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Perched on top of her fridge with a bucket hat, cowboy boots, and an acoustic guitar, Adrianne Lenker, lead singer and songwriter of Indie–folk band Big Thief, belts out a verse from the band’s recent single “Vampire Empire,” an emotionally explosive track that details a toxic love gone bad like “expired milk.”
Since the 19th century , the campaign song has been a staple of presidential elections. Jackson had “Hunters of Kentucky,” Lincoln had “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and even Penn’s own ill–fated William Henry Harrison was cranking out bangers like “Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too.” In the 21st century, however, the art of the campaign song seems to have fallen by the wayside. Campaigns nowadays are more than happy to utilize premade songs from established artists, rather than create their own tunes. Even worse, the cultural democratization of the internet has led this vacuum to be filled by constituent hacks from across the political spectrum, be it Le Tigre’s oddball Clinton anthem “I’m With Her,” or Latinos for Trump's divisive new hit “Unity.” Things were much simpler in the mid 20th century, the true heyday of the campaign song. Communications were developed enough to disseminate media to audiences across the country, but before the art of the campaign song was lost to the sands of time. But even during this apex of the art form, some presidential candidates simply had more juice than others—the history of campaign music has some pretty clear winners and losers.
It's another day. The same day you've lived countless times over. You wake up at the same time, eat the same breakfast, talk to the same people, and finally collapse in the same bed to start the cycle all over again. The next day is, well, the same. It almost feels like you're living life in third person, a voyeur to the "real world," one of adventure, excitement, and newness. It's a world you're not sure even exists and you're definitely not sure where to find. But amidst the isolation and mundanity of our corporatized twenty–first century lives, you'd give anything just to see something truly brand new.
Immediately, three beats of the song’s percussion draw you in. Friendly strings lead up into piano notes that hop back down before jumping into a funky beat. Sweet female vocals begin to sing of love and disco. From this description, “Plastic Love,” which was released in 1984, seems like your typical ’80s hit—perhaps an exemplary karaoke song, but nothing particularly groundbreaking.
The past two years have seen the prolific rise of new female rap stars. From GloRilla’s “F.N.F.” to Ice Spice’s “Munch (Feelin’ You),” rising female rap stars have been at the forefront of pop culture. Indeed, these young stars’ rises have been marked by high–profile collabs like Ice Spice's verse on "Karma" by Taylor Swift, and cosigns by established veterans like Cardi B and Nicki Minaj. But St. Louis’ own Sexyy Red seems to be running ahead of her peers in terms of grassroots support. Her raw authenticity and infectious nature set her apart—and in comparison, the pull of her originality makes her contemporaries feel manufactured. Sexyy Red, currently best known for her “Pound Town 2” remix with Nicki Minaj and her solo single “SkeeYee” off of the album Hood Hottest Princess produced by Tay Keith, brings a genuine charm to a polished and even plasticky music industry.
Techno was born free—but everywhere it lies in chains. Electronic music today has largely come to be associated with the blistering heat and piercing lights of the rave hall, the occasional ambient track playing in the background of the airport lounge, or bizarre moments such as David Guetta including a Martin Luther King Jr. sample in one of his beat drops. This picture is not so much incorrect as it is incomplete. The ravers and David Guettas of the world have just as much a claim to electronic music as anyone else—but their close connection with the genre has come to obscure its past as both a mirror of society and a site of resistance. Nowhere was the genre’s role clearer than in Germany at the end of WWII.
If you were on X (formerly and fondly remembered as Twitter) in the late 2010s, there’s a good chance that you’ve seen the phrase “Stan LOONA” attached with a LOONA music video under any pop culture tweet, imploring them to discover the 12–member girl group. Translating to “Girl of the Month” in Korean, LOONA immediately captivated audiences with their detailed storytelling, diligent work ethic, and dedication to their loyal fans, Orbits.
Street: Is there anything different about this [North American] tour that allowed you to be able to write more?
Music is always a topic of conversation, from the gals gabbing about the new Olivia Rodrigo album, GUTS, to those scream–conversations at frats about how those throwback songs make us feel oh–so–nostalgic. While ever present in all our lives, music genres do more than just act as a conversation starter. In fact, can music tell us more about ourselves than we think? "Individual Differences in Musical Taste," a study done by the American Journal of Psychology says yes: There is in fact a correlation between the genre of music we listen to and our personality. Turns out, music preferences can actually give us an insight into who we are, closely mirroring our inner selves.
