Genres

Psychedelic culture stands at the cusp of mainstream acceptance. This may sound odd given the fact that the United States still includes LSD, psilocybin, and numerous other hallucinogens on the list of Schedule I substances, but there are many signs. Academia is in the midst of a psychedelic renaissance, with Johns Hopkins University leading the way in exploring the therapeutic benefits, while tales abound of California techies microdosing. And though marijuana is not an hallucinogen, per se, it is culturally linked to psychedelics, and it’s legal in 30 states and counting. Then there’s the recent publication of How to Change Your Mind: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression, and Transcendence. The book, written by celebrated author and journalist Michael Pollan, cracked the Top 10 of Amazon’s books charts and is sure to further accelerate the field’s growing respectability.Such developments were unthinkable in the mid-’60s when psychedelics, helping fuel the counterculture’s alienation from mainstream American culture and politics, were pushed underground through prohibition. Having been booted out of Harvard University in 1963, outlaw psychonaut Timothy Leary (in)famously exhorted America’s youth to “turn on, tune in, drop out”; Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters, meanwhile, kickstarted the hippie movement with their Bay Area Acid Tests. Rock ’n’ roll played a central role in the spreading of this psychedelic gospel. As musicians themselves experimented with hallucinogens, they in turn penned anthems charting their consciousness-expanding adventures.The first wave of anthems, probably more inspired by cannabis than hallucinogens, sound rather innocuous, even goofy in hindsight. Bob Dylan’s double entendre-laced “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” wraps early “head” humor inside a marching band sing-along, and The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Daydream” sways with childlike innocence as John Sebastian croons the slyly suggestive lines, “And you can be sure that if you’re feeling right/ A day dream will last long into the night.”In 1966, however, the folksy playfulness of these tunes gave way to noggin-blurring proselytizing. The Beatles—whom Leary, in one of his typically hyperbolic bursts of cosmic thought, described as being “endowed with a mysterious power to create a new human species”—led the charge. The group dropped both “Tomorrow Never Knows,” perhaps the first rock song to truly drone, and “She Said She Said,” a cryptic reference to an acid trip with Easy Rider actor Peter Fonda, into the sonically phantasmagoric Revolver. The Byrds kept apace, unleashing “Eight Miles High,” which certainly matched “Tomorrow Never Knows” in its ability to express the acid experience through mystical lyricism and raga-flavored music.The following year, 1967, saw the Jefferson Airplane and The Doors up the ante with “White Rabbit” and “Break On Through (To the Other Side),” respectively. Both are stirring—though radically different—evocations of West Coast’s exploding psychedelic movement. Where “White Rabbit” is a whimsical call to action drenched in Alice in Wonderland imagery, “Break On Through” comes on like a freight train threatening to jump the tracks. Its expression of a consciousness freed is reckless and unnerving (but also utterly thrilling).It’s important to remember that The Doors, named for Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception, a chronicle of the author’s experiences with mescaline, weren’t flower-picking hippies; they were art-school bohemians whose music charted the shadowy side of psychedelia, especially the sense of loss and disconnect that comes with untethering the mind from reality. As Patrick Lundborg points out in his 2012 book Psychedelia: An Ancient Culture, A Modern Way of Life, “In that tumultuous era, as acidhead musicians directed their creativity towards reflecting their psychedelic experiences, the looming threat and occasional reality of dark, terrifying trips unavoidably came to influence the music.”This ominousness courses through The 13th Floor Elevators’ “Slip Inside This House” and Pink Floyd’s “Interstellar Overdrive,” two of the era’s most emotionally complex anthems. The former, swirling into vortices of reverb, creates a profoundly esoteric vision, over the course of which the promise of spiritual enlightenment and the dangers of ego death coil around one another like snakes. Pink Floyd’s early anthem, on the other hand, is a cold, paranoid, and atonal portrayal of an acid trip as a rocket ride into the black expanse of space. Needless to say, both walk the existential edge, a fact that should come as no surprise considering both the Elevators’ Roky Erickson and Floyd’s Syd Barrett embodied the excesses of the psychedelic era: psychonauts who wound up venturing too far out, damaging themselves in the process.In the United States and United Kingdom, the golden era of the psychedelic anthem didn’t last all that long, roughly 1966 to 1969. By the time Woodstock went down, more and more musicians were eschewing cosmic exploration for earthbound rock heavily accented with country, soul, and blues. The visionary utopianism so profoundly linked to altered states of consciousness simply couldn’t weather the harsh realities of a war in Vietnam that seemingly had no end in sight, the ascendency of Richard M. Nixon and his Silent Majority to the Oval Office, and the brutal Civil Rights unrest of 1968. Hippies, reeling from these bitter developments, embraced more personal forms of enlightenment: yoga, meditation, and health food, to name a few. Or, they bolted for the country.Exceptions did pop up, like Funkadelic’s moodily sublime “Maggot Brain,” not an anthem in the strictest sense yet certainly a powerful expression of mind-smashing lysergia. There also were late-to-evolve psychedelic scenes in central Europe and Japan, where hippiedom didn’t take hold until the early ’70s. A perfect reflection of this is the Switzerland-based Brainticket, whose 1971 epic “Brainticket (Part Two)” really is one of the most over-the-top anthems of the era. It’s tough to imagine anything better capturing the wild, transgressive spirit of the times than when vocalist Dawn Muir moans the line “An army of thoughts retreating towards oblivion/ A square of light, a circle of thought, a triangle of nothing!!!” as though she’s descending her entire being into an LSD-fueled orgy from which there is no return.As with most of the expansive pieces on this playlist, it’s safe to say the researchers at Johns Hopkins don’t play a whole lot of Brianticket around the lab!

