Indie

Thanks to the Dusty Rhino Camp, Tycho has become something of a fixture at Black Rock City in recent years. The San Franciscan’s gauzy, intoxicating mixes have served as the soundtrack for many a dust-covered, scarf-wrapped Burner tripping, twirling, or cycling across the Nevada desert in insect goggles. This year’s sunrise set is reflective of Tycho’s signature style as a DJ. Featuring Boards of Canada, Cubenx, Tourist, as well as a few of his own productions, it’s 72 minutes of ambient-drenched electronica and avant-rock that, while psychedelic, remains safe and comfy throughout. Beats are present, but they’re like phantoms emerging from a hazy drift only to return before assuming corporeal form. Showing off his deep knowledge of genres outside of electronic music, he closes out with a profoundly meditative slice of West Coast acid rock from L.A. hippie Jonathan Wilson. Well done, Tycho.

With its pinging electro beat, earworm melodies, and dubby, disorienting vocals, Dev’s new single “#1” is a sugar-rush of addictive pop. The Los Angeles vocalist is best known for her contribution to the Far East Movement’s breakout hit, “Like a G6,” but this playlist of her favorite tracks reveals the breadth of her influences. From the gauzy purr of R&B singer Banks on “Brain” to the infernal howl of Kurt Cobain on Nirvana’s “Heart Shaped Box,” this is an intense and eclectic set of songs, with the only throughline being an emphasis on pop songcraft and precision, an abiding focus that is evident in Dev’s own new material. -- Sam Chennault

If you’re the sort of person who thinks that the worst part of a Drake album is Drake, you’ll love More Life. There are long stretches where Drake simply disappears. U.K. grime artist Skepta gets his own track, as does beautifully wounded R&B crooner Sampha. The shuffling U.K. funk of “Get It Together” features Drake only briefly, and primarily as a baritone counterpoint to the jazzy inflections of Jorja Smith. For long stretches of the collection, Drake is content to wander the catacombs of his billion-square-foot mansion, while his friends stay above-ground, sipping acacia mimosas around the pool and pointing their iPhones at one another. It makes for a fun party.Yes, there are still Drake’s tortured-godhead delusions, the awkward therapy-raps, and his famed faceplant similes (exhibit 1: “I’m grateful like Jerry, Bob, and Mickey”), but we also get to hear 2 Chainz blurrily quip, “I love my fans, but I don’t want to take pictures in the restroom,” a line that constitutes the most pointed commentary on outsized fan expectations since Lou Reed released Metal Machine Music.This is among the best of Drake’s clumping-tracks-together things, and that’s very much because More Life is consciously a “playlist.” This isn’t a “low stakes” gambit or a cheap marketing gimmick (at least not entirely), but an honest engagement with a new form. It was informed by Drake’s involvement on the OVO Sound radio show for Apple Music. In fact, Drake told DJ Semtex that he imagined More Life as an episode of that show. But what makes More Life a good playlist? How do we even judge such things? When critics review albums, focus is given on consistency, with the work being the sum of its parts. This is true whether the album is intended to be coherent piece of work (see: Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly or Beyoncé’s Lemonade), or a collection of songs (see: Justin Bieber or Pitbull). There’s the expectation that everything is there for a reason. More Life is looser and more meandering, and sometimes the individual components seem slight and tertiary. But it captures a moment, a feeling, and a place. Outros stretch and breathe (as on god-status track “Passionfruit”), while sampled dialogue bits are strung together—not so much to form a ramshackle narrative or even a running meta-commentary (a la De La Soul’s classic albums), but to reflect a vibe. More Life is a long weekend at the beach spent counting clouds and taking inventory of idle distractions. In this sense, it doesn’t so much resemble a mixtape, or a crew compilation album (like JAY Z’s The Dynasty: Roc La Familia), as it does a mood playlist. It’s audio wallpaper, in the best sense.While Drake delivers on the mic—his lead-off verse over the icy flute trap of “Portland” is an obvious standout—there’s no mind-bending “King Kunta”-level/David-Blaine-on-the-mic classic moments™, and that doesn’t matter here. More Life is enjoyable and, as anyone who listens to a lot of classic albums knows, enjoying music trumps appreciating it—and this release is infinitely better than any other non-sweater-meme Drake release in years. For that, we can thank the generations of mixtape compilers, playlist curators, radio DJs, and compilation creators for helping define this new form. But, most of all, we should thank Drake for getting that the lines between artist, audience, critic, and curator are porous, and for making an initial foray into what this intersection looks like. And, of course, for understanding that you should always invite 2 Chainz to a pool party. — Sam Chennault

