The third and final instalment of Kid Cudi’s Man on the Moon series evokes feelings that are more complex than just nostalgia. It is about how we simultaneously influence and are affected by human creativity and the power of our local and global community to help guide us out of the darkest, dustiest corners of our mental confines.
Against my better judgement I bought into the “So long, 2020!” hype. Why not? 2020 sucked and, despite there being no evidence that it would be otherwise, it was nice to think 2021 wouldn’t.
Growing up in the ‘90s, girls were told we could be one of two things — a feminine Barbie-playing princess or a football-playing-sneaker-wearing tomboy. There was no middle ground. We were raised on a strong diet of American influenced pop-culture, which emphasised high school hierarchies, boy-girl relationship drama and the notion of equating ‘happily ever after’ to having a boyfriend
The unifying ability of music, to reach out and connect people across the word, allowing for individual expression while revealing a common reliance, has become especially vital as of late. As music is used as a way to deter reality, the differences in songs played by everyone within this hard time seem an interesting shorthand to get a glimpse into someone’s life.
2020 has definitely had its fair share of unprecedented moments, but what about those of the fashion industry?
Let’s get one thing straight right from the outset. Music is neither produced in nor released into a vacuum. Everything that you have ever listened to from Beethoven to Doja Cat is a product of its time and its influences. So, when someone listens to a song and says to you “oh, this sounds a lot like…” it’s probably because it does.
Spotify loves making playlists. Some may say even to an excessive extent.
Artemisia Gentileschi is, in my opinion, one of the greatest artists to ever exist.
As we enter yet another phase of lockdown after what, for many young people, has been a particularly insular, small-town Christmas period, Elena Ferrante’s newest novel offers a reflection on adolescence, family and familiarity more poignant than ever.
Microphones in 2020, an ‘album’ that is really just one 45-minute song, and The Divine Comedy, a three-volume work of poetry by an Italian who died in 1321, may sound like unapproachable museum pieces, accompanied by signs that read ‘abandon all hope of not being utterly pretentious, ye who consume’. But in our current world, whose rapid events and repetitive life create an uncomfortable dissonance for many, I have found them essential.