Songwriter Jim Steinman found his muse in the performer—and, forty years ago, they released their iconic, operatic rock album, Bat Out of Hell.
The temporal shift from serving in the Army to my formless but chaotic life in New York had unmoored me. Then I started listening to the Grateful Dead.
Power broker, sex symbol, and kingpin of the block: reflecting on the rapper, who reconfigured familiar faces into something wholly unfamiliar, 20 years after the release of her debut album.
On the 20th anniversary of the Spice Girls’ first album, I reflect on two decades of defending their commercial approach to feminism.
Leonard Cohen was our man, a guy who joked about eternal life and died a month later.
The archetypical Kanye fan is no longer the person who listened to Dipset but also watched Def Poetry Jam. They have been essentially priced out of fandom.
How an obnoxious subset of their fan base led me away from the Tragically Hip, and Gord Downie brought me back.
Prince Rogers Nelson was the blueprint for a certain kind of Black femmeness. In the interstitial spaces of my life, he has kept me company.
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