If you’re the sort of person who thinks that the worst part of a Drake album is Drake, you’ll love More Life. There are long stretches where Drake simply disappears. U.K. grime artist Skepta gets his own track, as does beautifully wounded R&B crooner Sampha. The shuffling U.K. funk of “Get It Together” features Drake only briefly, and primarily as a baritone counterpoint to the jazzy inflections of Jorja Smith. For long stretches of the collection, Drake is content to wander the catacombs of his billion-square-foot mansion, while his friends stay above-ground, sipping acacia mimosas around the pool and pointing their iPhones at one another. It makes for a fun party.Yes, there are still Drake’s tortured-godhead delusions, the awkward therapy-raps, and his famed faceplant similes (exhibit 1: “I’m grateful like Jerry, Bob, and Mickey”), but we also get to hear 2 Chainz blurrily quip, “I love my fans, but I don’t want to take pictures in the restroom,” a line that constitutes the most pointed commentary on outsized fan expectations since Lou Reed released Metal Machine Music.This is among the best of Drake’s clumping-tracks-together things, and that’s very much because More Life is consciously a “playlist.” This isn’t a “low stakes” gambit or a cheap marketing gimmick (at least not entirely), but an honest engagement with a new form. It was informed by Drake’s involvement on the OVO Sound radio show for Apple Music. In fact, Drake told DJ Semtex that he imagined More Life as an episode of that show. But what makes More Life a good playlist? How do we even judge such things? When critics review albums, focus is given on consistency, with the work being the sum of its parts. This is true whether the album is intended to be coherent piece of work (see: Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly or Beyoncé’s Lemonade), or a collection of songs (see: Justin Bieber or Pitbull). There’s the expectation that everything is there for a reason. More Life is looser and more meandering, and sometimes the individual components seem slight and tertiary. But it captures a moment, a feeling, and a place. Outros stretch and breathe (as on god-status track “Passionfruit”), while sampled dialogue bits are strung together—not so much to form a ramshackle narrative or even a running meta-commentary (a la De La Soul’s classic albums), but to reflect a vibe. More Life is a long weekend at the beach spent counting clouds and taking inventory of idle distractions. In this sense, it doesn’t so much resemble a mixtape, or a crew compilation album (like JAY Z’s The Dynasty: Roc La Familia), as it does a mood playlist. It’s audio wallpaper, in the best sense.While Drake delivers on the mic—his lead-off verse over the icy flute trap of “Portland” is an obvious standout—there’s no mind-bending “King Kunta”-level/David-Blaine-on-the-mic classic moments™, and that doesn’t matter here. More Life is enjoyable and, as anyone who listens to a lot of classic albums knows, enjoying music trumps appreciating it—and this release is infinitely better than any other non-sweater-meme Drake release in years. For that, we can thank the generations of mixtape compilers, playlist curators, radio DJs, and compilation creators for helping define this new form. But, most of all, we should thank Drake for getting that the lines between artist, audience, critic, and curator are porous, and for making an initial foray into what this intersection looks like. And, of course, for understanding that you should always invite 2 Chainz to a pool party. — Sam Chennault

