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  • PARTYOF2: AMERIKA’S TOP PARTY HITS BRICK N MORTAR

    PARTYOF2: AMERIKA’S TOP PARTY HITS BRICK N MORTAR

    Leaving the concert, my legs had never been more tired from dancing with everyone in the room.

    My Wednesdays are usually packed with classes from 11 AM to 5  PM, but when PARTYOF2 announced they were going on tour and reached out to Berkeley B-Side for coverage of the event, I couldn’t let it pass me by. After getting approved to cover the event, I charged my camera, loaded all my equipment into my bag, and boarded the BART from Downtown Berkeley to 16th Street Mission, then headed over to Brick n Mortar Hall, where I would soon experience a party that would change my life. 

    PARTYOF2 is a Hip-Hop duo that consists of members Swim and Jadagrace. I had heard about PARTYOF2 back in 2020 through TikTok, where they had previously gone by the name “Group Therapy,” which included an additional member, TJ Online. The group formed when its members originally met due to their shared background as child entertainers/actors. Their music was always hype and catchy, and I had always been a fan of their visuals. TJ later departed from the group to pursue his own endeavors, but Jada and Swim kept it going, and at the start of 2025, the duo announced their new stagename: “PARTYOF2.” 

    From this point forward, PARTYOF2 began to spread like wildfire. Swim’s creative storytelling & unique worldplay, combined with Jada’s mesmerizing appearance and incredible vocal talent, made this duo truly unstoppable. This wildfire only intensified as PARTYOF2 began collaborating with big-name artists like KAYTRANADA on their song “FEEL LOVE”, and soon after, the duo could be seen performing in Los Angeles, California, at Dodger Stadium for Tyler, the Creator’s annual Camp Flog Gnaw festival. It is safe to say that their debut album, titled “AMERIKA’S NEXT TOP PARTY!” is nothing short of the truth.

    Arriving at Brick n Mortar, I let the front desk know I had a photo pass and was allowed early entry. I took the opportunity to chat amongst the attendees inside, where one of them was the opening act and Oakland, California native artist, Detahjae. I had known of Detahjae since 2022, when my friends and I would send each other old TikToks of him dying laughing, since his content at the time was similar to Vines from older content creator Caleb City. However, since 2024, Detahjae has shown that he is more than just a content creator, dropping a catchy, melodic song titled “Janice,” which amassed over half a million views, produced, shot, and directed all by Detahjae himself. He followed this up with an album titled “Lone” with tracks produced entirely by him. I chatted with Detahjae and let him know I had been a fan of his content and music for a while and that I was excited to see him perform. After this, the doors had opened, and I had gone up close to the stage to secure my spot before America’s Top Party had begun. 

    From the start of the show, everyone had already begun dancing to the DJ from PARTYOF2, who played a variety of songs from classic Bay Area artists such as E-40, Mac Dre, and SOBRE. After an hour with no time to waste, Detahjae had burst onto stage in an iconic red jumpsuit with lettering that spelled “FLARE,” which was the name of his second debut album and the intro track he played as he came onto stage. The loud rock aesthetic of Detahjae’s music, combined with his stunning visual performance, wordplay, and the energy of his friends in the crowd singing his lyrics word-for-word, made his performance truly special. Even though I was in the front, with a camera, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to mosh and dance around with strangers who were just there for a good time. With a raunchy, energetic track like “TEST?!” playing in the background, it made it impossible for everyone not to jump around. 

    Afterwards, Detahjae had departed from the stage, and everyone in the room cheered as his performance prepared everyone for PARTYOF2. To start this Party, Jada and Swim both took the stage. They opened with their iconic song “we owe you an explanation”, which details the new direction the group will be heading in and explains the death of “Group Therapy” and the start of “PARTYOF2”. When performing this song, it is clear that Jada and Swim are genuinely dedicated to their craft, with coordinated dance moves and outfits that the crowd even seemed to be imitating. The shared outfits reminded me of how, at concerts like “The Garden,” the crowd will sometimes adopt the makeup or apparel of the performers, which was taken on by this crowd as well. Throughout the night, I found myself mesmerized by the visual performance of the two, with their matching dance moves, finishing each other’s sentences through unique wordplay, and playful banter. Hearing songs like “JUST DANCE 2” reminded me of just how versatile this duo could be, as their music truly is a style of Hip-Hop that draws on a multitude of inspirations from other genres, combining into something truly indescribable. 

     

    Furthermore, songs like “SAVE YOURSELF” truly paint a picture of how these artists have gone through trials and tribulations to get to where they are now, and, despite those struggles, they remained strong enough to put on a performance that will forever stay ingrained in our minds. As the set began to come to an end, the energy of the crowd never died down. Even as Swim and Jada walked off stage, the audience remained strong, demanding one more song, and this time around, Jada and Swim burst back onto stage with their hit song “POSER,” and for the next two minutes and twenty-four seconds, it felt like my legs were on fire from how much I was jumping around. Stepping outside, the steam from my clothes kept me warm against the blizzard cold weather that night in San Francisco, but the Party I experienced would forever replay within my mind. 

    Written by Armani Allen

    Photos by Armani Allen

  • On listening to music “too” much

    On listening to music “too” much

    Over a phone call with my dad last weekend, in which we did our weekly tradition of sharing songs with one another, he put on Queen’s “Radio Ga Ga”. With lyrics like… 

    “We watch the shows, we watch the stars

    On videos for hours and hours

    We hardly need to use our ears

    How music changes through the years

    Let’s hope you never leave, old friend

    Like all good things, on you, we depend

    So stick around ’cause we might miss you

    When we grow tired of all this visual”

    …the song largely focuses on the issue of the era it arose from, the idea of MTV and music-videos becoming much more prominent than the actual music they represented. But in the context of our conversation, my dad segued into a different idea. He asked whether listening to music constantly strips it of its power, transforming meaningful lyrics and meticulously layered instrumentals into repetitive “Radio Ga Ga.” 

    I began to wonder: is there a line where regularly listening to music becomes too much? Does an overconsumption of our favorite medium result in a dilution of the art itself? 

    I take pride in the fact that I listen to virtually every genre of music. However, lately I’ve hit a paradox in that, despite seemingly infinite genres to pick from, I’ve hit a rut.  Hence, I’ve resorted to subgenres that remind me of eras of time, current favorites being 2016/2017-rap, 2010’s JustDance songs, and Fall 2023 dream-psychedelic-pop-rock from when I was studying for my SAT.  

    I thought back to what my dad had said. Had my overindulgence of music turned it to the exact “Radio Ga Ga” Queen sang about? Had I been too gluttonous and ruined the very medium I loved?

    I can see some truth to my dad’s point. My favorite artist will always be Lana Del Rey, annually reclaiming her reign as my top artist on Spotify since 2018. However, sometimes I worry that I have listened to her too much and that eventually, I will squeeze the sponge of her discography to its last drops with nothing more to appreciate. Although Del Rey remains my top artist, I don’t find myself reaching for her as frequently as I used to. Songs become repetitive—I can anticipate the crescendo of her bridges and the poignant piercings of her lyrics. It is strange how love becomes familiarity, and familiarity eventually becomes contempt. 

    Further, there lies an issue in simply listening to too much too much. Thus far in my time in Berkeley, my Spotify listening time has skyrocketed; I can rarely recall moments throughout the day where I don’t have my headphones on. Every moment of silence I take as opportunity to open Spotify, and although I once commended this impulse as devotion to the art, I soon found myself in somewhat of a dilemma. One particular morning, under clear skies with dotted clouds and a crisp bite to the air, I was walking back from Doe Library. In light of the cinematic weather, I decided to make the most of a normally five to ten minute walk–or three to five song lengths. I spent the duration skipping through playlists, attempting to find the “perfect” song. By the time I had gotten through 45 seconds of Devstacks’ “In The H,” I was at the steps of my dorm. Cinematic? No. Problematic? Yes. 

    And so, I have been taking a step back from music. Now, I take my headphones out on my walks to class, allowing myself to submerge in my own thoughts, and making the occasions I do listen to music to be all the more special. As much as I enjoy a soundtrack-esque track paired with an even more scenic moment, what’s the harm in just enjoying one at a time? 

    When met with so many perfect opportunities; the perfect song paired with the perfect scene on the perfect walk home, it can be easy to want everything at once; the most perfect combination of perfect things to make the most pseudo-ultimate perfect experience. 

    So why not slow down? 

    Sure, it feels kind of silly in a way, treating this break from listening as some self-inflicted rehabilitation, but I choose to view it as further devotion to the craft. Maybe it isn’t a question of listening to music too much or too little; maybe it’s a matter of the silence and the music going hand in hand. 

    Article by Madeline Tran 

    Photo courtesy of Vistoso Bosses and ColliPark Music/Interscope Records

  • Screaming “Am I the only one” alongside hundreds of strangers at a Couch concert

    Screaming “Am I the only one” alongside hundreds of strangers at a Couch concert

    Walking along the walls of The Fillmore made me feel part of something bigger–which is just what I needed amidst finals. Looking at the wall of the Fillmore, I first became annoyed because so many of the concert posters lining the walls had the most illegible fonts. As I continued to stare beyond the fonts, I then became too enamored with the pictures of musical legends and the commemoration of the memories made for so many people to care.

    This exploration of the venue alongside everything else leading up to the musical performances foreshadowed the wholesome and mesmerizing concert that I chose to go to despite finals. On the Bart, I met another person who was going to the Big Talk (2025) tour. She hadn’t listened to any music by Couch but was crossing things off her bucket list and expressed a love for live music. I couldn’t think of a more mesmerizing way to get into new music than hearing it live, so I added another item to my bucket list. We had gotten to the venue quite early and spoke with attendees at a voting table, encouraging people to participate in their next local vote. They gave us chocolate and told us we would likely see them at the next Greek Theater concert hosted right before the elections. On a high after meeting kind and involved members of the community, I checked the prices of the nachos in the upstairs restaurant. It was less outrageously overpriced than I expected it to be, so we took the win and bought some delicious nachos. The nachos were complemented with free apples near the bar and people watching on the floor, waiting for the opener to come on. 

    This state of contentment transitioned into the opener Night Talks hyping us up for the lively and wholesome concert atmosphere. It was so cute to see not just young adults going with friends, but also parents carrying their children up to witness the music. As people caught on to the chorus, they would turn to their loved ones and excitedly mouth the lyrics while jumping up and down. As the performance progressed, the concert staff kept handing people free water from across the barricade in the front. Even with the energetic tempo, the respectful and safe concert atmosphere persisted.

    Night Talks lead singer Soraya Sebghati had amazing vocals and the most immaculate timing with her choreography. She did an amazing job of making eye contact and movement towards different areas of the audience while seamlessly enhancing the rhythm of the music. I wish I had seen her interact more with instrumentalists Jacob Butler and Josh Arteaga. I have always had a notion in my head about bands having to play off of each other’s excitement and movements as much as possible to make the performance feel more complete and reflective of the camaraderie involved in making music together. Ultimately, Night Talks brilliantly hyped up the audience for Couch and gave me a ton of new songs to add to my playlists. 

