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The Spirit of Hand-To-Hand Screw Tapes: How DJ Screw Seized the Means of Production

The Greater Houston area’s large expanse of highway and prairie makes a public sphere seem unfathomable. In her book of short essays, Trick Mirror, author Jia Tolentino describes Houston, writing, “There’s an irradiated spirit to everything: an impurity that can feel like absolution.” The city’s decentralized spirit and the range of antidotes people find to make sense of its chaos themselves become a sense of security. The recording technique “chopped and screwed,” developed by DJ Screw out of Houston, mimics such dissociative security as his tapes move slowly toward a conclusion you do not need to understand.

By some measures, Houston is the most diverse city in America, but it’s deeply segregated. Houston’s segregated Black neighborhoods are located on the margins of downtown, where oil companies routinely extract natural resources, source cheap labor, and expropriate wealth. Out of the South and West sides of Houston, the Hip-hop scene was born in the 90s. Many people attribute the burgeoning Houston sound to infamous Hip-hop DJ Robert Earl Javis Jr, also known as DJ Screw. Screw’s cousin noticed the way he used a screw to scratch up records he didn’t like, which led to his stage name. He began DJing at a skating rink on the South side of Houston in the late 80s. It is said that in 1989, he hit the wrong button on the turntable, and the tempo slowed. A friend gave him ten dollars to record an entire tape at that tempo, which eventually became his signature sound.

Screw played records on top of previously recorded multitrack mixes, layering three to four different records all at once. Once Screw had his bass-heavy mixes finished, he would slow the tape down and record it onto a master cassette. Using a basic pitch shift he’d then make copies onto one-hundred-minute Maxell chrome tapes, which he would buy in bulk from Sam’s Club. At first, every tape had a handwritten name on the label, like “South Side Still Holding" or "Syrup and Soda." From 8pm to 10pm each night, cars would line up down the block, bringing hundreds of fans, some from other cities, who would crowd the front yard, lining up at the back door where Screw stood to sell tapes and talk with fans. The popularity of his tapes was amazing. In a 2015 interview, Screwed Up Click rapper Lil Flip recalled watching Screw go to car shows with 10,000 to 15,000 tapes and instantly sell out. He didn’t need to sign with a record label; everyone wanted his tapes. 

There were more efficient ways for Screw to get his music to people. He could have set up an official distribution network or moved onto the Internet. A music distributor in Houston, Southwest Wholesale, had sprung up for the sole purpose of building a market for independent artists. But Screw insisted on his hand-to-hand method, doing everything in cash with no bank account, hiring friends to manage the crowds. He could never meet the demands for his music. “Some record stores became pirates themselves, duping and selling their own Screw CDs and cassettes.” He was criticized by commercial retailers like Musicmania because of the “lost fortune” he could have made.

Using a capitalist ethic that privileges mechanical reproduction and profit, Screw’s critics deemed his refusal to expand as a failure, saying “he could never get it together.” This perspective fails to consider the value of his hand-to-hand distribution network. He was protective of his aesthetic: "It’s only a Screw tape if I screw it,” he told The Source in a 1995 interview. 

According to author Tricia Rose in her book Black Noise, powerful groups maintain and affirm institutional power by concealing or undermining subversive discourses. DJ Screw’s critics, like commercial record stores, disguised their desire to control his means of production and flow of capital by reducing his anti-establishment methods to “failures.” This serves to legitimize the capitalist ethic under which the value of a product is solely determined by its ability to be monetized. 

Screw resisted alienation from his craft. Whether by default or design, the accessibility of his tapes privileged those who were closest to him geographically –economically and politically marginalized Black communities in Houston. If commercial record distributors determine which markets are desirable based on profit potential, then DJ Screw threatened institutional control over which groups of people are deemed worthy of access. Thus, the “chopped-and-screw” material production was inherently anti-capitalist.

In Houston, spiritual matters are regulated by Southern evangelicals and extractive oil empires like Exxon and Halliburton. Within Christianity, there are clear prescriptions about who one should be: anything outside of Whiteness and Christianity are deemed corrupt. Southern evangelicalism supports the belief that wealth is a kind of divine right, and those who have it are worth more to God than everyone else.This logic conveniently lends itself to Houston’s multinational oil companies extractive measures, which benefit wealthy white populations while exploiting Black communities.  

By the late 90s, Screw had become addicted to codeine cough syrup. The drug has since become associated with rappers and racialized, even though it’s used across all demographics. Screw’s “swamp gospel” created an alternative code for spirituality that undermines Christianity’s domain over faith and piety.

Like codeine, Screw’s music slowed the story down: each word pronounced, dark tunes got darker, with a bass so thick your body could feel weightless. “Chopped-and-screwed” urges the listener to internalize the tempo and its existential qualities. The track “My Mind Went Blank” from his 1995 album All Screwed Up, Vol. II, begins its first verse with: “Every time I wake up, I give the swisha sweet a hit // Sometimes I feel I just can’t survive without that lick,” which slowly builds to the line: “And if that Buddha don’t do ya, then go dippin.’” If religion or faith can’t bring you solace, you can find your way through with a sedative. He presents the feeling of losing control, repeating scenarios where one cannot find stability: “…when you enter // The South Park chamber, you in danger,” which is ultimately resolved in the chorus that repeats, “It’s hard to think, when my mind goes blank // You just can’t think when your mind goes blank.”

