Artist: Jon Batiste & Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross Genres: Original Score, Music, Soundtrack, PlayBorn to Play by Jon Batiste (). by Al Green; Blue Magic; Commodores; Dorothy Moore; Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes; Phyllis Hyman; Teddy Pendergrass; The Chi-Lites;. Fantasia - Back to Me mp3 m4a zip Zippyshare Torrent Mediafire. DOWNLOAD: sidpirgat.fun Collard Greens & Cornbread. PAGE TURN AFTER EFFECTS PLUGIN TORRENT Manage all your from phone application. You can only be sure to for our contents asks us to. Comodo's new unblock with Linux kernel which is good the screen of which means that drivers, but if this reactor should.
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T he year-old musician Kelela favors the kind of fashion aesthetic that science-fiction films sometimes use to signify characters from the future: gravity-defying materials in iridescent or metallic colors. For a recent rainy night in Strasbourg, the small city in the northeastern corner of France, she strode onstage dressed like a lieutenant in an anime cartoon, in an oversize gray bomber jacket, matching shorts and heels made from white fabric that stretched above her knees.
She raised her hands and gave a hard stare to the crowd. It has influenced every genre, pretty much, so anyone who thinks it is basic or rudimentary has another thing coming. There were no whoops, claps or even smiles. The audience remained passive. But tonight, the scene was homogeneous in a very European way: Women favored striped boatnecks, red lips and messy topknots; the men, zipped-up pullovers and spotless white trainers.
Kelela nodded at her D. True to her word, amid the switchbacks of her feathery falsetto voice, there was no mistaking the roots of classic R. At one point, her face and body were illuminated by an electric shade of cyan, while the background remained shaded in dark azure. The effect made Kelela look as ethereal and spectral as the music radiating from the speakers.
Her music can keep the lovesick company in bed just as easily as it can shepherd a party past sunrise. But that night the concertgoers remained inscrutable. Some 4, miles away, they seemed more excited than the people physically present in the concert hall. The audience, charmed at last, succumbed to the irresistible beat and danced along.
The moment was buoyant but short-lived: It was her last number. She thanked the crowd and then bounded offstage. When she was back in her dressing room, the composure Kelela had projected to the audience quickly dissipated. She stood with her hands on her hips, chewing on her lip. Her boyfriend — a filmmaker named Cieron Magat, with whom she shares an apartment in London — murmured words of reassurance and handed her a cup of homemade ginger tea. Magat told her not to worry, but Kelela wanted to deconstruct the performance.
The music of these women is aimed squarely at the heart chakra of young black women; it legitimizes as much as it asserts the value of being yourself — even if that self is thought to be a little off-center. Kelela, in particular, explodes the notion that blackness is monolithic, a single Pantone square instead of untold variations. Her music is geared to a generation that lives for juxtapositions and unexpected arrangements, sonically and visually.
She asked for a demo and gave the song to Solange, who asked Kelela to come on tour with her later that year, introducing Kelela to an audience who could appreciate her innovations in R. At the time, Kelela wanted to see how far she could push herself as an artist and play with the boundaries of R. Pitchfork gave the collection a rare 8. It felt like a sonic relic of the past unearthed years in the future. Since then, fans have been waiting for her first full-length album, which Kelela expects to release this year.
In her dressing room, Kelela folded herself into a pretzel on the couch next to me. A candle burned in the background. She knew it had been an off night, but because she loves performing so much, she was still buzzing from the energy. Kelela Mizanekristos was born in to Mizanekristos Yohannes and Neghist Girma, students who escaped war-torn Ethopia and immigrated separately to the United States.
She was raised in Gaithersburg, Md. He often took Kelela with him, and she fell in love with the culture of music. You can still catch the influence in her voice — the way she turns sounds into sacred geometry, almost unconsciously stairstepping through the vowels and consonants. In her early to mid 20s, she would go to a Washington bar called 18th Street Lounge for its Sunday-night house sessions. Her first boyfriend, Kris Funn, whom she met when she was 19, played the upright bass, and she sat in bars for hours, watching him and his friends play.
Eventually the couple broke up, but Funn encouraged Kelela to trust her instincts and not be intimidated by her lack of formal music training. By that time, Kelela was a student at American University, studying international studies and sociology.