    The performance that Couch gave made me reimagine what playing music with other people and developing a relationship with the audience means to me. I always thought of stage presence as giving an awe-inspiring performance that made the audience feel like they were watching ethereal and mesmerizing artists. Couch showed me firsthand that performing like it’s a conversation is way more becoming and magical. Lead vocalist Tema Siegel announced their tradition of Couch family photos, where they pass around cameras for everyone to capture their memories in that place and time. After uploading the photos via QR codes, there was also a choice to buy a signed copy of the photo, where all profits go to a women’s shelter in their hometown of Boston. This felt like worlds colliding and a thoughtful gesture for making the audience feel their integral role in their journey while peering into their roots. During one of the songs, keyboard instrumentalist Danny Silverston split the audience up and taught us to harmonize with them for the final chorus. We didn’t sound very on-pitch, but I think we ultimately sounded cohesive, and it felt super cute. They also included the audience in celebrating their audience member turned crew member, which made it all the more fitting. They had Haley come on stage and play the saxophone, with everyone hyping her up and sending her off with handshakes and hugs. Their active effort in engaging the audience in the most wholesome ways went a long way in making the audience feel comfortable enough to engross themselves in the relevant and magical music they performed.

    The band’s stage presence and style reinforced this connection with the audience. They used blocking to ensure lighting and exposure went as planned, but their movements seemed too natural to be choreographed. It felt like they were going with the flow and enjoying themselves alongside us. The way they played off of each other’s energy and whispered to each other in the background reminded me of when I did theater, where it was so apparent when the camaraderie between performers is pivotal to keeping the enjoyment in everything. Their performance style also involved a lot of stage movement and spotlight movement that helped highlight individuals in the band and their solos. This approach to stage presence was bridged with the audience as Siegel prefaced numerous songs with vulnerable exposure to their roots through a musical way of talking. This relatability and positive emotions and people amidst handling these life experiences made singing “Am I the only one” during “Saturdays” and “Music makes a dreamer out of me” during “Poems” a life-changing experience. It was also surreal to see people of all ages singing their souls out to “Slow Burn”, a song about that inevitable and long-winded high school crush. When bringing the night to an end, they brought Sebghati back on stage to cover “Toxic” by Britney Spears with them. Any cover of “Toxic” where icons are brought together to enamor an audience reminds me of that iconic scene in Pitch Perfect 3, so this was everything I didn’t know I needed. Couch then graced us with a couple more songs before ending the night with “(I Wanted) Summer With You,” a perfect until next time for an audience which got so much more than they could hope for. 

     

    From the iconic music venue and the contagious love in their performance style to their active efforts in engaging with the audience, Couch left the audience with an unforgettable experience and a standard for live music. It was an amazing reminder to always be present and appreciate the opportunities around me, living my life one decision at a time–hopefully sometimes making good decisions like this one. 

    Written by Tanusha Kaushik

    Photos by Joyce Vang

  • What does it mean to be real? Jenny Hval’s “Iris Silver Mist”

    What does it mean to be real? Jenny Hval’s “Iris Silver Mist”

    I first listened to Jenny Hval last spring, just a few months before her 2025 release Iris Silver Mist. I had picked up her book in the limited international section of an English bookstore in Lyon, France, while I was studying abroad. Paradise Rot, an English translation of Perlebryggeriet (Pearl Brewery), is Norwegian author and musician Jenny Hval’s first novel. It is the hauntingly beautiful and shamelessly visceral exploration of Norwegian student Jo’s coming of age, ripe with newfound feelings, sexual desire, and intimacy. Taline Hagopian’s review of the book emphasizes Hval’s brilliant use of words, almost poetry, clearly birthed from her background as a musician. “The flashes of images she conjures in her writing are lyrical in their rhythm and fantasy…Hval writes passages so gorgeous in language that they beg to be read aloud, akin to poetry.” I read the entire book in one sitting on the sunny banks of the Seine River on April 8th of this year and promptly passed the book on to all of my friends, storing memories of them in the scribbles in the margins. My one request while reading the novel was that they listen to the entirety of Bjork’s Vespertine (2001) once it is mentioned, the boundary pushing, synth-forward, sometimes creepy album led by Bjork’s ghostly voice, adding a rich texture to Hval’s words. 

    Soon after finishing Paradise Rot, I found Hval’s extensive musical discography, as well as her only other English-translated book, Girls Against God, the English translation of the title Å hate Gud. Her most recent album, Iris Silver Mist, released on May 1st, 2025, (less than a month after that initial discovery at the bookstore), allowed me to explore a new side of Hval’s artistry, and she has now become one of my favorite musicians, reaching #1 in my own Spotify Wrapped. This review is an obvious extension of my goal to spread the word about the genius that is Jenny Hval.

      Hval’s albums have always been thematic, most notably her album  Blood Bitch (2016), which is inspired by horror films. Iris Silver Mist, named after a Maurice Roucel perfume for the French brand Serge Lutens, is sensorily centered, the detailed and emotional exploration of life, performance, and the nature of being, pairing nicely with the theme of scent. The lyrical and sonic landscape of the album is one that depicts isolation, post-COVID-19 and otherwise; the physical and emotional impacts of the art of performance; and life and death. Every time I sit down to listen to this album, I know I will be taken on a journey and that I will inevitably be transported to a different world. 

    The album begins with the 4-minute “Lay Down,” a sparse opening made up of Hval’s ghostly high-pitched voice underscored by warbling synths. A minute in, subtle but impactful, drums become the third sonic element of the track, adding to the ethereal atmosphere set by her voice. The second repetition of the chorus brings about doubling and harmonizing on the main vocal line, “I just want you to lay down / Down in the deep where your love comes from,” her voice continuing to fill out the world to come. Hval uses this song to introduce all the elements that are quintessential to her avant-garde and alternative style: a video-game evoking synth line, sampling of bird-song, and a spoken word section: “In that moment / 1995 / You were the daughter / And tonight / When I looked up from my notebook / There was a scythe in my hand.” Her lyrics are haunting and almost scary, representing experiences of life that are unilateral, personal, but obvious. The song makes you feel safe, aurally enveloping you in melody and atmosphere, that is, until you pay attention to the lyrics, often akin to violence. The end is resonant and fades again into bird song, which goes on uncomfortably long, perfectly fading into Track 2, “To be a rose.” The track immediately throws you off kilter with a sharp screech, maybe a cat crying, maybe an alarm blaring. The official music video further expresses Hval’s intentions through a mix of clips evoking found footage horror films: a grainy Hval onstage, Hval ripping up paper, artistic representations of landscapes and windows, TV static, and flashing lights. The music is initially off-kilter, brought on by the scream, jolts of synths, and unbalanced percussion. The lyrics continue to describe what seems to be her musical and lyrical process, “Now in my journal stage decorated with intention / The stage is obviously literally falling apart / A rose is a rose is a rose is a cigarette” and her experience as a performer, “And so I dress in the stage, the microphone / The flower bed underneath this curtain of calling.” The chorus is nearly a ballad, horns adding a much-needed melody underneath Hval’s voice, moving in a more upbeat fashion. Her lyrics continue to make little sense on the surface, but her want, need, and despair are clear: “Give me a rose / Too far to be a rose.” The point of her songs is not to express a linear story, but to evoke her experience, to allow you to close your eyes and step into her shoes, to inform your senses as well as your mind, the way perfume does, or music, rhythm, movement, and even emotions like love and fear do.

    Though writing her novels in Norwegian, Jenny Hval has written all of her songs in English. This inclination hints at some sort of fascination with the English language, an interest in exploring its function for art. Her senior thesis at the University of Melbourne, where she studied creative writing and performance, was also in English, titled The Singing Voice as Literature. Her frequent use of spoken-word sections, often likened to Laurie Anderson, makes it clear that the subject of vocals, lyrics, and English words are important to her musical process. 

    The end of Track 3, “I want to start at the beginning,” sounds almost as if Hval is playing with sounds in her own mouth–figuring out what they taste like, where best they fit, bouncing through all the adjectives she can think of. The result is uncomfortable and raw, lyrics that feel unfinished, like you shouldn’t be allowed to listen, like you’re a voyeur.  “Juice, warm, voluptuous / With muscle and fat / Texture and resistance / Animalic, toxic / Touch or tender, burnt / Loved, real / I used to be that.” Hearing her explain her thesis more, it is clear that lyrical content is not her main concern. In an interview, Jenny Hval describes her thesis, which focuses on Kate Bush, in a little more detail. “I was writing about things like, ‘How do you analyze uses of reverb in relation to the meaning of language?’ It creates associations, it creates space, and it creates texture. So when she uses things like animal sounds and various descriptive elements, and inhabits them with her voice, I was arguing that it is the poetic work to be analyzed, not the lyric sheet.” Listening back to her spoken word sections, you can feel how these words are meant to inform a texture and atmosphere, how the many experimental uses of sound are just as, if not more, notable than their content.

    Track 4, “All night long,” is my favorite track off the album, and starts abruptly. Hval’s voice still stands out, but simultaneously blends into the moving sonic landscape, making you want to move your body. A 30-second spoken word second, which feels like it takes years, describes very bluntly a scene we can all imagine, in stark contrast to the wandering musings of her lyrics thus far. “Do you remember all the / Pandemic birthdays? A friend / Received so many flowers / It looked like she had died / She found herself absent / Absent from her own house / Happy birthday!” Keyboards and synths carry us into the chorus: “All night long in my absence / All night long for the others / All night long with the choices.” Before a final repetition of the chorus, the piece becomes suddenly fast-paced and anxiety-inducing, stressful vocalizations and plucking in the background accelerating as she sings of the experience of performing. “I’m performing there / Performing on top of my bones, mine and my family’s bones / As long as I’m performing, I’m not choosing, or dying / I’m performing in the speed of light / Faster than autotune can read and transform a note / Faster than a microphone can pick up any sound / Dodging the entire industry / Just living matter moving through light and shadow” It’s an interesting experience, to watch an artist explain the painful and dehumanising experience of being a performer. Seeing her at the Philharmonie de Paris on Sunday, June 29th, this past summer in Paris was an atypical concert-going experience.  The venue was traditionally used for classical concerts, which meant the entire audience sat down, there was no opener, and there was strictly no filming. We sat and listened–and there was little to distract from the horror her lyrics were describing. 

    By Track 5, “You died,” the theme of death is obvious. Sonically similar to earlier songs, made up of driving drums, droning synths, and the familiarly off-putting shakers, plucking, and video-game synths, the song is a departure from the existential and internal experience of performing explored thus far.  Instead, Hval tenderly describes the universal experience of a pet’s death. Her voice is light and floats above the song, and the ending captures zippers, footsteps, and heavy breathing, carrying you into the titular track “Spirit mist,” whose only lyrics, “I want to start at the beginning / In the beginning-” cut off abruptly. The horror film that the beginning of the song evokes, footsteps and far-off conversations, fades into rhythmic and repetitive arpeggios, capturing the insanity-inducing practice of a musician, and the existential battle that follows. “I don’t know what free is” again outlines the experience of performing, of struggling to be present, of what it is to be real, or an imagination, or a ghost. To disappear, to breathe, to die. The song explores the push and pull of outward and inward forces and how they entangle into self-sabotage in the body. The song is not a protest, but an exploration of her feelings in a world increasingly taken over by performance, by digital creation, by poisons to the body and mind. The titular words, “I don’t know what free is,”  describe the understanding that something is wrong, but not knowing the solution. Her playful use of vocal improvisations, of synths and drums, and birdsongs, are clearly her way of understanding and expressing these unsolvable but very real bodily sensations. 