In Jia Tolentino’s essay titled, “Ecstasy,” she writes, “There are feelings, like ecstasy, that provide an unbreakable link between virtue and vice. You don’t have to believe a revelation to understand that something inside it was real.” In the state of ecstasy you realize that something both within and outside you will pull you through. This captures the spirit of the “chopped–and–screwed” tempo: The bass is thick enough to hold you; the beat skips and stutters making you feel like your heart is about to stop; and the tempo drones on into absolution.

The “chopped-and-screw” style and DJ Screw’s unrelenting commitment to slowness, continues to influence mainstream Hip-hop. In his 2019 No. 1 hit, “Sicko Mode,” Houston rapper Travis Scott samples Big Hawk, a member of the Screwed Up Click. Ultimately, Screw created a local distribution system, employing his friends and privileging people geographically close to him. An authentic screw tape gives you a sense of spiritual guidance as its slow tempo gives way to a heady and dissociative security. It is undeniable that Screw was a rare triple threat: a tastemaker, a masterful technician, and someone who recognized the cultural value in sharing an unmediated Hip-hop experience.

_____

Submitted by Penny ‘20

By Tallulah Chen ‘23 and Angel Pleasant ‘20

From Genge to GengeTone: The Evolution of Genge Music in Kenya

By Awino Odhiambo

If you listen to Kenyan music you must have heard of the word Genge and maybe not known what it stands for. In Swahili, Genge is used to refer to a group of people or a squad. Genge is a popular music genre in Kenya, formed in the 2000s and rose back up as Gengetone in late 2017 Genge follows the style of hip hop, dancehall and rap music delivered in a conversational tone.

Source: NairobiWire

Genge was formed as a way to give a name to that specific genre of music. Kenyans wanted a name affiliated with their music following the rise of Bongo music in Tanzania. Genge was started by Jua Cali, Nonini and individual artists and producers affiliated with Calif Records recording studio. The two popular hit songs that introduced Genge to the world were Nonini’s “Manzi Wa Nairobi”(Girl from Nairobi) and Jua Kalis “Nipe Asali”(Give me Honey). These two artists led the face and creation process of Genge music with Nonini being referred to as The Godfather of Genge whilst Jua Kali remains the king of Genge.

Nonini and Jua Cali Source: Kenya Broadcasting Channel(KBC)

Nonini’s “Manzi Wa Nairobi” is all about appreciation of Nairobi women, highlighting their features and characteristics in comparison to women from other regions. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HlxtZ-jLOTQ) The song also takes an interesting turn in discussing mainly stereotypical features of women based on their different ethnic groups, which is something quite popular in Kenyan music. As the song mainly uses Swahili and sheng words, it is clear who the target audience was and how this contributes to the formation of sheng culture in Kenya. This song has an upbeat and club feel to it. This was a popular hit song in my childhood times. It maintains a conversational tone and open expression of love for women.

A lot of Genge music was produced and released in the years between 2007 and 2011. These songs maintained an open love expression for women and were not sexual. These were songs that appealed to people of different age groups because of the conversational nature of the song. The lyrics were never obscene to any group of people and were hence acceptable in all social groups. The period between 2011 and 2017 saw a rise in other popular genres of music in Kenya. Genge music died as the main Genge artists failed to produce songs that fit with this genre. Genge music rose back up as “Gengetone music” following the hit song “Lamba Lolo” by a group named Ethic which got people by surprise, appealing mainly to teenagers and youthful people. The song became popular for its obscene lyrics and upbeat nature as well as the use of sheng words. This was a big turn from the initial Genge songs which were much more slower and based on love. Lamba lolo essentially kickstarted the Gengetone revolution paving the way for many young Kenyan artists to join the genre and produce similar songs.

Source:Media101.co.ke

Artists in this genre like to perform in bands, hence the rise of Ethic Entertainment, Boondocks Gang, Sailors, Ochungulo family among other bands. Popular Gengetone songs now include, “Position”, “Figa”, “Zimenishika”, “Na Iwake”, “Wamlambez.” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0ZkjfsQKnk). However as Genge music is now back, it has also changed. The content of the songs are now centred on sexual experiences with women, and its music videos seem to very rowdy. It is very common to see women twerking aggressively in the videos and in agreement with the messages behind the songs. The genre has moved from soft love songs to become more sexual and very descriptive of women’s bodies. A popular Kenyan critic of Genge music, Ezekiel Mutua, the chief exceutive office of Kenya Fil Association ahs termed the songs as “pure pornography that uses coded language”. He states that it is important for the public to know that the songs are dirty and unsuitable for mixed company as the songs are full of sexual innuendo. However he also stated that the songs should be restricted to clubs for adults only. His views on the songs has led to bans made on songs such as “Wamlambez” by Sailors and Tarimbo by Ethic. Wamlambez is banned from airplay while as for Tarimbo the whole song was banned and pulled down from Youtube as it spoke in support of rape. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ilnOAwKuZLQ).