In my head, I am supposed to be a college graduate. I wanted to finish. But I was not motivated to sit there and do that paper. I had a lot of resistance. She dropped out. This was in , and synthpop, epitomized by bands like the Knife, was trending. She began recording in a punk house in Washington, a city with a hard-core lineage that included acts like Fugazi and Bad Brains. She thrived in an environment devoid of rules. Just try. She spent hours on MySpace, scrolling through pages of music and listening to instrumentals.
She recorded herself singing over sounds she liked. Then she would send the artist her sample, along with an invitation to collaborate. Two notable electronic producers agreed, including Daedelus, who featured her on a track. At the same time, a friend introduced her to the electro duo Teengirl Fantasy, and they created a song. By then, Kelela was living in Los Angeles, and Boston brought her a thumb drive of sounds from the label and its British counterpart, Night Slugs.
Kelela spent the next several days poring over the files, improvising lyrics over the sounds she liked, turning them into songs. She loved the otherworldliness of the instrumentals — staccato mixes that used sound effects like tinkling glass and guns reloading over drum machines.
The music complemented the gossamer scales she likes to sing in. Two of the songs she produced during this time were on the mixtape she released in Electronica, Sushon told me, is referential in the same way that R. Because of the internet, he explained, musicians can share references more easily than they did in the past. Google, YouTube and SoundCloud make it easy.
I watched Kelela and her D. Here, suddenly, was the thrilling flicker of a decade-old hit that had almost entirely faded from popular culture, tucked into her own noir love song. After the show , back at her Strasbourg Airbnb, Kelela changed into oversize gray sweatpants and a black button-down crop top, and padded into the kitchen in white slippers. She plugged in an electric kettle and made another cup of ginger tea as our conversation turned to her debut album.
I expected her to talk about its sound, but she wanted to speak about the intention behind it. I like that. I like playing to mixed crowds. These women helped her make sense of the racial and sexist forces that shape the world, and she still turns to them to navigate the music industry.
She internalized their insistence to not be apologetic for her womanhood or blackness and not be debilitated by exclusion. Kelela is aware of how artists like her get co-opted, morphed into something symbolic that they no longer control, and is determined to avoid it.
I had already heard the lengths to which she would go to prevent this from happening. The first night we met, I asked her how she managed expectations as an artist in an age of hyperconsumption. I mostly meant her reserve on social media, despite the disturbingly insistent demands in her Twitter and Instagram mentions for her next release. Instead, she described an encounter with Fendi, the Italian luxury brand, which invited her to perform at its new headquarters in Rome to celebrate the start of a new website aimed at millennials.
She asked Fendi representatives to agree to release a statement addressing her concerns as a condition of her involvement. She sees herself as someone who can wield her status as a celebrity to catalyze change. As the evening wound down, Kelela invited me to get comfortable and listen to some of her new tracks. She gave me earbuds and left me alone to listen. When I pressed her about a release date, she made a coquettish face and demurred, saying the songs were still being mixed.
In reality, she just signed with Warp Records, which will take over the release of the album. But I could never not make anything from any other place. Her voice is as pretty as ever, rising and crashing like cresting waves over beats that swing from a druggy drone to throbbing bass lines perfect for dance-floor grinding. In their own way, they are a quiet protest: They feel radical in the way a Kerry James Marshall painting or a Ntozake Shange poem expresses the humanity and beauty of black life.
The video , which has been viewed over million times and depicts a summer romance on a Greek isle, is followed by hundreds of comments from jubilant global citizens who have finally trapped their earworm. For nine weeks, it was the most Shazammed song in the world. The retro, cheerful, almost cloying guitar riff? The result is youthful magic, the aural version of dancing until dawn with a boy you just met. Of smoking cigarettes on a rooftop all hot summer night. These days, an enterprising year-old can browse YouTube, find something that catches his fancy, transform it and broadcast it to the world.
Our atmosphere is on track to become one long hot summer night. In harrowing times, this earworm asks little and gives a lot. Sometimes you just want to kill somebody, you know? Really end their life: make mourners of their friends and family, make orphans of their children, leave a hole in the world where a person once was.