    “The artist is absent” is an exploration of the performer’s experience, the physical sensation of leaving the body, of searching for help in others, movement, and sound. “Somebody help me now / A stage without a show / A hazy silhouette / The artist is absent / They have left the building / Body without organization / Becoming animal-nimal.” An extended version of the song “The artist is absent – 89 seconds rewrite” and the live performance both elongate the drum solo in the middle of the song, where Hval, her keyboardist, and dancer frolic together across the stage. Free and animalistic, their intimate connection to one another and to the process of making and performing music is celebrated in their movement. The music video also invokes the confusion and dream-like stage that the rest of the album has represented, the weirdness of living today, of performing on a stage, of being in the music industry. The dancer, who I recognize from Hval’s live show, wears a short yellow wig over her long hair and playfully dances about a small room, bright blue and pink light backlighting her jolty and emotional movement. The end of the extended version includes a deeper electronic bass, suggesting that this music is meant to be danced to, to be moved to. Hval’s insistence on having a dancer in her live show–someone who never plays any music–is evidence of this. Her inclusion is also a way to give Hval a break from performing, as throughout the entirety of the show, she intentionally diverts the attention and greedy eyes of an audience off of herself. The music video ends with the two embracing, live recordings of their laughter and chatter, alongside their clothes and skin brushing against each other and the camera. The very last shot is of Hval’s teeth in a great smile. This and the next track both are less than a minute and a half, engulfing you in a world and then immediately moving on, a sonic rollercoaster engineered to blend seamlessly.

    Track 11, “The Gift,” includes more electronic sounds than we’ve heard thus far, the lyrics describing finality “after the show.” The lyric “When the world is new” is accompanied by guitars, clicks, snaps, and the percolations of synths, of violins. But “A ballad” brings us starkly back to reality. A piece played completely comedic in her live setting is a once again blunt description of being onstage: its mundanity, insanity, and physical reality. At the live show, “I don’t know why I’m up here / I mean, on stage” included Hval’s dancer holding up and subsequently littering the floor with pages containing the lyrics, a vestige of days Hval performed sick and had to speak instead of sing the words, using these pieces of paper in case audience members couldn’t hear what she was saying in her croaking, sickly state. This performance was a deeply comedic juxtaposition between serious lyrics and comedic performance. 

    The final track is instrumental, titled “I want the end to sound like this,” both comedic and completely Hval. What a stress it must be to create the perfect final track, to title it, to put a button on an entire years-worth of work. Hval’s ending is cinematic and dreary, allowing you to float along a landscape, giving you time to think about all she has put on us.  Our own feelings of being in our body, of being out of it, of being true to oneself, of creating art, of performing, of coping. Beyond the occasional chirp, the atmosphere is serene, but not quite peaceful. Instead, it is nearly overwhelming, imploring further exploration and physical sensation. What does it mean to be real? What does it mean to be true to oneself? 

    The end fades easily into nothingness, the final vocalization on an “eeee” not demanding your continued attention, but gratefully disappearing, leaving you completely alone.

     

    Written by Peri Zoe Yildirim-Stanley

    Cover Photo by Lasse Marhaug for Pitchfork

    Additional Photos: Cover of book “Paradise Rot,” cover of vinyl “Iris Silver Mist,” photo by Wasserman Booking Agency, and stills from music video “A Ballad” and “The Artist is Absent”

  • Against the Noise: The Quiet Power of Izzy & Emma

    Against the Noise: The Quiet Power of Izzy & Emma

    Now more than ever, it is crucial that we all remain intentional with the media we consume. The way we each move through the world and choose what we watch, read, and listen to reflects the ongoing loss of equitable representation in mainstream media. Too often, characters are written with only surface-level depth. The portrayal of marginalized groups in the media remains shallow and predictable, reinforcing narrow ideas of race, gender and sexuality. In a media landscape where representations fall to stereotypes, the stakes of what we absorb are impossibly high.

    As mainstream media continues to fail at offering genuine or nuanced representation, content creators have stepped in to fill the void. Many of them produce work that resonates with audiences who finally see themselves reflected. Creating digital pockets where identity, humor, and belonging can coexist freely. There exists a growing number of queer media on platforms such as TikTok, YouTube, Instagram – all platforms that are essential to the culture makeup of American youth. 

    Yet this shift comes with its own complications. Many well-known creators on social media do not move with the intention (or capacity) of producing content that truly represents their audiences and their lived experiences. And to be fair, it’s an incredibly heavy burden to expect anyone to serve as the moral compass for young people on the internet. As a result, it often feels easier for creators to avoid anything that calls attention to disparity altogether. Queer media is becoming increasingly visible and intertwined with pop culture, the sheer volume of content that is stuffed down our throats not allowing for an understanding of what it symbolizes in our current sociopolitical climate. Content creation, as a medium, sustains a constant “shock factor” while remaining relentlessly consistent and timely– a combination that can blur deeper meaning. The result of this new media landscape becomes more about constant output than meaningful engagement. Even when creators produce queer representative media it falls under what is “trending’, making it nearly impossible to escape the political weight that frames queer existence today. 

    How can all of that be swallowed? 

    There truly is no way to understand all that has been happening. It makes sense that in this climate, pop culture has increasingly become superficial, a tool for mindless consumption. Serving only as a means of temporary escape from reality. Mindless consumption is no longer sufficient. 

    Amid this landscape, a few creators manage to cut through the noise. Izzy and Emma, known online as turtlewhat, have risen through Tiktok and Youtube for their vulnerable, awkward and irony soaked content. Their videos create a distinctively queer community on the internet, anchored in the quiet steadiness of their seven-year relationship. For many young queer women navigating a future that feels increasingly fragile, Izzy and Emma mirror possibility. Their content is lighthearted and intimate, documenting an ordinary joyful love that is needed in today’s America.  

    Their presence extends beyond social media. Izzy and Emma have been featured in a total of 3 music videos- Umi’s 10 am and Alice Phoebe Lou’s Mind Reader and Oblivion. Each music video from the varying artists positions Izzy and Emma as the emotional center of the narrative. In a culture where queer female relationships are sexualized – due to the ignorance of the patriarchy not taking women seriously. All portrayals of love between two women are instead seen universally as symbols of the erotic in any type of media produced. Their role is to give or get a reaction. Izzy and Emma step outside of this and offer us something new. The music videos depict tenderness without performance. Affection without spectacle. It calls on the feelings of giving and sharing love with others, gentle and real. The dream-like montage in Oblivion specifically captures the feeling of being understood by another with rare precision. Watching them makes me miss being in love, a longing I hold only because I have known what love is, and can fully recognize the raw emotion  behind their portrayal. There is no better feeling, and they embody this feeling in everything that they do. 

    Izzy and Emma have contributed to the growing archive of equitable, honest documentation of young queer love. In a generation searching endlessly for something (or someone) to anchor themselves in as the world cracks. They embody a version of queer love that is not politicized or sensationalized, but lived. 

    That possibility is power – and that is what makes them beautiful.

     

    Written by: Alicia Gonzalez – Gastelum

    Photo by: Karina Sandhu

  • Why do I sob every time I listen to “America” by Simon and Garfunkel?

    Why do I sob every time I listen to “America” by Simon and Garfunkel?

    “I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why” are all-too-familiar lyrics to a disillusioned twenty-something trying to get by in the United States. They come from one of the most gut-wrenching songs of all time: “America” by legendary folk-rock duo Simon & Garfunkel. While the song was climbing the Billboard charts some 57 years ago, it seems to resonate over and over with various audiences since its release, with every generation finding a new reason to relate to its meaning.

    “America” begins with a deep, resonant hum, followed by the deceptively carefree and optimistic opening lines (penned by lyricist Paul Simon), “Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together / I’ve got some real estate here in my bag.” The contrast drawn between the penniless lovers about to embark on a road trip and this ominous, strangely beautiful sound foreshadows the loss of hope the listener is about to bear witness to. The speaker and his lover, Kathy, arm themselves with cigarettes and pies as their unspoken quest begins.

    We learn the speaker has hitchhiked to Pittsburgh from Saginaw, Michigan, and the lovers board a bus towards New Jersey. While on the bus, they make up backstories for their fellow passengers as a means of passing the time. Kathy imagines that one man on the bus is a spy as Simon expertly toys with the idea of American anonymity. The pair feel no unity or association with their fellow citizens, and beyond that, there’s a sense of distrust and deception aboard the bus. In theory, American citizens have a common desire for success, with the ever-present belief in the “American Dream” – that anyone can “make it” in their nation. But this camaraderie is absent.

    After exiting the bus, in a jarring yet expected mood shift, the narrator expresses his sense of disillusionment to a sleeping Kathy. His feelings of loss and emptiness cannot be pinpointed, leaving the narrator in a perpetual haze. This outpour of emotion falls on an ear that cannot hear them—the speaker cannot express his melancholy, even to his lover who sleeps beside him. Even in his interpersonal relationships, the speaker maintains a certain level of obscurity in exploring his national identity. An uncanny sense of shame is present here: the notion that we as a nation have failed in upholding the promises we were raised on.

    The song tells a tale of loss, of anonymity, of searching for something that may not exist. The repeated refrain of “[we’ve/I’ve/they’ve] gone to look for America” seems to ask an unanswerable, fleeting question, one that seems somehow familiar to American audiences. 

    The pair are attempting to discover America whilst being physically in it—not searching for something literal, but instead for the beliefs and ideals this country was founded upon. And this concept is nowhere in sight. To a listener in 1968, this search would have felt all too familiar: the same year this song was released, the nation witnessed the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., the conclusion of the Civil Rights Movement, and the escalation of the Vietnam War. 1968 is known as one of the most turbulent years in 20th century American history, with many in the country disillusioned by the receding promises of the nation. The speaker’s emotions felt familiar to listeners, and the distance between the ideals and the reality of the nation seemed all the further.

    So, what is America? How do we begin to answer that insurmountable idea? In 1965, President Lyndon B. Johnson attempted to answer such a question in his inaugural address. He spoke, “For this is what America is all about. It is the uncrossed desert and the unclimbed ridge. It is the star that is not reached and the harvest that is sleeping in the unplowed ground.” America is a nation of possibilities, of hypotheticals. But what happens when these mercurial possibilities slip away from our reach?

    For a new generation of listeners, this question of what we as a nation are still echoes. America’s promises have been rescinded over and over, especially in the modern era—in particular, the Trump administration. We’re foundation-less. It’s becoming harder and harder to believe anyone can reach prosperity on American soil, with those in power fighting to take opportunities away from the people instead of giving them. The American experiment feels like a failure now more than ever.

    Simon and Garfunkel’s song “America” closes with the image of “the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike” evoking a feeling of restlessness, of a multitude of lost souls who, too, are searching for the fleeting American spirit. And even today, the New Jersey Turnpike is one of the most frequently-traveled highways in the nation. The road remains and the search continues.

    Our search for meaning is perpetual, but perhaps we’re not alone in it.

     

    Written by Mia Slumskie

    Featured Image by Genius

  • Love is in the air with Danny Brown and Underscores

    Love is in the air with Danny Brown and Underscores

    Exiting the building, my shirt was damp. I’m still not sure if it was my own sweat or the people jumping around me in the mosh pit. 

