Five Cent Sound Spring 2022 by Five Cent Sound Magazine

SPRING 2022 FIVECENTSOUND.COM @FIVECENTSOUND

Dear reader,

Music shares a ubiquitous relationship with daily life. No matter what you are doing, the omnipresence of music constantly impacts the settings and moods we experience. It affects each of our mundane moments: the low-fi relaxing sounds create an environment for studying at a coffee shop while an action show’s fist-pumping rock theme places the viewer in the right headspace for the ensuing carnage. Specific events and emotions pair with specific songs as well, creating an everlasting relationship between art and humanity. How much more relatable is the high school hopeless romantic because of Wheatus’s magnum opus “Teenage Dirtbag,” or the reminiscence of high school friendship’s because of Ben Rector’s “Old Friends?” How much more enriching is a requited love because of the song shared between you, or how much more painful is that love’s termination when the music you listen to describes your experience near-perfectly? Music comes to the forefront once again in moments of detachment from stress, negativity or life itself. As a result of the aggravated stress and boredom prompted by the COVID-19 pandemic, I started walking aimlessly down the streets of my hometown while blasting music through my headphones to focus on anything else for two to three hours. These walks kept me (relatively) sane as I watched what seemed to be the downfall of society; they have remained my preferred method of escapism ever since. For me, music and life are synonymous. Out of every non-liv-

ing aspect of life, not one impacts me in nearly the same way. I can list thousands of songs and decorate the relationship shared between my life and each track, whether that relationship found me in my lowest point, exaggerated me in my highest or anywhere in between. In the sense that I can never give it up, I am a full-blown music addict and I wouldn’t change that for anything. In my earliest experiences with music, external factors forced the artists and genres upon me against my will (though largely to my liking). My family orchestrated my first taste in music through what they played around me, as each car ride paired with classic swinging Italian ballads, track upon track of Billy Joel or charting pop hits via 92.3 PROFM. I developed likes and dislikes, holding a particular fondness for Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right” and Julius LaRosa’s “Domani” yet filling with blood-boiling rage each time Rosemary Clooney’s “Mambo Italiano” played because of my younger brother’s need to scream it incessantly. In my largely regrettable middle and high school years, I desired to rebel musically. When my mom routinely changed the station over a specific song, I took it within me to figure out what song it was and make it my personal favorite. It probably wouldn’t make her too happy to know I blasted Tove Lo’s “Habits (Stay High)” each weekday on 6:15 a.m. bus rides to school, though to my defense I had no idea what she was talking about. I also learned the impact that a music community could have on my life. I played my part in orchestra, jazz and jazz select bands ranging across the brass and low brass sections on the trumpet, trombone, tuba and euphonium. Whether rehearsals began at 6:30 a.m. or came after a grueling day of advanced placement classes, our director possessed a unique ability to improve everyone’s mood. My fondest memory as a part of that community came on my 18th birthday, which subsequently came just three days after my first breakup. On a day when depression and selfdoubt goaded me to shrink away from everyone’s perception, the band community lifted me up and assured me of my value.

People I rarely spoke to took the time to wish me a happy birthday while those I was closer with found the right space to inquire about my well-being. It was this collectivist nature to pick up and assist one another that established me as a member of that community when many other relationships were built upon tearing each other down for one’s own gain. In college I found my way to another incredible music community (psst! It’s the magazine you’re reading right now). My first involvement came through writing concert reviews for AJR and Lukas Graham after our then Editor-in-Chief Dani Ducharme inquired about doing more than just attending these shows. Looking back I would change much of the writing on those pieces — none more than the line “the group made stylistic choices throughout the performance that turned it into its own style of performance…” — but these two reviews cemented my love for music writing.

The following semester I officially joined the ranks of Five Cent Sound as an online writer. Coinciding with the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, I began to write at an exacerbated pace, covering everything from the best songs for a pandemic jam session to the U.G.L.Y.’s debut album “Goons Live Young.” As I wrote for Five Cent Sound more and more, I realized that each person I interacted with not only treated me with kindness and respect, but also improved my writing and professional capabilities. Heading into the fall semester of 2020, the organization offered me the position of Online Director. I initially believed my role was smaller than it turned out to be. Through a mix of miscommunication and imposter syndrome, I expected I would assist in the maintenance and publishing of our online blog. A week before the semester started I realized the weight of its full expectations as well as my potential to grow and improve this organization. Suddenly I was in charge of the blog itself, management of our online writing team, coordination with our visuals team and our social media accounts. Initially this terrified me. With no

semblance of experience in Squarespace or team management, I was thrust into both fields simultaneously while desperate to prove my value to the organization. This fear only intensified when a few months into my position Five Cent Sound had the opportunity to interview

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FUCKING

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for articles that would be released both in print and online. Despite my worries, I always had the support of the Five Cent Sound team. In the inevitable instances where I would make mistakes, the team quickly showed me how to fix them rather than abhorring me for my errors. Five Cent Sound always encourages me to push the boundaries with the online format as well, leading me to find more creative avenues for writing and publishing content. I am so glad to see the qualities that made me fall in love with music writing and Five Cent Sound still present within the organization. In every position, ranging from online writers and visual artists to our incredible Editor-inChief, there is a creative edge and a desire to push the boundaries of music writing. This community possesses the collectivist nature that made me gravitate towards music in the first place, with each editor and visual artist offering their work to enhance the overall quality of the articles and magazine. More than anything, I love the passion I see in each person I’ve worked with. Never give this up. Never stop listening to, creating and writing about art. Never stop analyzing the minute details of albums or sharing your Spotify wrapped on every social media. Never stop loving music.”

Thank you for everything Five Cent Sound <3

Staff Masthead Editorial

Creative

General Editors Jess Ferguson Brooke Huffman Emma Meiselwitz Claire Moriarty Astrid Ortega Frankie Rowley Abby Stanicek Lauren Surbey

Kyra Badger Bella Beard Daphne Bryant Rebecca Calvar Emma Doherty Quinn Donnelly Rose Luczaj Jennifer Naar Sam Palmer Anya Perel-Arkin Abby Stanicek Kenny Wood Olivia Tran Rebecca Zaharia

Diversity and Inclusion Editors Minna Abdel-Gawad Lydia Aga Daphne Bryant Chloe Chee Sydney Gaines-Wheeler Timothy Yi

Design & Layout Rifka Handelman

Copyeditors Head: Chelsea Gibbons Charlotte Drummond Thomas Fienan Rifka Handelman Katherine Healy Caroline Helms Emma Shacochis Rebecca Zaharia

and many more online !! 9

S T N E C ) E V I OUR (F You’re Not Gonna Shut Me Up By Pavton Cavanaugh // 12

What the FOLK Is Up? By Sophie Severs // 18

Your Local Music Dealer By Sam Silveira // 28

Setting the Sonic Scene By Jules Saggio // 33

My Mom Gave Me Music, and Music Gave Us Connection By Claire Moriarty // 37

Boy Band’s Take on Masculinity By Daphne Bryant // 42

Instagram: The Hidden Hub of Music By Minna Abdel-Gawad // 50

By (Track) Order of the Peaky Blinders By Rebecca Zaharia // 55

The Sixth Love Language By Karissa Schaefer // 61

JOBIE: Emerson’s Rising Star By Zoe O’Neil //

My Green Bananas: Ready to Ripen By Ashley Onnembo //

Band Kids: Where Are They Now? By Sadie Frankel // 92

Sounds of the Sidewalk By Bella Ercolano // 96

From the Artist to the Fan: The Influence of Black Artists Today By Sydney Gaines-Wheeler // 102

The Generational Impact of On-Stage Fashion By Abby Stanicek // 108

And the Children of Hippies Ended Up Voting for Reagan Anyways By Samson Malmoli // 113

The Subjectivity of Good Music Taste By Taylor Paine // 117

“A girl can do what she wants to do, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” (Joan Jett, “Bad Reputation”) The sound of teenage rebellion blasts through my headphones as I’m walking down my crowded high school hallways. Typical drama, typical annoyance with the idiocy of our patriarchal society, and yet I was completely convinced that everyone around me couldn’t possibly understand. With Joan Jett, The Slits, Sunflower Bean, and The Runaways shuffling through my ears, I felt empowered and reminded of the beauty of individuality. They emphasized the importance of unapologetically taking up space, affirming confidence in my own womanhood. I’ve always known music to be a piece of what formed me into the person I am today and understood the self-discovery it represents. I like to believe that same truth applies to the lives of so many others. In my experience, rock music helps me understand my individuality and my experiences as a woman. Rock showed me that expressing my womanhood is not weak and being authentic is more compelling, which is ironic considering how male-dominated and perceived the genre is. This only made women in the industry all the more inspiring to me. Sixteen-year-old me would take Tina Turner or Stevie Nicks over Axl Rose any day. Their ideas made me realize that my attributes are what make me who I am: I don’t ever

Visuals by Bella Beard and Sam Palmer

have to conform myself, my ideas or my future to fit the expectations of a society meant to constrain me. When I first came to Emerson, I truly believed that I knew exactly what I wanted my future to look like. My Foundations of Journalism class quickly reality-checked me. I was assigned to cover an event for the class and decided to attend a small rock showcase in Maynard, Massachusetts for an up-and-coming label, Red on Red Records. The label’s mission and creation is rooted in aiding in the promotion of women in rock. As I interviewed band members and watched these absolute powerhouses of women perform, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own growth through this music; it was comforting and impactful to witness the pivotal meaning it held to others. That night, I also spoke to Justine Covault, the label’s founder. She provided me with insight into the industry, highlighting the ways in which women are disproportionately affected by male dominance, sexism, and ageism. I spoke to Justine again recently to gain more insight into her label and unpack

Their ideas made me realize that my attributes are what make me who I am: I don’t ever have to conform myself, my ideas or my future to fit the expectations of a society meant to constrain me. 14

the effects of this industry on her personally. In the fall of 2019, Covault and a few women musicians in the Greater Boston area decided they wanted to put on a few shows together. Their pop-punk bands all had strong female presences. They wanted to highlight that and collaborate with one another to create a space where they could showcase their art and express themselves through their music. Their idea came to fruition through WhistleStop Rock, a traveling festival beginning in the winter of that year only to be stopped short by the pandemic. The complexities of navigating the pandemic didn’t stop them from creating their art. Covault and the other women ended up collaborating and recording their song “Queen of the Drive-In” and even filmed separate clips to piece together for a music video. “It was very fun,” Covault said, “just this very collaborative, supportive spirit amongst all these women musicians.” Covault spoke more to her inspiration behind her work, crediting a lot of her driving force to a collective called Book More Women. The group takes posters of music festivals and concert lineups and crosses out all male bands, leaving the few female-inclusive bands remaining. The idea is to create a visualization of the disproportionate affects this industry has on women due to patriarchal concepts limiting their platform. “It’s improved greatly since I first started playing, but it’s still an issue,” said Covault. She put her own spin of Book More Women’s efforts onto WhistleStop Rock Festival,

explaining that crossing out any male performers on their poster “would be exactly the same,” except this time more positive. She didn’t want the pandemic to halt her efforts to reframe the narrative, especially when it just started to feel like things were progressing in the right direction. With free time and fresh ideas, the same principles of the festival informed the foundation of her label. “Musically, it felt like we were in charge of our own destiny, but from a business perspective, it did not. I feel like now, I’m managing my musical destiny to the best of my ability, and those of the artists on my roster,” Covault said.