As a listener of the songs, I’m always quite conflicted as to whether I should enjoy the songs without focusing on the message or whether I should really be mindful. It is in this same time when hip hop songs in the West are very sexual as well and women’s bodies are also highly sexualized. I held back from listening to the new Genge music at first, but still found that other songs that i listened to like Jamaican riddims tended to be the same. So it maybe that popular music has just evolved to be more sexual in this era and may not be tied down to one genre only.

Safe and Also No Fear by Slaughter Beach, Dog

By Maya Rubin

Safe and Also No Fear, Jake Ewald’s third album as Slaughter Beach, Dog begs to be taken seriously, which is no surprise considering Ewald’s history as the frontman of Modern Baseball, one of the better pop punk-emo bands of the 2010s. Gone are the satisfyingly raucous guitars, frenzied drum lines, and uncomfortably vivid anecdotes from Ewald’s personal life; in are the slow, acoustic instrumental interludes, fuzzy vocals, and opaque metaphors of yet another singer/songwriter who seems to take himself too seriously. This latest album feels unnatural in Ewald’s hands, and serves as a reminder that he’s more talented than Safe and Also No Fear makes him out to be. 

The biggest difference between Ewald’s output as Slaughter Beach, Dog and his work for Modern Baseball is the narrative style he adopts. Slaughter Beach, Dog’s three albums vary in musical style: nearly all of the songs on his debut Welcome could fit comfortably on a Modern Baseball album, his sophomore album Birdie embraces indie rock, and Safe and Also No Fear is positively folky. But in a stark break from Modern Baseball, none use Ewald himself as the primary narrator, rather, he adopts the personas of various disaffected characters who say more or less the same thing. While this tactic might work well when executed correctly -- Mitski’s “Me and My Husband” from the stunning Be The Cowboy comes to mind -- it sounds awkward in the mouth of someone who once sang “I walk home with my eyes low/Dreaming up conversations we'll have tomorrow” on Modern Baseball’s “Apartment.”

Safe and Also No Fear, which sees Ewald reunite with Modern Baseball bassist Ian Farmer, develops further the ideas alluded to in Birdie. “I dress up nice/I feel alright/I get loaded/And I come home late at night,” Ewald sings on the downtempo opener “One Down,” setting a more depressing tone than ever before. “One Down” and “Map of the Stars” seem to best articulate what seems to be Ewald’s thesis for the album: sad, serious folk rock. And these songs aren’t half bad (they’re among my favorites of the album, actually), though there are certainly artists who do what he tries to, but better -- early Bon Iver is a prime example, as are the Mountain Goats. 

Ewald runs into more serious problems on tracks like “Good Ones” and “Tangerine,” songs that might be good if they were a bit shorter, a bit faster, and a lot more expressively sung. There’s potential in these songs if Ewald could stop hiding behind characters whose stories are far less interesting than his old witty self-deprecation. With the angst and conviction gone from his voice, Ewald sounds like he just doesn’t care anymore. I had a brief moment of hope at the opening lines of “Good Ones,” where Ewald sings, “She dumps the contents of her purse/Onto the hightop drummer chair/I could’ve sworn I had sixty more dollars in there,” but this song too gave way to bad metaphors and more vague stories about “she” rather than exploring the relationship between Ewald and his thieving girlfriend.

Ewald has allowed his insecurity to get the best of him: what made the brand of pop punk Modern Baseball peddled so addictive was the comfort of the band members in singing through and about their insecurities, even in their musical ability. Ewald used to put his own problems front and center, screaming a gleeful “fuck you” to every girl who rejected him and adult who told him to grow up. No matter how many songs Ewald wrote about depression, there was an undercurrent of optimism (or maybe just catharsis) to Modern Baseball’s discography -- if Ewald couldn’t solve his problems, he could sing about them, and wasn’t that kind of the same thing? Slaughter Beach, Dog is an argument for the lack of sustainability of that kind of punk, and the drudgery of growing up: righteous anger at the world can only last so long before the world finally defeats you, and Ewald has never sounded more defeated.

Seeing, Hearing, and Loving

How two pieces from Fleabag’s soundtrack ingeniously captures its very essence: wanting to be seen, and what it means to be seen. Mild spoilers ahead!

By Jiahui Zhang

I binge-watched both seasons of Fleabag in two days. Created and written by Phoebe Waller-Bridge, this spectacular show follows an unnamed main character, known only to the viewer as ‘Fleabag.’ Waller-Bridge stars as Fleabag herself, a bitter and angry young woman running a failing coffee shop in London who has recently experienced the loss of her mother and best friend, Boo. As her life unfolds, viewers are given quite an intimate look into her life: her rendezvous with shitty men, stiff and overly polite conversations with her passive-aggressive stepmother, and awkwardly navigating how to truly bond with her sister, Claire.