    Passing over the Bay Bridge from Berkeley into San Francisco felt like traveling through realms. San Francisco shared the same crisp air as Berkeley the night of the Danny Brown concert. I arrived at the Regency Ballroom around eight o’clock. I had recently become a fan of Danny Brown over the summer time when I discovered his vibrant album Hot Soup (2008). Without listening to a whole lot of his music, I was not exactly sure what to expect from Danny Brown himself or from the audience. However, from the little I did know, I knew that I would not be disappointed.

     I walked into the Regency Ballroom, covered in white and gold embellishments around the entirety of the ceiling and railings of the second story. Crystal beaded chandeliers hang in pairs down the ceiling from one end to another. Upon walking into the room where femtanyl was playing, I could feel the excitement delivered through sweat and musty air. The warmth in the air hugged me as I assumed it did to everyone else in the room. Regardless of my never having heard of this music project before, I was entranced. I hung onto every one of the chaotic and high-energy beats that they threw across the room. The same way that the beats pierced through theroom was parallel to the LED lights that flashed on and off. Moments that the lights turned off meant that the music paused for a moment, confusing the passionate crowd. Extreme bashes of sound and flashing lights would then take over the room, suddenly fueling the yearning of the crowd for more. I was only able to hear a few of their songs as looking for parking failed to be an easy task in the big city of San Francisco.

    At the last concert that I went to, the Regency Ballroom, I had been told that sitting on the second floor had some appealing attributes. Those would be not having to fight through the crowd and being able to use the bathroom without entirely losing your place in the audience. I chose to indulge in this option while waiting for the second set, Underscores. I sat as close as I could to the stage. After twenty minutes that felt like years, the screen started to flash an outline of headphones. Again, I had never heard of this artist before, so the headphones meant nothing to me, but I was intrigued by this presentation. Finally, a woman in baggy cargo pants and a fitted shirt came out on stage, wielding a little suitcase with the same headphone logos. Similar to the first set, white lights beamed across the stage, cutting through the darkness in the crowd. From my chair on the second story, I watched as the crowd moved in unity. Everyone shared the same excitement, the same hops, and screams with one another. Frankly, I found myself getting jealous of the crowd. The second story morphed into a cage separating me from the wildly passionate crowd.

    I could not take it anymore, I needed to be one with the fierce crowd… so I ran down to make sure I would not miss another moment. I came down the gold railing and old carpet stairs into the stomach of the beast. I already accepted I was not going to have a great place to stand, but it was better than the lonesome chair. Every beat bounced with the audience. The vibrations of the jumps created more hot air in the room. Between the movement and inhaling one another’s heat, the room was unified through hyper-pop sounds and dubstep beats. Despite the unpredictable vibrations of electronic elements, Underscores still managed to stay fluid in her sound and movements. Theatrics came into play throughout the performance: large letters scrolled across the screen, wind machines whipped through her hair, and the pace of the flashing lights grew faster and faster. Movement in the room that proved the thrill of the audience was followed by a bombardment of a weed smell. The wind machine and the air turning hazy from the smoke in the room paired together to make Underscores look angelic. As she sang, I could not help but notice that her voice and the beat were at the same volume, making it easy to indulge in one or the other.

    At the last few songs, the crowd still failed to be tired out from the excitement of Underscores. The chemistry between her and the music remained prominent for the entirety of her performance. Before coming to the end, she spoke out to us, acknowledging that San Francisco was her hometown. Performing there was a “full circle moment” for her, as she used to go out to shows with her friends previously. Her speech walked us into her final song. Before starting it, however, she had one request: “open it as big as it would go.” Her song struck the crowd quickly; everyone was moving and moshing before the instrumental introduction came to an end with her vocals. Truthfully, the last time I had been in a mosh pit was at a heavy metal concert, and I was elbowed in the face so bad I stumbled back and fell to the floor. The embarrassment was worse than the pain and wondering if I had a concussion, so I had not gone in one since. 

    Despite my mosh pit insecurity, there was something romantic about Underscore’s crowd, something loving, something asking to act in unity. Therefore, I ran in, I jumped, shoved, got shoved, and got hit with a shoulder in the face this time instead of an elbow. The song ended too soon, it felt, and the pit dissipated. My hunch about the pit being one of love proved correct as people with handheld fans blew wind over the crowd that had just finished jumping around. After standing under the fan, the lights dimmed down with Underscores thanking us. There was a sudden chant of “shoe, shoe, shoe” coming from behind me. Someone had lost their shoe in the mosh pit. As an attempt to get the shoe back to the rightful owner, a tall man held the shoe up with a flashlight, and the chants continued until the shoe was home again. The lights completely went black as Underscores left the stage, and we were left waiting for Danny Brown under hazy blue lights.

    Out of sheer luck, the moshpit had pushed me to the front of the venue. I was closer to the stage than I ever expected to be, considering my late entrance. After waiting roughly twenty minutes once again, hints of Danny Brown’s arrival began. The start of this was a large cube made of LED lights. Lights of the cube started flashing white and blue, a sight for sore eyes after yearning for sound again. Suddenly, the entire energy of the crowd shifted. The stillness that the room adopted in the duration of twenty minutes was completely revoked. Finally, the sight of Danny Brown transformed everyone into soldiers in formation, waiting to relieve the tension that had built up from the stillness.

    Tall, shirtless, in a fur coat, Danny Brown danced in the cube passionately rapping to the audience. Of all the hardcore shows and concerts overall that I had been to, I was not at all prepared for the wrath of this audience. The crowd packed tight like sardines. I could not lift my arms up or down; I was confined to the position I was standing in from when the crowd first started fusing together. I forgot what fresh air even felt like all together from the sweat, weed, vape, and spilled beer in the venue (being just inches away from strangers’ faces also did not help this at all). The white beaming lights and LEDs from the cube turned to a neon green and purple. The only time the crowd became willing to slow down was if Brown was not being enthusiastic. The more movement that he engaged in, the more the crowd would push into one another.

    I do not think that I would have been able to leave the spot that I was in even if I wanted to. The force of the crowd pushed and shoved me in all directions; at some points, I was not even able to jump around. I had never been so close to so many people at once before. Brown himself seemed to be consumed by the music. There was a deep passion in him that seemed to make him go on nonstop. He flowed from song to song with no breaks. It was a constant flow of electronic sounds and fast rapping. I became so entranced with the love of the crowd and his performance that I did not stop to think about the fact that I had never heard any of these songs. In his Hot Soup (2008) album, he showcases more of a traditional,gangster-rap style sound. What he was performing in the Regency Ballroom was nothing like this. This form of Brown was experimental, with an aggressive and frenzied pace of music. In a similar fashion, the beats seemed to run away from themselves with their fast pace and drum bashes between them.

    The excitement only continued to grow as Danny Brown paused for the first time in his set to talk to the crowd. In another moment of love and unity at this show, he explained, “You guys made me fall back in love with this music shit.” His commentary ended with loud screams and applause from the crowd. He continued rapping afterwards, only making more and more tension in the crowd that needed to be released. There was not a moment during his set that there were not people smushed on all sides of me. I could not help but notice all the smiling faces from the liveliness of the room. Some faces even looked relieved, almost like they had been waiting for this moment for a while now.

    As the set began to come to an end, the aggression of the crowd never died down, and the lighting reflected as such. Red lights sliced through the room. Brown energetically ran backward and forward through each song; he never seemed to slow down. He did not warn the audience that it was going to be his last song, so it seemed the show abruptly ended with a “Thank you” while he walked off stage. The audience pleaded for another song, but he did not budge. After having my personal space invaded for the hour that the set lasted, I was sad to have the experience end, but relieved that I would be able to breathe fresh air once again. I walked out of the building with the crowd and stood outside by myself for a moment. Exiting the building, my shirt was damp. I’m still not sure if it was my own sweat or the people jumping around me in the mosh pit. My jeans stuck to the back of my knees from sweating, similar to how my hair was stuck to the back of my neck. All marks of a good show with love in the air. 

    Written by Arianna Piccolo 

    Photos by Armani Allen

  • I paused my video game to be here… (how Animal Crossing stole our hearts)

    I paused my video game to be here… (how Animal Crossing stole our hearts)

    As most people during the Covid-19 pandemic, I was often found on my Animal Crossing: New Horizons island, a virtual escape from the very real and very unfortunate happenings in the world at the time. Truthfully, I spent too much time on ACNH. I have vivid memories of waking up and logging onto my island before I even thought about opening Zoom for virtual classes. Obtaining farming bells (game currency), talking to my villagers and building friendships with them, and trading various in-game items with online strangers were the priorities on my daily to-do lists. Fast forward to now, and I haven’t touched the game in years. This is due to a multitude of reasons: Nintendo announcing in October of 2021 they wouldn’t make anymore updates to the game, my villagers guilt-tripping me when I log back on after a long time, and a general feeling that I’ve “completed” Animal Crossing. The latter seems to be a sentiment carried by a lot of people, hence some opting to restart their game from the beginning. 

    On October 30, 2025, Nintendo shockingly announced a new Animal Crossing update. Ever since, Animal Crossing has been on my mind. Around the same time of the update announcement, I saw a tweet saying ANCH has a song very similar to D’Angelo’s “Untitled (How Does It Feel),” which inspired this piece. In anticipation of new game content, let’s explore some of Animal Crossing: New Horizons’ musical inspirations and how the game captivated the world.

    Animal Crossing: New Horizons is the fifth mainline installation of the Animal Crossing video game series. ACNH was released a whole seven years after the last game, Animal Crossing: New Leaf, on March 20, 2020. The release date set it up for success, being just five days after states across the U.S. began enforcing COVID-19 lockdowns, when many turned to video games for entertainment. I remember seeing an array of opportunities for friends to connect virtually all over my social media at the time. Both longtime fans and newcomers to the Animal Crossing series were thrilled.

    Of course, I decided I needed to buy a pink Nintendo Switch Lite and join the rest of the world on Animal Crossing. In many videos I saw of the game, there was peaceful music in the background. As I came to learn, each hour of the game possesses a different song that accompanies it; they are generally lo-fi with some jazz elements. The songs are specifically meant to serve as an additive to the ambiance rather than distract from it, as the lead composer states in an interview. When we take note that the original soundtrack was composed at Nintendo Japan, their gravitation to jazz-influenced sounds makes complete sense. Japan’s jazz-heavy music scene in the early 20th Century and its subsequent impact surfaces through the hourly tracks in the game meant for easy listening.

    An early task of the game is to populate your island with enough villagers (the little animal characters) to have K.K. Slider, a renowned dog-musician, perform. The musical character derives his likeness from Animal Crossing’s lead composer of the series’ lifetime; Kazumi Totaka. As a composer, Totaka has worked across many Nintendo games. However, none showcase the level of musical diversity as in the Animal Crossing series. Across ACNH, Slider can play a total of 110 songs, varying in genre from reggae to rock to pop to metal. The songs are able to be collected after in-game concerts, which make for a genre-full collection of music. As a game that is readily available around the world, the collection of music reflects the aim for inclusivity similar to updates to include more diverse hairstyles does. Totaka says in an interview with famitsu.com that the “diversity of players” was of significant importance when composing for ACNH. 

    My villagers celebrating my birthday
    Photo by Manny Rivas

    As for the D’Angelo 1am Island song…it’s most likely just a coincidence. The composer listed in the credits is Yumi Takahashi, with no credits to D’Angelo. Whether it was influenced by D’Angelo one can’t be sure of, but it definitely wasn’t a collaboration. With the wide inclusion of genres of music, it’s evident the importance of inclusion that went into making the game was widespread, down to the music. Part of the intrigue to Animal Crossing: New Horizons was the replication of community interaction that was halted by the ongoing quarantine of 2020. Between going to concerts and cafes to celebrating birthdays, the game offers a virtual opportunity to do what quarantine disallowed–human connection. 