Being an active musician in the genre since the 1980s, Covault is no stranger to the challenges and their discrete evolutions over the years. Covault notices the struggles this industry places on musicians such as herself, like sexism and ageism, but she doesn’t let it define her, and she certainly does not let it stop her from doing what she loves. “If you look at the intersection of being female and being of a certain age, it’s like you’re supposed to be invisible at that point,” Covault said. “No one is supposed to look at you, or notice you, or care about your creative life. This label is saying the opposite. For a lot of these bands, this is the apex of their work, and it deserves to be heard.” I never felt fully comfortable with my uniqueness until I had soundtracks from female punk and rock artists guiding my transitions in high school and adulthood. Covault shared similar sentiments, illustrating the timeless universality of discovery and celebration apparent in their music. 16

“Just being able to create your own thing that’s meaningful to you, to be loud and in people’s faces, it’s very empowering,” Covault said. “It’s kind of like, ‘You’re not gonna shut me up. I’m gonna say what I think in the way that I want to say it.” Covault went on to talk about her daughter, now twenty-three and a guitarist in a local band. She also took an interest in the same artists, relishing in the badass nature conveyed in their tone and lyricism. I couldn’t help but think of my own mother while Covault described this — she introduced me to Joan Jett, making the conversation feel even more special and interesting. Covault shared her biggest takeaways from being in this industry and fully immersing herself into the world of punk and rock. “Don’t listen to people who tell you that you can’t do things,” she said, “You just have to do what you want and what you believe, and things will work out.”

What the FOLK Is Up? by Sophie Severs

Folk music is for old, White men with banjos and harmonicas, right?

Wrong — Folk music is for the girls. But let me back up a little bit. For as long as its existence, folk music has been inextricably interwoven into the fabric of social change. By definition, it is the unfiltered voice of the people, an inherent catalyst for revolution, carrying messages straight to the ears of those who need to hear it most. Predictably, those championed as world-changing folk songwriters are usually men. The work of female folk artists and folk artists of color has long been overshadowed by the work of their White, male counterparts who receive almost all of the credit for spearheading the genre. When taking a closer look, it is clear that women continue to be the true pioneers of the scene. Female folk artists sang about much more than lost lovers and heartbreak. They were a force to be reckoned with, lending their voices to matters that necessitated a powerful soundtrack. Their music did not shy away from pointing fingers at injustice and reaffirming the strength of their identities. As an Asian woman and an avid lover of folk, I have often felt that these two identities are mutually exclusive. When I attend a folk festival, I am the single drop of color in a sea of Whiteness. The supposed “genre of the people” evidently does not represent the actual people. According to the United States Census, 50.8% of the American population is female-identifying, with women of color making up 19

20.3% of the population. Yet the face of folk music

e to is being don What work tive Does folk m credit as ac usic still n e m o w e iv g have ate a noticea im it g le d n b a le impac s ? t contributor y on tr society? e folk indus th in s r e y pla

Has women’s representation lk odern-day fo m s e o d t a h folk y contemporar in the W e on? e to improv scene deviated from folk of music hav the past? continues to be White men.

And thus, I ask: What the FOLK is up? To help answer these questions, I heard from three amazing women active in today’s folk scene.

Alana Amore is senior guitar principle at Berklee College of Music and founder of online music-instruction platform Bipop. Bipop is tailored toward women of color and the non-binary community, providing students an affordable and safe learning environment that reflects how they personally identify.

Cristina Vane is a Nashville-based musician who wants to set one thing straight: her womanhood does not define her art. Born in Italy to a Sicilian-American father and Guatemalan mother, Vane spent her childhood living in different parts of Europe and was fluent in four languages before coming to America for college. She channels both a contemporary delta blues and a crisp traditional folk sound to explore and connect to her American roots.

Raye Zaragoza is a Los Angeles-based musician who never knew she could be the “It Girl” until she wrote a song about it. Zaragoza traces her ancestry 20

to Japan, Taiwan, Mexico and the Indigenous Akimel O’odham people, additionally identifying as a New Yorker through and through. Though she loves her multicultural identity, it has often left her facing feelings of imposter syndrome—which she addresses through her music. Sophie: What’s so special about folk music? Amore: It tends to be a genre of music that lends itself more to storytelling, but also to commentary. [...] It isn’t a genre that people think is very smart. It’s loose and it can be funny, but you can make it the way that you do. It’s open-ended enough, that’s what makes it different. Vane: [It’s] really just a mirror; it shows the good, bad and the ugly. There’s hard, real stuff: minstrel

shows, the racism, domestic violence references, a lot of murder ballads.

They are a reflection of, for better or for worse — obviously, for worse — real life. [...] It is a hard reality that [the mainstream isn’t] trying to cover. [Folk is] very empowering to the speaker. It puts you in this position where you’re explaining your world; you’re putting somebody briefly into your culture. Zaragoza: You can perform a show with one person and one instrument — that’s not really common amongst other genres. Folk songs are poetry. [...] I try to write every song so that someone could just read it, and it would be a really beautiful poem. It’s a very pure form of storytelling. S: How has folk music helped you reconcile parts of your identity? A: I don’t have a traditional “pop radio” voice. It took me a really long time to find voices that 21

reflected mine or made me feel comfortable in mine. A lot of my influences and the people who sort of helped me discover who I am are also activists. V: If I’m conflicted about where I’m from and what I’m doing, it’s gonna come out in my music. My first full length album was about this journey I did around the States for the first time. That was really interesting because my father was born and raised in the United States, but I was born and raised in Europe. I didn’t really identify with the United States [...] until I hopped in my car and went on tour and saw all these different places and people. [My music] has been a parallel journey of my identity with myself and in my own life. Z: I really wanted to identify with every single part of my identity, but I also felt like I wasn’t enough of any of it to claim it. The way that I look, no one actually thought I was Asian growing up. I don’t speak Spanish. I didn’t grow up on the homelands of our Indigenous ancestors. I just felt like such a fraud. I just feel like this, “American girl who no one says looks American.” I don’t feel enough of anything else, so who am I?

Through my music, I was able to create my own identity that was a collage of all of my cultures and all of the places I’ve been, who I am and all the music I love. I got to kind of

present myself to the world in a new way. For me, that was really healing. [...] It sounds so cheesy, but I am my song. [...] My music was just a way of healing and being able to become the person that I always wanted to become. I always felt like the person I was supposed to be wasn’t enough or I wasn’t good enough to be her—which is not true. I’m enough as I am. S: How are women and women of color in folk treated? A: [At Berklee] I’ve never been in a class with another female guitarist, or a non-binary guitarist. Then, every single semester within April or May, I’ve watched a professor realize that I’m pretty good, and 22

then they always have to cover up their natural reaction that wasn’t supposed to be seen. V: I did feel limited in some ways by the mentality that I had absorbed around me, which was that women don’t play guitar, or at least they don’t solo. It’s totally not true and very ignorant of so many women that have been and currently are smashing it on the guitar. [...] It took me like 27 or 28 years to just start not caring about being bad, and I saw these guys around me just...do it. If you’re gonna make such a big deal about me being a woman, I’ll take it. [...] I would just like it if things were normal, and everyone treated everybody normally and they didn’t assume that I don’t know what I’m talking about. [...] There’s always gonna be

some asshole somewhere, but there seems to be a lot more when you’re a girl with a guitar.

Z: There was like a cookie cutter definition of what folk music was that wasn’t inclusive. [...] There have been instances where I’ve been described in publications or by people announcing me, being qualified by my race. It’s like “Raye Zaragoza, a Native American artist or a Latinix artist, an Asian American artist.” I have such a diverse upbringing that they all come up. I’m not comfortable with that because I just want to be an artist, like everyone else. [...] I’ve always kind of felt like this novelty or special niche artist that was only speaking to something specific [...] like a one-trick pony. S: How do you prioritize yourself and your mental health while also wanting to speak out on these real issues? A: I choose to spend my time and efforts in communities that reflect how I identify and communities that I want to promote — that being people of color and women of color and women and non-binary people. [...]

I deal with it by making space and taking up space.

V: It’s so hard because you want to acknowledge the real difference in the experience of being a woman in music but don’t really want to focus on it. It’s not what my music is about. It’s not what my whole life is about. I’m just a person when I’m playing guitar in my head. I don’t think about my boobs or my legs. [...] That’s that weird dichotomy, where if we

keep making it about male or female-dominated stuff, that stays the focus — but we also have to, because there really is an imbalance. Holding that burden of being the person to constantly educate is really exhausting. It’s good to have allies who can help carry that weight. [...] There’s a part of me that loves really Z:

being outspoken about how I’m so proud to be a woman and I’m proud to be a member of multiple marginalized communities. It’s an opportunity for me to speak up, be proud and show up for all of those who have felt like they were passed on because of their gender or race. S: Representation in the genre — what’s going on there? V: [Folk is] distilled one-dimensional: “Here always hear about, and person.” I don’t think

down into this very singular, are the same 10 people that you they’re largely this kind of that’s reflective of reality.

When I look around me in my circle of musicians, it is not really dominated badly, and especially in the real folk — real folk being traditional, old time, bluegrass, the Americana and string — world, there are a lot of prominent people of color with marginalized identities. [...] You don’t get the sense of that as an outside consumer. You have to be pretty into [the genre] and really start to look at who [...] all these people doing all these awesome things are. Once you’re in it, oh man, there’s men, women of every color, every dimension. It’s really beautiful.

Z: I talk a lot about feeling like a sideshow and feeling like you’re not welcome in the mainstream because of the way you look. The music industry — really, not only the music industry, but American society and a lot of the entertainment industry — unfortunately lacks a lot of diversity. The first solution was, “Okay, as long as we have one, then we’re good.” That is tokenism. Every time I have interviews or I’m talking to someone new, my team tries to get questions in advance so we can spark conversations or tell the person in advance that their questions are tokenizing. They’re asking [me] to speak on behalf of an entire race or an entire group of people that I don’t speak for. S: What do you want to see in the future of folk music, or music as a whole? A: It’s important that at least one Black, queer woman in rock becomes more than a vocalist and is someone who is regarded as a lyricist, as a musician. We don’t have any female Guitar Gods. [...] If nothing else, I just hope that that conversation creates a space for people who look like me to take over the world.

What I would like to see is the same transparency that I think was lacking whenever record labels decided to come up with genres and race records. That same manipulation of what in real life doesn’t feel like that. V:

Z: I hope the gatekeepers will let more folks of color through the gates, but what I want to see is more folks of color as the gatekeepers themselves. [...] Those are the places that we want to see the diversity, not only just in the artists but also in the executive level. [....] I want to see some BIPOC gatekeepers, and they could open all the gates. A lot of people still have that idea of folk music as being really old timey. We’re creating new sounds within the folk 25

umbrella. There’s a lot of artists who are really pushing the envelope of what folk means, and I hope that I’m one of those artists. We’re trying to create a new definition of folk. S: What can listeners do?

support that artist. That isn’t necessarily just buying their merch and going to their shows, but telling your friends about it. If you have the aux in A: If you find an artist that you like,

the car, play that. [...] Create that space for yourself because someone else is looking for that. [...] For the people who are hesitant because that representation isn’t there, they can’t find other artists that look like them, that reflect their culture and their heritage.

be really intentional about finding artists of color. Really go digging and find some artists of color that you can listen to. Get to love their Z: One thing you can do, White folks, is

music and then share their music, no matter the color of their skin or whoever they are. [...] And listen, just listen. Flood your feed with artists of color and start to see the other perspectives.

The folk industry is not perfect — in fact, it is far from it. The aim of this piece has not been to prove that women in folk music are totally okay and that the genre of folk is well on its way to becoming more inclusive. If anything, this piece has shown that there is unfortunately much left to be addressed in the folk genre when it comes to equity and representation. Amore, Vane and Zaragoza are all brilliant women who are producing wonderful content — but it is not their job to diversify the folk industry. It is ours. We as listeners must work to recognize and properly credit women as crucial players in the folk scene. It 26

is no longer the time to sit comfortably in our music. In taking the initiative to diversify our listening, we are making it easier for people who have never felt represented in media to discover artists that look and sound like them. This piece is equally as much of a celebration of these women and their work as it is a signal of what we must improve on. Women of color have always carried folk music, and they continue to do so to this day. I leave you with a quote from Raye Zaragoza:

“At the end of the day, no matter who we are, where we’re from: we’re all connected. We’re all humans.” And that, my friends, is what the folk is up.

