it easy to think.

No song is more thematically fitting for this prompt than 21 Savage’s “monster.” This isn’t some anthemic ditty about goblins and ghouls—the party is over. The monsters of power, money, and fame entailed in the chorus provide some realistic scares for party-age people. Reaching further, perhaps the costume donned by 21 is that of an American, a mask briefly removed in 2019 when it was revealed that he originated from Britain. 

But for those who label the faux-American rapper a one-trick pony, this restrained departure of his may come as a shock. Disarming synths and chilling pianos create a perfectly uncanny ambience to help wind down from any high-octane tricks and treats. There’s even a pleasant final jumpscare in the form of what is perhaps the most buttery-smooth surprise feature ever. Just enough eeriness looms in the track’s outro to leave you looking forward to next year, when the festivities will once again rise from the dead.

I have a very specific answer. This spring I lived in Malaga, Spain. I learned bits and pieces of Spanish, played beach volleyball, and went out more than anyone should. I lived in El Palo, the working suburb a fifteen minute bus ride down the coast from the city center.

In the daytime, the 8 bus was crowded, loud, and smelled of cigarette smoke. The night bus was different. Past 3 am, the four seat-compartments where I liked to sit were empty. Sometimes, my legs would intertwine with a friend across the seat or rub against one next to me. More times than not, I found myself alone. When that happened, Lou Reed was on.

Like all great songs, “Perfect Day” found me. It did so the day I met the three guys I still talk to every week. For the first time since I’d been there, I finally had a hold on my life. I loved, and love, that the “you” was ambiguous: it could be a good new friend, old friend, a lover, or my mother. That day, it was me. I was glad I spent it with my three new friends. But more than that I was happy to spend it with myself — a feeling I’ll forever associate with that song. 

Something about the end of an era (e.g., the mourning of halloweekend) fills me with a somber tranquility. At times, the music of the quiet street itself is enough: the crisp Chicago air, the rustling of tree branches, and the crunch of the leaves under my feet. The sound of my thoughts adds a melody to the song. I love recounting my favorite events, the funniest jokes, and the smiles of my friends around me. The moon shines through the midnight clouds, and I want to laugh, cry, and yell all at once because, well, it’s over.

Now, if I want to put my headphones on, it’ll most likely be “Mystery of Love” by Sufjan Stevens. The song leaves me physically numb, and the montage from Call Me by Your Name plays in my head as moments like these truly help me relate to Elio. As much as it hurts to leave such fun moments behind, the bliss from knowing I lived them is unmatched.

I rarely want to continue the energy going if the night is over, but “CRANK” by Slayyyter has been on repeat and would be my song of choice because I do get so gay off that tequila.

I don’t like ‘beef’ narratives, mostly because they’re so cloaked in marketing that they come off as executive shadowboxing half the time. True hatred can’t be instrumentalized into a streaming check. I want beef so potent that the involved parties won’t acknowledge each other publicly, but the corrosivity in their hearts leaches into their music. Private people. Burial and Aphex Twin. That would be a true heavyweight championship, two foremost electronic pioneers dukin’ it out in encrypted bleeps, bloops, and Ray J samples. Despite their comparable magnanimity and influence, their dispositions couldn’t diverge more: Aphex the in-your-face eccentric, Burial the elusive enigma. The two have mutual respect that would erode into some generational music. I’d love to hear Burial’s desolate Londonscape blanketed with asbestos and Aphex’s crystalline funhouse broken into shards. The only downside—if the meme-hungry public caught wind of the secret feud, it’d be so insufferable I’d have to quarantine myself from the internet for at least a month.

This is less of a desire and more of a prediction, but I think Taylor Swift is going to shift her ire to Brendon Urie of Panic! At The Disco fame. I mean think about it—she's launched her showgirl-themed album to mixed reviews, and he's doing  sold-out 20th anniversary performances of the quintessential Vegas-burlesque-showboy(?)-top hat album A Fever You Can't Sweat Out. It's going to brew with shady subtweets about just who was to blame for the critically maligned Lover lead single—yes, the one that borrows his punctuational stylings and rhymes its title with itself at least ten times. It's going to culminate with Taylor declaring she's got a favorite singing, backflipping Mormon—and it's the one with the alliterative moniker and affinity for lunar-themed sweet treats. But she's got a wedding coming up, and he got his start crooning about just what exactly is going on with the groom's bride behind closed doors. 