We, as the viewer, are directly spoken to by Fleabag in a fourth wall-breaking manner, and the camera follows her and her only. Unlike other TV shows that follow multiple characters and subplots, we only see Fleabag’s hilarious, heart-breaking life. This unreliable first-person narration deepens and broadens the scope of the show, as viewers become increasingly aware that, despite how much of Fleabag’s life we are being shown, we ultimately only see what she wishes us to. The first season is charmingly conspiratorial, with Fleabag turning to the camera in humorous ways, whether to mock someone she’s speaking to or to finish other people's sentences before they do. Initially, the viewers are her friend, an audience that follows around and bends to her charm. But, her facade beings to slowly crumble as parts of her past she has kept from us creep up: namely, her guilt over feeling partially responsible for her best friend’s accidental suicide. Suddenly, we are no longer her friend, but a creepy, omniscient presence that sees even what she wants to keep hidden. 

The music that comes into play directly mirrors Fleabag’s attempt and ultimate failure to curate a better version of her for the viewer. The pair: a short, untitled opener and “Fleabag,” a rock piece, are composed by Waller-Bridge’s sister, Isobel. In the first episode, when the title flashes on the screen, there is a short burst of chaotic sound, nothing close to the opening tracks that typically play for movies or TV shows. This smorgasboard of sound is jilting and confusing, almost as if every instrument in a middle school band blew a random note at the same time. The cacophony, which I want to say is jazz-esque, foreshadowed the kind of woman Fleabag is trying to run away from becoming: confused, messy, and utterly unprepared for real life. Acting as a foil to this mess of sounds is a punk-rock composition that plays as the first episode ends; it is defiant, bold, and put together: just what Fleabag wants to be. When in reality, the desperately lonely Fleabag has just asked a drunken stranger if she’d like to come over to her house, to which the stranger promptly refused. Despite her sad life, Fleabag is still trying to convince herself, and us, otherwise. She turns to the camera with a smug smile, as the rock piece is blasted in the background. 

There are many other well chosen songs that couple Waller-Bridge’s acting beautifully (including “This Feeling” by Alabama Shakes, which played alongside the bittersweet ending of the second season), but the cacophonous opener and rock end credit songs sturdily set up the rest of the episodes. In season two, when Fleabag seems to have gotten some parts of her life back in order (her coffee shop is successful and she has stopped throwing herself at random men), the inner/outer voice dyad come back to haunt her as she falls in love with a priest. As they get to know each other, the priest begins to take notice of whenever Fleabag turns to the audience for a short soliloquy, asking her, “Where did you go?” He notices when she assumedly becomes silent to the other characters to talk to us, her audience. His ability to not only see her, but notice her even when she’s silent, contrasts how Fleabag’s chattiness is often a front and an act of self-defense. Fleabag’s sister also notices her silence in the first episode of season 2, shrilly asking why she “isn’t talking” when Fleabag isn’t being obnoxious at dinner. These acts of love, despite not seeming like it, show that the priest and Claire ultimately do know Fleabag for who she is. They hear her, even in her silences, just as we hear both the jilted jazz introduction and the composed rock. 

Although the second season’s soundtrack is choral (reflecting the themes of spirituality and religion as Fleabag falls for a man devoted to God), its unique love stories remind us of the importance of pairing the opener and ending songs; they not only reflect Fleabag’s curated and true personality, but also the multi-sensory experience of being truly known.

Album Review: Chroma by Mt. Eddy

By Sydney Pierce

Although only 21, Jakob Armstrong, son of Green Day frontman Billie Joe Armstrong, has already had a dynamic career. In 2105, Armstrong released a solo project entitled “Jakob Danger,” then went on to start a bands Danger! and Waterloo Teeth with brother Joey Armstrong. His most successful endeavor has been Chroma, a 38-minute-long album released by his band Mt. Eddy. In 2018, Mt. Eddy changed their name to Ultra Q and released new music. Despite frequent name changes and a strong tie to one of the biggest names in modern-day punk, Jakob Armstrong and his band released something very special and sonically ambitious with Chroma. It is an album about being a teenager, but the lyricism and rich instrumentals make it a powerful indie release that has garnered support from more than just high school students. 

Jakob Armstrong’s deep voice and nicely-toned voice add to the impressive instrumentals and beautiful texture of the album. Although he was only eighteen at the time of writing and recording the album, his voice sounds fully developed and it well suited to the style of music in Chroma. Although it sometimes seems monotone or expressionless, Armstrong’s voice is very flexible and diverse. This can be seen on tracks such as “Song and Fury,” where Armstrong abandons his typical monotone for a more expressive and exeterted passage. The contrast in vocals draws the listener in. The major theme of most of the lyrics is growing up. As a teenager, Armstrong probably experienced growing and changing relationships, trying to decide what he wanted to do for the rest of his life, and the reflective cynicism that comes from being a teenager. Most of his lyrics are straightforward and lack metaphor, which makes the album seem very personal and relatable, almost like a diary. One of the more clever lines comes from “The Whale Song”: “Looking around, it's like I'm deaf and moving slow/ Is this the end? My head is ringing on its own/ I miss my life, I miss my bed, bring me back home/ Where do I go to get the feelings in my toes.”