     

    Article by Manny Rivas

    Photos by Manny Rivas via Animal Crossing: New Horizons

  • Remembering D’Angelo: A Museum Tour of his Discography and Legacy

    Remembering D’Angelo: A Museum Tour of his Discography and Legacy

    Before we begin, I highly recommend you pull out your phone, a YouTube tab, an 1800s phonograph, or whatever else can play music so you can listen along to what we’ll be talking about. Think of it like the MP3 player you get when you go to a museum! With that being said, please put on “Spanish Joint,” off D’Angelo’s 2000 album Voodoo. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. 

    Okay, got it? Great!

    Before I knew who D’Angelo was, I distinctly remembered his sound. Growing up, my parents would often play his music around the house or on the drive to school. There was something about his smooth, upper-register voice and luscious basslines, strings, and horns that hooked me. When I discovered the name behind the sound, I added a few songs here and there to my playlists, but it wasn’t for several years that I looked into his story and realized just how interesting and influential he was and remains.

    On October 14th, D’Angelo tragically passed away from pancreatic cancer, which he had been battling privately. Over the few days following his death, many of my favorite artists offered their respects on social media, proclaiming how much of an inspiration D’Angelo was for them. To someone who may not have been aware of D’Angelo’s music, there’s a likely chance that an artist you listen to has been inspired by his powerful discography. Despite only releasing three studio albums since his debut in 1995, D’Angelo left a deep impact on the music industry, from his “home genre” of Neo Soul to Hip-Hop and R&B. To honor the legacy of one of the smoothest to ever do it, I’d like to shed light on D’Angelo’s story, some of my favorite works of his, and why you should go listen to him (beyond your listening now, right??!).

    Born as Michael Eugene Archer in 1974, D’Angelo started his career in music from a young age, playing the piano in his family home as early as three years old. After performing in his father’s church, D’Angelo formed several musical groups as a teenager, including the band Precise. It was with Precise that D’Angelo won a cash prize in the Amateur Night competition in Harlem’s historic Apollo Theater in 1991. This would later inspire him to purchase a keyboard and 4-track recorder, and begin producing an album, his eventual debut: Brown Sugar (1995).

    Soon after his success at the Apollo Theater, D’Angelo moved to New York to pursue his music career, where he received a recording contract in 1993 with EMI Music, beginning his production on Brown Sugar. Unlike contemporary musicians in similar genres, D’Angelo handled most of the production by himself, also partially contributing to guitar, bass, drums, keys, and saxophone elements. In fact, if you look at the credits for this album, every track says “All vocals by D’Angelo,” and a large chunk of them add  “All instruments by D’Angelo.” Other collaborations on this album included production by Ali Shaheed Muhammad from A Tribe Called Quest, Oakland-based R&B multi-instrumentalist Raphael Saadiq, and the late singer-songwriter Angie Stone.

    If you’re done taking in the groove of “Spanish Joint” (take your time!), please press play on the first track of Brown Sugar…also called “Brown Sugar.”

    If I had to describe this album in one word, it would undeniably be “smoooooooth,” with an uncomfortable amount of o’s. Just listening to this first track, you would have to be a robot not to instinctively bob your head to the beat. The melodic bassline accompanied with minimal yet hard-hitting drums provides a grounded groove with a large “pocket,” the space in which a beat feels “correct.” On top of this, vintage keys like the Rhodes Electric Piano and Wurlitzer Organ float above the bassline, where we find D’Angelo singing with his signature falsetto sound, reminiscent of Al Green and Prince.

    With its beautiful production and stand-out singles, such as “Me and Those Dreamin’ Eyes of Mine,” “Lady,”  and of course, the title track, Brown Sugar was a hit. The debut spent 65 weeks on the Billboard 200 chart, earning 4 Grammy nominations and extensive critical acclaim. Rolling Stone emphasizes D’Angelo’s use of vintage sounds in new contexts, noting that “Brown Sugar is a reminder of where R&B has been and, if the genre is to resurrect its creative relevance like a phoenix rising from the ashes, where it needs to go” (Coker).

    From this point onwards, D’Angelo was a name to be remembered. However, the massive success of his album didn’t come without drawbacks. After touring to promote the release of Brown Sugar, he suffered a case of writer’s block, which left him limited to releasing covers and working as a collaborator with notable figures such as Lauryn Hill on “Nothing Even Matters” and Erykah Badu on a cover of “Your Precious Love” by Tammi Terrell. However, this would be relieved quickly with the help of The Soulquarians.

    Before moving on to the next album, Brown Sugar can’t be mentioned without talking about its contribution to forming The Soulquarians, one of the funkiest music collectives of its time. After Questlove, the drummer for The Roots, was handed a cassette tape for Brown Sugar after the 1995 Source Awards, he realized that D’Angelo had something special and sought out working with him. They would later come together with other creatives such as legendary producer J Dilla, rapper Common, songwriter James Poyser, Erykah Badu, and more, frequently holding jam sessions and simultaneously working on their individual projects and albums in Electric Lady Studios in New York. Some of the greatest albums of their time would be released through them, including The Roots’ Things Fall Apart (1999), Erykah Badu’s Mama’s Gun (2000), and, of course, D’Angelo’s Voodoo (2000).

    Please put on the track “Untitled (How Does It Feel)” from Voodoo once you’re ready to move on.

    Despite releasing a lengthy five years after Brown Sugar, I think that Voodoo would even have been worth the wait after ten years. While Brown Sugar danced around traditional romance and heartbreak themes, Voodoo started to reach deeper, touching on topics such as materialism in “Devil’s Pie”, his musical influences and intimacy in “Feel like Makin’ Love” and “Untitled (How Does It Feel)”, and fatherhood in “Africa.” However, the real star of Voodoo is the music behind the lyrics, now backed up with help from The Soulquarians, featuring J Dilla on production, Questlove on drums, Pino Palladino on bass, and Roy Hargrove on horns, just to name a few.

    Voodoo was a chart-shattering success, debuting at #1 on the US Billboard 200, selling over 500,000 copies in the first two months, receiving glowing reviews, and eventually winning two Grammys for Best R&B Album and Best Male R&B Vocal Performance (for the track you’re hopefully listening to right now!). If Brown Sugar wasn’t enough, Voodoo cemented D’Angelo as a generational talent.

    However, the fame that came with this release would not come without its drawbacks. Following the album release came the music video for “Untitled (How Does It Feel)” featuring D’Angelo shirtless on a black background, appearing to look nude with the camera never dipping below the waist. As the music played, he lip-synced along while the camera panned to different sides and zooms, showing all the contours of his muscles as beads of sweat slid down them. While this video was meant to capture the feeling of intimacy, it also elevated the perception of D’Angelo as a sex symbol, which was not something he intended, nor wanted. After the tour for Voodoo, where he faced cheers from the crowd to take off his clothes on several occasions, D’Angelo would start to slip away from the public eye. He began to lose trust for why people flocked to his music, with Questlove noting “The audience thinking, ‘Fuck your art, I wanna see your ass!’ made him angry” (Peisner 68).

    After the suicide of a close friend in 2001 and his long-term girlfriend leaving him in 2005, D’Angelo began to spiral, turning to alcohol and losing connections with collaborators and labels, eventually getting arrested for a DUI and possession of marijuana and cocaine. This marked rock bottom for D’Angelo’s career. While still appearing sporadically as a feature on other projects such as J Dilla’s The Shining (2006) and Common’s Finding Forever (2007), D’Angelo’s solo work came to a standstill, with anxiety brewing over making a record to appropriately follow Voodoo, and the reputation he now held because of it. In his lowest points, D’Angelo tried to work on his next album entirely by himself, playing all the recorded instruments reminiscent of Brown Sugar, but eventually found the help of Pino Palladino and drummer James Gadson to slowly but surely create his third (and what would be final) album, one fueled by grief, love, pain, and a now-long experience in the music industry: Black Messiah (2014). 

    Please put on the track “Really Love” from Black Messiah. I HIGHLY recommend just listening to the first 90 seconds of the intro before continuing reading, to take it in. If you don’t want to check your phone, just wait for the drums to come in; you’ll know when.

    Taking its name from a memo sent within the Counter-Intelligence Program, a series of government projects in the 50’s and 60’s aimed to topple black political organizations, Black Messiah speaks not only about D’Angelo’s personal battles, but the social and political upheaval happening around him, calling out on racial violence and oppression in his lyrics. The album was even released a year before its planned drop, prompted by the killings of Eric Garner and Michael Brown by police officers in July and August, respectively.

    More specifically, the year of this release was 2014, 14 whole years after Voodoo. Even though the hype and fame had died down since his last album, Black Messiah is truly something special. Knowing the context, you can hear the history and years of ups and downs in D’Angelo’s career in these tracks, in his voice. Like the album cover itself, the whole album feels as though it takes place in a grainy monochrome haze, an old photograph looking back at the Neo-Soul sound as if it was brand new again. For reference, other albums released in this year include Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City (2012) by Kendrick Lamar, and Random Access Memories (2013) by Daft Punk.

    Despite calling it an old photograph, Black Messiah is anything but dusty and muffled. Each track is clear in its intention. Like the crisp and punchy drums in “Ain’t That Easy”, lush piano chords (with some crazy chord changes!) on “Another Life,” and of course the Spanish guitar on “Really Love”, each track has beautiful production, down to the details of slightly shifted drum rhythms and barely-heard harmonies and layering in the vocals. While Black Messiah did not chart as high as D’Angelo’s previous albums, it received universal acclaim from critics and went on to win two Grammys for Best R&B Album and Best R&B Song.

    After the release of Black Messiah, D’Angelo seemed to find stable footing again. He occasionally appeared on features and projects and continued to work on solo music in the background, eventually recovering from the stress and turmoil that came with being in the spotlight. As longtime collaborator and friend Raphael Saadiq said in 2024, “D’s in a good space right now.” (Diaz).

    While D’Angelo may no longer be with us, his influence and legacy still remain in these three albums, and all the musicians that he influenced over the years. While there is so much more that could be said for each album and every song in it, I hope you like D’Angelo’s sound enough to go listen to some more tracks by yourself, find your own favorites, add him to your playlists, and feel the love and soul put behind each bassline and drum groove. May he rest in peace.

     

    Article by Ziggy Gardiner

    Photo by Marc Millman

    Citations:

    Coker, Cheo H. “Brown Sugar.” Rolling Stone, Rolling Stone, 7 Sept. 1995, www.rollingstone.com/music/music-album-reviews/brown-sugar-2-189501/. 

    Peisner, David. “Body & Soul.” SPIN, Aug. 2008, pp. 64–72. 

    Diaz, Angel. “D’Angelo Is Working on New Music, Raphael Saadiq Says: ‘D’s in a Good Space.’” Billboard, Billboard, 11 Sept. 2024, www.billboard.com/music/rb-hip-hop/dangelo-new-music-raphael-saadiq-interview-1235772763/.

    Millman, Marc. D’Angelo @ The Roots Picnic NYC – 10/1/2016. 1 Oct. 2016. 

