2016 was bleak for lots of reasons: a giant Cheeto dumb dumb managed to ass-chat his way into the Oval Office, some other jockstraps decided to kill a bunch of innocent people in Florida and Nice, and the Zika virus stuck two fingers up to modern medicine. But its also the year during which I finally chased down, and jumped, my dream. Three years ago, after a whole lot of soul-searching and desperately trying to convince myself I loved living in London and getting shit-faced six days a week, I realized what I really wanted was a simple life. To return to the countryside, to the woods, with my beloved. So we worked and we planned, and in December 2015, we left our jobs and friends and families in the UK, and moved—cat, tortoises, and all—to the Hudson Valley, just a few hours north of New York City. People will remember this year for all its faults, but for me its the year my sister, also an NY resident, gave birth to my niece. Its the year my true love and I bought our first home, a 100-year-old wreck of a farmhouse on 12 acres of organic farmland which were in the middle of gutting and renovating with our own four hands. Its the year I started making more money writing than I do editing. It’s the year I made space for myself. The year I summoned enough courage to leap.And perhaps suitably reflective of the year itself, my soundtrack to 2016 is far stranger than expected. We did a lot of driving before we got our own place, and I listened to the radio a lot. Which meant that I was forced to listen to new(ish) mainstream music, rather than get stuck in my comfortable rabbit holes of whatever artist I was obsessed with at the time. Sure, it took me about 10 months to realize my pickup stereo has a CD player, but for the first half of the year, I ended up listening to a lot of Justin Bieber and Kiiara. A darling friend from home gifted me a Vinyl Me Please subscription as a leaving present, and so Weezer, The Books, and Fugees resurfaced unexpectedly in my life. Sometimes Im homesick, missing my mum terribly, and I turn to things that remind me of her. Nina Simone, Sade, Joan Armatrading. Sometimes Im so blissed out by the peace and quiet that all I want to do is roll up a stonking blunt, close my eyes and fall into some Tirzah, Young Thug, and Bjork. And sometimes I cant believe I moved to this country the year the Cheeto dumb dumb had the misfortune to be “elected”. Then I need Solange and Rihanna. But, odd as this mix is, it captures, in its beautiful weirdness, just how glorious this year has been.
With the release of I can feel you creep into my private life, Tune-Yards’ Merrill Garbus has come full-circle, her gift for game-changing vocal play reaching full-tilt automaton on an album that simultaneously nods to her analog beginnings and doffs its cap to an exciting electronic future.“I started sampling my vocals with an MPC,” she says of I can feel. “There was something that felt really right about my voice being trapped in a machine.” Long-time fans will know that Garbus recorded the majority of her debut LP, BiRd-BrAiNs, on a voice recorder, lending the record its distinctive—and now renowned—lo-fi sound. What it also did, however, was create a distance between Garbus’ towering vocal pipes and the listener, a trick she’s revisited on the latest album. “I wanted the vocals to sound robotic,” she says. “Maybe to counter the sincerity of the lyrics.”Garbus is no stranger to vocal manipulation on a grand scale, basing entire albums around a particular hook or device (see the Pee-wee Herman-inspired playground chants across the entirety of Nikki Nack, or the sultry doo-wop harmonies and Haitian-inspired vocal layering that populate Whokill), while also reserving her most crescendoing, gratifying hollers, whoops, and yells for when they’ll make the most impact. Hers is an inimitable voice, one built on a foundation of varying regional African folk musics, the ‘80s pop of Michael Jackson and Cyndi Lauper, and mid-century soul in the vein of James Brown and The Ronettes. And while Garbus’ influences ride valiantly along with her genre-hopping melodies, her gift for weaving together fragmented musical cues precludes any suggestion of imitation. You can hear her loop-pedal vocal layering techniques in the a-capella mastery of Manhattan Transfer and the meticulous gospel of the Soweto Gospel Choir, while her penchant for the peppy nasal belting of Afrobeat is rooted in the Congolese pop of Wenge Musica or Awilo Longomba.