But sometimes you do. But if you do, when you do, maybe sometimes it kind of gets away from you, right? Would you cover your tracks? Try to hide the body? Go into hiding and hear about yourself on the news? Walk through the doors of the police station and turn yourself in? You think about these things when you want to kill somebody. You have the occasional dream about them.
How did you get like this? Brain chemistry? Read too many stories about Ozzy Osbourne biting the heads off bats when you were a kid? For some people, that means hitting the gym. For others, it means a stereo with a volume knob. Heavy metal has been providing people with catharsis for nearly 50 years. I listen to it because of how it makes me feel.
They have six studio efforts, numerous EPs and a live album to their credit, and every song on every album except one takes, as its theme, a known serial killer. Others are so obscure that only true crime buffs are likely to recognize their names. Look them up at your peril: These are people whose crimes will give you nightmares. It begins with a thudding kick drum all alone, with the central guitar riff ambling in murderously after two bars — a figure that lurches methodically through three five-note patterns to resolve on three descending chords that land like boulders being dropped on a house.
My iTunes play count shows that I listened to it more than I listened to any song in except for drafts of songs I was writing myself. Scott Carlson of the legendary Repulsion sings it; the incarnation of the band was essentially a reboot, with Mikami the only original member.
It has a cowbell. You can bang your head and sing along. I have spent a fair bit of idle time over the years wondering what it says about me that I want to indulge this mood at least a few times a week for the rest of my life, occasionally at earsplitting volumes in clubs. When I was young, if I heard something that sounded too celebratory of death, it terrified me.
How much time can I spend with it? What part of me is it? What does it look like up close? The cheap answer is something about the cathartic value of transgression, etc. The truer answer, for me, is that sometimes you really wanna kill somebody.
It would be wrong. You try not to do wrong. But if you spend a little time in the presence of a perfect groove contemplating the wrong directly without moralizing about it, you can ride the feeling in safety and go in as deep as you want, emerging later not wanting to kill anybody.
Coates sat on the edge of a couch; Levi took a chair; each looked expectant, borderline anxious. It had been a busy year. Levi is also a producer and D. Coates has scored films, too, but is better known for his work as a cellist.
Its 13 tracks, some less than a minute in length, jump from beat-heavy, densely layered and looped orchestrations to atmospheric and spacey noodlings. It is a sketchbook in which every figure gestures toward newer, more exciting ideas to come, outlining musical rules a key, a beat, a melody one minute only to abandon them in the next.
Before they listened to the record, Coates reached into his backpack and pulled out a coloring book. He showed Levi one of the images he had colored in, a mandala filled with bright blues and greens, thin wisps of gold, bursts of coral pink. Levi leaned in for a closer look, drawing her finger across the page.
It was a visual cantus firmus, she said: a fixed melody providing a structure for a limited range of improvisation. The pair sat in silence, pleased enough but also distracted. A few tracks later, Coates looked up at Levi, who was looking at his mandala. It seemed like a familiar conversation. Levi massaged her temples, thinking, listening. Maybe, Levi said, you set up the rules and then find a way to break them; color inside the lines, so to speak, and then scribble a face over the results.
Coates liked it. In fact, he added, his coloring was loaded with mistakes already, but the mistakes were what made the thing come together, in a subtle way. He turned the page, exposing the blots where the pen ink bled through to the other side and the sharp lines of the pattern were barely visible.
Coates and Levi met almost a decade ago. Coates had come to perform student string quartets for a class Levi was taking, and he was struck by her compositions. Coates sent Levi a video by the electronic producer Daniel Lopatin, also known as Oneohtrix Point Never; Levi sent Coates a mixtape she made with some tracks by Harry Partch, a composer who created new musical scales and built his own instruments.
He wanted an experienced composer who had never written music for a movie, someone who would come at the task differently. For 10 months, she worked on almost nothing else, worried that if she listened to anything — particularly another soundtrack — she would unintentionally steal from it.
The soundtrack is unsettling, but also strangely empathetic. Levi describes much of her work as mixtapes. She was thinking of music not in terms of classical or hip-hop or any other genre, but in terms of people. Some music was Oliver Coates music. Some music was Mica Levi music. I f you buy a record on brownsvilleka. Every few days, Ka sits in a study in his home near Prospect Park in Brooklyn and goes through the orders on his site.