Check out th e rest of Sophie’s se ries profiling wome n in folk on our b log by scanning this QR! 27

28 Visual

by Emma Doherty

Some things are better sourced locally: fruits, vegetables, morning news, drugs. Those concerned with the sourcing of these materials often enlist the help of a dealer or distributor. The smaller the scope of locality, the greater the likelihood of commonality between the dealer and consumer. My small-town high school’s drug dealer operated five lockers down from me, and we took swim lessons together as kids — that’s local. The local music dealer functions on the same principle. They might be your neighbor, long-time friend, acquaintance, or the person who’s always getting coffee around the time you are. And in the instance they occupy none of those roles, there’s comfort in knowing that they could. You can trust them. In any case, the exchange between music dealer and client is extremely low-stakes, an intentionally casual role. The tradition of “dealing” locally began with the mixtape. As a medium, the mixtape has a history far vaster than its role in high school hallways. While private mixtapes became a cultural staple of the ’80s, public mixtapes created a completely separate art form in the ’90s. Also called street albums, these were composed of original or mostly-original content and served as an outlet for up-and-coming hip-hop artists to release their material. The medium allowed for more creative freedom, and the inherently limited quantities created scarcity, elusivity, and in turn, hype. Black artists created and popularized the public mixtape form: DJ Clue and 50 Cent were among the first and greatest to ever do it. Black communities fostered the music dealing tradition in many ways. Community support contributed to the hype around new street albums and gave way to networks, wherein people making mixtapes knew people who were distributing them and people who were seeking them. The public mixtape was essential to the burgeoning rap scene of the ’90s and 2000s. The private mixtape—very different—was essential to the blossoming youth of America in the 1980s. The music dealing that took place in Black spaces in the 29

’90s was intricate and powerful; for the music industry, it was revolutionary. The music dealing that preceded it was adolescent and local, an insufficient prototype of what would soon be perfected. During a weeknight phone call, my dad and I discussed his high school days. We mulled over what mattered to him at 17, the strange details that you forget to sit with as the years go on. One such detail was a friend named Jon Bowers who made mixtapes. He made such good mixtapes that he was known even at the neighboring town’s high school, my mom’s alma mater. My dad laughed, recalling that they had both known, but not known, this particular kid. After all these years, he still remembered the little things that made a Bowers mix truly special: he always opened with an instrumental and had a knack for putting artists like Fine Young Cannibals, Elvis Costello, and Sam Cook all in conversation with one another.

My habit indicates a trend rather than an isolated case: Young people are increasingly excited to curate music for their friends and have the action reciprocated. 30

“He was shy, very quiet,” he told me. “I think this is kind of how he expressed himself.” Though an overwrought generalization, there is something to be said for the character my dad remembered: mindful, quiet, paying just enough attention to curate music to the tastes of his community. Bowers is one of a long tradition of this particular kind of curator, catering to the local.

Visual by Sam Palmer Today, the tradition lives on in playlists. Most streaming platforms sport features that allow users to create and share playlists easily. These can cater to highly specific activities, inexplicable feelings, individuals, or any other motivation one may have to curate. Though celebrities and influencers, even artists themselves, have taken to this mode of sharing and can offer unique perspectives, we still turn to the local. I find myself regularly returning to the playlists my friends have made me containing my favorite songs, memories and feelings. My habit indicates 31

a trend rather than an isolated case: young people are increasingly excited to curate music for their friends and have the action reciprocated. There’s no way to know whether or not my dad was right about Bowers, but there’s also no denying that value of music curation. People continue to deal in playlists today for this very reason. Cameron Mannings, a junior at Emerson College, said, “It’s just a really good feeling being able to share what you love with others.” Mannings enjoys curating playlists for his friends and embodies joy when he talks about it. Curation is a manner of expression for him, a way to show love. On the other hand, Elijah Benson, a junior at The New School in New York, is motivated by stories. He curates specific playlists for friends based on moments they’ve shared together, moments he’s been told about, and even their sex lives — an approach that’s intensely intimate and inherently modern. Bowers wouldn’t have done the same for my dad. The modern approach has earned its merits. The mixtape-maker was motivated by the music. In the case of someone like Bowers, with a keen ear and a less social aspect, the mixtapes he crafted fell on welcome ears and became his legacy. It’s no surprise that the public mixtape form and method of dealing is the one that lasted; it combined music and community. But the local playlist maker is almost always driven by people. Playlists exist in inherently shared playlists. They’re easily linked, sent, and shared (no meeting up in the high school parking lot required). The people who are dealing locally today are taking a client-centered approach, reinventing community music distribution once again.

by Jules Saggio Visual by Quinn Donnelly 33

Sometimes I listen to a song and try to ignore the album cover because it negatively affects my listening experience; I find myself immersed in others, discovering hidden meanings and deriving a new perspective on the tone that it sets for the music. The artwork for the Beatles 1996 album Revolver immediately comes to mind. The cover displays a black and white sketch of John, Paul, George, and Ringo’s faces. Their eyes face different directions while smaller photographs of the members are strategically embedded throughout the square space. Found front and center is an image of Klaus Voormann, the artist who created this cover. This subtle inclusion reminds the audience exactly who and what factors contribute to an album’s impact beyond standard vocals and instrumentals. Visual artist Quinn Donnelly delved into the collaborative process between a musician and artist to create the “perfect” album cover. Donnelly is currently designing Emerson musician JOBIE’s upcoming album cover. “First, I ask [the musician] what their favorite album covers are and what they like about it. I specifically asked [JOBIE] for a color palette and a typography that they’d be comfortable with,” Donnelly said. “I asked her to describe her music using really descriptive language so I can create an aesthetic that matches the sonic aesthetic.” When working alongside musicians, cover designers need to capture the true essence of what an artist wants to convey from the outset. While the adage “don’t judge a book by its cover” is true in some ways, it must be recognized that when music was only available on vinyl, for instance, the album’s jacket was the first mood setter for potential listeners. “The album cover is basically the first thing that you see; it’s the face of the music whether or not people want to think it is. Choices like whether or not to put a face on an album cover are huge,” Donnelly said.

Like a PR rep, Donnelly gets a sneak peak of JOBIE’s unreleased tracks to get a feel for the album’s tone. This insight expands the interpretive possibilities, helping them work even more intentionally. Donnelly works to match the delicate atmosphere found in JOBIE’s sweet vocals and soft acoustics, revealing a lot about what stands out to them as a listener. They feel their own creative voice must always shine through on cover art, their aesthetic expression being a large reason why the musician probably chose them for the task to begin with. “In order to make something I’m proud of and to make something the artist is also proud of, I have to put [my own style] in…music is an inherently collaborative art,” says Donnelly. “The visual artist is responsible for getting people’s attention, for getting people to listen to the band in the first place. It’s a huge job,” Donnelly said. Donnelly describes their style in one word: obnoxious. They love loud, clashing colors. One of their main artistic muses is Nick Gazin, who does a lot of cover art for the hip-hop duo Run the Jewels. Gazin’s colorful, rough cartoon style captures the essence of the duo’s underground hip-hop sound. Distinct patterns and overall memorability of the work from consistent cover designers makes the artist’s vibe more fluid and unique. Some artists purposefully prioritize consistency when it comes to who is a part of the collaborative process. Emerson musician Ezra Foley explained that he works with one of his closest friends for all of his album cover photography. “I have my best friend [Lain Becker] handle all of the artwork. He’s someone who can [carry out] the emotion I want to evoke. He gets pictures that bring out what the textures in the songs are,” Foley said. Foley explains to Becker that his vision is for the artwork to replicate the feel that the chords in the 35

songs give and the lyrics he is singing. Foley knows he can fully be himself around Becker, staying true to his musical integrity. He isn’t “afraid to go to the extent of making myself feel vulnerable when explaining what the song is about.” Foley likes to be presented with a question upon seeing album artwork. “One of my favorite albums of all time is Joji’s Nectar. Immediately [you notice] the textures of his face, and you can see there is something there [you have to discover]. What is he trying to say? It inspires curiosity,” Foley said. Foley entrusts a tight-knit circle of individuals with his music, Becker being one of the few involved with his work from the beginning to bring about this kind of question. “When it comes to fruition, it’s executed a lot better when you know the person,” he said. Though I don’t always want to admit it, album covers set the tone for the sonic elements of the music. I subconsciously form an opinion on the music before listening, depending on if I identify with the style of the cover. While the artwork doesn’t form my final judgment on the music, it does impact my motivation to check out a new artist.

My Mom Gave Me Music

AND MUSIC GAVE US CONNECTION by Claire Moriarity Visual by Quinn Donnelly 37

When I was a little kid, my mom’s cell phone ringtone was the guitar riff from David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel.” By age five, I knew every word and identified with the lyrics long before I even understood the concept of relating to a song. It became the theme song of my youth. “Theme songs” like this saturate my childhood. When I think back to being a kid, I think of descending on the kitchen with my brother, opening iTunes on the family computer, and blasting The Killers (my first favorite band), Madonna (my first pop icon), or Pink (the reason I’m gay). I have to credit my parents, especially my mom, for exposing my young, impressionable self to so much music and helping me develop my undying love for it. Paulina Subia* is an avid music lover whose history with certain bands goes back to her early childhood. “I credit [my parents] with my taste in general,” Subia said. “Without them, I definitely wouldn’t have had an eclectic music taste, which is what I like — listening to a little bit of everything.” These days, my mom and I talk about music all the time. According to Spotify Wrapped 2021, she was in the top 1 percent of Bowie listeners last year; I was in the top 0.5. I send her the playlists I make, and she tips me off if our local indie radio station back home is playing a particularly awesome set. We don’t always agree — try as I might, I don’t think I’ll ever get her into K-pop — but as I’ve grown up, our shared love of music has become one of my favorite parts of our relationship. “Music is all we talk about,” Subia said. “My parents and I have very similar approaches when it comes to always going to shows, being obsessed with different musicians. It makes our relationship more chill because they’re just as big of fans as I am.” *Paulina Subia is the Managing Editor of Five Cent Sound Magazine. She did not edit or revise this article before its publication.

The same is true of my mom and me, and it has brought about many good times in our family: the countless car trips with the four of us all belting Lady Gaga; the spontaneous visits to Sonic Boom Records and CDs, from which we always seemed to return with at least four albums; the collaborative Spotify playlist we crafted for this past New Year’s Eve (it was almost seven hours long). Seeing all of our favorite songs in one chaotic mix emphasized how different our tastes are, and made me feel more connected to them. “Going to shows from when I was a little kid definitely solidified our relationship,” Subia said. “Our first rock show was Kiss and Motley Crue. I always thought that I had cool parents, because they were willing to expose me and my brother to any type of music, and any type of band.” My memories of music from my childhood extend to concerts, too. My mom likes a good live show as much as anyone, and while I’m a little bitter that she never brought me with her to Madonna, she’s taken me to many others. I remember getting annoyed with her at a Coldplay show for just standing there with her arms crossed and looking out at the stage like she was watching a movie, not a live performance by a band we’d both been fans of for years. But that’s kind of just how my family is. Growing up, I never saw my parents get emotional about anything. The day Bowie passed, my clock-radio woke me up with the news, and I raced upstairs, expecting to find my mom as devastated as I felt. (Let me just emphasize that Bowie is my mother’s most beloved artist of all 39

time. She has adored him for close to forty years. His records take up half of our collection.) She just smiled sadly and said something like, “well, everybody dies.” It’s in moments like these that I’m struck by how different we are from each other. My mom is so good at acting like she has everything under control, and like nothing ever gets to her (good things and bad). I have never been good at that. Because she doesn’t experience anxiety the way I do, she’ll never truly know why some things are harder for me than they should be. Many times in my life, I’ve felt like the space between us is so tangled with misunderstanding that we

But when two people love the same song, in a small way, they understand each other. Even if it’s only for three minutes and seventeen seconds, they can connect. Music has the power to bridge the gulf of understanding even between parents and children, a gulf that often feels impossible to cross. When I still lived at home and we saw each other every day, I felt like my mom never told me she loved me, but when we stood together in the crowd at a Brandi Carlile concert, watching Brandi sing “The Mother,” she reached over and put her arm around my shoulders. Neither of us had to say anything then. Two years after that Brandi concert, I spent my twentieth birthday in a hotel room in Boston, the city where my parents met in college. My mom sent me a playlist she made called “20for20.” The first song on it is “The Mother.” Over winter break this year, I put that playlist on at my parents’ house. I was hanging out in the kitchen while my mom made dinner. My parents remodeled it years ago, so it looks totally different than it did 40

can’t possibly connect. when my brother and I had our dance parties there. “Movies” by Weyes Blood came on, and my mom said it reminded her a lot of me. “Really?” I said. I’d assumed she just put that song on the playlist because she thought I would like it. “Haven’t you listened to the lyrics?” my mom asked.