I’m super hyped for the new Erykah Badu x Alchemist record dropping this fall (Alc and Freddie Gibbs’ Alfredo 2 was great). But when the lead single, “Next To You,” dropped in June, it received a lot of well-deserved criticism for using AI to create its uninspiring cover art and sloppy accompanying music video. 

Recently, many artists have spoken out about the use of AI content across the industry—from artists like Hiatus Kaiyote, Anderson .Paak, and King Gizzard calling for AI slop to be removed from streaming services to Mac DeMarco criticizing AI for stripping away “the human element” of music. I’m hoping that if Badu and Alc end up releasing a heavily AI album (please, prove me wrong), other artists will call them out. Hopefully, the resulting beef could spark a real conversation about the use of AI in art and music, and help Erykah (still my favorite) course-correct.

I’ve got two answers to this one, but they both involve Cameron Winter. 

Now I know Julian Casablancas is a big Geese glazer, but I still want to see him go after Winter. On some level Geese are just The Strokes with homework, Winter having replaced the raw hungover coolness of Casablancas’s crew with over-thought art-school anxiety. I imagine The Strokes’ frontman saying no less and Winter firing back with a baroque revenge album. It’d be a duel between a proper Brooklyner and an OG nepo baby—two men who built their myth on cool detachment, but only one who earned it through-and-through. Somewhere, Ezra Koenig moderates a panel, and the feud ends with a joint single: Casablancas mumbling into a vocoder while Winter pens a manifesto for the liner notes. 

Second, I want Winter to square off with Thom Yorke. Both write like the world is ending. A feud between them wouldn’t be about who’s better, but who’s more authentically doomed. Yorke’s alienation is global—surveillance, systems, the slow death of meaning—while Winter’s is self-inflicted, like he’s writing footnotes to his own breakdown. They’d probably realize they’re arguing over the same apocalypse, just scored in different keys.

I want to see SG Lewis vs Brutalismus 3000 beef this fall. Here is why: They are on totally opposite ends of the electronic music spectrum. SG Lewis has a basking in golden hour dance sound on a beach and watching a disco ball spin in the wind. 

While Brutalismus is much more Berlin warehouse hard-core techno vibes. SG’s diss track would have sultry energy with layered melodies and honeyed vocals that draw the listener in. But upon listening to the lyrics SG sings ‘ All distortion, no direction ‘… taking a stab at Brutalismus’s sound. Brutalismus’s diss track would include bumping techno with a series of screams rattling and exciting the listener. The screams would be saying “SG Lewis makes elevator music” similar to the way the group yells “Satan was a baby boomer”. This collision is the excitement that the electronic music community needs this fall!!!

I want to see Fakemink enter a beef with that one AI Velvet Underground dupe band and just like yell at them about how he's more intelligent. And also, how he is better dressed and is more sonically talented. And also, how they just suck in general. But then at the same time complain about how his life is so hard and also at the same time say he is merely a humble being and that he deserves no praise and is no better than anybody else.  Then I want the AI band to dox him and like leak his DMs or something and then they start making music about each other and it just develops into a nothing burger beef, because all beef in the music industry is nonsense and kind of just pointless spectacle.  

It’s time other genres beefed. For too long, Rap has dominated the beef market in music. For my generation, hip hop is the medium of big-time beef: Kendrick and Drake, yes, but Logan Paul, Jake Paul, and all the recess rap battles they inspired, too. But just because a group has guitars doesn’t mean they don’t hate their rivals, and I think it’s about time they started to act like it again. I want more of the Gallaghers getting up the Brits and belting “Allllllllll the people” with their fresh "Best British Band" trophy in hand, a year after blur’s win in 1995. I’d love to hear the Jungle rip into someone like that. Who knows, it might be blur again.