Miles Davis’ monstrous 1971 double album purports to be two things: Live, and Evil.
Live? It’s unlike any other live record ever. A fiery 1970 performance at the Cellar Door was stitched together and interjected with studio tracks.
Evil? This record is positively wicked. Continue reading
If you mention Miles Davis among older individuals, you might get an almost dismissive, “Oh, he’s too weird for me.” Almost invariably, they’re talking about Bitches Brew, his 1970 jazz fusion opus.
And brother, it’s as weird as advertised.
Throughout his five-decade career, Miles Davis record over fifty records as a bandleader (and dozens more as a sideman). But none of those records are as singularly important than 1969’s In A Silent Way.
And no, that’s not an exaggeration.
In the grand scheme of Miles Davis’ immense, indelible catalog, there is not necessarily anything particularly special about My Funny Valentine. But, it was the first Miles Davis record I owned (because I found this copy for cheap ten years ago), and for a while, it was the only Davis record I owned.
But it was also recorded fifty-five years ago today, which is a happy accident. Continue reading
Miles Davis once said that you could sum up all of jazz history in four words: “Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker.” And as elegantly concise as that history may be, it ignores the “Prince of Darkness” himself.
No individual left a larger footprint on jazz—or perhaps music history overall—than Miles Davis. And Kind of Blue, his most popular record—and most popular jazz record ever—demonstrates his mastery as a composer and a bandleader.
If you’ve been following along at all, you’ve probably noticed that I have a deep love for weird metal. Particularly, heavy metal that looses itself from the macho tropes that have conventionally marred metal music and stretches beyond the rigid confines of the genre. Bands like Alcest, Deafheaven, Isis, Spotlights…the list goes on.
The Boston outfit Astronoid hits every single one of those buttons—and then some.
No matter how much music evolves, a few things remain absolutely timeless. Things like easy melodies, singalong choruses, and a truly gnarly electric guitar tone.
Mikal Cronin understands this better than most people. His second solo record isn’t revolutionary by any stretch, but dang if it isn’t great.
For a moment, let’s forget about the plastic surgery, the Peter Pan syndrome, the dynastic marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, the allegations against him, and his bizarre persona.
Michael Jackson was the bonafide King of Pop. And no one else even comes close.
And while his studio discography has no shortage of straight bangers, Thriller was the album that cemented that status, and it remains the most consistent and rewarding listen. But hidden deep within the wall-to-wall hit singles is one of the most revolutionary albums for racial justice ever.
HUM may have never gotten much mainstream recognition, but you’d never guess their cult status based on the pantheon of groups that list them as an influence. Their huge, earth-shattering brand of space rock influenced groups from Deftones to Hopesfall to Cloakroom to Smashing Pumpkins (who some accuse of getting famous off of HUM’s template).
Most people point to their seminal record You’d Prefer An Astronaut as their finest work. And while they pioneered their trademark sound on that record, their swansong Downward Is Heavenward is a much heavier and more cohesive record.
It’s often said that music is just organized vibrations.
Most musicians achieve that purpose by using instruments to create those vibrations. But on Low’s Double Negative, it sounds like the group is manipulating the air directly, creating a dense, otherworldly sonic landscape that is as unsettling as it is transcendent.