Chroma does is effective at holding the listener’s attention between songs. Each track is so musically unique that the individual tracks do not blend together; after listening to this album for the first time, a listener would be able to get a clear idea of each track. The songs are united through common lyrical themes; the album almost seems to tell a story about Armstrong’s life when he was writing the album. An interesting note about pacing is that the first track of the album, “Chroma,” is over eight minutes long. It follows an almost operatic pattern, with different vocal sections united by instrumental interludes and no clearly recognizable chorus. Starting the album with the longest track may seem misguided or overly ambitious for the band’s first album, but it sets an interesting precedent for the rest of the album and gives the listener a good taste of the musical and lyrical ideas that will be expressed later in the album. 

Pop-punk and indie albums written by young men generally revel in their immaturity; for example, the kitschiness of A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out by Panic! At the Disco or emotional vulnerability of Pinkerton by Weezer. Jakob Armstrong and Mt. Eddy, on the other hand, subvert this trend by presenting a further removed look at adolescence. The nonchalance with which Armstrong sings and the slower, more relaxed pace of the album’s tracks gives the album maturity despite the age of the band that created it. 

The instrumentals are very unique, varied, have a lush texture, and make good use of interlude, dynamics, and start/stop. The lush and creative instrumentals truly drive the album, and the musicianship that the band members must have had to be able to record this album is impressive. Although beat-driven, this album is not overpowered by big beats, drums, and power chords; each instrument gets a chance to shine with unique lines in each song. There are vocal, guitar, bass, and drum solos throughout the album. Although the lyrics are not as sophisticated as the rest of the music, they represent the true, authentic feelings of their eighteen year old author.

Skizzy Mars in Concert

By Lizz Sugg

On November 14, 2019, Skizzy Mars gave yet another captivating performance at The Royale in Boston. Accompanied by his charming openers, the first being Zaia and the second being Yoshi Flower, Mars created and an environment that encapsulates the feeling of being young, reckless, and in love that so many teens and young adults glamorize. The relatively small venue provided a house party feel that I would argue is an advantage to being a smaller artist. Though Mars’ beats do not necessarily strike listeners as something that could be translated into live music, Dave Briggs and Giancarlo Castillo developed the sound with drums and guitar, respectively. Many lost their voice at Royale that night. He told the crowd he would be back next year, so we can only hope!

Skizzy Mars, born as Myles Mills in 1992, grew up in Harlem. It did not take long for him to discover his lyrical genius. While he was still just a teen, he had already demonstrated his talents with the release of “Douchebag.” This song gave Mars a name for himself in the music industry and he only continued to grow as an artist from there. Though you can find Mars’ newer music on all platforms today, his tracks that are exclusively found on Soundcloud are arguably his best work. What sets Skizzy Mars apart from other artists is his ability to incorporate so many different styles of music into one song. Rhythmic beats coupled with hip hop themes and alternative rock vibes with an occasional hint of pop are encompassed within each of his songs. His music is fit for long car rides, jam sessions with the squad, house parties, or even when you’re in your feels. If you haven’t added Skizzy Mars to your daily playlist yet, you’re missing out!

Let’s Get It On? — To Make or Not To Make a Sex Playlist

By Sarah Kasha ‘20

I was clued into the phenomenon of sex playlists after encountering three separate playlists that featured the same Velvet Underground song. Inspired and intrigued, I interviewed a handful of friends about the reasoning behind a making a sex playlist and compiled a list of pros and cons:

PROS

No need to pause activities and set up a queue while naked

Possible Pavlovian response at convenient times

Anticipation

Safe bet with a long-term partner

Easy way to fantasize about your favorite artists

Adds to the intensity and drama of it all

CONS

The sense of regret when you get too carried away to play it

Possible Pavlovian response at inconvenient times

Possible deception

Risky with a new hookup

Risk of accidentally singing along during sex

Am I catching feelings or is this just a good song?

Of course, these pertain to specifically to making a sex playlist. One interviewee mentioned that she prefers listening to others’ sex playlists to her own, but still loves to make them. And generally that seems to be the consensus: the playlist is more like strange personal foreplay than anything else.

Meet Bea Miller: The Artist Who Sees Colors When She Hears Music

Photo Cred: Zoey Grossman

By Samantha Bevers

Imagine that you are listening to your favorite album. Each time a new song comes on, a new cloud of color enters your vision. Sometimes multiple colors blink in and out of your vision as a song plays, creating a symphony of color. This is what it’s like to be Bea Miller, a recording artist who has synesthesia. 