“Some people feel what some people don’t Some people-watch until they explode The meaning of life doesn’t seem to shine like that screen

The Movies i watched when I was a kid The hopes and the dreams Don’t Give credit to the real things” She looked up at me. “Doesn’t that sound like you?” Part of me thought, Jeez, she must think I’m super jaded. Another part thought, Wow, my mom gets me way more than I realized.

e k a T s ’ d n a B y y Bo t i n i l u c s a On M

by daphne bryant

What is a boy band? A vocal group of young male singers and the ultimate target for the public’s scorn? Some say they’re too forced and rehearsed — who wants to listen to a pop-making factory? Isn’t their fan base just a bunch of teenage girls? And my god, how many times in one performance can one man pelvic thrust? When thinking of boy bands, one might assume that the artists are hypo, or even toxic, in their masculinity. However, pop masculinity isn’t as surface level as one might think. The idea of the modern boy band really started to change during the ’80s, when the term “boy band” was officially coined. In a way, Boston, Massachusetts and its many neighborhoods were a beginning hub for many of these modern groups: Black R&B group New Edition (which eventually became Bell Biv Devoe) began out of Roxbury and white successor New Kids on the Block (NKOTB) out of Dorchester. Fans who grew up in Boston as these boy bands were rising felt connected to them; there was a shared regional background, and it was revolutionary to see the national impact they had.

Lisa Gaskins, who grew up in the area at that time, says, “New Edition and NKOTB were a huge deal because of the Boston connection. We were all around the same age and walked the same streets, knew where they lived and where they came from.” Boy bands have always had a special way of building community, and through them 44

people can relate and express themselves. So how did these pop music groups get started? Some modern boy bands, made up of preteens and teenagers, were created on their own; most (especially the famous ones) were formed by record producers or talent managers. Producer Maurice Starr hosted a talent search in Boston where he recruited the first member of NKOTB: Donnie Wahlberg. Taking the standard template of the R&B genre that Black groups like New Edition followed, Starr used NKOTB to appeal to the industry’s idea of a pop genre. In this way, genres were racialized — since Black groups weren’t considered pop, labels began putting together white groups that were more likely to be seen as pop musicians even though they still maintained R&B sounds. When modern boy bands shifted from ’80s crooners to ’90s sensations like NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, they became even more popular and were great performers in every sense of the word. Michael Abrams — dancer, colorguard coach and music educator — states, “NSYNC really raised the bar on what a boy band could do.” He recalls them doing a concert in Germany, as they first gained popularity in Europe, where the power went out. Instead of rescheduling, the boy band continued the show a cappella until it came back on. NSYNC isn’t the only ridiculously impressive boy band. While the U.S. has no specific trainee system like there is in Korea, boy bands in the ’90s certainly underwent training. Music mogul and financial con man Lou Pearlman, the mastermind behind stars like NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys, controlled their actions and image. “Pearlman established a sort of boy band boot camp, providing them with choreographers, voice coaches and tutors. The boys practiced for hours in extremely hot conditions in Pearlman’s blimp hangar in Kissimmee, Florida,” said Jeanna Tanzy Williams, who at one time co-managed the Backstreet Boys. Although ’90s boy bands worked very hard to reaped 45

Wearing clothes that are viewed as feminine doesn’t make the boys in these bands any less manly; in fact, it proves they’re comfortable enough in their masculinity to break out of gendered clothing stereotypes. their benefits, that doesn’t necessarily mean they got to enjoy them fully. Justin Timberlake, the Beyoncé of NSYNC, claimed he’d been “financially raped by a Svengali,” in reference to Pearlman, who stole millions from investors and made several deductions to the boys’ paychecks. Looking back, it’s easy to see their national and global success. Initially the ’90s were not a place for boy bands to thrive. The urban scene and edge was super trendy at the time. It highlighted genres like masculine gangster rap or old school hip-hop over the typical teenybopper genres (like boy bands) which were seen as more feminine. The best way to describe these differences is to explore what’s considered “soft” and “hard” masculinity. Lyrics about banging hot chicks and carrying a gun in your palm fall under the umbrella of hard masculinity, while heartfelt ballads and boy bands fall under the umbrella of soft masculinity — and these are just two examples. Even with the change in time and culture, boy bands were still able to maintain traditions of the past. “When the Spice Girls came, music was allowed to be fun and happy again. The boy bands added to that,” Abrams claims. In this way, boy bands like NSYNC rejected a classic image of masculinity and manifested a playful, youthful one of their own. That being said, their silly, flirtatious nature created a link between the “perceived seduction” of the female audience, the boy 46

band’s primary market, as well as the boy band genre’s credibility and inferiority within the music industry decided by both anti-fans and music critics alike. Despite how successful they were since the rise of the “manufactured” boy bands in the pop music scene, modern boy bands have been viewed as illegitimate. Their target audience consists mostly of girls and young teens, so having a legitimate interest in them and their music is often regarded as having “low brow” music taste. Why is this? And I mean, why is this really, beyond the idea that their music may be cheesy or image extremely planned? Why is there a sexist, cultural concept that anything a young girl likes cannot be actually good? It’s because in a society where being a man is often attributed to hypomasculine qualities, boy bands just don’t fit the bill. Real estate manager Amy Gant, who grew up in the mid’80s and ’90s, says, “Most of the guys mocked the boy bands because of their lack of masculinity.” Stoic masculinity was the way to go, and boy bands simply weren’t that: instead, they possessed a feminized masculinity. The fact that they sing, are fashionable, and dance (qualities that are normally associated with “girlish” tendencies) make them less masucline in a lot of people’s eyes. I beg to differ. When it comes to fashion, modern boy bands were generally known to break out of the box that societal norms had set up for them as men. Many weren’t — and still aren’t — afraid to shy away from color, bright patterned prints, fur detailing, gemstone necklaces and more. Wearing clothes that are viewed as feminine doesn’t make the boys in these bands any less manly; 47

in fact, it proves they’re comfortable enough in their masculinity to break out of gendered clothing stereotypes. Modern boy bands have also combined what is considered to be traditionally masculine and feminine aspects of performance and attitudes. The guys who are part of boy bands are given the platform to pour out their emotions through lyricism, express themselves in their dance and fashion and enjoy their masculinity instead of feeling confined to a certain “tough guy” image. Even if it is in a rehearsed way, considering how boy bands and their teams know their audience, it is still a way for these boys to to be innocent; to be goofy and silly; to sing about love, heartbreak, despair and hard times just as much as the happy coming-of-age moments they experience along with the rest of us. Boy bands continue to evolve. Most of Gen Z grew up on groups like One Direction and BTS. The two are very different, and I don’t just mean one being from the UK and the other from South Korea. One Direction was adamant that there would be no choreographed dancing and no funky fresh clothing, whereas BTS performs elaborate and skillful routines, donning makeup and flamboyant suits (and sometimes entirely pink matching fits). These differences could be attributed to cultural disconnects, such as the fact that in South Korea the beauty standard for male pop performers tends to be on the cuter, more feminine side. However, that doesn’t discredit the fact that they’re two different versions of masculinity that are both widely known, admired and adopted. Nowadays there is not one way for a boy band to look, act or sing, nor is there one way for a boy to look, act or sing, and I love that. Over time modern boy bands have, perhaps unintentionally, redefined masculinity in a multitude of ways. This is not to say that they’re without their flaws: American boy bands such as NKOTB are known for stealing music, style and dances from Black boy bands and repurposing them to make it more marketable. Others like B2K, who named their group to represent the fact 48

that they got together in the beginning of the year 2000 (also considered the Y2K era), can be oversexualized for their age and audience. Where boy bands shine, regardless of race or image, is in the way they (as boys and men) are able to have an outlet to embody their confident and carefree selves with show-stopping performances, all while creating timeless music through brotherhood. They’ve made an impact on the freedom boys and men have now in the music industry to present themselves. This kind of masculinity is admirable, not something to be ashamed of or shunned.

Social media continues to shape the ways artists release songs and how we, as consumers, are able to find music. Music listeners all over the world use a variety of techniques to promote, create and popularize songs. TikTok uses its vast audience to create large communities for artists. We see this with songs like Dove Cameron’s quick release of “Boyfriend” or songs like Leith Ross’s much anticipated song “We’ll Never Have Sex,” attracting millions of views from a one minute TikTok. SoundCloud has pioneered the music industry for years with large artists like Lil’ Yachty, Trippie Redd and Lil Uzi Vert getting discovered on the platform and growing to be artists with millions of Spotify listeners. Instagram is one of the most But the outlet that is least popular social recognized for its sway in the media platmusic industry is Instagram. forms; they are owned by Facebook and have been around for decades. The influence that Instagram has on the music industry is not spoken about nearly enough. Artists use the app to share their music on a far smaller scale to the direct audience anticipating their releases. Artists often use Instagram to tease their loyal fans about upcoming work. When artists go on a long hiatus — whether that is to take care of themselves or because they’re feeling uninspired — Instagram entertains loyal fans in their absence. When the artist makes their eventual return, the app plays a central role in their release. Die-hard fans of Adele remember the artist’s six year hiatus, after which she began teas51

ing her new album 30 with an Instagram story featuring the iconic blue of her new album. Instagram gives both large and small artists a platform and equal opportunity to interact with their fanbase. A particular feature making it easy for artists to share their songs is Instagram stories. Because the stories are only up for 24 hours, there’s an opportunity for artists to offer sneak peeks into the development of their music without committing to its full release. Artists also often use Instagram Live to see their fans’ reactions to new music in real time. Four days before its release, Instagram users tuning in to Conan Gray’s livestream heard the first verse of his hit song “Heather” before anyone else. The popular singer-songwriter Clairo is also notorious for performing multiple unreleased songs on Instagram stories and lives, including fan favorites “Caught Me by Surprise” and “I Wouldn’t Ask.” To this day, the only version available is the screen recording from Instagram posted on Youtube. Jason Korn is a freshman at Emerson College majoring in Musical Theater. He released three acoustic ballads since 2021, including his latest release “Jester”. As an artist new to the business, Korn uses Instagram as a tool to promote his music. Korn shared his love for Instagram stories, which he often uses to share snippets of his unreleased music.

I personally like those little snippets. I always start off with a little 30 second thing on my story, and then I’ll probably be like, ‘Are you guys ready?’ 52

Korn also spoke to the intimacy that social media can create. “Creators showing little snippets of things that they just create… that’s really special because it creates a lot more intimacy with your audience. It definitely lets them know, ‘Hey, this is what I’m writing about. If you feel compelled by this, let me know.’” Josie Arthur is a second year Theater and Performance major at Emerson who goes by JOBIE. JOBIE’s music is indie pop-esque and she has been releasing under that name since 2021, when they released their first single “Half Way.” The temporary nature of stories poses an appeal for JOBIE.