I learned to drive in my mom’s minivan. It might have been the same old white Toyota my mom had long driven me to school in, but when I was behind the wheel, that minivan became an entirely different vehicle (and safety risk). But no matter who was driving, we would always turn the volume dial all the way to the right as soon as we heard the first note of the guitar riff that would inevitably lead to us screaming, “You’ve got a fast car…”
Olivia Rodrigo is not your typical Gen–Zer. Her teenage years were dominated by Bizaardvark and later High School Musical: The Musical: The Series. Her first step into adulthood—besides getting a drivers license—was releasing her debut record SOUR, filled with teenage angst, agony, and heartbreak. At the age of 18, she already had a multi–platinum record, currently holding the title for the third most–streamed album ever on Spotify by a female artist.
Mitski is nothing if not a viscerally enigmatic American poet. On stage, her venereal movements evoke a character that is unlike Mitski herself: soft–spoken and impenetrable. Slated to retire after Be the Cowboy, she surprised fans with her 2022 album Laurel Hell, as well as several songs for soundtracks. But her new record could be the first time she’s been making music for her own sake in a while: “I renegotiated my contract with my label, and decided to keep making records. Thank you so much for your patience and support while I found my way here. I love you!” she wrote to fans in a newsletter.
If one tuned into cable TV sometime in the past two decades, they might be familiar with a number of Western music competition shows. American Idol, where individuals compete for the attention of the American public, birthed stars like Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood. Or X Factor, which created groups like Fifth Harmony, One Direction, and Little Mix that dominated much of the 2010s.
What happens in college a cappella doesn’t always stay in college a cappella.
“Peel slowly and see,” reads the tiny text pointing to the tip of a bold yellow and black banana peel. Underneath the sticker, at least on the original copies, is pink, fleshy fruit. This phallic imagery and tongue–in–cheek humor—a signature of Andy Warhol's aesthetic brand—make up an iconic cover artwork that has earned the nickname "the Banana Album," but for those who have spent time justifying their pretentious music taste and idolizing the ’60s art scene of New York City, it's better known as The Velvet Underground & Nico. It’s the kind of album cover that has become ubiquitous with the music world, and one that you recognize without ever having listened to the band.
My whole life, Taylor Swift has been an omnipresent refrain in my life. As each new album was released, everyone in my life—be it classmates, family members, or coworkers—would arrange listening parties and obsess for hours about the intricacies of each song, lyric, and supposed easter egg. All that time, I was left out, declining to participate as Swiftie culture conquered nearly everything around me.
I vividly remember my ninth birthday and the excitement that rushed over me as I opened up my present: an MP3 Player. That same day, with the help of my parents, I eagerly downloaded "Fearless", "All Too Well", and "Red."
From North and South Korean star–crossed lovers to blind dating CEOs, K–Dramas have covered every single possible love/drama/murder/mystery scenario one could ever think up. They demand addictive engagement— an hour of entertainment packed within each episode. They contain multiple storylines, introducing a variety of couples and family nuances while retaining the trademark Korean humor—that careful balance between dry comebacks and over–the–top reactions. They invoke second lead syndrome (warning: don’t watch Reply 1988 unless you want a severe case of this), where the main character doesn’t end up with the person you were rooting for. In other words, they’re incredibly entertaining.
It’s not an uncommon thought to dream of being famous. Strangers knowing your name, having an infinite amount of money to spend, taking luxurious vacations, and doing what you love for a living—all of these prospects seem quite enticing.
Melanie Martinez has made waves in the music industry through the exploration of her alter ego Crybaby. Her debut album of the same name followed the twisted world of Crybaby as she dealt with kidnapping, murder, and aching loneliness. Martinez’s follow–up album K–12 navigates Crybaby’s school years with a full–length film being released alongside it. Martinez is dedicated to the craft of concept albums and telling a singular narrative across the entire tracklist. But her latest iteration of the character may just be her most ambitious project yet.
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