He was there on a morning not long ago, with a MacBook propped on his knees. On the floor were cardboard boxes holding copies of his five full-length albums. He placed five CDs in a padded envelope. There was a time when Ka took a guerrilla approach to promoting his music. I still had, like, CDs left. So I started giving them away.
This has become a tradition: On the day that Ka drops a new album, he tweets, turns up on a street corner and sells a few dozen records out of the trunk of his car. It would be hard to find a more thoroughgoing D.
Ka is the rare rapper who handles both rhymes and beats, writing his lyrics and producing the music that accompanies them. He has directed most of his videos, and he self-releases his music, on his own label. It is not a profitable venture. Over the past several years, Ka has released some of the most gripping music in any genre. His records offer a poignant, distinctive take on classic New York hip-hop: vivid stories of street life and struggle narrated in virtuosic rhymes over music of bleak beauty.
His output has won him a small but passionate fan base and critical raves in Pitchfork and Spin. In , the Los Angeles M. For Ka to have won even modest recognition is an improbable underdog triumph. He spent much of the s trying to make it as a rapper, quit music altogether and returned a decade later, releasing his solo debut at age Today he is This career trajectory defies one of the seemingly immutable laws of pop, and of hip-hop in particular, a genre in which the cult of youth and novelty is especially pronounced.
And when I come home, I try to make some dope music. Last Aug. With me, they had all three. Ka grew up poor, in Brownsville. As a teenager, he drifted into the drug trade, dealing crack and selling firearms. If Ka is not in the music business, his wife definitively is. Today she is chief creative officer for i am OTHER, a multimedia company founded by Pharrell Williams, the superstar rapper-singer-producer. But a commercial breakthrough is far-fetched, and a prospect for which Ka seems constitutionally ill equipped.
He has performed just a few live shows and professes little interest in playing more. Those records are, in the best sense, strange. His songs are unnervingly quiet and still; they hold a listener in thrall because they hold so much back. Often the songs discard drums altogether, opening vast spaces that are filled by samples in brooding minor keys. It is an unshakable voice of experience, delivering hard-boiled tales and hard-won wisdom. Ka excels at this kind of writing, brisk storytelling that unfolds in a pileup of rhymes and puns.
So I speak about the things that I did, the things I pray I never have to do again. How do I finish my life in grace? She has performed it many times, and at least once, 10 years ago, someone filmed her in a church. About midway through the nine-and-a-half-minute video, the band and the organ, which riff all the way through, fall quiet.
The band kicks in again, and a slew of sonic histrionics, pyrotechnics and acrobatics follows. This was the moment that stood out to a musician called DJ Suede the Remix God, who just before Thanksgiving took that snippet — just eight seconds in all — and laid it over a trap-style hip-hop beat of his own making. Suede then offered the beat to the internet, calling it the U Name It Challenge and inviting others to put their own spins on it.
The singer Chris Brown recorded a video dancing to it. Countless other dancers and rappers followed him. The challenge went megaviral. The trick was that the snippet Suede chose had Caesar talking about food — and about giving thanks for that food — convincingly, joyously and at the exact right time of year. Her ecstatic cry made it universal. Grey is a vegan, unlike Shouting John, but a quick jaunt through his social media identifies him as every bit the evangelist of his philosophy that Caesar is for Christ.
But I grew up going to church, dancing and singing to raucous gospel bands and choirs nearly every Sunday. Once, after a particularly rousing concert, I walked from my seat to the front of the auditorium to be baptized and join the church, only to come to my senses once I got to the altar. For more than a year now, I have listened to little else in my car other than the albums of Rufus Wainwright.
This obsession began when my husband and I bought a car for weekend trips: a AWD Subaru hatchback with what in retrospect seems like an ancient playback machine, a 5-disc CD player. We pulled all our old CD wallets out to the car, loaded the changer and set off for our first drive.
And what had been my self-imposed exile from music came to an end that day. Sometime between and , without ever noticing it was happening, I stopped listening to music regularly. Around the same time, my doctor told me I had mild depression, which would respond to exercise and a change in habits. But this mild depression did not feel mild. I felt trapped at the bottom of a swimming pool, immobilized. Everything I had to do, everything I needed to take care of, was up at the surface, and the soundtrack to this situation was silence.
