After spending most of my life vacillating between punk ethos and hipster snobbery, I’ve been trying to be a better poptimist. I’ve been trying to let go of my musical superiority complex and allow myself to enjoy vapid pop music.
And it doesn’t get much more vapid or poppy than Madonna herself.
If ever there was a post rock crossover pop hit, it’s M83’s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming.
This record debuted at number fifteen on the Billboard Top 200. The bouncing single “Midnight City“, complete with a screaming saxophone solo, was ubiquitous. The group appeared on a number of late night talk show performances. Songs were played in commercials and movie trailers.
This is only made more impressive by the fact that it’s a double album by a band that made their name playing synth-driven drone music.
The last couple years, I’ve been noticing a trend of female singer-songwriters picking up electric guitars and coating their otherwise gentle compositions with thick layers of doom metal and shoegaze (see also: Chelsea Wolfe, King Woman). It’s a simple enough formula, but it works, and I am here for it. Continue reading
Throughout her career, M.I.A. has always been ahead of the curve—and the curve wasn’t always ready for her.
When she released MAYA eight years ago, it was heavily criticized for its YouTube-inspired album art and the digital chaos that created the musical landscape. Little did we realize how prescient it actually was. Continue reading
How do you follow up a breakout hit that managed to mix political protest with dancefloor-ready art pop?
If you’re M.I.A., you turn up the dial on every element of your debut and set those suckers to eleven.
As legend has it, in the early 2000s the daughter of a Sri Lankan freedom-fighter slash visual artist named Mathangi “Maya” Arulpragasam (AKA M.I.A.) was introduced to the iconic Roland MC-505 sequencer and drum machine.
Despite having no musical experience of her own, she immediately saw the 505 as a tool to broadcast political messages to a society obsessed with entertainment. She could use hip-hop and dance music as a megaphone to amplify the struggles of marginalized people around the globe.
By and large, I don’t really get Lynyrd Skynyrd. What little thought I do spend thinking about them is frantically changing the radio station anytime I hear “Sweet Home Alabama” (I really, really hate that song).
But when I separate the band from their rabid, Rebel-flag-waving fanbase and that one super obnoxious single, I can sorta actually get into it.
As much as I devoured every video, track, and alternate version of Lykke Li’s early career, I didn’t give her sophomore release much attention until a few months ago. At first listen, Wounded Rhymes felt sleek and generic in comparison to the playful DIY pop of Youth Novels.
But revisiting it, I see just how off my first impression was. Continue reading
I’ve never been that attracted to conventional pop music. But when I first saw Swedish pop singer Lykke Li, I was instantly entranced.
I stumbled upon a Black Cab Session where she and two bandmates played, “I’m Good I’m Gone,” accompanied by a children’s accordion, hand percussion, and a megaphone.
I’m not sure if there are many bands in the indiesphere with a more surprising career trajectory than Milwaukee’s Collections of Colonies of Bees.
Having started out as a bluegrass/electronica side-project (that’s not a typo) of math rock heroes Pele, they became bastions of intricately composed post rock before eventually forming the experimental pop supergroup Volcano Choir with Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon.