With their latest 7″, the band parses styles and creates a tapestry that is marbled with both concrete bruising, Converse clapping rock and spectral, nighttime soul.
“Diverse, comedic, spirited, loud [and] raw,” is how The Fresh Brunettes’ lead singer, songwriter and guitarist Aleisha Burton describes the San Diego based band’s live shows.
Yes, “Passengers” is a sci-fi film, and it does star Academy Award winner Jennifer Lawrence and Chris Pratt who have previously roamed in the Marvel Universe, but it’s more than that.
The expansive plethora of impressive music we’ve been given this year is an almost impossible thing to take in while it’s happening. Even the most dedicated, avid listener of current records should find themselves overwhelmed with their backed-up queue, but overwhelmed in the best possible way.
In a year where hip-hop kicked up tufts of multicolored chalk while celebrating Chance the Rapper’s fluorescent fun house of swelling choruses and syrupy intonations, we almost forgot about the yellowed sidewalks and hallowed Jordans of Vince Staples.
Many times I’ve run screaming from a theater, gasping for air, fighting off the effects of a terrible performance. Usually, the actor in question has done something worth watching and thinking about, even in a bad appearance. Below is a group of performances that stuck with me, for all of the wrong reasons, in 2016.
Sharkmuffin – Tarra Thiessen, Natalie Kirch, and Janet LaBelle – has long been my favorite band to listen to while punting empty beer cans, knocking over newspaper racks, and rolling my ankle while pretending to hike.
“La La Land” is brimming with nods to Gene Kelly and the days of MGM musicals. Chazelle clearly did his homework and loves the genre, the problem is that his stars may not be as in love with the subject or style as he wants them to be.
“What a fool was I to think that we were safe,” Malin Dahlström sings in the opening moments of Niki & The Dove’s exquisitely lovelorn and achingly prescient Everybody’s Heart Is Broken Now. It’s a devastating preamble to a calendar year that would not only lionize dishonesty and cultural ire but make an urgent proclamation for a regression of rights.
I spent a significant portion of 2016 unspooled in a heap of tears and saline smudged hospital paperwork. I witnessed my dad’s ashes being poured into a phlegmatic sea before tossing a single flower to meet him. I stomped my eggshell colored Converse around downtown Portland, easing a kitchen’s worth of pint glasses to my lips.