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).
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 
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’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.
If you’ve been following along for any length of time, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’m almost automatically a fan of anything with huge, thick walls of guitar noise.
Sucker that I am for post rock, I’ve never given much time to Ireland’s God Is An Astronaut. I’ve heard the name plenty, and I had a couple of their albums on one of my work playlists, but I never paid close attention to it.
If I were to ask you to imagine a female singer-songwriter, there’s a good chance your mind would go to a subdued, pensive artist, a la Joan Baez or Julien Baker.
Hipster music snob that I am, the depths of my musical knowledge is riddled with blind spots. For example: until last week, I realized that I had never knowingly listened to Dinosaur Jr. 
Last fall,