“The melodic rapture, like the romantic and sexual rapture it thematizes, is untrammeled, boundless, endless.”
Big corny windswept sentimentality might just be the thing that pop does best.
He sleeps in a studio closet, and he’s putting the finishing touches on four new albums.
Songs about New York, and about archetypal New York folkways and experiences.
An impressionistic, anecdotal, suggestive, but by definition incomplete survey of the past 100 years of New York pop.
From Tin Pan Alley to Hollis, Queens, the Brill Building to Bushwick, Electric Lady Studios to Lady Gaga.
Ted Gioia is a smart, serious, hugely accomplished critic, music historian, and pianist — who has just published an asinine article.
It’s not clear what exactly Beck is bummed out about, but he is bummed indeed.
“That guitar is plugged into NOTHING.”
You can call Bob Dylan’s Super Bowl advertisements whatever you like, but the only accurate descriptor is Dylanesque.
Mars is a pro, as polished a musician and performer as anyone in pop’s upper echelons.
Pete Seeger, who died yesterday at 94, was for many decades the most famous folk singer on earth, although to call him a star seems absurd.
What’s up with all the pianos?
His new album is his best yet.
The most surprising thing about the news of Justin Bieber’s arrest on DUI charges is that it’s surprising at all.
Blandings is the opéra bouffe version of Downton.
Imma let you finish, but Beyoncé just made seventeen of the best videos of all time.
Expect a full review next week, but our critic’s overall feeling after a couple of listens: on balance, a very fine record.
What is she doing to that poor cat?
Kelly has Windexed the ceiling mirror and set the oscillating Spanish Fly atomizer on turbo.