  • The Reinvention of a Rebellious Rockstar: Damiano David

    The Reinvention of a Rebellious Rockstar: Damiano David

    I became entranced by Damiano David at 17 when I saw him and his band Måneskin perform at and win Eurovision in 2021. I remember being in complete awe watching their performance at the international song contest and becoming determined to see them in concert. Since that initial teenage thrill of becoming a Måneskin fan, I have attended their shows three times, twice being in the Bay. Damiano David’s solo performance at the Masonic on November 23 was utterly magical. 

    “I get to see my idol at arms’ length,” I thought to myself as I stepped into the venue right as the doors opened. Unable to contain my excitement, I got in line to buy his merchandise. The black shirt “Nobody understands me, But I do” caught my eye as I interviewed the enthusiastic mother-daughter duo in front of me. The daughter, with an enthusiastic spirit, shared with me how much she supports David in his endeavours. She does not mind his shift from rock to pop, as she enjoys watching him grow more comfortable with himself and his music production. This seemed like a popular opinion among many of his fans who stuck around from the Måneskin fandom. I returned to the box office to find the other photographers lined up—all women with two cameras each, anticipating our guide. 

    Damiano David
    Damiano David’s band

    Fans of all ages—from eager teens to their grandmothers—filled the auditorium, occupying most of the seats. Some of the more enthusiastic fans at the barricade held banners reading “I <3 Damiano David” with glitter sprinkled around the edges. 

    The overheads turned navy blue, and David’s name flashed above the stage. Fans squealed with anticipation behind me as the guitarist emerged with his hefty guitar and took position in front of me. I shifted my positioning in the pit, and all of the photographers pointed our lenses to the slender mic in the middle of the stage. Suddenly, behind a flash of light, emerged Damiano David, grinning ear to ear as he walked onstage.

     

    Confidently grabbing the mic, he launched into “Born with a Broken Heart.” My feet grew into the floor of the venue as stun took over me, seeing my idol at my fingertips. Blinking myself back to reality, I started clicking away, reminding myself of the settings to capture him in the best way I could in the low blue light. 

     

    “Born with a Broken Heart” – Damiano David

    David’s voice roared in the air, zipping through the tensely bunched bodies of enthusiastic girls in the pit behind me. For the next two songs, he transformed into the passionate, mysterious rock star I had encountered on my music journey at 17. Blazing through the air, a yellow balloon was smacked onto the stage. David’s reflexes did not let him down, skillfully scooping it up with his foot mid song, he kicked it back into the void of the crowd. 

    “GOALLLLLL” I shouted in my head, knowing soccer was one of his side hobbies. 

    “Mysterious Girl” – Damiano David

    “A perfect life” showed a softer side of David. It was a slow song with a costume change onstage involving a silk button-up, which complemented the pearly tunes of the song. His voice, which used to pierce the air through guitar riffs and Vic’s bass guitar, sounded different. It was silky smooth with hints of Harry Styles, and while the switch from rock to pop took some getting used to, I could tell how much the slower songs reflect David. The notes swirled around me, forming mosaics of sad tunes, as he shifted into minor keys to reflect his journey of reflection and starting something new. In the midst of the mood change, he noted, “With this project, I learned how to be confident in myself enough to talk about my feelings.” 

    David’s spirit was strong, yet he seemed tired, frequently stumbling and even sitting down on the onstage steps. He would sometimes disappear off the stage for a couple of minutes between songs and seemed exhausted from the first few hits. Some fans in the crowd enlightened me that he was sick last week while touring in Mexico, and we hypothesized that the illness weakened him more than we thought. As a solo singer, he seemed in tune with himself, yet not so confident on stage. That said, his speeches made the performance more personable, evoking understanding around his sudden genre shift. He paints a picture of his life, taking his fans on the journey of his feelings and how they manifest in the intonations swirling out of his mouth. The colour change throughout the sets reflected his inner self, translating emotions into the language of music—from red to blue to purple, we move through his fame to the sound of the drums. 

    Damiano David and the Band

    For the third act of his show, swirls of blues and rock surrounded me, eyes glued to the rockstar on stage. David’s vocals impressed me, as he dipped further into melancholy music. Two other vocalists joined him to help create this image of struggle for the songs “Naked” and “Solitude (No One Understands Me).” “I was never afraid that I was not gonna get the songs out, but I was very scared I was going to feel lonely. I’m used to always having three of my best friends with me. This was the first time I was making music alone,” David said to the audience.

    “Guitar Riff”

    Since Måneskin’s last show in 2024, Damiano has embarked on his solo journey, making music and speaking out on his fears about fame. There have been many rumours surrounding the band breaking up, which David addressed at the Masonic:

    “I was… and still am in a band called Måneskin. Our story is pretty incredible. We gained an international success basically overnight. None of us would have ever expected this. We had so much fun, we met all of our idols. We made a song with Iggy Pop, Tom Morello—sick shit. And I was so happy, and we toured all around the world. We wrote a lot of music… But at one point, I wasn’t so happy anymore. Something broke inside of me, and I wasn’t enjoying any part of my job. So, I had to take a break and gather my ideas, and try to understand what was wrong and by making this record, I understood that I was living a dream, but it was not my dream. It was someone else’s dream, I was not made for those dreams, I was not made for that much pressure, and so I wrote a song about it.”

    As a fan of Måneskin, I hope they create more music together, but I am happy David is following what he would like to do and not letting the media box him into one identity. The once-known rockstar is shifting his focus and exploring himself, and isn’t that what your 20s are all about? Some of us explore different hobbies, others find themselves through different music genres, 20’s are all about the age of exploration. Change is inevitable, as time stretches across the stage, many projects may take place on it. Some may be solo, others with a group, what matters is the change is true to oneself. I love to see Damiano David go through these changes and find himself more throughout his music, as I find myself more in the colours through my lens.

    Article and Photos by Natalia Morozova

  • Why you should go to the record store (even if you don’t buy anything)

    Why you should go to the record store (even if you don’t buy anything)

    It’s past 4pm on Sunday, and you have just flipped on your mattress to your left side, as the right was beginning to ache from lying in the same position. Hour six of bedrotting while scrolling through clickbait and bad news on your phone drags on as you hum along to the music playing through your headphones—the same playlist you’ve been listening to for weeks. All of your friends are busy or away for the weekend, you haven’t seen the sun in a few days, and the only person you’ve really spoken to for a good long while is your roommate. Almost Famous (2000), the movie you forgot you’d put on, is playing on your laptop at the foot of the bed. You look up as it’s about to end, remove one earbud, and the voice of Kate Hudson playing dream-girl-rockstar-muse Penny Lane offers some advice: “If you ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends.”

    You can’t remember the last time you walked into a record store. A CD player has sat idle on your nightstand as decoration since you moved into your apartment. Couldn’t hurt, you think to yourself. The nearest shop closes in two hours, so you hurry to get dressed and start walking. The evening breeze—fresh air that you also haven’t breathed in a good long while—carries you there, the wind in your sails. Swinging open the storefront’s door, a bell chimes, and behind the service desk sits a man in his mid-30s with greasy hair that flows down to his shoulder blades. He asks for your bag before you proceed. He is most definitely high, bearing a Cheshire Cat smile below his lazy gaze. You hand over your shoulder bag, noticing his t-shirt: dead center, a graphic design of The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band, a group you didn’t know people listened to in real life.

    “I love them!” you exclaim, motioning toward his chest.

    “Right on!” he chuckles, “You might like these guys, too…”

    He directs you to a bin in the farthest corner of the store labelled “New Arrivals,” which holds a stack of CD albums by other psychedelic rock bands, none of which you have heard before. Situated in the corner, you think you are alone, and start humming along to the music descending from the PA system as you rummage through the inventory. You are not, however, alone:

    Good evening, the CDs greet you.

    You pause, intrigued, You can speak?

    If you want to call it that. See anything you like?

    Well, I don’t know, you shrug. You’re all new to me.

    You’re new to us, too, they respond. Haven’t seen you here before.

    I don’t think I’ve been here before. Only, I don’t know exactly why I came. It was just an excuse to move around, I guess. Are newcomers welcome?

    You have no idea. I just got here last week—resold by this lady who used to throw Hollywood parties. You ever been to a Hollywood party? Well, they’re not very different from this place: full of characters trying to get a word in. Everybody has something to offer.

    What do you mean, “everybody?”

    The other records, obviously. Take a look around, you’ll see.

    You make note of a few of their titles and take pictures of their covers with your phone—25 O’Clock (1985) by XTC; Burrito Deluxe (1970) by The Flying Burrito Brothers; Vincebus Eruptum (1968) by Blue Cheer—then slowly move down the aisle. Several records catch your eye: one with a cover resembling Cher’s debut, but as you examine the case, you realize the music itself is actually R&B; one with cover art so unusual you couldn’t walk past it; one discounted set of three discs with a vibrant orange case. You start making a list of albums to listen to in your notes app.

    You remember Penny Lane’s advice to “go visit your friends” and decide to look for The Ronettes, your favorite, in the alphabetically ordered CDs. A gasp escapes you when you find a whole row dedicated to them. A series of unfamiliar live albums is lined up before you.

    You pick one up, asking, How could you have flown under my radar?

    Too niche, it taunts. But you’ve found me!

    You know everything about The Ronettes, but you’ve never seen these online.

    You squint, Bootleg?

    Don’t worry about it… it chuckles, nervously. Don’t you want to bring me home? We’ll be great friends.

    Yeah, we will.

    You flip through the rest of the aisle, in search of their Greatest Hits (1990) album. When you find a used copy, it greets you like family.

    There you are! it cries. You won’t believe what I’ve got. Open me.

    Prying open the plastic case, you are delighted to find an almanac as thick as a book with lyric explanations, photographs, and an interview. While you eagerly flip through its extensive pages, another customer lingers beside you, seemingly looking at nothing in particular.

    Confused, you look over your shoulder and ask, “Can I help you?”

    “I’m just waiting to look in that section.”

    “Oh!” you nod, shifting over so that there is room for you both.

    “I’m obsessed with them,” the stranger explains.

    “Me too!” you smile, holding up the live album. “Have you seen this one before?”

    “No, never!”

    “I think there’s unreleased songs on it.”

    “I love their unreleased stuff. Have you heard this one?”

    They open their cell phone and pull up a SoundCloud page of a three minute mystery. You’re almost overwhelmed by all of these discoveries.

    “No, I haven’t heard it.”

    “I can send it to you!”

    You exchange names and information, chatting as you browse. They tell you about the record store in their hometown that was always hot and usually empty. They say walking into it felt like stepping into an old movie, with shelves of music discs, books, and DVDs they had never heard of. An old man sat at a register in the middle of the store with something to say about each piece of media, and if he approved of what you bought, he would discount the final price of your purchase. When the stranger was thirteen, they say they bought a Beatles Live at the BBC (1994) double CD and listened to it every morning before school. They’d dance in their room, imagining that its former owner was another teenager who did the same. When they got to high school, they brought their new friends to the store. Discussing the music they encountered shattered the ice and helped bring them closer together, the stranger notes.

    Your new friend tells you about the physical music collection they have at home. Over the years, they’ve accumulated dozens of records from stores, their parents’ and grandparents’ old collections, and gifts. Having a collection is like a private little library—no, a private little society—that exists out of the guise of streaming platforms, they say. Record stores are full of citizens looking to join.

    “It’s like… they keep me company. Like a metaphysical community. You know?”