In the many memorials and remembrances published after Gregg Allman’s death on May 27, 2017, the Allman Brothers Band and Hour Glass vocalist has been hailed as one of the great white blues and soul singers. It’s worthy praise for a mighty stylist, though it also has to be noted that Allman was just one of a slew of white Southern singers who, in the ’60s and early ’70s, reshaped the contours of American roots music by blending African-American soul, blues, and gospel with elements of country, pop, and, in select instances, the anti-establishment fervor and experimental flavors coursing through the hippies’ rebellious rock jams.Some of these musicians are well known. Dr. John, of course, is an American icon synonymous with New Orleans R&B, and Joe South achieved pop stardom at the turn of the ’70s thanks to a string of hits, including “Games People Play,” a socially conscious anthem laced with electric sitar and delivered with a preacher’s passion. Others, meanwhile, have never moved beyond cult status. Swamp rock pioneer Tony Joe White remains under the radar despite having his songs covered by Brook Benton, Johnny Cash, and Elvis Presley (whose comeback era, 1968 through 1973, makes him a key figure in this milieu). Even more obscure is the late Eddie Hinton. A songwriter and guitarist who contributed to many of the seminal soul albums recorded at Muscle Shoals, he also was a fabulous vocalist in his own right. Indeed, music critic Peter Guralnick describes the gravelly voiced howler as the ”last of the great white soul singers" in the indispensable book Sweet Soul Music: Rhythm and Blues and the Southern Dream of Freedom.With all due respect to Van Morrison, Joe Cocker, and the seriously bad-ass Daryl Hall, nobody can touch these Southerners in terms of blue-eyed soulfulness. Of course, soulfulness is a tricky notion, as it veers into the immeasurably shadowy world of metaphysics. Thus, it helps to ground it in some geography and culture. After all, these singers—who so thoroughly soaked up the sublime cadences, emotiveness, and phrasing of their African-American heroes—were raised in a region of the United States where black music, art, and religion permeate—despite rampant racism and oppression—white culture to a degree that’s unique unto itself. (This is part of what Drive-By Trucker Patterson Hood has called the “duality of the Southern thing.”) This influence isn’t the result of merely buying records, attending concerts, or, in Jerry Lee Lewis’ case, growing up near a juke joint. It’s archaic, and it’s soaked into the very bedrock of the Southern collective subconscious.To see a mind-blowing microcosm of this point, check out the opening sequence of the 1983 documentary Chase the Devil: Religious Music of the Appalachians: Rev. Bobby Akers, based in Virginia, leads his all-white Pentecostal congregation in a style of revival—Holy Ghost–raising piano boogie, ecstatic singing, dancing in the aisles, speaking in tongues, hands raised to God, and what seem like trance states—that can be traced back to the African-American church and to the religious rites and rituals slaves brought over from West Africa. These very same roots are embedded in the jams comprising this playlist. They creep their way into both Gary Stewart’s honky-tonk bummer “Single Again” and Bobby Charles’ muddy “Save Me Jesus.” And they most certainly creep their way into The Allman Brothers Band’s “Dreams,” a sublime slice of Southern cosmic gospel music, if there ever was one.
Click here to add to Spotify playlist!Kristen Stewart owes a king-sized thank you to Olivier Assayas for aiding her startling transformation from Twilight moper to one of our age’s most reliably edgy and surprising screen actors. The French director first guided Stewart to greatness in his 2014 drama Clouds of Sils Maria and does it again in Personal Shopper, an eminently weird and stylish thriller that hit U.S. theaters on March 10, 2017. The high-profile collaboration has brought wide attention to the former film critic-turned-auteur who’s been a hero to cinephiles since establishing his voice in the 1990s with a string of extraordinary features.Assayas’ impeccable musical taste and ability to match sound and vision have been apparent ever since he combined the image of leading lady Maggie Cheung clad in black leather with the dissonant snarl of Sonic Youth’s “Tunic (Song For Karen)” in his 1996 breakout Irma Vep. He later collaborated with the band on the score for 2002’s Demonlover and featured Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore in his 2006 music doc Noise. Gordon also has a bit part opposite Asia Argento in his 2007 thriller Boarding Gate.Indeed, like Eurocinema peers Claire Denis (who’s enjoyed a long and fruitful alliance with Tindersticks) and Leos Carax (whose roster of musical collaborators ranges from Scott Walker to Kylie), Assayas has an approach to scores and soundtracks that’s far more adventurous and sophisticated than the predictable hit parades in most Hollywood fare and the played-out, random mixtape-sensibility of Quentin Tarantino, Wes Anderson, and their legions of wannabes.This survey of music from such Assayas essentials as Clean, a drama featuring an exhilarating performance by a then-breaking Metric, and Carlos, a mini-series about Carlos the Jackal scored by Wire—originally with songs by the Feelies until they objected to being used alongside images of terrorism—includes songs that he used for highly dramatic and memorable purposes.
