Indie

It’s difficult to overstate how much DFA meant to modern indie music. When the label first appeared in the early aughts, many in the Pitchfork crowd were afraid of dance music, but bands like LCD Soundsystem and Rapture made electronic music hip again for a certain audience. It was post-internet music, meaning that there was a premium put on pastiche and obscurity; and the music referenced everything from Krautrock to disco. But the music wasn’t stale or overly cerebral; it rocked, thumped and sometimes bumped. Elliot Sharp, from RBMA, places the tracks in chronological order, and it’s interesting to hear the collective sound develop and mature over the years. There seems to be an over-reliance on remixes, and some of the labels biggest names are not on here, but every track is great, and it’s a decent enough place to start.

The origins of post-rock are nebulous, but the aesthetic is more exact: airy instrumentals that found that common ground between the industrial fuzz of musique concrete, the ambience of pre-fusion, late-60s jazz (think In a Silent Way), and the straight lines of ‘80s math rock. When it came out, it felt like a rejection of the scenestery, overly emotive indie rock of the ‘90s, and a path forward for rock, which felt like it had been treading water in the shallow end of ‘60s-inspired nostalgia. It got real boring really quickly, but it sounded glorious at the time. Garrett Kamps, in his write-up for Stereogum, doesn’t try to capture the cannon, but rather a personal reflection of what he remembers to be the best tracks from this now-maligned subgenre.

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!A café opened in my neighborhood a few years ago that I just couldn’t figure out. The trouble wasn’t the menu, but the decor: The interior was a gaily colored hodgepodge of Buddha busts, paper lanterns, pretty vases, and posters of mighty waves and long-tongued dragons; the place was a kitschy riot of Chinese and East Asian motifs. Yet I didn’t see a single Asian employee. It took me several visits to realize that the design aesthetic wasn’t just some egregious example of cultural appropriation—though it probably was that, too—but a new manifestation of a phenomenon with much deeper roots.Derived from the French word for Chinese, “Chinoiserie” is the name for a style of European decorative arts that brandish an Asian influence, the result of new trade relationships between the East and West in the 17th century. King Louis XV was a fan, as were the architects who decided that no English manor garden was complete without a pagoda. In any case, my neighborhood’s belated example of orientalism-in-action must’ve confused people because the establishment didn’t thrive. The space was eventually reborn as a sushi restaurant, and needless to say, the new proprietors didn’t do much redecorating.I’m also relieved to no longer have to deal with complex questions of white privilege, cross-cultural exchange, and colonial power dynamics every time I want a decent latte. Yet these matters seem inescapable today, what with the Trump administration’s unabashed Islamophobia, the growth of nationalist and nativist movements throughout Europe, and the hardening of attitudes toward immigrants and refugees. Citizens of the so-called First World have never been freer to cast a fearful eye on whichever group they consider the “other.”Meanwhile, in the cultural realm, there’s a renewed urgency to carve out new spaces for previously marginalized or unacknowledged voices and perspectives within a dominant industrial-entertainment-media apparatus that seems forever prone to missteps. In other words, it’s not an overreaction to question the wisdom of casting Scarlett Johansson as a Japanese anime heroine. Every day yields a new Twitter eruption on the topic of who can and can’t represent positions and experiences, especially when the work involves transgressing boundaries of race, gender, culture, and class.All of this makes me feel even more confused and conflicted about a huge body of music that’s always fascinated me. This is music by (mostly) white people who eagerly adopted other modes that were ostensibly foreign, which automatically was a complicated move given the stew of African, Caribbean, and Latin influences in American popular music in the first place. Nevertheless, they drew and continue to draw from African, Asian, Arabic, East Indian, indigenous, and other traditions to create forgeries and mutations that positively revel in their inauthenticity.I’m not about to defend all of it—I can’t. So much of it reeks of an old colonial mindset, one I continue to grapple with as a suburban kid who grew up in a placid corner of Canada, devoid of the cultural markers I perceived and envied in other lives (an illusion that’s proof of my white privilege, of course). Yet much of it is also the product of an age in which much of the West had a different attitude toward the rest of the globe. Looking back at the world music vogue sparked by Paul Simon, David Byrne, and Peter Gabriel in the ‘80s, it can seem like a wave of cultural appropriation run rampant, a self-congratulatory embrace of cultural otherness that’s as suspect as the exotica craze of the 1950s. But at its best, this music can be seen and heard as an open-hearted effort to dissolve the borders and boundaries that are so important to people right now.Those good intentions and spirit of curiosity connect music as diverse as cheeseball tiki-lounge tunes, the cheeky ethnological forgery series of Holger Czukay and CAN, early American minimalism music—which was steeped in Indian raga, African percussion, and gamelan—and even The Rolling Stones’ dalliance with The Master Musicians of Jajouka. In recent years, newer acts such as Goat, Beirut, Dengue Fever, Vampire Weekend, and Dirty Projectors have incurred charges of appropriation for stepping outside of their own original cultural domains to investigate and play around in others. Such engagement is bound to be problematic on several levels, yet it deserves a reaction other than knee-jerk dismissal. So does the music we get when—to borrow a favorite title for post-grad courses on postcolonial legacies—the empire looks back: when Western pop modes become absorbed and transformed (though that’s another playlist). As confusing as it may be, this music elicits emotions and sensations other than the hate and fear that are otherwise so rife in our moment.