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!When the Boston Red Sox need a late-in-the-game lift, they turn to one song: The Dropkick Murphys pugilistic 2005 track "Im Shipping Up to Boston," a reworking of lyrics lifted from Woody Guthries archive that showcases the bands Celtic-punk brawn and lead singer Ken Caseys strangled yawp. Whether or not the tune results in a team victory, it unfailingly livens up the Fenway Park crowd, who lustily yell "I lost my leg!" along with Casey while fiddles whirl and drums crash.The Murphys—who began as a dare back in 1996, according to Casey—have been embraced by not just the Red Sox, but by other New England-based sports teams. It’s a testament to the way they perfectly encapsulate an ideal of Boston: Think punk rock sing-alongs in memorabilia-festooned bars where the jukebox can veer from Rancid to Tommy Makem in the blink of an eye. Their blend of punks fighting spirit and traditional Irish folks storytelling fits in nicely with their hometowns cradle-of-revolution status and large population affiliated with the Emerald Isle—not to mention its passion for sports. Their annual run of St. Patricks Day shows in Boston—which in 2017 includes four small-venue gigs and a headlining stint at Boston Universitys hockey arena—illustrates just how well-suited the band and their hometown are to one another."What we run on is the fire in our bellies," Casey told The Boston Globe in 1999, before the band was about to embark on its first Warped Tour. "If its more about music and less about the passion, thats when no one wants to listen to you anymore." 11 Short Stories of Pain & Glory, the bands most recent album from 2017, shows that the fire in their bellies still burns. Some lyrics depict people affected by the opioid epidemic that has claimed many of the band members friends and loved ones, while a stirring cover of the old Rodgers & Hammerstein chestnut "Youll Never Walk Alone" joins their versions of "Amazing Grace" and the Irish famine ballad "Fields of Athenry" as songs that bridge the gap between the Fleadh Cheoil and the sweaty bar with gusto.

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!There is but a single label that’s played a key role in the evolution of reggae, post-punk, dance, industrial, and experimental music alike, and that’s On-U Sound. Founded by English producer, remixer, and bandleader Adrian Sherwood in 1979, the label’s been in the throes of a massive reissue campaign since 2016. In addition to dusting off long out-of-print titles from the likes of African Head Charge and the Singers & Players collective, Sherwood has given the green light for a slew of anthologies, including Trevor Jackson’s brilliant Science Fiction Dancehall Classics and two volumes of Sherwood At The Controls that have helped contextualize the label’s sweeping legacy.About that legacy: On U-Sound initially made a name for itself with a slew of titles that opened up the stylistic parameters of dub while at the same time remaining loyal to the movement’s spiritual core. Where albums like Creation Rebel’s Starship Africa and African Head Charge’s My Life in a Hole in the Ground—yes, that’s a cheeky Eno/Byrne reference—sound like echo-drenched alien transmissions smothered in futuristic electronics, Congo Ashanti Roy’s African Blood and Bim Sherman’s Across the Red Sea are moving meditations that ease ’70s roots music into ‘80s New Wave.But Sherwood and U-Sound were never content with remaining tethered to dub. Indeed, what made the label so innovative throughout its peak years in the ’80s was an ability to fold dub’s trademark qualities—shuddering reverb, hulking bass, tape delay, and shuffling rhythms turned inside out and upside down—into a wide range of cutting-edge genres. The Sherwood-produced collision of world grooves, tape manipulation, and punk politics heard on Mark Stewart & The Maffia’s Learning To Cope With Cowardice opened up entire vistas of avant-garde expression that 21st-century explorers such as Gang Gang Dance and Sun Araw have since colonized. Similarly radical is Tackhead’s Whats My Mission Now? 12-inch, a speaker-shredding collage of hip-hop drum machines, fidgety electro syncopation, and aggressive industrial samples that hasn’t lost any of its radical bite.While the bulk of these tracks are drawn from the On U-Sound catalog, listeners will also encounter a handful of relevant Sherwood projects that weren’t released by the label. For example, The Slits’ “Man Next Door,” co-mixed by Sherwood, is an early example of the cross-pollination between dub and post-punk. Then there’s the long-forgotten Sherwood production “Dead Come Alive,” which didn’t see the light of day until Science Fiction Dancehall Classics. This hybrid of hip-hop and ’80s club music features a young Neneh Cherry rhyming over bubbling, pointillist electronics that are so prescient, they could’ve been created just last week—something that holds true for just about every cut on this playlist.