Click here to add to Spotify playlist!Profound Lore was founded in 2004 by Chris Bruni as a casual venture, but within a few years it grew to be a serious metal label. Based in Kitchener, Ontario—about an hour’s drive west of Toronto—Profound Lore has produced some of the most vital voices in contemporary black, experimental, and heavy metal.Providing a deep history of Profound Lore Records is a challenging pursuit, as the only thing listed on their website’s “About” page is an H. P. Lovecraft quote from “The Outsider”: “I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.” Maybe that really does sum it all up, and maybe Profound Lore only needs to be known by what they’ve done.Many of their releases challenge common perceptions of metal: Prurient’s Frozen Niagara Falls could only be called metal in its attitude, which is cold, penetrating, and unforgettably bleak. In the track “Greenpoint,” industrial rips and existential explosions of white noise attack across an unforgiving pulse, giving way to bone-chilling lyrics about the namesake Brooklyn neighborhood where an uncommon number of people have committed suicide.By contrast, Ash Borer’s 2016 record The Irrepassable Gate is a more straightforward black metal album, flush with wailing guitars, punishing blast beats, and of course, howling vocals. It’s a dark and masterful album, showcasing the incredible growth they’ve made over the course of only three full LPs, the last two of which have been released through Profound Lore.There truly isn’t enough space here to pay tribute to the label that brought us Krallice’s self-titled masterpiece (as well as Dimensional Bleedthrough and Diotima), a few albums from drone/noise metal legends Nadja, all three LPs from doom band Pallbearer, and many more. It’s clear that what Profound Lore do on a day-to-day basis remains in the shadows, but for metal, perhaps that’s necessary.
Were now living in an era in which an alternative band sees a guitar as nothing buta shiny accessory. Yes, folks, weve made it back to the synthpop future (the 80s, that is). And while the sound has been a big part of this millenniums musical DNA, from its most ethereal potential to its cheesiest excesses, its now officially reached stadium—or, dare we say, stratospheric—status. like Bastille and Chrvches are embracing all the hallmarks of soaring arena rock—slow builds and huge hooks—and taking them on EDMs thundering path to euphoria via a retro-futuristic rocket. Even modern folk heroes like Mumford & Sons havetossed aside their mandolins to get in on the fun. What results are glittery and glossy pop anthems, built on synths and samplers, that feel downright galactic. Heck, some artists have even based their whole existence on this celestial idea. See: M83, Empire of the Sun, and Walk the Moon.
Where oh where did all the dance-punk bands go? In the first decade of the new millennium, amid the countless other genres that looked back at older music through rosy glasses (chillwave, freak folk, neo-psychedelia), few dominated both the mainstream charts as well as the underground as heavily as dance-punk did. Though the sound’s essential properties came down to a fusion of punk and disco, its purveyors ranged from award-collecting pretty-boys (Franz Ferdinand, Kaiser Chefs) to aging hipsters carving out new territory (LCD Soundsystem, Le Tigre). Some groups leaned more heavily into their funk forebears (Electric Six, VHS Or Beta), while others embraced a pop-friendly mix of acoustic and electric instrumentation, shooting for the festival stages while riding a steady wave of blog buzz (Matt And Kim, Two Door Cinema Club).Though often fairly accessible (it is dance music after all), bands that practised the sound often thrived on an indie-schooled sense of cool, never straying too far from their rock roots as they attempted to bring guitar music into the 21st century. You can still hear the echoes of the sound in indie rock today, even if most of its original architects have been left by the wayside. But with dance-punk luminaries Franz Ferdinand returning in February with their fifth album, Always Ascending, we took the time to revisit some of the genre’s most definitive moments. Hit play, and bust out those MySpace moves.