Synesthesia is a rare neurological condition in which the senses are “mixed up.” When one sense is stimulated, another unrelated sense is also stimulated. Examples include chromesthesia (Bea Miller’s type of synesthesia), in which someone sees colors when they listen to music; auditory-tactile synesthesia, in which someone perceives a texture when they listen to music; and olfactory-visual synesthesia, in which someone sees colors when they smell odors. Synesthesia can involve any combination of the senses, and many syntesthetes (people with synesthesia) experience multiple forms of synesthesia. 

Bea Miller has been very open about how her synesthesia has affected the creation of her own music. Over the course of the year 2017, she released three EPs that she referred to as “chapters.” These chapters were named blue, red, and yellow, and included three songs in each chapter. While Chapter One: Blue evoked sentiments of sadness, Chapter Two: Red made it’s angry and empowered presence known and Chapter Three: Yellow sang of positivity and personal growth. Bea Miller has explained in multiple interviews that she wanted to link these emotions with chapters categorized by color as a nod to and in celebration of her synesthesia. Her own experience with synesthesia often varies as to whether the colors that she sees are an accurate representation of the emotions that she feels when listening to a song. However, she thought that it was ultimately important to categorize the songs in her chapters based on the colors that best represent the emotions that the songs evoke.

Bea Miller first burst onto the music season when she auditioned on the X Factor as a 13-year-old. Since then she has released two full studio albums, four EPs, and nine stand-alone singles. At the beginning of 2018, she tied together her three color-themed EP chapters into a full album titled Aurora. The new album had five new songs interspersed with the previously released, color-linked songs. The title, Aurora, refers to the scientific phenomenon that is present in the aurora borealis (northern lights) and the aurora australis (southern lights). An aurora is an atmospheric light show that is the result of the interaction between the solar wind and the particles in the upper parts of the atmosphere. The dancing lights that compose an aurora are similar to the colors that a synesthete sees when listening to music, and Bea Miller pays homage to this through the title of her album. 

Even though synesthesia is estimated to affect only 2-4% of the human population, it is estimated that synesthesia is found up to 7 times more in artists, singers, and writers. Duke Ellington, a famous musician who had a career throughout a large part of the 1900’s, had at least two types of synesthesia that led him to see colors and feel textures when listening to music. Dutch post-impressionist painter Vincent Van Gogh had at least one type of synesthesia that allowed him to hear different music pitches as different colors. Contemporary recording artists Pharrell Williams, Lorde, and Charlie XCX have all admitted to having chromesthesia like Bea Miller, where they can see color when listening to music. One theory as to why synesthesia is more prevalent among creative people comes from Vilayanur Ramachandran, a cognitive neuroscientist at UC San Diego. He thinks that synesthesia may lead to connections being made between ideas that wouldn’t necessarily have been made otherwise, thus leading to greater creativity in people with synesthesia. 

Synesthesia affects each individual very differently, but many regard it as a gift that boosts their creativity. Bea Miller is just one example of the amazing people who use their synesthesia as their superpower.

Bea Miller is currently on her second headlining tour and working on her 3rd studio album. For more information about her and her music, head on over to her website: https://beamiller.com/ or her youtube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCkF8oWqxcjksV7L6i_2r10Q. 

References: 

https://onairwithryan.iheart.com/featured/ryan-seacrest/content/2017-08-04-bea-miller-performs-like-that-draws-synesthesia-art/

https://www.brainfacts.org/ask-an-expert/synesthesia

https://synesthesia.com/blog/types-of-synesthesia/

https://www.livescience.com/17156-synesthesia-taste-words-benefits.html

https://www.fuse.tv/videos/2017/08/bea-miller-chapter-three-yellow-ep-spectrum-album-interview

https://www.britannica.com/science/aurora-atmospheric-phenomenon

https://interestingengineering.com/9-famous-artists-who-have-synesthesia-and-how-it-affected-them

https://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/meet-the-famous-musicians-with-synaesthesia-a-condition-that-means-you-hear-colours-14511

MAGDALENE

Source: https://media.npr.org/assets/img/2019/11/07/fka_artwork_shot_05_matthew-stone_wide-cde26e7808653ed8eefe712e4bf752670eff446a.jpg?s=1400

By Bella Virgilio ‘20

FKA twigs’ sophomore LP, MAGDALENE, opens with a hymn, just like her critically acclaimed 2014 debut, LP1. “Preface,” the first track on LP1, begins with twigs’ solo voice, which quickly multiplies into a chorus, introducing the vocal layering technique that gives much of FKA twigs’ music its atmospheric, spiritual quality. On “Preface,” she sings over and over, “I love another, and thus I hate myself,” backgrounded by percussive samples that lead the track into a feature from Lucki Eck$. But twigs is all on her own in “thousand eyes,” with more haunting reflections on love, solitude, and pain––”If I walk out the door, it starts our last goodbye / If you don’t pull me back, it wakes a thousand eyes,” she sings, over and over, fearful of the cold that these thousand eyes will bring. In LP1, twigs examines the coexistence of pleasure and pain in love; in MAGDALENE, she bravely faces the void left by its absence.