    You glance down at your live album, and it winks at you.

    You nod, “Yeah, I get it.”

     

    Article by: Marshall Libby

    Photo from 500 Days of Summer (2009), directed by Marc Webb

  • Crowd Surfing on a Llama with Jack’s Mannequin at the Warfield

    Crowd Surfing on a Llama with Jack’s Mannequin at the Warfield

    The air was misty and cold enough to make the tip of my nose pink. I paced up and down the concrete by the silent tracks waiting for my BART train to arrive, looking out to the night as it dawdled its velvet blue across the city with an enchanting glimmer. It was already a treacherous day of classes, homework, and other mundane tasks that I am now forgetting what they were – I was exhausted. I wore an old “Interpol” band tee with a long-sleeve shirt underneath, for extra warmth, my black, muddy Chuck’s, and the same long, straight-cut jeans I wear every day. But my outfit decisions didn’t matter because I would throw over my red raincoat on top of it all to hide the inferior fashion decisions I made. Due to my negligence and being too absorbed in the book I was reading, I missed my stop at Powell Station and had to wait for the opposite line at the Civic Center Station. A five-minute detour, a careless mistake, and exhaustion was creeping up on me. I just wanted to get to the venue already. 

    Jack’s Mannequin

    Upon creeping up towards the gaping doors of the Warfield, I was surprised and slightly confused as to why there was no line swiveling around the metal barricades. Perhaps I was a bit too early? I sauntered hesitantly up to will-call, received my photo pass and instructions from the kind employees, and made my way inside. I have always had an affinity for scrupulously well-kept historic venues, such as the Warfield, with its dazzling chandeliers, velvet carpeting, and sparkly gold paint. I looked around in amazement as I made my way quickly up to the restroom and passed by a mother taking a picture of her, perhaps, 10-year-old son holding up a Jack’s Mannequin shirt, telling him to smile for the camera. Was she the fan or was he? I looked at myself in the mirror of the restroom waiting room to find that I did, in fact, look like I hadn’t slept in 24 hours. I trotted back down to the main entrance of the venue to find that everyone was dressed like me, or rather, I dressed as them. 

    Illuminati Hotties

    Lovers of Jack’s Mannequin typically appreciate their stellar stylistic approaches to the pop-rock genre, such as the implementation of McMahon’s eccentric piano melodies that produce flashes of celestial glints, embedded in sullen early 2000s punk lyrics. Jack’s Mannequin reached a decent amount of popularity almost immediately upon entering the music sphere around 2005, which, at that time, was saturated with 16- to 20-year-olds decked out in Hollister tees, Chuck-Taylors, and Japaris, who communicated through Myspace and AOL chatrooms. Immediately upon stepping foot into the violet-lit stage area of the venue, I realized I was surrounded by 2000s pop punk kids, who’d lived to experience most of my favorite bands in their prime. Now in their mid-to-late thirties, these adult punk rockers engulfed me, standing silently next to each other, on their phones responding to Slack messages or reading novels beside their partners, excited to end their work week with nostalgic symphonies from their younger years. Still, I felt relaxed and welcomed by this room filled with collective fans from another generation. 

    The Illuminati Hotties were the first to take on the stage, making their way from Los Angeles, California; they were absolutely electrifying. The band ran out on stage wearing matching bright, geometric vests to display their unity, as they began with their first song. Front-woman, Sarah Tudzin, sang with a sharp and pure roughness in her vocals that meshed smoothly over the crashing and thrashing of the syllables and guitar riffs. The entire band was vivaciously animated, as the drummer fiercely shook his luxurious long hair around, and Tudzin kept eyes locked on the stage with her hypnotic dancing, staying true to their emblem. I looked back from the barricades of the photo pit to a sea of bobbing heads, and a screaming duo in the middle-back who knew every word! Tudzin walked out into the crowd, interjecting her own song to criticize Donald Trump’s fascist policies, followed by a quippy “I’m so sad I can’t do laundry.” As quirky and colorful as the Illuminati Hotties were, they were undoubtedly punk.

    Jack’s Mannequin Video Projection

     

    The skinny-jean-filled room hushed with minor whispers about the air for the thirty minutes in between sets. I stood by the photo pit, waiting to get back in, playing with my camera settings, staring down at my dirt-dusted Converse as I overheard how long these Millennials had been fans of the band and how many times they had gone to see them over the years. I became deeply fond of the people surrounding me, realizing how similar I was to the strangers around me, in the way we’ve all come together in this room to enjoy the same artist, a wholesome get-together. Five minutes before 9 pm, I made my way politely through the crowd to get to the photo pit, where the minutes felt like hours. Suddenly, the screens on the stage played a roughly 3-minute-long clip narrating the origins of the band, their music-making journey, and Andrew McMahon’s fight against cancer. They displayed a QR code to donate to a cancer-awareness foundation. The screens faded out, and the crowd rumbled their vocal cords in excitement as Jack’s Mannequin took the stage with their famously angsty song, “I’m Ready”. The floor was shaking instantly with complete freedom, as people were flailing their arms to the words of the songs, singing harmoniously to every word. Andrew McMahon was only 3-feet away from me, on his piano, leaning intimately into the microphone whilst simultaneously having his head turned to his devoted fans, attempting to smile at every one of them. Recently, at the shows that I’ve been to, I’ve noticed that the audience will die down after the first few popular songs play, and only about ¼ of the room will sing to the rest of the songs with full vitality. Jack’s Mannequin fans pleasantly surprised me as I looked around to see mouths moving perfectly in sync with every song, finding life in their bodies to dance to the sound of their high-school years.

    Bassist Mikey Wagner

    Each member, interlaced with their instrument as a dancing partner, twirling back and forth on the stage, to perform for the audience and themselves. Guitarist Bobby Anderson stood on the left side of McMahon’s piano, squinting his eyes shut, completely lost in his sound as he absolutely shredded his guitar. Bassist Mikey Wagner had his own sector of the stage on the far right, swaying his curly hair to the mellifluous tune of his bandmates. The velvety vintage beauty was covered in the bright projections on the stage that spread across the room, on the floor, and on people’s faces with radiant visuals that added to the sprightly ambiance. 

    Andrew McMahon was prancing and leaping around the stage like it was still 2005, and the band had just released their first studio album. McMahon was filled with so much youthful energy, in the way that he was jumping off his piano, throwing his body into the crowd to surf and sing amongst his faithful fans – once being on a giant inflatable llama. Nostalgia and childhood wonder permeated the room as everybody became possessed by the fiery verve emanating from Jack’s Mannequin. Towards the end of the show, McMahon looks out to his family, cheering him on from the crowd, and humbly acknowledges their significance in his life as a musician, a father, a husband, and a cancer survivor.

    This year marks the 20th anniversary of Jack Mannequin’s first studio album, Everything In Transit. I remember the first time I heard Jack’s Mannequin was only three years ago, as I was watching One Tree Hill, and they had a cameo where they were performing at Peyton Sawyer’s (played by Hilarie Burton) all-ages club, “TRIC.” The episode was about Peyton putting on a benefit for breast cancer patients upon discovering her mother was diagnosed with it, and Jack’s Mannequin was one of the bands performing for the benefit in the show, opening with my personal favorite, “The Mixed Tape.” 20 years later, taking the Warfield stage, Andrew McMahon puts on the most beautifully heartfelt tour dedicated to raising awareness and funds for young adults and adolescents diagnosed with cancer, as a part of The Dear Jack Foundation. After having battled with cancer himself, Andrew McMahon vividly shows that life can quite literally be anything you make of it, with all the will that you have. The way that he jumped off the piano, hugged fans in the crowd, and smiled at those who were breaking their arms waving at him from the balcony, displayed an utter zest for life unlike anything I have seen before. Jack’s Mannequin’s glowing spirit inspired me to enjoy every facet of my circadian existence, from going to neon-illuminated shows, seeing friends on the weekends, immersing myself in art, and especially appreciating the mundane.

    Andrew McMahon

     

     

     

     

    Article and Photos by Jessica Balderas

  • Melodies that made us

    Melodies that made us

    Nostalgia is a strange kind of magic. It sneaks up quietly, often when you least expect it. A few weeks ago, while letting Spotify shuffle through a playlist I hadn’t touched in years, Zac Brown Band’s “Homegrown” came on. The opening chords hit me like a memory under warm light—sudden, specific, and impossibly tender. In that moment, I wasn’t in my present life. I was back in my childhood, sitting beside my older brother in our apartment in California, watching my parents—two people who had crossed an ocean with little except determination—find pieces of themselves in the most unexpected place: country music.

    My parents immigrated from Albania in 1999, arriving in California with very little, and a future that was more uncertain than secure. Those first years were defined by sacrifice—long shifts, tight budgets, and the constant pressure of building a life from the ground up. But things began to shift when they earned their citizenship. For the first time, they allowed themselves to breathe. The fear that had quietly lived beneath every decision softened, and a new rhythm—one not dictated by pure survival—started to form.

    It was around this time, during this delicate transition from struggle to stability, that country music entered our lives. Not during the hardest years, but right after them—when my parents finally had the space to explore joy, taste the culture around them, and experiment with what it meant to feel at home. Country music became the unexpected cultural thread that tied the four of us together. Even though road trips weren’t a regular part of our lives—we weren’t a “weekends away” kind of family—our moments in the car, however brief, became small sanctuaries. When we drove anywhere, even in the usual commute—errands, visits, the rare longer drive—the speakers filled with Zac Brown Band, Darius Rucker, Keith Urban, Kenny Chesney. And always, eventually, “Homegrown”.

    Those drives weren’t glamorous. Most were short, sometimes squeezed between work shifts or after picking my brother and me up from school. But the music made them feel like little escapes, tiny pockets of freedom carved out from a life that was often heavy. My dad would tap the steering wheel. My mom would sing along loudly, her voice floating like a thread stitching us together. My brother and I, usually bickering or restless, would fall into a strange, shared quiet. Music did something to us that nothing else could.

    For my parents, country music was more than entertainment—it was a way of interpreting their new world. Through those songs, they absorbed the emotional landscape of a country they were still learning. They found comfort in narratives about belonging, family, and home, even when home still felt like a place they were trying to build from scratch. It gave them a sense of community, even if that community lived inside melodies instead of neighborhoods.

    For my brother and me, these songs became the soundtrack of our childhood. When I hear 2010s country hits—”Springsteen”, “Wagon Wheel”, “Chicken Fried”, “Traveller”—I can feel the texture of our early life: the apartment walls that never quite muffled outside noise, the late dinners after long workdays, the quiet resilience that held our family in place. These songs weren’t just background noise; they were emotional coordinates.

    The struggles were real—financial uncertainty, working-class fatigue, cultural displacement, the ache of being pulled between two identities. But the music softened those edges. It gave us moments of lightness, joy, and togetherness that felt rare and precious. It helped us create memories that didn’t revolve around hardship.

    So when Spotify resurrected “Homegrown”, it felt less like nostalgia and more like a reminder. A reminder that music can shape people, families, and entire childhoods. A reminder that a song can hold the weight of a journey. A reminder that even in the hardest years, we were building something—quietly, imperfectly, but with love.

    For my parents, whose courage uprooted generations of history; for my brother, who shared those early years with me; and for the soundtrack that helped define who we became. Some families inherit heirlooms. Ours inherited melodies—crackling speakers, borrowed lyrics, and the feeling of being homegrown in a place we learned to love together.

