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It’s hard to shove your way through a crowd of thousands who are a few steps away from seeing their rock idol, and even harder when you’re sober. I fight to the ticket stand and resist the urge to clip one of the Fillmore’s strange Red Bull vodka lemonades before the crowd herds me into the main hall. As the space opens up, I take in the view around me—half prohibition speakeasy, half disco hall, full of people somehow dressed for both.
For the longest time, Lady Gaga was, indeed, the “Enigma” she proclaimed herself to be on her 2020 album Chromatica. A visionary force of the pop genre, she was somehow untouchable in her artistic vision but down–to–earth in interviews, interactions with fans, and her exuberant theater kid energy.
Hailing from the renowned K–Pop group BLACKPINK, LISA stands out even among her talented bandmates. Born and raised in Thailand, she’s among the few Thai idols that has made a name for herself in the brutal K–Pop industry. She serves as BLACKPINK’s main dancer and lead rapper, known for her fiery performances and raps, as well as her viral dance covers.
On Feb. 20, I walked into Union Transfer with a ticket, a dream, and no idea what I was getting myself into. I was there to see Alcest, the first French band I’ve listened to and one of the few non–English groups I've ever explored. Though I went into the night blind, the experience was nothing less than breathtaking—Alcest performed every track beautifully, bringing their stories to life on stage. As the show continued, a question of great importance arose in my mind: Why don’t other people go into shows blind?
Whether you’ve wanted to or not, you’ve heard AI–generated music. It’s everywhere these days, especially in rap music, with artists like Kanye and Metro Boomin openly embracing the technology. On TikTok especially, AI vocal covers seem to have found a home, time and time again. But there are also crystal–clear ethical criticisms to be made: It’s a loss of “humanity,” it lacks proper credit, and it’s a lazy cash grab. And while these may seem obvious, there are still cases of AI usage that manage to circumvent them all. Clearly, there’s a wide and layered landscape here, and it’s worth understanding.
In the millisecond following the announcement of Sabrina Carpenter's deluxe album, pure excitement overcame any sort of logical thinking, with fans asking, "What exactly is a deluxe album, exactly, and why was I forced to wait two months for it?" With nearly every top album entailing a deluxe companion, reactions are well rehearsed.
The extravagant combination of Baroque Revival architecture, rich laughter, and clinking wine glasses paints a picture: one relaxing evening filled with lively classical music. The lights suddenly dim as four beautifully dressed individuals, each holding stringed instruments, enter the stage. From the tuning of their instruments to the ambiance of the theater, any stranger to the band would expect to be serenaded by intricate classical pieces crafted by 18th century composers of whom they’ve never heard.
Bob Dylan is an iconic musician, activist, and Nobel Prize recipient. Often considered the voice of his generation, his contributions to folk and rock music of the ’60s and ’70s are widely understood. But as far as his popularity amongst the younger generation goes, it is safe to say he’s less followed. However, A Complete Unknown, the biopic starring Timothée Chalamet, has established itself as Dylan’s contemporary, Oscar–nominated revival. A lengthy press run complete with Bob Dylan memorabilia, cover albums, and SNL performances—the artist was evidently brought back into the mainstream from some distant, outmoded–but–powerful place. The ease and rapidity of his comeback seems to be a testament to his artistry, but it also begs the question—did Dylan’s music ever leave the conversation to begin with? Fortunately, the answer is close to home. To gain insight into the Bob Dylan phenomenon, look no further than Penn and the existing campus community of long–time fans.
“The revolution ’bout to be televised,” warned a man at the peak of his game to a nation in distress on Superbowl Sunday. And real revolution or not, heads were turned and eyes were peeled during a performance that would have Donald Trump evacuating the stadium shortly after. Watching it live, it was hard not to feel like we’d already won the Super Bowl at its halftime show.
The first month of 2025 brought with it several powerhouse releases for rap. In the mainstream, there was the hauntingly brilliant Mac Miller album Balloonerism, and in abstract and conscious rap, a few big(ish) names showed up with some of their best projects to date. Notably, MIKE’s psychedelically resonant Showbiz!, Ghais Guevara’s densely conceptual Goyard Ibn Said, and Pink Siifu’s industrial odyssey Black'!Antique (a wildly invigorating record that has me thinking society’s progressed way past the need for JPEGMAFIA) were releases to celebrate.