In “thousand eyes,” FKA twigs presents herself as a more lucid character, one with more awareness of herself and her relationships than the twigs of past projects. She also introduces a new antagonist––the prying public eye, trained on her high profile relationships. “cellophane,” MAGDALENE’s closing track, features the same “watchers” from “thousand eyes”––in the cinematic “cellophane” video, twigs tentatively enters onto a hazy stage from behind a curtain to the applause of an invisible audience. She grips a pole in the center of the stage and begins her performance. For some, the pole might evoke memories of erotic dance, or gentlemen’s clubs. But the opening notes of “cellophane” immediately impress upon the viewer an incredible weight––FKA twigs’ intense vulnerability, her loneliness, and her pain, which she shares with her expectant audience, her watchers, without hesitation, drawing power from the action of breaking free from their viewership.

On the title of her album, twigs has said that she was inspired by the biblical figure Mary Magdalene. Though in reality she was likely a very close friend, supporter, and confidante of Jesus, Mary Magdalene’s role in history has been tainted by the misconception that she was a prostitute. “I found a lot of power in the story of Mary Magdalene,” twigs said in an interview for i-D in September 2019; “a lot of dignity, a lot of grace, a lot of inspiration.” The connection between Mary Magdalene and the character twigs presents in “cellophane” is clear; they both represent women who have been defined by and criticized for their relationships with famous men.

“home with you,” the album’s second track, begins with twigs’ voice, low and filtered, alien-like; she sounds like she’s breathing through gritted teeth. A minute and a half into the song, the instrumentation drops out, and twigs reflects solemnly on a past relationship––“I didn’t know that you were lonely / if you’d have just told me, I’d be home with you.” Though she repeats the phrase, she doesn’t dwell on the tragedy of this apparent miscommunication between lovers, at least not at first––the song dives back into a patchwork of glitching, percussive noise. Twigs’ voice sinks back into a low register again before breaking into clear, high notes while she sings the chorus a second time, as though she’s coming up for air. Her voice soars for a while, considering all the ways she could have been there for this person, before she sings her final confession––“and I’d have told you I was lonely, too.” Twigs’ ruminations on loneliness are nothing new; the themes of “home with you” offer a strong connection to the 2014 track “Two Weeks,” in which she taunts, “You say you’re lonely / I say you’ll think about it.” But “Two Weeks” leads with sexual power and prowess, and shares none of the intense vulnerability that’s responsible for the emotional undercurrents of “home with you.” Listeners who have witnessed this development in FKA twigs’ treatment of loneliness will empathize deeply with her desperation for comfort, for connection, and for home that extends beyond the physical connection at the fore in “Two Weeks.”

“mirrored heart,” the gut-wrenching emotional centerpiece of MAGDALENE, features entrancing, pendulating chords and minimalist instrumentation, showcasing twigs’ vocal range. The song is built on long, sighing swells, where twigs’ firm determination wavers (“But I’m never gonna give up / Though I’m probably gonna think about you all the time”) and fades to reveal a raw, bleeding line of questioning––”Did you want me all? Did you truly see me?” she asks her absent lover, answering her own questions with a resounding “no,” as though she’s talking to herself in a mirror. In “mirrored heart,” FKA twigs reflects on a failed relationship and on the loneliness and insecurity that the “game” of love breeds, yet she can’t help but long for a reprieve from her loneliness.

While the MAGDALENE music videos are not a significant departure from the aesthetic of her past videos, twigs’ sound on parts of MAGDALENE is less familiar. It’s difficult to find a piano anywhere in FKA twigs’ pre-MAGDALENE repertoire, barring the 2016 single “Good to Love,” but MAGDALENE places the piano at the emotional core of twigs’ sound. The instrument’s simplicity and familiarity present a welcome and stark contrast to the characteristic electronic, industrial cacophony that dominates LP1 and M3LL155X. The sparse piano mirrors twigs’ process of stripping down, of laying bare the most vulnerable aspects of herself through her music. MAGDALENE ultimately introduces FKA twigs’ changed perspective on love––and although she is exhausted by the unwanted visibility of her relationships, by the feeling of performing for a thousand eyes, by her own loneliness and heartbreak, she offers up moments of hopefulness and security in her own strength and her ability to heal. The album ends with twigs’ final reflection on the feeling of exposure in a relationship––“They’re waiting / They’re watching / They’re watching us / They’re hating / They’re waiting / And hoping / I’m not enough.”

The Culture Behind “Spotify Wrapped”

By Adhel Geng

Did we all listen to so much Drake this year? No? Never mind, I guess I’m the only one with weird musical taste. Or maybe that was Spotify’s unique way of providing me with empirical evidence that I’m basic, even though I’ve been out here hollering about how I’ve got exquisite musical taste. Wow Spotify, thanks for humbling a girl!

In December, Spotify released a new feature which they called, “ Spotify Wrapped 2019.” This new feature offers users the chance to visualize their listening habits. It includes a round up of your most popular genres, top artists, a personalized list of your favorite songs from 2019, and a “Best of the Decade For You” playlist. Spotify even set up an interactive website that provides users a flashy, presentable way on how to view this data. Artists also got a similar set of data as well, so they can share how much their music gets listened to.

