At this point, Miles Davis had already taken jazz from Charlie Parker, who had taken the mantle from Louis Armstrong before him. Satchmo had been doing this for thirty years. Ella for twenty. Both were undisputed icons. This duet series was a massive collision of supergiants.

But you’d never guess at its importance based on the absolute preciousness of the album cover. Nor is its gravity betrayed anywhere in the music. Ella and Louis croon and gravel and play their way through the most popular standards of the day with giddy playfulness. 

And these tunes have endured–Gershwins and Irving Berlin have a fair amount of representation here, so that’s no surprise. There’s also the absolute classic April in Paris, which is correctly remembered as one of this era’s pinnacle tracks. Also included is a charming rendition of They Can’t Take That Away From Me, which is a personal favorite.

But overall, this album is perhaps the most charming thing ever recorded. It certainly doesn’t show either’s technical chops, nor does it have to. It’s merely a perfect example of what these two megastars do better than anyone.

​But yo, dig it. This album is legendary. It birthed the entire post-punk scene. But it’s not exactly like they were trying to do much different. They were just some Manks trying to play punk rock. They just had a couple hiccups there…

Then there’s the atmosphere. There’s an unusual amount of echo on the drums and vocals for a punk record (which Hook famously hated). This is essentially because producer Martin Hannet thought punk rock was boring, and Joy Division didn’t have enough studio experience to argue with him.

The result is a weird, wonderfully dark record that served as the perfect atmosphere for the morose baritone of Ian Curtis, one of rock and roll’s most celebrated and tragic frontmen. While their next album would be much more shaded by Curtis’s suicide, Unknown Pleasures does little to offer contrarian narrative, and would go one to be embraced by weird sad kids everywhere across every generation (that I missed it until after college astounds me.

​Looking at its humble beginnings, it’s amazing that Unknown Pleasures became the monolithic icon it is. More than just a weird underground hit, it has been lauded by every music publication from NME to Rolling Stone. I sometimes wonder if it owes its legacy more to its cover and aesthetic than its songs. But when I revisit it, I am quickly corrected.

​So when Jónsi went to do it alone, everyone was a little unsure of what to expect. Obviously, his angelic falsetto would be heavily featured, but what would accompany it? How would his songwriting adapt?

​And that was just a warm up.

Go takes the group’s trademark jubilance (specifically tracks like Hoppipola, Gobbledigook, Við spilum endalaust) and cranks it up. Jónsi appears here as unbounded and playful as some pagan trickster god. The average tempo is nearly twice the average Sigur Rós album. And he sings everything in English. Of course, his thick Icelandic accent still makes it sound unknowable. 

This is the sound of pure joy cut to wax. Even the more mournful tunes (Tornado in particular) have a core of jubilee to them. 

​Also worth noting, I bought this particular copy on my honeymoon, so that’s a good memory too.

But those chart-ready pop tunes are a little deceiving. The non-singles are classic James. Secret O’ Life features a similar riff to You’ve Got a Friend. Bartender’s Blues is a true blue country song. The two exceptions are the skiffling Traffic Jam and I Was Only Telling a Lie, which is probably the most menacing rock song James Taylor has ever written (it is not all that menacing).

​In all, JT is a proper pseudo-self titled album. It captures all of his tender sweetness with a side of poppy indulgence. 

I was immediately confused because I had thought I heard a female singer among the synth-soaked pop I had heard. But I only saw four indie-rock lookin’ dudes on stage. I watched for a while to see which one of them had such a high voice.

Then, slowly, a leg rose into the air from behind the center monitors, ending with a gold platform shoe. The woman it was attached to followed, adorned in a gold bodysuit. And she began singing. And my brother, did she begin singing.

The last thing you’d expect to hear at a local music festival is chart-ready synthpop, but that’s what they delivered. None of these songs would sound out of place on a Top 40 station, the way that Chvrches could find a home in the top ten, and the way that Lorde did. And for a second, I had a moment of disbelief that this was happening in my city, in the parking lot of a restaurant on the river. This would have been of of the hypest sets at Lollapalooza, and it’s happening here.

I searched for a merch tent, but could find nothing. After a while, my friend Max friend came over with an LP and a t-shirt. “Look what GGOOLLD gave me for helping them load their gear.” He handed me the disc and I looked it over. “You want it? I don’t have a turntable.”

​And so here we are now. It’s Monday morning and I’m jamming some seriously hype tunes, courtesy of GGOOLLDD and my friend Max.

After some meandering around with an acoustic guitar, he poured his restless energy into this chamber pop/indie rock project called Boy Rex. And if you ask me, it is by far his best work. While Better Vision is the second Boy Rex album, it is the first to feel like a cohesive statement.

Better Vision is the result of long weeks spent in his dad’s house meditating on death, love, and God (Senff Sr. plays trumpet on this album, as well as in my ska band Dad Jokes). In the process of writing these songs, he moved a few times and got engaged. Huge life events, to be sure. And Better Vision plays them with the sincerity and gravity they deserve. 

Which isn’t to say this is a depressing record. In fact, it’s one of the most jubilant records I’ve heard in a long time. Bouncing horn lines and poppy drum beats pervade the entire record. Playing it live, Jack’s hips swing the entire time. This is a feel-good record. It just might make you cry a couple times.

The album is a masterful juxtaposition of jubilant dance pop and political emotiveness. Thematically, the lyrics tackle corruption, racism in America, greed, and a whole lot of hopelessness. And all of this set to Prince-copping pop (Strobelite), happy-go-lucky synthpop (Andromeda), dark electronica (Sex Murder Party), and a lot of great rap verses.

Everyone knows that Gorillaz isn’t a full time project for anyone involved, but if they keep going for broke like this, it’ll be a long time before anyone stops caring about this fake band.