There’s definitely less pressure with posting Instagram stories because they do go away in 24 hours… I feel like if I post something on my actual feed, it has to be thought out or aesthetically pleasing and has to go with the rest of the feed. Alongside the low stakes nature of Instagram stories, JOBIE shared how instrumental she has found the platform’s story features to be. “I use stories the most just because that’s the easiest, that’s also what gets viewed the most,” she said. “If you’re trying to be like ‘Hey, come out to the show tonight,’ or ‘Hey, watch this video,’... it’s quick and it’s right now. It’s very in-the-moment.” There seems to be a general consensus that social media forms a lovehate relationship with artists. JOBIE expressed, “I kind of hate [social media]... I do feel like streaming as well as social media has negatively impacted the music industry, because you 53

don’t have to pay for anybody’s art.You can watch that video of someone singing for free and you can listen to that song essentially for free. It kind of devalues the art a little bit.” Korn expressed a similar frustration, saying, “With a new song coming out, I’m like, ‘Crap, I have to post,’ which is completely untrue. I don’t have to do anything. But I just feel very strongly about what I want to put out so I finally did [post on Instagram].” Despite this love-hate relationship, all artists can acknowledge how instrumental social media is for their careers. Korn spoke on Instagram’s ‘promote’ feature that “helps small creators and small artists” grow their chain reaction. Instagram is paving the way for how artists and their audience consume music. Social media, specifically Instagram, is extremely impactful on what we choose to listen to. But it’s a double-edged sword, simultaneously confining and supporting artists. Next time you’re scrolling and stumble upon an artist, remember to interact with their content to help social media uplift them.

lmer Sam Pa y b l a Visu

Visual by Ali Madsen

There’s nothing like a period drama when it comes to satisfying a craving for escapism. Many of us hunger for antiquity out of curiosity toward an era we haven’t lived through. This hunger is often amplified by the immaculate costuming, sets, and original soundtracks characteristic to this genre. Period drama movies in particular are beloved in popular culture — a simple Google search can yield pages of recommendation lists and reviews. The self-contained format of film lends itself well to capturing just a snapshot of an era, part of a whole. Digestible samplers of our history, period movies are like appetizers. Comparatively, period TV broadens our palette. It entrenches us in an era. We’re made to sit with our desire for escapism until we feel that we’re part of a different time. A directorial choice as simple as the soundtrack can have considerable influence on the whole work. Most period TV avoids anachronism and either goes for a historically accurate or neutral soundtrack, though there are a few examples where modern music is covered in the style of the period being portrayed. Netflix’s Bridgerton (2020) presents pop songs in the vein of Maroon 5’s “Girls Like You” and Ariana Grande’s “thank u, next” in the context of orchestral pieces. Tonally it’s a solid choice, but the anachronism is so masked that when you do place your finger on the song it can feel nonsensical enough to take you out of the story. A better example is HBO’s Westworld (2016), where the songs are left more intact melodically and given a delightful western flair. Hearing alternative songs like “Black Hole Sun” by Soundgarden and “No Surprises” by Radiohead as instrumental western tracks reflects the show’s thematic duality. Some period pieces foray into the modern era by using 56

contemporary songs as they’re originally written. An exceptional example is Hidden Figures (2016), which features a soundtrack largely composed by Pharell Williams; the names of the tracks correlate with the scenes they’re featured in, and the artists and musical styles involved reflect the characters and themes shown on-screen. As for period TV examples, Lovecraft Country (2020) backs its ’50s-centered narrative with songs from various genres and artists, especially Black musicians. Reign (2013) also uses contemporary songs, among others. And then there’s Peaky Blinders (2013), BBC’s hit crime drama set in early 1900s Birmingham. The show, which is inspired by the actual Peaky Blinders gang, is well-done in its own right with brilliant performances by its cast and thoughtful cinematography; the contemporary soundtrack elevates the narrative beyond anything a period-accurate score could be capable of. With the debut of its sixth and final season, Peaky Blinders has distinguished itself as a period drama that knows how to serve its audience. Its choice of gritty, powerful songs are an iconic staple — after all, a TV or film soundtrack is nothing if not for the benefit of the audience. “Red Right Hand” by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, the theme of the show, sets the soundtrack’s tone with guns — or rather, bells — blazing. It’s a reference to John Milton’s Paradise Lost, where the phrase “red right hand” stands in for divine vengeance and omnipresent danger. The song also projects connotations associated with the color red during this time period, mainly communism, that are explored in the show. The elements of “Red Right Hand” become an overtone for the whole show, always lurking in the background no matter what the narrative is engaging with. Sometimes, the show forces you to acknowledge these themes. In season four, brothers Arthur and Thomas Shelby each engage in intense, violent killing, and the camera angles subtly reveal their right hands dripping in red liquid (paint or blood, depending on the scene). In this case, not only does Peaky Blinders pay mind to the thematic elements of songs for its score, but it also attaches visual motifs to the music. Even the instrumentation itself contributes to establishing 57

shots with percussion reminiscent of metal clanging and explosions; when overlayed with images of the factories in Small Heath, Birmingham, it feels as if this song was destined to be a Peaky Blinders track. In fact, the reason why the show’s use of a modern song for the theme works so well is because every other song feels that way. That feeling does seem hard to quantify, though, even from its own cast members. In an interview with Steve Lamacq on BBC Radio 6, Cillian Murphy, who plays Thomas Shelby, commented that he first thought the modern soundtrack wouldn’t work for the show, but he eventually came around to the idea. “It’s really hard to define what that is,” he said about what makes a song Peaky, “but I think it seems to be an outlaw quality to the music.” That “outlaw” quality is gritty and intense, built by the style of the music itself.

The genres selected for the score vary but are generally in the vein of rock that’s heavy on guitars and percussion. While historically appropriate genres like jazz are occasionally used, it’s acknowledged in canon and not usually directed at the audience. Unfortunately for these genres, which were pioneered by Black musicians, they aren’t given the same historical levity that previously mentioned examples received. These genres are placed in a white-centric period piece where minority characters are largely omitted. However, they are integral to creating the “outlaw” tone of the show. Across the first five seasons, the 58

You need Alex Turner’s aggressively Southern Yorkshire accent to really convey that sense of self-importance and dissidence that these characters possess. soundtrack features music from the likes of Arctic Monkeys, PJ Harvey, The White Stripes, Radiohead, Dan Auerbach, and more. Their songs all, in some manner, evoke the “outlaw” quality that allows them to perfectly mesh to the on-screen visuals. With Arctic Monkeys, for example, “Arabella” and “Do I Wanna Know?” off their iconic album AM are used to backdrop intense scenes, the former as part of an establishing shot and the latter as a backdrop to a cliffhanger for the next season (which is also done with “Love is Blindness” by Jack White at the end of season one). The show isn’t afraid to use lesser known songs, either: at one point, “Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair” by Arctic Monkeys plays over a shot of Thomas Shelby walking through a prison corridor. Songs like these are intended to create the “outlaw” vibe as characters walk dramatically toward the camera in a slowed-down frame rate. It sounds corny, but the music and visuals genuinely pair together like wine and cheese. You need the energy of the music, the crunchy guitar and the leadfooted percussion. You need Alex Turner’s aggressively Southern Yorkshire accent to really convey that sense of self-importance and dissidence that these characters possess. The soundtrack urges you to believe that these are characters to be feared. In the context of the narra59

tive, the Shelby brothers wouldn’t just slowly walk down an alley with loud music for the drama of it. They don’t need to do that because they’re already a feared entity in their city. But the audience, who isn’t involved in the narrative, doesn’t perceive them as commanding figures on their own. Visual elements and music have to cue the audience into the tone of the events occurring and how to perceive the story. Since the context of a scene is influenced by music, the Peaky Blinders soundtrack could have easily used silly, upbeat songs and become a satirical period piece. But the songs that have actually been chosen create the serious and grim tone the show is known for. The relationship between modern and historical has so far been relatively unexplored in television, but if the success of Peaky Blinders has any say, it’s a sign that there could be more to come in the future. If the way we understand what a scene is trying to accomplish is based on what context it’s placed in, then the best way to connect with an audience is to tap into something familiar. A modern soundtrack can foster that connection, but only if the audience is expected to perceive the tone of the narrative a certain way. It doesn’t work if modernity is a comfort mechanism for the audience when consuming something new — it has to serve a narrative purpose. The line is fine between an elegant and cheap use of a modern soundtrack. Perhaps, in this regard, Peaky Blinders has either achieved greatness or failed spectacularly, but there’s no denying that the modernity of its track has turned this period drama into a timeless classic.

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Just as people often attach memories to specific songs, I attach people to them, struck by not only the profound impact they’ve had on my life but also my music taste. As I shuffle through my 1,000+ liked songs on Spotify and come across the perfect one, my immediate reaction is to share the experience with a friend. I often think about how I discovered a song, and eight times out of 10 it was sent by a friend. Just as people often attach memories to specific songs, I attach people to them, struck by not only the profound impact they’ve had on my life but also on my music taste. There are five official “love languages,” otherwise described as how we receive love from others: words of affirmation, acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, and physical touch. What isn’t included is music, the unofficial sixth addition that nearly everyone can relate to. Sharing songs allows a small yet revealing snippet into someone else’s life. I’ve listened to music my whole life, but it wasn’t really until I came to Emerson that I was actually able to hear the music. Here, everyone around me uses it as a vital enhancement to their life. And because of my friends, I can say the same about music’s role in my own life. Chelsea Gibbons*, a junior Writing, Literature & Publishing major, listens to music to expand upon preexisting emotions. Before Emerson, she solidified her stuck listening to what she knew best, *Chelsea Gibbons is the Head Copyeditor of Five Cent Sound Magazine. She did not edit or revise this article before its publication.

such as Taylor Swift and One Direction. Now, she credits her Emerson social life with making her a more musically cultured person, starting with her roommate. “She introduced me to a lot of music, like Phoebe Bridgers, Jack Harlow. So many people I never knew about or listened to,” Gibbons said. “Especially with that friendship, it made us a lot closer because we could bond over music, and she introduced me to what she liked and I got her into Taylor Swift. My other friendships at Emerson too, music is very central to them, especially my girlfriend!” These relationships Gibbons fostered encouraged her to dive deeper into the music scene. She’s mixing up the genres she listens to, discovering more rap, R&B and alternative music, but she’ll always be a pop lover and Swiftie at heart. As an Apple Music user, her method of sharing songs is exclusively over text. “At Emerson, I’ve been a lot more willing to explore other people instead of just sticking to what I know, and I explore a lot more smaller artists instead of just big name top artists. I got more into different genres, too,” Gibbons said. “A lot of my close friends who I still send songs to also have Apple Music, so it works out.” Josie Arthur, a Sophomore Theater & Performance major, is a singer who comes from a family of musicians. Known as JOBIE when it comes to their art, they associate the word “music” with its constant presence in their upbringing. After years of writing music, they want to create songs that they would listen to themselves. By recording improvisations of themself singing and playing the guitar, they piece the song together, leaving no room for mistakes. “If I’m going through something and I want a song that describes that exact emotion — and a lot of times, it’s not possible because nobody has my exact experiences, so I can’t find the exact song I want — I’ll 63

