With 232 pages and an expanded 12″ by 12″ format, our biggest print issue yet celebrates the people, places, music, and art of our hometown, including cover features on David Lynch, Nipsey Hussle, Syd, and Phoebe Bridgers’ Saddest Factory Records, plus Brian Wilson, Cuco, Ty Segall, Lord Huron, Remi Wolf, The Doors, the art of RISK, Taz, Estevan Oriol, Kii Arens, and Edward Colver, and so much more.
Medicine Singers, Medicine Singers
The chimerical record’s experimental powwow, psychic jazz, and gritty no-wave punk ranges from meditative to terrifying.
The trio’s self-titled third album offers a type of pleasure that’s hard to find much of these days: complex but uncomplicated, emotionally intelligent, and aimed at transcendence.
Damien Jurado, Reggae Film Star
The songwriter’s 18th LP is a haunted concept album that brings to life the tired hearts, souls, and minds of characters based in a distant, perhaps parallel, past.
WHAT ARE YOU HIDING PUNY HUMAN JOHN DWYER, RING POSSIBLY?
The world’s best American band proves it all night.
During times of protest, resistance is sometimes reduced to consuming the right media. Sheer Mag are a big fuck-you to that type of complacency.
“Soft Sounds” shows Michelle Zauner constantly reinventing herself, proving that she can dabble in any genre and produce something that stands with the best of them.
In the fractured Age of Trump, listening to voices from outside of the mainstream is more important than ever.
There’s a perpetually moving world out there.
On her latest with Cold Beat, Hannah Lew toys with the false dichotomy that implies that the complicated and difficult-to-listen-to have inherently more to say than a simple, accessible pop song.
The Chicago quartet give sunny garage pop a melancholy tweak.
Le Bon’s music lives in an alternate universe—one that’s nearly identical to ours, but laden with a persistent feeling of anxiety.
Behind the blur of words and scrim of melodrama, Amy Sherman-Palladino’s beloved series shows us a buffoonish tyrant at work.
There’s a new texture and flavor to the raw, pouring-salt-on-a-wound sadness coming out of Torrance.
Don’t call it a breakup record.
The Memphis band’s grinding, atonal punk is matched by their dedication to garage-rock bombast.
Cameron Crowell spent the summer cleaning up barf while “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasted from speakers overhead. And yet: he’s still alive.