Since the report was released, both artists and music fans have stormed social media to share their reactions to the news. For instance, James Blunt, as he tends to do, came through with an excellent tweet, in which he thanks himself for being his own top-streamed artist of the decade. Lizzo, Dababy, and a lot of other artists, decided to thank their fans for listening to them and for sharing screenshots of their reports with them. Twitter was flooded with music fans all over the world either embarrassingly admitting their listening habits like I did, or showing shock at the type of music they listened to.

As I kept scrolling through twitter’s reactions, I couldn’t help but wonder: What are we actually getting out of what amounts to a streaming report card? How much data does spotify and other streaming services that I spend huge chunks of my time have on me? What’s behind our desire to have the past ten years of content consumption wrapped up in a bow and handed back to us? For a second, I panicked: They have so much on me. They know the songs I cry to, my naughty bad girl playlist, my obsession with sad songs. OMG THEY KNOW ME!!!!

But then, I tried to reason with myself, what exactly could anyone know about me from viewing my listening habits apart from the fact that I am an average human being with fluctuating moods. Sometimes I’m sad and I listen to sad songs to feel like I am not the only sad person in the world. Sometimes I feel feisty and want to dance to some dancehall and afropop music. Other times, I want to forget that I am single so I listen to Boyz II Men or Mario to make myself feel wanted. And sometimes, coming from a stressful day of midterms, assignments, and a work-study job, and just want to de-stress I listen to a chilled playlist.

Maybe the answer isn’t so complicated, I consoled myself. With the rise of cultural streaming services like Spotify, Netflix, and Hulu, we’re spending more time than ever online. But that still did not relieve my guilt for all that time spent online. I still wondered about what made me listen to certain artists more

than others? What made me repeat some songs and albums more than others? Did this artist and song make me feel things without me having to be vulnerable about my feelings? Did this in fact imply that these songs and artists meant a lot to me? Maybe I am just overthinking, I concluded.

Whatever the reason behind the appeal, the Wrapped feature is a too-rare moment of levity and fun online, and it’s worth checking out if like me, you’re curious about what the soundtrack to the movie of your life would sound like. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go bump “ No Guidance” by Chris Brown and Drake; because a girl needs no guidance on what she listens to.

Little Joy: A Past Playlist Journey

By Tiffany Chu 

I’ve made monthly playlists since December 2015. I have no idea what prompted me to start making them, but over the years, the playlists have become a way for me to revisit different periods of my life. According to the time stamp on my December 2017 playlist, my all-time favorite song “Don’t Watch Me Dancing” by Little Joy first crossed my radar on December 11, 2017 (it’s December 11, 2019 as I’m writing this, so happy two-year anniversary to us). That year I created two playlists for December, so the song reappears on a playlist titled “december 2” alongside “Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and “Tonya Harding (In Eb major)” by Sufjan Stevens. The song would pop up again at the top of my August 2018 playlist titled “last time driving in sacramento.” It’s been on my Spotify Wrapped top songs for 2017, 2018, and 2019. It was the first song I played on my first WZLY show in spring 2019, and it will be the first song I play on my last WZLY show of this semester.

Little Joy is made up of Fabrizio Moretti (The Strokes’ drummer), Rodrigo Amarante (Los Hermanos’ guitarist and singer), and Binki Shapiro. The short-lived trio was formed after a chance encounter in 2006 at a festival in Lisbon. Moretti and Marante were playing for their respective bands, and the two decided to embark on a new musical project separate from their current acts. Los Angeles-based Shapiro was later added after introductions from acquaintances. The three moved into a house in Echo Park, where their eponymous debut (and only) album was produced and then released in November 2008.

Despite my committed relationship with “Don’t Watch Me Dancing,” I’d actually never listened to the album Little Joy in full. The album is anchored in a hybrid Californian and Brazilian breeziness that coincides with the setting of its creation. Yet, palm trees would not be the backdrop of its soundscape; a beach in winter with khaki sand and a gentle warmness would be more appropriate. The album art features a woman in a polka-dot bikini falling back-first into water, an expression of elation painted on her face. In live videos of the band, the three exude nonchalance–more often closing their eyes or looking towards the ground than making eye contact with the camera. The ninth track, “How to Hang a Warhol” may be Little Joy at its boppiest, but even then the accelerated drums are diluted by the sleepiness and modesty of the vocals. Love is a central lyrical theme, but it’s a low-stakes affection reminiscent more of a crush glimpsed from across a rooftop party (as in the fourth verse of “Don’t Watch Me Dancing”: “there he is a step outside her view/reciting the words he hoped she might pursue/night upon night a faithful light at shore/if he’d only convince his legs across the floor”) than eternal devotion. It carries the intimacy of a comfortable romance. Little Joy is as the name suggests, an album with quiet moments of contentment. It does not seek to thrill, rather the tracks are optimized for gentle swaying.