Miami has a long history of hip-hop dating back to the days of 2 Live Crew, and for the past decade, the scene’s two most famous exports have been Rick Ross and Pitbull. They worked together early in their careers on DJ Khaled posse cuts and have since diverged down parallel paths. With Ross’s ninth album Rather You Than Me and Pitbull’s 10th album Climate Change, both out in March 2017, the two rappers continue to represent Miami on a major level in very different ways.Rick Ross is a self-styled kingpin in the tradition of rappers like The Notorious B.I.G. and JAY Z, rapping from the perspective of a crime boss—wealthy but embattled. Slow, cruising beats —like the one provided by Miami duo The Runners on “Hustlin’”—brought him fame, and he helped bring the abrasive trap sounds of Lex Luger to the mainstream with 2010’s “B.M.F. (Blowin’ Money Fast).” He’s never had a top 10 solo hit, but five of his albums have topped the Billboard 200, and he’s revered for his ear for production and his consistently enjoyable albums.Pitbull is “Mr. Worldwide,” a Cuban American rapper who can start a party with any kind of beat. He rode the way of mentor Lil Jon’s crunk movement with his early hits, but he quickly expanded his sound by rapping over dancehall, reggaeton, pop, and EDM tracks. Only two of his albums have charted in the top 10 of the Billboard 200, but his singles are a perennial fixture on the Hot 100, including No. 1s “Give Me Everything” and “Timber.”But for all their differences, Rick Ross and Pitbull have traveled similar career arcs. After warming the bench for long-running Southern rap labels Suave House and Slip-n-Slide in the early 2000s, Rick Ross took charge of his career by signing with Def Jam. He eventually launched his own successful label, Maybach Music Group, and has branched off into owning restaurants. Pitbull survived the collapse of his first label, TVT, before thriving on Sony with his own Mr. 305 imprint. But as you’ll hear in this playlist of contrasting cuts, both are openly influenced by their city’s homegrown Miami bass sound, and both have had hits with some of the same collaborators, including T-Pain and Ne-Yo.
This post is part of our program, The Story of Kendrick, an in-depth, 10-part look at the life and music of Kendrick Lamar. Sound cool and want to receive the other installments in your inbox? Go here. Already signed up and enjoying it? Help us get the word out and share on Facebook, Twitter, or with this link. Your friends will thank you.Top Dawg Entertainment is a bit of an enigma. It’s hip-hop’s most popular label and, some would argue, its most recognizable brand. It’s achieved this by seemingly being both everywhere at once—thanks to stars like Kendrick Lamar, Schoolboy Q, and SZA—and also appearing to shrink from the spotlight. Until 2014, there were scant online photos or interviews available of its founder and namesake Anthony “Top Dawg” Tiffith. This has changed gradually over time, but the enterprise is still shrouded in a good deal of mystery. Piecing together what we have learned about this label, we’ve assembled three origin stories, each of which speaks to a different aspect of the label’s history.
It’s October 21, 2012, and we’re standing in a parking lot in San Diego alongside the entire TDE team. The next day, Kendrick will release good kid, m.A.A.d city, and tonight the crew is playing a sold-out show to around 1,500 people, which, at that point, was considered a large crowd for the guys. They’re excited, slightly raucous, and maybe a little bit nervous.Over the course of the previous three years, TDE had established itself as a regional powerhouse, releasing seminal West Coast independent releases like Schoolboy Q’s Habits & Contradictions and Kendrick Lamar’s Section.80. They’d been able to parlay this underground success into a deal with Interscope, and they had quickly become Dr. Dre’s pet project. The lead single from good kid, m.A.A.d city, "Swimming Pools (Drank)," had reached the Top 20 on Billboard charts. All signs pointed towards an impending breakout success, but there was still an unsettled energy.The scene in San Diego recalled that part in Goodfellas when Tommy (Joe Pesci) is going to be made and Henry (Ray Liotta) and Jimmy (Robert De Niro) anxiously wait for the news in a nearby cafe—except, of course, in this case, no one gets shot. (At least not on this night.) Kendrick’s manager, Dave Free, paces outside of one of the tour buses and concedes that there’s no way that they’ll get the No. 1 slot for good kid (Taylor Swift’s Red comes out the same day as well), but he’s expecting a solid No. 2. Jay Rock seems a little more upbeat, and (rightfully) thinks that this is going to be a landmark album. Ab-Soul is bouncing around, getting high and spitting out overly complicated theories about the ratchets, while Kendrick and the rest of the TDE peeps are goofing around with their friends who had driven down from L.A. for the show.“It’s a time of reckoning, like it’s finally happening,” Ab-Soul later says to me. “Right now, I see the potential to take over the whole game.”At this point, five years later, we all get that he was right. Good kid, m.A.A.d city went on to become a watershed release, going platinum despite coming in second to Taylor’s Red its first week. Schoolboy Q would score two No. 1 albums (Oxymoron and Blank Face LP) in three years. And the label’s three breakout artists (Kendrick, Schoolboy, and SZA) would headline festivals and arenas around the world. By 2017, TDE would seize nearly 5 per cent of the hip-hop/R&B market share. By most measures, they’ve become the most important and success label of the decade, and to the outsider, or recent fan, that success seemingly came overnight. But the path to get here was long and arduous—and took the better part of two decades.