    And all it takes is one familiar chord to return to it all.

    Article by Aimee Mandi

    Photo by AB Forces News Collection

  • “Scream if you’re gay!” — a Night of Feeling and Connection with Leith Ross at the Fillmore

    “Scream if you’re gay!” — a Night of Feeling and Connection with Leith Ross at the Fillmore

    In all honesty, it was not a good day for me to be going to a concert. My kitchen sink broke earlier in the week, causing it to flood. The issue persisted for days, derailing my study plans for the quiz and exam I had the day after the concert. So, there I was: on the BART stressed about my exams, going over vocabulary and key concepts in my head while reviewing the timetable of how I was going to pull this off. The weight of my camera hanging on my shoulder reminded me of the adventure ahead. I prepared my camera settings while observing the other passengers on the BART — noticing their attire and imagining that they were going home after a day at work or also going to a concert. Getting off my first BART, I overheard someone telling a stranger to get off then because they realized they were all going to the same place. I guess I wasn’t the only one noticing others. After transferring to another BART then a bus, I finally saw the “Fillmore” sign ahead of me. As I walked to the box office — a window in the side of the building — I felt the cool, night breeze across my jacket. I collected my ticket and photo pass then got in line.

     

    I entered the Fillmore shortly after and was stunned by the high ceilings and beautiful chandeliers. Since I arrived before the doors opened at 7pm, I had plenty of time to explore the venue and lighting I was working with to avoid rushing to figure out the best camera settings during the show. People were starting to line up right in front of the stage as others were buying merchandise or drinks, or sitting on the sides. I found myself frequently looking up at the archways and balcony seats since they framed a warm red glow, which stood out from the cool blue lighting that filled the main floor and made the chandeliers look like icicles. It felt like a museum or Broadway. Deciding I needed to see all angles of the stage, I walked up the stairs to the second floor and was met with a beautiful sitting room and wall full of posters.

     

    Noa Jamir

    As it approached 8pm – show time – I slowly walked back to the stage, and took my position in 

    Aidan Ashland

    the photo pit as the first act, Noa Jamir and Aidan Ashland, took the stage. Although focused on getting the best shots I could, I felt the tangible shift in the room. Strangers — either in groups, pairs, or on their own — who happened to be next to one another became one cohesive group, feeling Jamir’s smooth voice and relatable lyrics, and her and Ashland’s guitar playing fill their soul. The stress of my exams, and even the stress of getting good photos, seemed to be coaxed away by their set. I saw in people’s eyes that they were moved as well, and the crowd cheered Jamir and Ashland on as though they were the main act, shouting affirmations in between songs. That’s when I first realized the audience was more than individual fans, it was a community.

     

    Annika Bennet

    After a brief break, Annika Bennet took the stage. To introduce herself, she said that she’s from LA but had the best day ever here [in San Fransico]. After she moved to LA four years ago to write songs for others, she decided to try the art for herself and launched her own music career. This inspired the creation of her recently released album Triple Shooting Star (2025), which she produced and recorded on her own. Her gentle voice created a soft, calm, and safe atmosphere that she built upon by sharing relatable advice and stories. In between her songs, including “Fuck Up” and “A Cure,” she spoke to the crowd, at one point saying that if we all deleted social media, we would still be just as important — a message I think we all need to hear. 

     

    Leith Ross
    Vania Lee
    Keiran Placatka
    Zoe Sparks

    From the moment Leith Ross stepped on stage with their band, their presence comforted me. Others swayed to their music, and more and more people hugged those they came with. As their introduction, Ross said that they were going to play “some songs I wrote” then paused, reaching for the ground, then saying, “that’s an awkward place to stop… because I would hope so.” Everyone laughed.In between almost every song, Ross gave the crowd a reason to laugh, whether because they were talking about the different variations people have made of their name, saying “small wins” after successfully drinking water from their cup without spilling it on their shirt since they failed on the first try, or how their song about their high school relationship, “I’d Have To Think About It,” makes them laugh because there are “some doozies” in the song, like leaving their three children and new spouse behind for their ex. It felt like therapy and a comedy show decided to have a joint event in a cozy home surrounded by a forest on a rainy, fall day. 

    The entire concert felt like it was our show, that we were a part of it, not just an audience watching an artist. Ross randomly told a fan “awesome headband” in the middle of their set and sang their song “Orlando” because someone dm’d them earlier in the day asking them to play it and they “liked the initiative.” They even recounted the story of how they accidentally uploaded only the vocal stem of their song “Monogomy” on Spotify and could not take it down for 48 hours after a fan yelled “can you put ‘Monogomy’ acapella back on Spotify?” 

     

    In the middle of the set, Ross pulled out a book. They told us that they went to a bookstore earlier in the day and their friend picked up “Picnic, Lightening” by Billy Collins. In the book, there was a sticky-note that said “If unfamiliar with Billy Collins, go to x page.” Ross said that this page exemplified what their song “Grieving” is about. They read us the poem then transitioned into singing. Although it is a beautiful song, what moved me more was noticing a group of people at the back of the room dancing during the second half of the song. This scene captured what the concert was for everyone: a place where people could express themselves and even feel joy during a song about loss. 

     

    This experience made me think about the question: what is safety? Is it being in a room where you know you can be unequivocally yourself, and the artist on stage says, “you are all gorgeous and beautiful human beings, and I love you” and “I know what you are [gay]” with a positive connotation? Human rights have become politics, but knowing Ross donates part of their merchandise sales to organizations at every stop on the tour, this time to Sunset Youth Services, creates a feeling of safety. It is devastating that opposing a genocide, for example, is polarized, but Ross made an environment where wanting a world where “there are no cops,” no prisons, a free Palestine, a free Congo, a globalized Land Back movement, and no border is met with cheers. It was a room where you could have hope for the future while feeling the utter heartbreak caused by the world we live in at the same time. For me, that is safety; that is a Leith Ross concert.

     

    Written by Lena Darby 

    Photos by Lena Darby

  • Pinch me, I must be dreaming: Tei Shi entrances me at the Independent

    Pinch me, I must be dreaming: Tei Shi entrances me at the Independent

    An angelic voice paired with the simple, but captivating, soft blue light, and the air flowing on a draped back top was all a recipe for my eyes to widen and my jaw to drop. Moving akin to only what I can describe as a sort of personification of a waterfall–smooth and graceful. Tei Shi, you have instantly grabbed my attention. 

    Usually, my Thursdays are really busy. I have classes (pretty much) back to back from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., but to see Tei Shi this past Thursday, November 20th, I skipped my three-hour class and hopped on the BART to the Independent in San Francisco. I met up with the photographer, Joyce, and I thought we’d be late, but the BART ended up coming right when we got to the station. It was pretty much perfect. After making the trek on a 21-minute BART ride and a 25-minute bus ride to the venue, we made it around 10 minutes before the show was slated to start. 

    Finally, we reached the venue and went to will call, and they didn’t have us down on the list. I was starting to get really nervous because this was my first time going to a concert with BSIDE, and I didn’t completely know what to expect. After a couple nervous minutes they realized it was just a mix up and let us in. All was right with the world. We walked in and laughed because we got there right around 8, when the show was expected to start, and there was hardly anyone there. We found a spot right by the stage and waited for the opener, Harmony, to start.

    Around maybe half an hour later, Harmony came on in a beautiful aqua-sea foam green-type knitted dress with a woman on it with plaid tights and these awesome lace-up heeled boots. An audience member complimented her dress too, as I too was admiring it, to which she was very thankful. She began to sing, and it’s undeniable that she really feels her music. Her songs were lyrical and accompanied by a careful strumming of her guitar. Although it was hard for me to distinguish her songs from each other during the show, I found I really enjoyed her taking the time to engage with the audience in between them. I found her slightly nervous quirkiness very relatable and endearing. It is so easy to put artists on a pedestal, but Harmony felt very human–in the best way possible. She felt very authentic. She’s gained a new fan in me. 

    Photos by Joyce Vang

    Finally, it was time for Tei Shi to go on. As I stood at the edge of the stage, I felt a sense of excitement I hadn’t felt before seeing an artist in a while. I was first introduced to Tei Shi through my Discover Weekly playlist on Spotify around 2019-2020ish after the release of her sophomore album La Linda (2019). I was a sophomore in high school at the time, and the album found me at a very formative time in my adolescence. Since that discovery, I have held Tei Shi close to my heart. So, I was very excited to see her tour her latest album Make Believe I Make Believe (2025). 

     The show began with Tei Shi dancing behind the draped backdrop as the brightness of the lights ebbed and flowed with the song. I’ve always thought that she had a great voice, but after hearing her live–wow. She can SING. Not only can she sing, but she can dance too! The combination of her voice and her fluid movements almost felt like too much for me to bear. I was bursting with excitement. The show progressed, and my love for her grew. 

    Overwhelmed by her presence, I had to pause and check in with myself, making sure to remember everything that was happening. I don’t know why, but I never thought I would be able to see her in concert. I think I just thought back to my 16-year-old self, who first started listening to her, who thought they wouldn’t be able to see her perform. I’m happy for the younger me who wanted to see her.

    So, for my younger self, I took in all the details I could, especially while listening to Tei Shi’s “Anything (best friend)” and “Justify,” for example. I saw her impeccable fashion sense, like the red skirt and bralette she adorned with beautiful black heeled boots and a rose she stuck in her side within the ties of her skirt. I watched carefully the flits of her movement across the stage, the way her curled, short hair moved with her. And the rose petal that was stuck on her microphone pack after she removed it from her skirt to throw into the audience. 

    The audience was also amazing, which was something Tei Shi remarked on, too. The Independent is relatively smaller, as concert venues go, but I really enjoyed the intimacy of it. When Joyce and I first arrived, there was hardly anyone there, but by the time she went on, the room was full and the crowd was jumping. Especially this really cute lesbian couple and their friends standing next to me–they were dancing and jumping to everything. This reminded me of one of the discussions I had for my class in which we talked about sociologist Émile Durkheim, who spoke about “collective effervescence” or the intense positive feelings that are shared amongst a group of people doing the same thing–concerts being a prime example of it. This concept replayed in my head. 

    The crowd was lively and definitely there for a good time, and you can tell Tei Shi is beloved. It was beautiful to feel the energy she sent out. When she spoke, when she sang, it felt like she was reaching every one of us individually, but we also were all in it together. She has the unique ability to let you feel seen in her music.

    I consider myself an emotional person, and I typically cry (or get very close to crying) at concerts, and Tei Shi was no exception. She transitioned into one of the songs by alluding to its sadness and remarked at how it would be a change from the previous song–when she said that, in my gut, I knew she was going to play my favorite song of hers ever, “When He’s Done.” The melody sank in, and the waterworks started. I only shed a few tears in pursuit of not completely ruining my makeup. Tei Shi belted that song; it came from deep within her, and I think it healed something in me–hearing that song. 

    Not only did she demonstrate her incredible vocal range, but she also did so while absolutely commanding the stage. You could tell she not only sang the music, she embodied it. She made me feel like I was a welcome guest in her world. That’s the magic of Tei Shi’s music; it invites you in and makes you a cup of tea. Its joy and authenticity stays with you, and this concert will stay in my head and my heart for a while. Thank you, Tei Shi. 

     

    Article by Lucía Umeki-Martínez

    Photos by Joyce Vang