just write it,” Arthur said. “It’s fun to listen to music, but I also pretend I didn’t write the song for a second so I can get that catharsis.” Sharing their own music with loved ones is a deep, personal experience. After coming to college, Arthur would send their parents written songs, eager for the two to hear and be proud of their work. When they choose to send someone a song, it is with care and affection for the recipient. Shared musical experiences impacts how she views a song and the relationship she has with that specific person. “When you love people, you just want them to know about you and the truth about you,” Arthur said. “When I love someone, I just want to be completely truthful and honest. Sharing songs I made or songs that convey that specific type of message or feeling I’m trying to get across in an honest way.” It really wasn’t until I was able to create a Spotify Premium Student plan that I could finally appreciate music for what it is. With Spotify being the only streaming platform I actually pay for, I clearly take my music very seriously. It’s hard to describe what specific music genre my style fits into considering how varied it is, but I love anything with a good beat or something smooth. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good melancholic, chill music moment when I’m in a specific mood. But my ideal listening experience involves anything upbeat, something I can happily dance and move around to. No matter the mood, everything from the lyrics to the rhythm can be thoroughly heard and hammered into my brain. Whether it’s blasting music in my Honda Civic with the windows down, going for walks with a friend, or singing out loud while listening to a group session, music is with me everywhere I go. Two of the biggest influences in my music “love” life, 64

without a doubt, are my current roommate Miranda Nicusanti and my day-one college friend Nathan Phaenephom. The two of them both accumulated over 100,000 listening minutes on Spotify last year. Most of the substantial music I have garnered, some that I listen to on the daily, has been taken from them. Of course, I’ve done my part by sharing music as well; seeing the same people everyday means there’s bound to be some crossover. Nate’s given me so much indie music — TV Girl, Tyler the Creator and SZA to name a few — to the point that I made a whole playlist inspired by him. Miranda always has new artists on her radar; as my EDM partner, she constantly queues the genre on our Alexa. In response to an Instagram story about how music impacts their friendships, some Emerson students said, “Not really” or “It used to,” while others said, “Yes, absolutely!” and “I love receiving music because my friends have good taste, but I’m not as good with sending.” Gibbons sees music as an easy way to express emotions to friends, which can make a difference in the dynamics of her various relationships. Asking or being asked, “What’s your favorite song right now?” is as synonymous to, “How was your day?” “I would definitely consider [sharing music] a love language because it allows you to connect with people differently,” Gibbons said. “Music allows you to say a lot of things that you wouldn’t be able to say with words. When I receive a song or I send a song, you can show you’re thinking about them and that song reminds you of them, and that’s a very touching thing.” I love the community music fosters. One of Spotify’s features includes the sidebar displaying friend activity. Here, users can snoop on what song somebody’s currently listening to, or if they’re not active, what the last one they played is. It updates in real time, allowing a peek into their current mood based on the music they have on. Maybe they’re listening to a spe65

cial shared playlist or a new song by an artist you like. Regardless, songs say a lot about how someone’s feeling — if you see a friend listening to something like “Ribs” by Lorde, maybe it’s time to check in with them to make sure they’re okay. Additionally, sharing AirPods or tuning into a group session holding up to five friends opens the music world up in a unique way. This is taken to the next level when Spotify releases their end-of-the-year Wrapped series, in which statistics show a user’s most listened to songs, artists, genre and more. Everyone shares their top fives in these categories across social media, creating another opportunity to connect musically. Interactions between each other show comparisons of music tastes, mutual interests and disagreements. It’s another glimpse into who someone is, and it’s the perfect chance to discover new songs and artists. As something that has accumulated and passed on between generations, music is everywhere in everyone’s own environment in some shape or form. Impacted by it in her own way, Arthur describes themself as having a “biological knowledge” of each song that played on the radio. While becoming increasingly involved in the world of music, they learn more and more every day. “My music taste is just a product of all the people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had and how I felt in reaction to those, then the music for the mood I wanted to feel as a reaction to those,” Arthur said. “Now I’m becoming more knowledgeable because I want to, but also if I want to talk about it with people and connect with them about it.” Though in some part thanks to social pressure, Arthur’s knack for discovering various different kinds of genres and artists made for a natural diversification in her range of music. Notable singers like Phoebe Bridgers and the band Neutral Milk Hotel inspire them to look for others similar. “You don’t have to know every artist to be a lover of music, but if you’re going to be an artist yourself, 66

Songs say a lot about how someone’s feeling — if you see a friend listening to something like “Ribs” by Lorde, maybe it’s time to check in with them to make sure they’re okay. it’s good to get influences from a lot of different places,” Arthur said. “That’s why I’m still searching to diversify because I wanna get more of that feeling again like how it felt to first listen to those albums or freshly listen to that song.” Music has chemistry and creates chemistry within our social lives. It’s a shared experience that increases the cohesiveness of social groups. That’s why it’s so influential — particularly on Emerson’s campus, where everyone is collaborating on artistic projects. It’s a language that promotes the development of group identities, but also someone’s individual identity. It formulates who they are through beats, lyrics, and rhythms that personally connect. I don’t know if it’s because of my dance background, but I can’t resist moving around to my favorite upbeat — or any beat for that matter — songs, quite literally like no one is watching. Alaina Reyes and Mercy Suarez are my two favorite impromptu dance partners, particularly to Daft Punk. Even walking through the Common, exploring the streets of Boston, or being in my LED lit shower, music follows me. I may not always be with my friends when I’m listening, but it certainly feels like they’re with me. Arthur and their dad use music to connect with each other, even when they’ve over 500 miles away. They consider discussions about music and its artists, songs, and anything in between a love language, some67

thing to bond over with another person. “Creating things with people and collaborating is a love language as well because if you’re both really proud of what happened, you made that together,” Arthur said. “It’s something I enjoy doing, and I talk about that stuff with my dad or other musicians. I love talking about that kind of thing with people that are actually interested.” Arthur has been introduced to new music from various prominent people during different stages of their life. People such as their parents and past romantic partners have shown her genres from pop to sad indie, adding to their palate and expanding their range. They credit an ex for transforming their music taste for the better and exposing them to one of their all time favorite songs. Branching out their individual tastes through others has allowed both Arthur and Gibbons the chance to reflect on how they grow as people by ways of songs that can be associated with a specific person or memory. Music can be a very universal language amongst very divergent individuals. “Relating to people through music is a very profound thing,” Gibbons said.

Emerson’s Rising Star

by Zoe O’Neil Visual by Quinn Donnelly 69

Disclaimer: JOBIE uses she/they pronouns, but this article uses she/her pronouns (with JOBIE’s permission) for the sake of clarity.

If you’re looking for JOBIE in a crowd, you should keep your senses alert for a few key features. Chin-length hair with short bangs dyed an ever-changing shade of red? Check. Fingerless gloves, red cowboy boots, or layered necklaces? Check. A loud laugh and a wide smile? Check. Josie Arthur, also known as JOBIE, may blend into the eclectic Emerson student body, but don’t let appearances fool you. The singer-songwriter is a standout talent who keeps busy playing in venues ranging from sports bars to comedy clubs in hopes of establishing her name in Boston’s up-and-coming music scene. With only three songs published on streaming services, JOBIE has already amassed a little over 1,000 monthly Spotify listeners in less than a year. After some hard work during the winter of 2020, the song “Half Way” came out in April 2021. She followed up with “Simple Man” a month later and most recently “Scorpio” this past November. Her lyrics are creative and reflective like Phoebe Bridgers; her vocal control is reminiscent of the stylings of Caroline Polacheck; her stage presence mirrors Taylor Swift. It’s the perfect storm that’s led to songs getting stuck in your head on a first listen, only to start tugging at your heartstrings by the fourth or fifth time. JOBIE laments

past lovers, bodily insecurity, and the growing pains felt by a person stuck in the awkward gap between teenage years and adulthood. At twenty years old, JOBIE is a fresh face in the music world yet possesses years of experience under her belt. In conversation, she recalled singing at a wedding at three years old. From there, the performance bug led her to become a theater kid through middle and high school. The pivot to music seemed 70

sensible to JOBIE, who explained the evident correlation between theater and music in her mind — in her eyes, “acting is playing pretend; music is playing yourself.” When she wasn’t performing on stage, she listened to classic rock on the radio with her dad, prompting her to later branch out to artists like NMH, Pinegrove, The Lumineers, Bob Dylan, Alanis Morissette, and Tom Petty. I chatted with JOBIE over a slice of chocolate cake in the dining hall one evening in an attempt to understand what’s going on behind the scenes in her blossoming musical career. She came alive with joy as she shared her past experiences and upcoming endeavors. Her excitement and openness are characteristic of a young artist who has yet to be jaded by the music industry, but I have a feeling that her warm heart won’t grow cold as she ascends to the mountaintops of success. Just like the title of her single suggests, JOBIE is a “Simple Man.” The prowess she achieved so far is merely the result of commitment. She believes music isn’t glamorous, and that’s certainly true for any young student trying to balance a social, academic, and professional life. The Saturday afternoons occupied by extracurricular Berklee zoom classes and guitar practice are the boring side effects of creative fulfillment at best and time-draining chores at worst. When I see JOBIE on the street, she’s rarely without her guitar strapped to her back and usually in a hurry to get to a practice or a show — that’s all she needs to deliver a moving performance.

Both independent and acoustic, JOBIE needs no band, no rehearsal schedule, no excessive equipment or transportation. This portability is not the only perk of a solo endeavor into the music world for JOBIE: she 71

simply doesn’t want to sing other people’s songs and writes from the perspective she would like to hear. JOBIE also is wary of making her music sound too scientific, hence her reasoning for taking additional instead of full-time classes at Berklee. Berklee emphasizes theory and technique, and classes focused on these concepts may have stifled the natural creativity of her work. Although her musical endeavors often lead her to open mic nights hosted by their students and gigs at other spots, JOBIE says that she is grateful for the multi-disciplinary student body at Emerson. Collaborating with student organizations helps her dabble in disciplines that she wouldn’t be exposed to otherwise, and she’s using the network of ambitious creatives on campus to achieve career milestones. Everyone wants to be a part of something, and Emerson students are good at spotting talent. Perhaps that’s why JOBIE has already accrued music video experience, modeling gigs, and interviews in multiple publications; her “something” is definitely worth being a part of. One of her favorite projects was making the music video for her single “Simple Man” with Beat Dynamics, an Emerson organization that focuses on making music videos for up-and-coming artists. The project allowed JOBIE to visualize her music while also extending an opportunity for their student team to gain some hands-on experience working to strike the perfect balance between sound and image. The cover art for “Simple Man” and later “Scorpio” also came to fruition through a photoshoot with INDEX Magazine. Conversations with a variety of visual artists on campus have led to commissioned 72

promotional materials and upcoming merch. Shows such as Good Morning Emerson and Off the Record have hosted JOBIE to perform music. Beyond broadcast, she’s also performed live shows for WECB and launch parties for their zine, Milkcrate. Emerson may not be a perfect academic fit for aspiring musicians, but “it would suck to go to Berklee and do the same thing as everyone else,” she says through light laughs. At Emerson, students are exposed to a plethora of creative opportunities both in and out of the classroom. College is a limbo time between childhood and adulthood, JOBIE reasons, and the campus environment allows creatives to barter for mutual benefit: when JOBIE gets publicity, students and organizations get experience. At Emerson, JOBIE is thankful for camaraderie instead of competition. She celebrates the plethora of talented students she’s connected with through collaborations, believing “when everyone wants to succeed at the same thing, no one can support each other.” JOBIE seeks to achieve catharsis and connection through her music. Although the theater major is easygoing in a polished manner, she wants to connect with people in an authentic way. Music serves as a means to gather an audience who can see an honest and intimate version of herself that doesn’t come out in other social settings. Her guitar twangs out of tune, so she’ll stall and adjust it on stage. She fumbles with words while racking her brain to remember the setlist she forgot. JOBIE is the first to admit these happenings are clumsy, but they also add a layer of endearment and humanity to her personality.

To JOBIE, the joy of making music comes from performing. Her philosophy is simple: we do things in life — cleaning and shopping to name tediously necessary ones — to get them over with, but we play music to focus on the present and live through every moment. Although she is

a natural performer, JOBIE shares that listening to and creating music is a very private and sacred experience. The ideal listening setting is a dark room 73

with headphones.. She enjoys the smaller local Boston scene because there’s less of a crowd and consequently noise.