Im always surprised that Duke Dumont has been able to cross over to America to the extent that he has. The UK producer was mentored by Switch, and came up with post-house UK producers like Oliver Dollar and Route 94.His music is great. Its lite, melodic and floating electronic pop, with maybe a little bit of camp thrown in. Its late-afternoon festival music. This is a great mix of his Blasé Boys crew, though it strangely spends the first four tracks on Aki. Duke has one of the most active Spotify accounts though, and its worth a look to check out all his playlists.

Like this playlist? Love vinyl and jazz? Buy all the songs mentioned here and much much more on vinyl at Wayout Jazz.A musician’s-musician all the way through his brief but influential career, Eric Dolphy amassed a long list of guest appearances to help supplement his supburb solo albums. While most jazz fans know of his stints with both Charles Mingus and the John Coltrane Quartet, there remains a treasure trove of other collaborations that showed his true intellectual style and willingness to experiment based on nothing more than mutual respect of those artists whose visions he believed in. Don’t be put off if that sounds pretentious. He was not one to choose art over beauty, and time will reward repeated listens by exposing deeply emotional playing and thoughtful arrangements. -- Wayout Jazz

The origins of post-rock are nebulous, but the aesthetic is more exact: airy instrumentals that found that common ground between the industrial fuzz of musique concrete, the ambience of pre-fusion, late-60s jazz (think In a Silent Way), and the straight lines of ‘80s math rock. When it came out, it felt like a rejection of the scenestery, overly emotive indie rock of the ‘90s, and a path forward for rock, which felt like it had been treading water in the shallow end of ‘60s-inspired nostalgia. It got real boring really quickly, but it sounded glorious at the time. Garrett Kamps, in his write-up for Stereogum, doesn’t try to capture the cannon, but rather a personal reflection of what he remembers to be the best tracks from this now-maligned subgenre.