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!When the Boston Red Sox need a late-in-the-game lift, they turn to one song: The Dropkick Murphys pugilistic 2005 track "Im Shipping Up to Boston," a reworking of lyrics lifted from Woody Guthries archive that showcases the bands Celtic-punk brawn and lead singer Ken Caseys strangled yawp. Whether or not the tune results in a team victory, it unfailingly livens up the Fenway Park crowd, who lustily yell "I lost my leg!" along with Casey while fiddles whirl and drums crash.The Murphys—who began as a dare back in 1996, according to Casey—have been embraced by not just the Red Sox, but by other New England-based sports teams. It’s a testament to the way they perfectly encapsulate an ideal of Boston: Think punk rock sing-alongs in memorabilia-festooned bars where the jukebox can veer from Rancid to Tommy Makem in the blink of an eye. Their blend of punks fighting spirit and traditional Irish folks storytelling fits in nicely with their hometowns cradle-of-revolution status and large population affiliated with the Emerald Isle—not to mention its passion for sports. Their annual run of St. Patricks Day shows in Boston—which in 2017 includes four small-venue gigs and a headlining stint at Boston Universitys hockey arena—illustrates just how well-suited the band and their hometown are to one another."What we run on is the fire in our bellies," Casey told The Boston Globe in 1999, before the band was about to embark on its first Warped Tour. "If its more about music and less about the passion, thats when no one wants to listen to you anymore." 11 Short Stories of Pain & Glory, the bands most recent album from 2017, shows that the fire in their bellies still burns. Some lyrics depict people affected by the opioid epidemic that has claimed many of the band members friends and loved ones, while a stirring cover of the old Rodgers & Hammerstein chestnut "Youll Never Walk Alone" joins their versions of "Amazing Grace" and the Irish famine ballad "Fields of Athenry" as songs that bridge the gap between the Fleadh Cheoil and the sweaty bar with gusto.

Post-whatever-you-wanna-call-it band Nothing have been carving their modern shoegaze sound out of their heavy music roots for years with an aim to uncover some deep-seated hardships in a shimmering, melodic light. And on their new album Dance on the Blacktop, (out August 24) the full realization of how to marry their struggles with blustering music that pulls you up by your bootstraps has been fully achieved. Tracks like album opener "Zero Day" and lead single "Blue Line Baby" reminisce the 90s with buzzing guitars, chugging rhythms and solemn vocals -- but with a jaded, yet hopeful view thats all 2018.While out on the road in anticipation of the albums release, we caught up with frontman Domenic Palermo who made us a playlist for the summers dry season. Or, as Palermo lovingly/ alternatively calls it, "Something To Listen To When Youre Falling Asleep At The Wheel In Carnudas, Texas."Listen above or go right here.

Any indie/alt-rock fan whos studied liner notes over the past three decades is familiar with the name Dave Sardy. The Brooklyn-bred producer has worked with everyone from the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage Against the Machine to LCD Soundsystem and Death From Above 1979. But as DSARDY, hes putting his name right on the cover—his upcoming solo effort, Unequal, finds him crafting moody, dystopian rock soundscapes for a rotating cast of guest vocalists that includes Jim James of My Morning Jacket, Ben Birdwell of Band of Horses, Macy Grey, Son Little, and more. On this playlist, the studio wizard reveals the eclectic artists that shaped the albums sound. "I always try to do research before making an album or track. When I work with an artist, Ill take some time and listen to music as a way of going to the library, getting excited, and finding common ground and a language to communicate with the person or band Im working with. Making my own record is no different—in a way easier and, at the same time, deeper, as I also have a lifelong relationship with songs and love of record production. This is an abridged collection of some records that inspired me in this current Unequal project. Listen loudly please."—Dave Sardy