I felt myself smiling as my notes filled page after page over the course of my interview with JOBIE. It made me genuinely excited to see someone so passionate about the dream they are chasing. In a world filled with apathy and too-coolfor-school attitudes, JOBIE’s boundless energy and enthusiasm are refreshing. Her thoughts bounced all over the place and often had no destination as she tried to explain where the source of her inspiration and talent lies. Her talent is a mix of nature and nurture, her parents being musicians certainly contributing to her skills and ethics. When lyrics and melodies come to you as if they were stored deep inside your soul, creating music is not so much a formula to be completed as it is an exercise in turning inwards. “I don’t have a formula for songwriting, I don’t even have a process. I just do it, it’s really magic.” JOBIE offered as an explanation for a creative process feeling so natural and intrinsic. It’s a deceptively simple answer to a question and it made me wonder…can we one who believes in even the messiest inside their soul, or are some people this trust in themselves?

complicated all become someideas from deep simply born with

I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see JOBIE perform the moment she revealed to me that she was better in person than on her recordings. I first saw her at the aforementioned WECB Valentine’s Day concert and then at The Lilypad in Cambridge another evening in February. I didn’t plan to stay out until one in the morning on that Wednesday night, but it was well worth it. As we waited for her turn on stage, she introduced me to her friends from the venue who embellished on her destined rockstar status; JOBIE simple laughed and earnestly denied their compliments in response. When she stepped onto the stage, she launched into her 74

first song with no introduction, eschewing the cheesy blurbs used by previous performers to preface their sets. The music spoke for itself, no explanation or introduction needed. Her voice is clear and her presence feels honest, reflecting her earlier sentiments on the intimacy and truth of her performances. The two-song set consisted of one original, a brief tuning break after the pitch of her guitar began to droop, and one cover. The only time the enraptured audience broke their silence was to whoop during every instrumental break. Admirers flocked to give hugs and praise as soon as JOBIE stepped off the stage. Looking towards the future, there are a lot of exciting prospects on the horizon for JOBIE. She’s been working on an album at her hometown recording studio in Richmond, VA. The body of work is partially completed, with the rest being finished this summer. It is expected to drop around the summer of 2023, with singles releasing throughout the upcoming semester to tide us over in the meantime. JOBIE also hopes to achieve loftier dreams, like playing festivals and eventually hosting a small tour. She mentioned the appeal of a sync credit, which is when an artist is paid for use of a song in a movie. She also wants to garner some official Spotify playlist features in addition to the playlists she’s included on from fans who have found her on the internet. While she’s still in Boston, be sure to come out to one of JOBIE’s shows. If you wait, you might miss her as she makes her meteoric rise to the top.

Listen to JOBIE’s music here! 75

by Ashley Onnembo 76 Flash by Luke Huston

Beside a row of urinals in the Lion’s Den multi-stall bathroom, Kayla Hardy meticulously adjusts the tuners of her electric guitar. Belle Fortebuono leans up against the sink’s granite countertop and puts the final touches on her appearance; the variously angled mirrors ensure no detail above her torso goes unnoticed. David Staats’s voice echoes throughout the small space, drawing the five bandmates together in a tight huddle. The group rocks back and forth, the volume of their voices growing with each positive affirmation from Taryn Noonan. Kaveh Hodjat jokes about burning a green banana in light of their unhinged ritual. Their set starts in seconds, but for a moment nothing except their raw, youthful vitality matters. It’s as close as you can get at Emerson to the stereotypical, animalistic pep talk before a rivaling high school football game. My Green Bananas (MGB) is composed of lead singer-songwriters Belle Fortebuono and Kayla Hardy, drummer Kaveh Hodjat, bassist Taryn Noonan and rhythm guitarist David Staats. The name grew out of a visit to the dining hall, where Noonan plucked two unripened bananas before heading back to the Little Building. “Who’s green bananas are thooosee?” Staats asked jokingly upon her arrival. “They’re mine! My green bananas!,” she shouted defensively. Noonan’s amusement quickly turned into obvious realization, her attachment to the name developing as soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth. MGB’s moniker emerged as easily as the friendships forging the band’s foundation. Their passion for music united the freshmen in the beginning of their first semester; channeling it into one shared entity only increased the amount of trust present in their 77

collective relationship. Their chemistry manifests itself during live performances, the intoxicating atmosphere being a comfort in an otherwise nerve-wracking situation. “Kav told me before our first performance, ‘To calm your nerves, just look at everyone and think that you’re just jamming in a practice room,” Staats recalls when reflecting on the group’s gigs. Not one out of the five predicted their lives would be so full of music here at Emerson. Fortebuono and Hodjat both established solo careers as BEP and Dejima before the fall 2021 term began, but had no expectations outside of those identities. Fortebuono met Staats within the first week of school and the two immediately bonded over casual jam sessions. Staats initiated a similar routine with Hardy shortly after — at the time, he viewed them as two separate entities rather than a cohesive group. It’s hard to tell if their decision developed out of sheer curiosity or as a ploy to prove Staats wrong, but Fortebuono and Hardy ended up in a rehearsal room the first time they hung out. The song may “never see the light of day” according to Hardy, but it did signify the beginning of their synergized writing partnership. By the end of this past September, their desire to create a band felt undeniable. Staats quips about being the glue holding MGB together, but his argument ironically applies to “Superglue.” It is the first track Hardy intentionally wrote for the band, but it wasn’t complete until she ran to Fortebuono’s room for feedback and enlisted her help in writing the song’s bridge. Staats’s achilles heel is his inability to write lyrics, yet his strength for constructing chord progressions makes up for it — like each other band member, he represents an 78

Fortebuono and Staats cling to each other while looking in the 79 mirror, a lyric from “Spare Change” slightly clouding their view.

essential piece to their well-executed puzzle. The first fifteen seconds of “Superglue” are defined solely by Staat’s rhythm guitar technique, the riffed composition hitting peaks and valleys stimulating the song’s foundation. He ends on an elongated, shimmery electric chord before retreating back to the initial instrumental structure of the song, this time accompanied by Hardy’s husky vocals and Noonan on supporting bass. The strings facilitate smooth transitions between each verse, inviting the opportunity for Hardy’s voice to rise with the intensity. Fortebuono’s light harmonies layered throughout the chorus affirm not only Hardy’s tender attitude, but also the song’s yearning cadence. Hodjat enters almost halfway through the song, his steady strikes on the snare and bass drum building anticipation for the bridge to come. Staats speeds up his strumming for Hardy’s prolonged vocalization on the refrain’s closing phrase, only for the last of her composure to come crashing down with smothering rage. “When we start the build, the drums come in, the bass comes in, you’re starting to raise the pitch of your voice — that’s the feeling I get when there’s a scream in “Kilby Girl” or “Sinking Ship” by the Backseat Lovers,” Noonan exclaims passionately. Hardy has a way of making the mundane seem breathtakingly beautiful. Her explicit yet unique descriptions expose her fixations, and a large explanation of her emotions comes through her more metaphorical expressions. For a long time, Hardy’s writing was rooted in escapism. Fortebuono, being a very intimate and internal writer, prompts Hardy to pull from her personal experience when fabricating her lyrics. Although a lot of Hardy’s style remains subconscious, the realization of her true feelings slowly reveals itself with each listen back to a song. “When I’m sitting in my room and writing for myself, it’s a very acoustic sound. It’s very internal, it feels smaller. When I’m writing for the band, I feel 80

like I get to envision something so much bigger. It takes the song to another level,” Hardy confesses with admiration.

My Green Bananas, pictured left to right: David Staats, Kaveh Hodjat, Belle Fortebuono, Kayla Hardy and Taryn Noonan.

The most impressive aspect of Staats influence on the band is his mentorship of Noonan. Over the past couple of years, Noonan dabbled with the fundamentals of playing the electric and acoustic guitar, but her musicianship didn’t extend beyond that. The two loosely spoke about being in a band together, poking fun at the possibility of her playing bass. At nine the next morning, Staats showed Noonan the exact finger placements on the instrument and strings necessary to pluck in order to emulate the sound she was looking for. Within five days of their initial conversation, Noonan mastered the basics of the bass. “What we’re doing right now is very much a language,” 81

Photos by Kyra Badger Styled by Gianna Scarpa Direction by Ashley Onnembo

Hodjat offers a thumbs up to the camera, a cutout of Luke Huston’s doodle plastered on the side of his cheek.

Fortebuono and Hardy pose closely against each other and a bathroom sink.

Hardy scrawls the beginning of a lyric from “Superglue” on the bathroom mirror in red lipstick.

Staats lays across a desk, placing 83 a hand under Noonan’s smiling face.

Noonan shares. “You look at someone and you mess up on a note and then they catch you.” Another side of MGB’s encouragement is their ability to push each other and advocate for the musical details they feel would best serve their material. Fear doesn’t factor into their decisions to respectfully decline an idea or highlight when someone isn’t reaching their full potential. The dissonance always generates something newer, if not better, than their original intentions. A level of comfort is equally as important to the band. Their genuine acceptance of one another makes it easier to cope with musical mishaps and the embarrassment it inevitably provokes, inspiring each member to apply that same confidence to other aspects of their lives. “I’m not scared to let these people see me at my worst,” Fortebuono says reassuringly. “If we’re there when we need each other through music, I feel like I can depend on these people to be there for me if something’s wrong.” This vulnerability is extremely vital to the specificity characterizing Fortebuono’s lyrical expression. “Bloodstains,” written by Fortebuono before MGB’s formation, exacerbates the fresh wound of a relationship recently ending on a tense note. She perfectly portrays its lingering permanence and how unpacking those remains arouses frustration even more intense than the original friction of the relationship. Staats switches to acoustic, completing the robust sound of the angry rock anthem; Hardy jumps on electric, shaking up the playfulness of her usual stage presence. For a moment their designated roles become obsolete: their slips of laughter melt into the music as they steal giddy glances at one another and softly sing along to their favorite lines of the track. Fortebuono’s vigorous vocals often ascend multiple octaves with the song’s progression, illustrating the 84

amount of disdain she associates with their partnership. Her seething, pointed annunciation of specific words amplifies the defensive resentment informing her opinion on the situation. The lines, “God I handed you the match / You burned everything we had, it’s gone,” encapsulates their toxic tendencies tempting the worst out of each other. Fortebuono’s framing of the failed relationship reveals some sense of insecurity, but also solidifies her in a role where she lacks the upper hand. Implying that she’s only able to react explains why so many emotions are bubbling to the surface, which isn’t isolated to the analysis of “Bloodstains.” Music serves as an extremely sentimental outlet for Fortebuono, causing her to enhance her mood and remember things differently for the sole purpose of songwriting. If the feeling is strong enough she’ll warrant it to transpire into an elaborate narrative, but what started as a creative spin on her imagination can often bleed into her actual state of mind. Fortebuono and Hardy finally found a way to pair their voices together while still ensuring there is enough room for their respective sound when working on MGB’s main duet “Dead on the Dash.” In their lyrical partnership, Fortebuono generally writes from the perspective of observing Hardy’s stance on a topic; their proximity to each other and the song’s subject provides insight that deepens the narrative. Sometimes Fortebuono and Hardy contradict each other, demonstrating how the meaning of a situation changes between their different perspectives. “[Hardy will] write a song and then I’ll be like, ‘I’ll add this lyric or this harmony and then we can make it a duet,’ says Fortebuono. “Or I’ll come to her with a song like that, and we’ll play around with what works best… You write what happened, 85

Noonan 86 sits under a water founding playing with the knobs on her bass guitar.

