What are you listening to? It's a loaded question. Unlike running through your nightly streaming lineup, admitting your favorite music of the moment can feel downright terrifying. So much so that people all too often put on the same ol' record for every commute. But the music of the moment is so damn good! Veteran music journalist Alan Light—former editor-in-chief of Spin and Vibe and once-upon-a-time rock critic for Rolling Stone, plus the author of several music-focused books—keeps a running list of his favorite cuts of the year on Esquire.com. Like the best listeners, Alan isn't precious about genre or source, all he cares about is whether or not a song takes flight. Check out what he's streaming below, especially that Tyler Childers heater. —Madison Vain, senior digital director Plus: |
|
|
Music headlines have been as weird as the rest of the news. But there were songs to get excited about, from an alt-rock icon embracing his roots to an alt-country maverick swinging for the fences.
|
What an odd month July proved to be in the music world. Ozzy Osbourne's death just a few weeks after Black Sabbath's triumphant final show, revealing that the Prince of Darkness may have been our most universally loved cultural figure. The ill-fated corporate couple on the Coldplay kiss cam. A surprise Justin Bieber album. Steve Miller cancelling a tour because of extreme weather.
Music headlines were as weird as the rest of the news. But there were songs to get excited about, from an alt-rock icon embracing his roots to an alt-country maverick swinging for the fences. There's the very long-awaited return of a lost '70s landmark and some genre-crossing surprises. So as we stare down the latter days of summer, RIP Ozzy and full speed ahead.
These are the best songs of the year. |
|
|
I'm terrified of death. Especially death I can't control. I'm anxious about walking in Paris, where I live. I believe highway driving to be extremely dangerous. My mind constantly races through Final Destination death scenarios. What if that bike swerves? What if that truck driver falls asleep at the wheel? These possibilities eat at me.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm an urban free soloist. For the uninitiated, I climb skyscrapers without ropes, including the Burj Khalifa, the Montparnasse Tower, and buildings across La Défense. I dangle from my fingertips thousands of feet above the ground—sometimes I do pull-ups—and yet I am absurdly anxious about risks I can't control.
On the ground, I'm a bundle of anxiety, helpless against these various risks. I've been this way forever; I had to go to extensive therapy as a child about my fear of death. But when I'm 1,000 feet up the side of a building, gripping a minuscule ledge with my fingertips, I'm finally relaxed. Welcome to the paradox of my existence: The only time I feel truly okay is when I'm risking everything. |
|
|
"I've got scotch older than you!"
That's what Jim Marshall said to me once at dinner, when I had a night off on tour in San Francisco. I didn't understand the mechanics of time then; no twentysomething does. Forget about the whiskey; Jim had photographs that were older than me, and later that night I would end up at his house, poring through long, flat metal drawers of unframed, unsigned prints. As I showed him each one that I loved, he would tell me all about it. "That's an old Kodak print that's not around anymore," he told me in reference to the beautiful shot he took of Otis Redding at the Monterey Pop Festival. The chemical emulsion that produced the most gorgeous, vibrant colors I'd ever seen in a photograph had since been outlawed by the EPA due to environmental and health concerns. That made the work even more rock and roll than it already was; these were illicit works, relics from the freewheeling days that had come and gone. That made me want them even more. By the end of the evening, I'd amassed a stack of photos that I showed to him one at a time as he wrote numbers down in pencil on a small sheet of paper. This was how Jim did business. |
|
|
|
No comments:
Post a Comment