As one of the stalwart holdovers from the early ‘90s indie boom, Drag City has released consistently lovable and knotty music for over two decades. While other labels of their kind built their names on too-cool-for-school slackerdom, Drag City have always been overachievers, putting out music that consistently redefines whatever genre or idiom they are working within. It’s country music that rejects tradition, punk music with a sense of dignity, and avant-experimentalism that feels more like hanging out with your buds than begrudgingly doing your homework. Above all, Drag City are the torchbearers for the concept that challenging, willfully elusive art should always remember to keep it fun, and this playlist is our token of gratitude for all the great sounds they’ve shared with us over the years.Note: The Drag City catalog is not available on streaming services, but can and should be purchased on iTunes, Amazon, or, better yet, your favorite record store.

The musical force of nature known as Ezra Furman returns this February with his most epic statment yet, Transangelic Exodus (Bella Union), a quasi-conceptual glam-goth-pop odyssey that he describes as “a queer outlaw saga.” Here, he reveals the influences that pushed the record to the next level. “These are songs I was into during 2016-2017 that made me want to turn the way I made music on its head. One develops a certain idea of what music is supposed to be and how it’s made, but the fact is, the possibilities are infinite—possibilities for songwriting, for arrangement, for editing and sound and delivery and combinations of ideas.“I’m not sure why, but a few times every year since I was 12 I’ve just heard something and said, ‘THAT. That is my future. That is what I need.’ It started before I even played an instrument. It was never (solely) about making the music, but about a way of thinking or being I could hear in a song. When you hear music that’s not like something you’ve heard before, you can sometimes intuit a whole different cultural and/or personal ethos from it. That’s what happened when I heard these songs, and I craved to incorporate some element of them into both my music and my life. Sometimes, it even happens with songs you’ve heard a million times, but that you just had never heard in that certain way before.“The Talking Heads’ and Nick Cave’s paranoia. The Mountain Goats’ and Lou Reed’s storytelling. The ear-candy pleasure principle of Vampire Weekend and Sparklehorse. The musical anarchy of Tune-Yards and Beck. It all got folded into my brain and pushed me toward Transangelic Exodus.“I’m so glad people write songs and make records. I’m so grateful for the work they put in to realize their mad visions. It’s like water to me. I need it to live. And I’m so glad I get to make my own as well.”—Ezra Furman

Growing up in the South during the 90s, Factory Records was always the music of older cousins and cooler friends. Dont get me wrong, I have had hard musical crushes on acts like Durutti Column, Happy Mondays, Joy Division, and New Order, but it never seemed entirely mine either. It was the soundtrack for lives that I made guest appearances in, humming in the background as a bit of anglophile ennui.This playlist is from Spotify user Coco Baker. (S)he isnt a professional curator (as far as I know), and the playlist does have some factual slights (that Cabaret Voltaire track was released on Rough Trade and not Factory Records), but its still a pretty good overview of the scene. Too often, user generated playlist have no sense of rhythm. People will line up multiple tracks by the same artists, and there will be giant stylistic leaps from track to track, but this does seem to have a perspective and flow, so well excuse the factual lapses.