Anthony “Top Dawg” Tiffith is nearing his 30th birthday. A seasoned hustler, Tiffith understood that the tenure of someone in his position was short, and that he needed a Plan B. He looked to his uncle, Mike Concepcion, as an example. Concepcion was a founding member of the Crips gang, and was shot and confined to a wheelchair in 1977. In the ’80s, after his mother died, he gave up the gang life, and turned to music, producing the 1990 anti-violence anthem “We’re All in the Same Gang,” which was produced by Dr. Dre and featured Ice-T, N.W.A., Digital Underground, and King Tee. He was also immortalized in a line from Nas’ 2001 track “You’re Da Man”: “45 in my waist, staring at my reflection/ In the mirror, sitting still, in the chair like Mike Concepcion.”Tiffith decided that the first step to breaking into the music business was building out a studio in the back of his apartment, so he went shopping for equipment.“When we picked it up, this dude told me he could help put it together,” Tiffith remembers. “[Later] I go and pick the dude up, and I say, ‘Yo, I got to blindfold you.’ He’s like, ‘What?’ I’m like, ‘Lay down back here. I’m not going to do nothing to you. You don’t need to know where you’re going. I don’t want you coming back, stealing my shit.’ He’s like, ‘Oh, yeah, I understand.’ I get home, pull into the garage, and my girl’s there. So when I was like, ‘Come on,’ he pops in with the blindfold, and she thought I had kidnapped the n---a. Like, ‘What the fuck is going on?’
Though Tiffith was able to stick it out in the game longer than others, by the early aughts it was time to move on. "I lost a lot of friends, saw a lot of partners locked up,” he says. When things got kinda hot, I had to find something else to do.”He had the studio, but he didn’t really know how to use it, nor did he know any artists for that matter. He enlisted the help of producer Demetrius Shipp, who was a veteran of the rap game, producing the track “Toss It Off” on the posthumous Tupac album Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory, and Tiffith had once done him a favor, chasing down a debt for him and letting him use the studio. Tiffith had originally thought of producing R&B groups, but he soon decided that rap would be more profitable.“One of the homies said, ‘You need to check out Jay Rock.’ I heard his name because he was messing up,” Tiffith recalls.“I wind up chasing Jay Rock down in the ’hood. He seen me a couple times and tried to go the other way because he think I’m fixing to discipline him. Then one time I catch him on the porch getting his haircut and his eyes got so big like, ‘He got me.’ I said, ‘Yo, you can rap, I need you at the studio tonight.’ We went from there."Rock had grown up in the Nickerson Gardens housing projects and was a member of the Bounty Hunters, a Blood gang that has been in that area since the turn of the ‘70s. The gang was originally called the Green Jackets, when, in the aftermath of a deadly, Crip-led battle at a Curtis Mayfield and Wilson Picket concert in 1972, the anti-Crip gang contingent formally coalesced into a faction they named the Bloods, with the Compton-bred gang the Pirus as their leading crew.Though Rock was born in Nickerson Gardens, which was firmly Blood territory, he had to cross over to Locke High School. It was only two miles to the West, but due to the complex matrix of gang territories, he was firmly in Crip territory. “There were a couple of bloods, but it felt like I was the only one,” Rock recalls. “I had to watch my back when I go home. I was on enemy territory. People would be running into my class, and I had to get out. That’s how it was back then.”