In my year of carbound listening, I played through his songbook over and over. I gained a new appreciation for his extraordinary voice, and the way its nasal timbre humanizes him, as if someone ordinary had been given extraordinary powers, midnote. I never care. Wainwright is a storyteller, and his albums work on my imagination the same way short-story collections do — poetically, dramatically.
Singing along with his secrets became like telling mine to myself, and somehow, this helped me up from the bottom of that pool. For me, looking for new music from favorite musicians is also a sign of life. This fall, I finally thought to look for a new Wainwright album. He is on the cover in full Queen Elizabeth I drag, flowers in his hair. His misogyny too. Wainwright knows this territory well.
Now, for the duration of this song, he is the reluctant lover. As a storyteller, Wainwright has always been more of a memoirist than a novelist. He made his reputation singing wise songs of impossible loves and rejection, turning personal pain into public art. His next project is an opera about the Roman emperor Hadrian, who, out of grief at the death of his lover Antinous, created a religion around him.
I intend to be there when it opens, wearing a tuxedo in an opera box — no Subaru this time. F ifteen minutes after finishing an acoustic concert one evening in January, the Texas singer-songwriter James McMurtry was backstage talking about his great-grandfather. The man had lost his own father and grandfather to post-Civil War skirmishes in Missouri, McMurtry said, so he and his wife fled the state.
They settled in Denton County, Tex. McMurtry, who has released 12 albums over a year career, has a reputation in some quarters as a political songwriter, in part because one of his most popular songs is an angry-lefty anthem. Released shortly before the election, the song swept through an America hollowed out by departed manufacturing jobs and the middle-class stability that went with them.
A few years after its release, the critic Robert Christgau named it the best song of the decade. He has been on tour almost constantly since the late s, and he just takes note of what he sees through the windshield, he said, like banners welcoming home soldiers in small towns. At an upscale barbecue restaurant near his hotel in Dallas, where we met before his concert, our talk turned to tribalism and anti-intellectualism. McMurtry had ordered black coffee and a plate of fried oysters.
In a few hours, he would take the stage alone with his guitar, and in a few weeks, he and his band would leave for a European tour that would carry them from Ireland to Italy, playing 33 nights in a row. Other singers have smoother voices.
He has written about Cheyenne, Wyo. His songs tap into resentments about things like coastal attitudes of superiority and political correctness. His narrators are often white men who know the Bible, own guns and give their kids a nip of vodka in their Cherry Coke to get through long road trips. A Texan friend of mine likes to say that McMurtry writes as though he has spent time eavesdropping on conversations in every Dairy Queen in America. McMurtry has seen things change in rural America over the last few decades, he said, the curdling of patriotism and self-reliance into something uglier.
Gun ownership, for example, has become an identity, or even like a cult. The narrator is a hunter, a fisherman and a small-business owner. Still rarer is a song that identifies its audience in explicit, demographic terms. Once this metaphorical point of entry is closed, an important conversation ensues. Not every black person can hear it in a song and feel the exultation that Knowles intends. For many of us who were young and black, or young and black and Southern, like Knowles, during the years when he dominated the rap charts, his story has always been inspirational.
Art finds who it finds, and the white gaze lands where it lands. The more you try to ignore it, the more it seems keen on dissecting you. Knowles is aware of this. The deliberate rejection of white scrutiny is part of a long tradition of black art-making. If white people are pleased, we are glad. This is the sonic equivalent of shaking out your hair after long hours of wearing it pulled back and tied down for work, putting on your sweatpants and calling your girlfriend to tell her about the day you had.
The warbled notes of the piano and organ sounded muffled, as if underwater. The featured artists are a nod to R. The backing vocals by Tweet are a special treat for those of us who sometimes shake our fists at the sky, wondering what ever happened to that singer and her hypnotizing voice. Its measured cadence and dragging bass are perfect for a spontaneous, low-key house party. Its boisterous horns call to mind the New Orleans second line, those musical parades marched both for celebration and for mourning.
Her mother, Tina Lawson, has said that her family was essentially run out of town following a salt-mine collapse involving her father. In the contentious aftermath, a Molotov cocktail was thrown through the window of their home.
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