Even from a Zoom–window–sized look into Bob Lord’s life, it’s immediately apparent that Lord loves music. The PARMA Recordings CEO joins our meeting from a swivel chair in what appears to be a makeshift studio space, grinning widely and surrounded by instruments, equipment, and music stands. It’s the kind of place where any musician would feel immediately at home; I know I certainly feel a comfortable familiarity upon noticing the clutter. It confirms for me that Lord is indeed the source of the spirit and deep love for music that you can feel behind any PARMA recording.
Like all of us, Mac Miller had no idea what he was doing. The rapper was just 19 years old when he released his first major album, K.I.D.S.—just aging out of childhood himself. In college, we often feel like twentysomethings, trying to push through growing pains, deal with complex relationships, and figure out who we really are. Six years after Miller's tragic death, we’re still mourning the loss of the artist who understood that feeling best.
The year 2024 was an eclectic year for music, from the rise (no fall) of a midwest princess to “that me espresso” to the unfortunate loss of rap legend Drake (he didn’t die, but it really was not his year). From the year’s dynamic and exciting musical landscape, a few artists stood out above the rest and won the top titles at the 67th Annual Grammy Awards. Though a tad predictable, the Recording Academy’s decisions accurately depicted the dominant musicians of the year with only a few popular artists left in the dust. But are the night’s losers really “losers” at all? Is the Recording Academy just trying to appease the stan Twitter gods? Regardless, these are the musicians who were rightfully recognized (and unrecognized) for shaping the musical pandemonium of 2024.
If you ask a K–Pop stan about the biggest groups currently on the scene, there’s a good chance that the girl group IVE will be among their top answers. Hailing from Starship Entertainment, the six–member band is one of the most popular groups in Korea, in part due to the popularity of IZ*ONE alums Jang Won–young and An Yu–jin. The group also boasts many hits of their own, with songs like “LOVE DIVE” and “I AM” boasting over 300 million streams on Spotify, reaching number one on Korean music charts, and hitting top 30 on the Billboard Global 200.
Abel Tesfaye has spent the last five years making highly thematic albums, revealing to us the inner workings of his hedonistic, dark The Weeknd persona. His last two projects—After Hours and Dawn FM—contained highly visual, conceptual imagery, and leaned into this focus, featuring cinema–inspired narratives that slowly depicted The Weeknd's inevitable descent into madness. Regarding After Hours, The Weeknd’s costume designer Patrick Henry, more popularly known as “Fresh,” told Billboard, “When he did this, it wasn’t just Abel anymore. He created a persona and took this guy through a whole experience.” Dawn FM picked up where After Hours left off—inserting The Weeknd into a state of purgatory, followed by a journey towards escape. Hurry Up Tomorrow is the light at the end of this tunnel, offering the same immersive experience. Announcing this album as his last as The Weeknd, Tesfaye lets this infamous persona take his last breaths in Hurry Up Tomorrow. But one question remains: Just how great of a finale is this?
Last month kicked the year off in a panic: political conflict ripped into our screens, threatening to upheave TikTok, Gen Z’s most cherished marketplace of brainrot. Disregarding the staged melodrama of Donald Trump and CEO Shou Chew’s back–and–forth, TikTok went into meltdown mode; creators delivered teary–eyed goodbyes, reminisced on the app’s quarantine days, and made desperate last–ditch efforts to learn Chinese. But one worry stood out to me in particular: “Where will I find new music?”
The air is cold and dry. We yawn, stretch tired limbs, and squint crusty–lidded eyes into the bleak sunlight as we trudge down Locust Walk to our 8:30 a.m. classes. It's another day we won’t touch grass or see green. Each week is an endless rotation of Pret coffee, Van Pelt, and classes we can’t stay awake for. It’s February at Penn.
At first glance, Warehouse on Watts is an unassuming building; its only telling emblem, a bold W hung above the entrance, which can be found just off east of the Broad Line, is tucked behind a row of beauty salons and mobile phone stores. After braving the cold January winds and a lengthy SEPTA ride, you enter the small room. The red lights and hazy atmosphere are a warm, if slightly ominous, welcome. You’re forced to navigate through a billowing, iridescent fog that envelops the crowd as you make your way to the coat check in the corner—the sole disco ball in the room tucked away from the dance floor, suspended elegantly over a rack of puffers and parkas. Oddly placed, though glimmering, it seems too obvious an analogy for the venue. As heads scatter across the floor like pool balls, your eyes are immediately drawn to this little thing of a stage and the great mass of wires and equipment that spill out from under it. It’s a twinkling canvas for the upcoming artists. Though the venue was intimate, the DJs of Madness and Badness—a show jointly put on by DJ@Penn, Shea Collective, and Students of Hip Hop Legacy—filled every inch of the room with sound, taking us across genres over the course of the show.
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