Map of Gang Territory in L.A. from www.streetgangs.comSoon, Rock would have company. David Free was a local high-school DJ who had recruited a number of promising MCs, most notable among them a 16-year-old kid from Centennial High School named Kendrick Lamar. Free immediately saw Lamar’s potential, and set out to put his music in front of the right people. But connections were scant at that time in South Central L.A., and though Tiffith was just getting started, he represented the closest thing in the neighborhood to the recording industry.Free had no prior relationship with Tiffith, and did not directly approach him; rather, he posed as a computer repairman in order to gain access. Arriving at Tiffith’s house, Free was nervous. He didn’t have a clue how to fix computers, but he wanted to play Kendrick’s music for Tiffith. He’d taken the computer completely apart, and, as soon as the tape was over, he looked up, exasperated, turning to Tiffith and declaring, “Man, I don't think I can fix this.”He accomplished his mission, and Tiffith agreed to audition Lamar in person. At that point, Lamar was still calling himself K-Dot, and though his technical skills belied his young age, he had yet to find his own voice. Tiffith was initially skeptical, but was soon won over. "I told Kendrick to get on the mic and flow over some beats I chose,” Tiffith says. “I like to make rappers spit over double-time beats to try to stumble their ass up— but he was rapping like a motherfucker! I tried to act, like, unimpressed, but that made him go even harder. He stepped up.”Not everyone was happy about this development, and there was initially some uneasiness in the studio. Though Jay Rock was happy to have company, Kendrick was from a part of Compton that repped for the West Side Pirus, who were then at war with Jay Rock’s gang. "It was a little tension with Kendrick and Jay Rock early on because our ’hoods were going at each other,” Tiffith remembers. “They didn’t know how to react. With me being the big homie [I would advise them]: ‘You guys can bridge the gap between the ’hood, because y’all can speak to the world now.’ You can get some money and change all this gangbang shit."Once Jay Rock witnessed Lamar in action, he was a quick convert. “Kendrick came through,” Rock says. “I remember we was doing this record, the first record we ever did. And I was struggling writing my verse. I’m writing on a piece of paper. I’m trying to hurry up and finish my verse before him. But he’d already finished his verse. I’m like, ‘Where your paper at, homie?’ He said, ‘Nah, I write in my head.’ From that moment right there, I was like, ‘Wow, this dude is something else.’
By the end of 2006, the two were joined by Hoover Crip Schoolboy Q from South Central and Ab-Soul, a German-raised eccentric who learned to rap in the freestyle chat rooms of the African-American social network, BlackPlanet. The modern incarnation of TDE was born. The studio was christened The House of Pain to reflect the group’s tireless work ethic. Tiffith even came up with a five point, handwritten manifesto that he taped to the wall:
Though the pieces were all in place, it would still be a long, hard-fought journey for the label. The ’90s were the golden era of West Coast hip-hop, producing Tupac, N.W.A., DJ Quik, Kurupt, and many, many others, but the aughts were much leaner. The most popular and artistically adventurous hip-hop was coming from the South, and New York was able to stay on the map largely thanks to the bruising raps of 50 Cent’s G-Unit crew. But L.A. hip-hop had not really moved on from the G-funk era, and the only one true commercial breakout artist, The Game, was a nostalgist who was most closely associated with G-Unit.An entire coast would wander through the desert for the better part of an entire decade. But, when they emerged in the early ’10s, TDE was leading the charge.This is part of our program, The Story of Kendrick, an in-depth look at the life and music of Kendrick Lamar. Sound cool and want to sign up? Go here. Already signed up and enjoying it? Help us get the word out and share on Facebook, Twitter or with this link. They'll thank you.Related Reading:Video: Life and RhymesA New Hip-Hop Recipe With A Familiar SoundTop Dawg Entertainment is Building a Hip-Hop EmpireMeet David Free: Kendrick Lamar’s 30 Under 30 ManagerWho is Schoolboy QMeet Dave Free, Kendrick Lamar's 30 Under 30 ManagerKendrick Lamar and Anthony 'Top Dawg' Tiffith on How They Built Hip-Hop's Greatest Indie LabelTop Dawg Entertainment's CEO Speaks Out On Label, Signing Kendrick Lamar & MoreTop Dawg's Kendrick Lamar & ScHoolboy Q Cover Story: Enter the House of PainMike Concepcion speaks on what a Real O.G. is, the music game, and more pt 1
Philip is consistently one of my favorite music writers and he proves why with this excellent look at the artists and tracks that influenced a key track from Jamie XXs new collection, In Colour. Four Tet, Burial and Lone are all clear influences, but (relatively) obscure artists such as IVVVO and WK7 make this playlist enjoyable. Be sure to also read Philips excellent profile of Jamie XX in Pitchfork
Headings, paragraphs, blockquotes, figures, images, and figure captions can all be styled after a class is added to the rich text element using the "When inside of" nested selector system.
Headings, paragraphs, blockquotes, figures, images, and figure captions can all be styled after a class is added to the rich text element using the "When inside of" nested selector system.
Headings, paragraphs, blockquotes, figures, images, and figure captions can all be styled after a class is added to the rich text element using the "When inside of" nested selector system.