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!A café opened in my neighborhood a few years ago that I just couldn’t figure out. The trouble wasn’t the menu, but the decor: The interior was a gaily colored hodgepodge of Buddha busts, paper lanterns, pretty vases, and posters of mighty waves and long-tongued dragons; the place was a kitschy riot of Chinese and East Asian motifs. Yet I didn’t see a single Asian employee. It took me several visits to realize that the design aesthetic wasn’t just some egregious example of cultural appropriation—though it probably was that, too—but a new manifestation of a phenomenon with much deeper roots.Derived from the French word for Chinese, “Chinoiserie” is the name for a style of European decorative arts that brandish an Asian influence, the result of new trade relationships between the East and West in the 17th century. King Louis XV was a fan, as were the architects who decided that no English manor garden was complete without a pagoda. In any case, my neighborhood’s belated example of orientalism-in-action must’ve confused people because the establishment didn’t thrive. The space was eventually reborn as a sushi restaurant, and needless to say, the new proprietors didn’t do much redecorating.I’m also relieved to no longer have to deal with complex questions of white privilege, cross-cultural exchange, and colonial power dynamics every time I want a decent latte. Yet these matters seem inescapable today, what with the Trump administration’s unabashed Islamophobia, the growth of nationalist and nativist movements throughout Europe, and the hardening of attitudes toward immigrants and refugees. Citizens of the so-called First World have never been freer to cast a fearful eye on whichever group they consider the “other.”Meanwhile, in the cultural realm, there’s a renewed urgency to carve out new spaces for previously marginalized or unacknowledged voices and perspectives within a dominant industrial-entertainment-media apparatus that seems forever prone to missteps. In other words, it’s not an overreaction to question the wisdom of casting Scarlett Johansson as a Japanese anime heroine. Every day yields a new Twitter eruption on the topic of who can and can’t represent positions and experiences, especially when the work involves transgressing boundaries of race, gender, culture, and class.All of this makes me feel even more confused and conflicted about a huge body of music that’s always fascinated me. This is music by (mostly) white people who eagerly adopted other modes that were ostensibly foreign, which automatically was a complicated move given the stew of African, Caribbean, and Latin influences in American popular music in the first place. Nevertheless, they drew and continue to draw from African, Asian, Arabic, East Indian, indigenous, and other traditions to create forgeries and mutations that positively revel in their inauthenticity.I’m not about to defend all of it—I can’t. So much of it reeks of an old colonial mindset, one I continue to grapple with as a suburban kid who grew up in a placid corner of Canada, devoid of the cultural markers I perceived and envied in other lives (an illusion that’s proof of my white privilege, of course). Yet much of it is also the product of an age in which much of the West had a different attitude toward the rest of the globe. Looking back at the world music vogue sparked by Paul Simon, David Byrne, and Peter Gabriel in the ‘80s, it can seem like a wave of cultural appropriation run rampant, a self-congratulatory embrace of cultural otherness that’s as suspect as the exotica craze of the 1950s. But at its best, this music can be seen and heard as an open-hearted effort to dissolve the borders and boundaries that are so important to people right now.Those good intentions and spirit of curiosity connect music as diverse as cheeseball tiki-lounge tunes, the cheeky ethnological forgery series of Holger Czukay and CAN, early American minimalism music—which was steeped in Indian raga, African percussion, and gamelan—and even The Rolling Stones’ dalliance with The Master Musicians of Jajouka. In recent years, newer acts such as Goat, Beirut, Dengue Fever, Vampire Weekend, and Dirty Projectors have incurred charges of appropriation for stepping outside of their own original cultural domains to investigate and play around in others. Such engagement is bound to be problematic on several levels, yet it deserves a reaction other than knee-jerk dismissal. So does the music we get when—to borrow a favorite title for post-grad courses on postcolonial legacies—the empire looks back: when Western pop modes become absorbed and transformed (though that’s another playlist). As confusing as it may be, this music elicits emotions and sensations other than the hate and fear that are otherwise so rife in our moment.

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!Joey Bada$$ emerged from Brooklyn in 2012 as part of a wave of New York teenagers—a.k.a. the Pro Era collective—who were reviving traditional hip-hop values. On his debut mixtape, 1999, he constructs songs with dense lyrical arrangements and beats from sampled loops and drum patterns. He raps about rocking stage shows and battling kids in other ciphers, two themes that haven’t been in vogue in mainstream rap since the mid-‘90s. A few of Joey’s song titles even pay subtle homage to old-school fare like Souls Of Mischief’s “93 ‘Til Infinity” (“95 Till Infinity”) and the illuminati fad (“Killuminati”).The narrative around Joey Bada$$ began to shift when his 2015 retail debut B4.DA.$$ (Before Da Money) debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard top 200 album chart, forcing rap fans who dismissed him as a niche backpacker to pay attention. (A widely circulated Instagram photo of Malia Obama rocking a Pro Era T-shirt also helped.) Then, last year, he released “Devastated,” an empowerment anthem filled with chorus and echo that foregrounds his singing while relegating ‘90s homage to the background. (There’s a brief flicker of the melody from OutKast’s “SpottieOttieDopaliscious.”)Bada$$ will never be confused with Wiz Khalifa, who forever reduces his bars in favor of a catchy hook. Joey’s new album, All-Amerikkkan Bada$$, shows how he’s managed to transform into something more contemporary—sharply assessing the political landscape on “Land of the Free” and trading bars with Schoolboy Q on “Rockabye Baby”—without losing the qualities that made him a star. The songs collected here chart his evolution.