Whether working on her own recordings or with friends like Peaches, Chilly Gonzales, or Broken Social Scene, Leslie Feist has always been more of a serial collaborator than a solo artist who likes to keep it solo. That’s one reason why the stripped-down sound of her fifth album, Pleasure—the Canadian chanteuse’s first in six years—is so striking.Recorded in rooms in Paris, California, and upstate New York, her performances are as raw and unadorned as any she’s recorded, with her usual crew of helpers pruned down to producer Renaud Letang and longtime musical foil Mocky. That said, some friends did stop by to add a few touches, like the sprinkling of keys from Gonzales and horns from Arcade Fire collaborator Colin Stetson. She also enlisted Jarvis Cocker to deliver a cameo at the close of “Century”—reminiscent of Vincent Price’s voice-over in “Thriller”—one of the most unbridled songs on the new album, after the libidinous, PJ Harvey-channeling title track.So maybe Pleasure isn’t such a lonesome experience after all, though its starkness still marks a bold shift from the chic sheen of 2007’s The Reminder and the stormy swells of 2011’s Metals. More intimate recordings from her early days, both with and without pals, point the way to Pleasure, as do other pieces by singers she loves and by equally gifted peers who’ve left their traces on her work.And lest Pleasure seem like “one of those endless dark nights of the soul,” as Cocker quips in “Century,” the new album still contains many cheeky gestures, including her occasional dives into Pulp-worthy theatrics and her use of a Mastodon sample at the end of “A Man Is Not His Song” (after the release of Metals, she formed a mutual admiration with the Atlanta band and covered their “Black Tongue” on a split single for Record Store Day). Thanks to Feist’s ability to seamlessly integrate these many elements while maintaining a spare aesthetic, the pleasures of Pleasure are nothing if not the sophisticated kind we’ve come to expect.Click here to follow this playlist on Spotify.

Anna Nordeen and Reni Lane make up the spunky Brooklyn indie-pop duo Fever High, whose recently released full-length debut, FHNY, not only includes production by Fountains of Wayne mastermind Adam Schlesinger, but also a vocal cameo from Jeff Goldblum. (Yes, that Jeff Goldblum.) Here, they take a thematic cue from their album’s lead single, “Spy,” and curate a Dowsers playlist of songs that make a virtue of voyeurism. “Our new song Spy explores the age-old topic of surveillance through the perspective of a paranoid lover. There are so many incredible takes on this theme—whether its on-the-nose like Secret Agent Man or more tangential like Suzanne Vegas Toms Diner—so we gathered together our favorites just for you. Given current world events, we believe this is a theme that will continue to give inspiration for new songs about the James Bond in all of us. Were just happy to be part of the lineage!”—Reni Lane

What You Get: A peppy, poppy potpourri of feverish classic funk from James Brown and Sly & The Family Stone and a whole lot of squelchy 80s synths that range from delectable cheese (The Pointer Sisters) to silky, saucy confessions (Grace Jones) to the inimitable Purple One. Theres also a good deal of warm vintage soul (Otis Redding) and singer-songwriter sorrow (Randy Newman). It all may seem a bit random—if you werent familiar with Field Musics own synth-funk-baroque-pop amalgam, that is.Guiltiest Pleasure: British 80s sister act Mel & Kims dizzying dance-pop single "Respectable," an anthem for all shoulder-padded independent women.Sweetest Surprise: Deerhoofs shuffling, Spanish-sung electro-pop deep cut "Desaparecere."Can It Inspire Hope in a Post-Brexit U.K.? If bringing together English legends like Led Zeppelin, Roxy Music, George Michael, and Kate Bush cant offer hope, nothing can.

Subscribe to the Spotify playlist right here.Let it never be forgotten that some of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll records in history were made on the most modest equipment, from Elvis Presley’s Sun sessions to The Beatles’ early albums. In the ‘90s, a new generation of rockers emerged who took that lesson to heart. For some, the lo-fi approach to indie rock may have been born of necessity and for others it might have been a more aesthetic choice, but whatever the impetus, bands like Pavement, Sebadoh, and Guided by Voices applied a sort of cinéma vérité sensibility to recording. Half-mumbled (or half-shouted) vocals, fuzzed-out guitar riffs, shambolic drums, spacious productions, and a seeming disinclination towards excessive rehearsal gave their records a raw, visceral quality that’s been at the heart of great rock records from the beginning.