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!There is but a single label that’s played a key role in the evolution of reggae, post-punk, dance, industrial, and experimental music alike, and that’s On-U Sound. Founded by English producer, remixer, and bandleader Adrian Sherwood in 1979, the label’s been in the throes of a massive reissue campaign since 2016. In addition to dusting off long out-of-print titles from the likes of African Head Charge and the Singers & Players collective, Sherwood has given the green light for a slew of anthologies, including Trevor Jackson’s brilliant Science Fiction Dancehall Classics and two volumes of Sherwood At The Controls that have helped contextualize the label’s sweeping legacy.About that legacy: On U-Sound initially made a name for itself with a slew of titles that opened up the stylistic parameters of dub while at the same time remaining loyal to the movement’s spiritual core. Where albums like Creation Rebel’s Starship Africa and African Head Charge’s My Life in a Hole in the Ground—yes, that’s a cheeky Eno/Byrne reference—sound like echo-drenched alien transmissions smothered in futuristic electronics, Congo Ashanti Roy’s African Blood and Bim Sherman’s Across the Red Sea are moving meditations that ease ’70s roots music into ‘80s New Wave.But Sherwood and U-Sound were never content with remaining tethered to dub. Indeed, what made the label so innovative throughout its peak years in the ’80s was an ability to fold dub’s trademark qualities—shuddering reverb, hulking bass, tape delay, and shuffling rhythms turned inside out and upside down—into a wide range of cutting-edge genres. The Sherwood-produced collision of world grooves, tape manipulation, and punk politics heard on Mark Stewart & The Maffia’s Learning To Cope With Cowardice opened up entire vistas of avant-garde expression that 21st-century explorers such as Gang Gang Dance and Sun Araw have since colonized. Similarly radical is Tackhead’s Whats My Mission Now? 12-inch, a speaker-shredding collage of hip-hop drum machines, fidgety electro syncopation, and aggressive industrial samples that hasn’t lost any of its radical bite.While the bulk of these tracks are drawn from the On U-Sound catalog, listeners will also encounter a handful of relevant Sherwood projects that weren’t released by the label. For example, The Slits’ “Man Next Door,” co-mixed by Sherwood, is an early example of the cross-pollination between dub and post-punk. Then there’s the long-forgotten Sherwood production “Dead Come Alive,” which didn’t see the light of day until Science Fiction Dancehall Classics. This hybrid of hip-hop and ’80s club music features a young Neneh Cherry rhyming over bubbling, pointillist electronics that are so prescient, they could’ve been created just last week—something that holds true for just about every cut on this playlist.

Jason Gubbels, who has done an admirable job as the world critic over at Rhapsody, highlights the work from one of Jamaicas greatest and generally overlooked producers, King Jammy. As Jason points out, King Jammy has played a great influence on at least two eras of reggae. He was the dub master at King Tubbys studio during the 70s, and then later basically invented dancehall in 1985 with his single for Wayne Smith, "Under Me Sleng Teng." This is a very enjoyable playlist featuring everyone from Black Uhuru to Shabba Ranks.

Im always surprised that Duke Dumont has been able to cross over to America to the extent that he has. The UK producer was mentored by Switch, and came up with post-house UK producers like Oliver Dollar and Route 94.His music is great. Its lite, melodic and floating electronic pop, with maybe a little bit of camp thrown in. Its late-afternoon festival music. This is a great mix of his Blasé Boys crew, though it strangely spends the first four tracks on Aki. Duke has one of the most active Spotify accounts though, and its worth a look to check out all his playlists.

Since they released their debut album on the Anjunadeep label in 2011, the UK duo Dusky have been associated with house music at its most moodily atmospheric. Even when theyre at their most energetic, their music swirls with watery chords, deep shadows, and a pervasive air of melancholy. So its no surprise to discover that the two producers are stalwart fans of ambient electronica, as they prove in an extensive collection of favorites on YouTube. Heavy on the sounds that were floating through the UKs chillout rooms in the 90s, their list contains plenty of stone classics that no ambient survey could be complete without. Canonical cuts from The Orb, Aphex Twin, and Future Sound of London are all represented, but its in some of their deeper, more obscure picks—the leftfield of the leftfield, if you will—that their playlist really serves as a stellar resource. Even serious heads are likely to discover something new here, or at least be reminded of an old favorite theyd forgotten. Bookmark this one for late nights and early mornings.

Resident Advisor’s playlist curation is excellent, and Early Electronic Music is no exception. A far out descent into analog-generated squiggles, bubbles, percolations, and sine waves from the genre’s formative stages, it successfully demonstrates how electronic music was born out of a unique intersection of novelty and avant-garde. After all, Raymond Scott and Perrey and Kingsley, both active in the mid-20th century, used cutting-edge technology to make silly pop throwaways. At the other end of the spectrum there’s Morton Subotnick, a serious composer who recorded for the classical label Nonesuch. RA also deserves props for diversity. Their tracklist contains a cut each from Daphne Oram and Delia Derbyshire, two visionary female composers who largely were written out of electronic music’s development. It’s worth noting that the playlist focuses on pieces made by electronic processes exclusively, thus explaining why hybrid examples, including Bernard Hermann’s theremin-laced scored for the science fiction landmark The Day the Earth Stood Still, have been excluded.