I write how it made me feel.” The song, inspired by angry boys behind the wheel, begins with a fixed yet fierce beat. Hodjat’s strong, low-pitched drumming alludes to the song’s impending doom. Staats electrically emulates the pace of an accelerating speedometer, the fervorous concentration apparent on his face as he performs. Each line alternates almost evenly between Fortebuono and Hardy, their distinct vocal timbres accentuating their range and adaptability. It’s as if a magnet is drawing the pair together, their mindful mannerisms naturally syncing to a level where the two literally finish each other’s sentences. Hodjat breaches the bubbling energy of “Dead on the Dash” right before its bridge. The passion driving the incessant bangs on all parts of his drums compels every member to rubberneck like they would if a wreck had actually occurred. His ability to harness controlled chaos not only breathes life into the song, but also stems from years of experience. He started playing drums when he was four, his model being the pots and pans available in his cupboard. In lighthearted preparation for the commotion to come, his dad always sliced an orange and placed the halves over his ears. Hodjat’s musical experience is extremely impressive but never boastful. Once Fortebuono and Hardy get the basics of a MGB song down, Hodjat suggests different techniques for essentially every single instrument the band could utilize. Hodjat previously belonged to his hometown group Coral 9, an East Bay band fusing bossa nova, soul, rock, and pop with vague oceanic vibes. His involvement and knowledge helps MGB greatly, especially in the early stages of navigating this new dynamic. From Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Dacus to beabadoobee and the Beatles, each band member brings different musical influences to the table, birthing a uniquely personal sound. The group doesn’t limit their musical collaboration to just MGB: Hardy enlisted Hodjat for 87

help when she struggled to write the lead guitar part for music she was working on in her free time. Staats aids Fortebuono in the production process for her solo music. Fortebuono cherishes the collective power behind BEP, incorporating her friends’ faces for cover art and voices as pieces of her songs. The five members also find themselves in similar social circles. The energy their other friends bring to MGB performances and related projects fuels the group’s authentic spirit. “When we’re performing, we would look out in the crowd and our friends would be right at the front singing the lyrics to us. I was never scared to mess up because I could just look over to one of them,” Fortebuono gushes. “From the jump, it would be a bunch of kids in one room, cheek-to-cheek smiling because they were watching us play what we wanted to play,” Noonan adds to Fortebuono. “It was just such an honest, welcoming environment from the get-go. People have been showcasing their talents at Emerson and why they’re here, and that’s been bleeding into the band.” A few of their friends even helped the band pick up rental drums at Guitar Center for the final stretch of last semester. MGB could only practice with drums at Emerson for one week before having to give up the taste of practicing fully equipped on campus. The accessibility of drums, ranging from costs to the strict prerequisites for soundproof spaces housing the multifaceted instrument, perpetuates continual dilemmas for the band. “Our official recommendation by a person who knows how the system works and who to talk to to get into the Ansin building drums was, ‘Get a friend who’s at that level and maybe they can get you in there,’ Staats says in an exasperated tone. “To make it such an exclusive thing is a thorn in the side for Emerson.” MGB now utilizes a Berklee practice space provided 88

by Eli Mihaly-Baker. MGB plans to record demos from their setlists and upload them to Soundcloud; the group wants to wait until their music is more polished before releasing it on other streaming services. Whether it’s playing in campus spaces or furthering their infiltration of Boston’s underground music circuit, their main priority is sustaining the sound and stamina fans hear during live performances. “Being in a band and being with these people has opened a door to so many talented artists around the Boston area that I simply would not have been aware of had it not been for going to house shows, getting booked for a gig, being on the same page as an artist with a couple of a thousand followers,” Noonan states with reverence. I can’t help but think back to the first time I witnessed MGB perform. Celebrating the launch of my first issue as Editor-in-Chief of this magazine elicited a muddle of surreal emotions. My memory of that night comes and goes in intense snippets, but the energy shifting the instant MGB took command of the Lion’s Den is unforgettable. The crowd was antsy but so were the Bananas, the former itching with commotion and the latter still reeling from the aforementioned ritual. The dreamy introduction to “Spare Change” reverberated through the expansive space, its drawn-out deliverance sending chills down my spine. The music invited me into a conversation I could easily identify with, but it was their pure devotion and response to each other that made me feel like I was a part of something bigger than the present moment. 89

We held the photoshoot for this spread the morning after the band’s show at the Tourist Trap. MGB showed up with the infectious enthusiasm making me take note of them in the first place, despite it being less than 24 hours after experiencing the adrenaline rush of their career. They recounted the highlights of the night to each other between poses, raving about the connections and potential partnerships expanding the band’s success. That same, awe-striking feeling weighed heavily on my chest; my heart swelled more in the seconds I spent eavesdropping on their excitement than it did actually seeing my concept evolve into its full fruition. Just like the small brown spots mottling the peel of a fresh banana, it’s in these exact moments I can hear their innocence, delight in their sweetness, and instinctively know they’re ready to ripen.

Band Kids:

Where are they now?

by Sadie Frankel Visual by Anya Perel-Arkin 92

It isn’t uncommon to meet people who used to participate in music. From theater to high school band and chorus to self-taught guitarists, we’ve all had experience with music in our lives. But how does this time affect one’s life once they stop playing or know that they will not venture into music as a career path? Having a background in music, even just in a high school band setting, can make one’s future interactions with music very different than those of someone who has no prior knowledge or technical experience. Having played piano for five years, guitar and trumpet for six, and sang musical theater for eight, I’ve noticed the way that I interact with music somewhat differs from my friends. I’ve always felt closer to music because I know the engineered, creative processes factoring into its production. When watching a live performance, I am brought back to band and chorus concerts, musicals and shows that I have performed in, and can imagine the intensity felt by the artist on the stage. The pressure, the volume and the audience energy all compound into a sensation unmatched by anything, and I can only imagine the sheer magnitude of that feeling on a large scale. I am not the only one who has noticed this pattern. Ethan Kroes, 19, is a first-year VMA major at Emerson College. He played ukulele through elementary school, switched to guitar in middle school, and then piano in high school. Kroes no longer plays music, explaining that it is because he didn’t feel as though he was born with the skills that would make him successful or “particularly good” at music. Despite this, Kroes still has a great appreciation for music, primarily because he feels he could never get to the level of the professionals he listens to. “I would say I am a lot more appreciative of [music],” Kroes says. “I really struggled to understand [music] on that deeper level. I could never compose something myself.” Because of this self-awareness 93

caused by his years of musical experience, Kroes feels “in awe” of people whose brains do work in an inherently musical way. In fact, Kroes says that his musical experience has humbled him and made him less critical of music. “I can’t do better,” he says. Katherine Asselin, 19, a first-year Political Communications major at Emerson, talked about how her participation in musical theater throughout middle and high school impacts the way that she interacts with music. “I think there are certain things that I notice [more],” she says. “I can tell if a harmony is good… sometimes, there are songs that I’m like, ‘That was really well-arranged.’” The most notable musical aspect that Asselin observes is taken from live performances. “It is so hard to sing and dance at the same time, so when I see performers who are jumping around, that is some serious breath control,” she impressively notes. Brooke Huffman, 18, a first-year Journalism major at Emerson, looks at her experience differently from Asselin and Kroes — her experience in music, particularly musical theater, has made her more critical of the performances of others. Huffman explains that she has “an overall appreciation for the work an artist does,” but at the same time, she finds herself listening and critiquing music internally. “It’s one of those things where if you play an instrument and you hear someone else play that instrument, you can more easily pick up on its flaws,” she states. Satiene Fortenbach, 19, a first-year VMA major at Emerson, similarly finds herself more critical and aware of the different parts of music. Having studied 94

piano for 14 years at the Conservatory of Music in San Francisco, she has some expertise in music composition, particularly in piano. “Especially if I just listen to someone playing Bach, I’ll notice where they could have maybe lingered on more,” she says. Fortenbach’s experience in music also increases the appreciation and focus she puts into the music. “People say you either listen to the melody or you listen to the lyrics, but I think personally, I listen more now to both,” she says. People’s experiences are usually a reason for what they enjoy and what they do not. Musicians’ goals are rooted in moving people and eliciting an array of thought-provoking reactions. Music is made for everyone, and everyone has an opinion on music. While for some, a background in music can make music less enjoyable — and possibly less impressive, as they can hear the small mistakes where others cannot — it also can open one’s appreciation for the arts.

Visual by Rebecca Calvar

“Music is a universal language. The 12 notes are there for everyone, and those notes don't discriminate.” Angélique Kidjo, musician There is a park directly across the street from my apartment in New York City. I spent every sunny afternoon as a kid prancing around its grassy areas, gardens, running trails and playgrounds. In the middle of its garden was a communal piano; it stood out like a sore thumb from the greenery and pastel colors of the garden, its body covered in graffiti and splatter painted neon rainbow with carved names covering every square inch. The wood was splintering and chipped; it was in desperate need of a tuning job. However, the condition of the piano did not matter. I loved to sit on the wobbly bench and plunk the keys, pretending I knew exactly what I was doing. Every time I would walk by, a new set of fingers would be gracing those ivory keys. Whether it was a trained pianist playing Beethoven or a little child banging their sticky hands on the piano, music was being spread around the city to anyone who would listen. The rhythm-filled streets of NYC raised and shaped me. My eyes opened to the impact and power street musicians have on a city, even though they are often overlooked or drowned out by our AirPods. Rhythm and melodies pulsate around every corner, weaving its way around the big, bustling grid. On every sidewalk, in every park, in every subway station, someone is guaranteed to be playing their heart out. Many street musicians are regulars on their corner or subway platform. I would say hello to the same bluegrass band each morning as I passed them on my way to high school. If I were to say “the violinist under the bridge in Central Park,” locals would know just exactly who I was referring to.

Street musicians, also known as buskers, make up a crucial part of major cities worldwide — not just NYC. When I moved to Boston, my exposure to street performance hardly changed. All cities are diverse melting pots, composed of people from various cultures and backgrounds.

We may speak in diferent languages, but music is universal. Even if we have nothing in common, we can always count on music to unite us.

The sounds on each corner are always different. A woman with a fancy electric guitar connected to big amps plays on one corner and a man with an overturned plastic bucket, a funky rhythm, and his bare palms on the next. Each style is different, but the sound always comes from their heart. It’s raw, honest, genuine, and bold, all while bending the norms. The diversity of a city thrives through its music scene and the musicians who are kind enough to share their art form with us. The sidewalks are an inclusive and welcoming space for music where there are no rules. Performers are able to play any instrument, spreading their culture and talent with the rest of the city. Instruments and music styles some may have never heard before are on display for passersby to appreciate. The next time you take a walk through the Boston Common between classes, listen for the man playing the erhu, a traditional Chinese 98

string instrument. One afternoon last semester, as I was leaving the Starbucks on Boylston Street, I got two types of afternoon pick-me-ups for the price of one: I enjoyed an iced oat milk latte and a front row seat to a bear playing the keytar. The bear wore flashy, bright clothing and gold high top sneakers as he shredded his keytar. My friends and I glanced at each other to make sure we weren’t hallucinating. We danced as we waited for the light to change and nodded our heads to his beat all the way back to our dorms. The Boston icon, known as the Keytar Bear, jammed like there was no tomorrow. Keytar Bear’s true identity is unknown, but they spoke in an interview with Boston Magazine about their performing, saying their intentions are all about putting people in a better mood. Radha Rao, a 22-year-old Indian American singer-songwriter (and @radhamusic_ on Instagram), takes her music and keyboard to the streets of Boston to spread art, love, and to make an impact. “Music is therapy and something everyone can relate to and understand everybody better,” Radha shared. This past October, Rao performed “All of Me” by John Legend in the middle of Boston’s Faneuil Hall. To her surprise, she noticed John Legend halfway through her performance. He, his wife and kids watched Radha sing her heart out and give it her all. Rightfully stunned, Rao finished singing John’s song as he watched proudly, then the two of them embraced in a warm hug. “I love the connections formed through the medium of music. We all can come to a place of understanding and relatability with one another,” Rao shares when asked what she loves most about sharing music in Boston. Performing on the streets teaches Rao and others the perseverance to “sing through anything and everything.” There is no age requirement to watch or to perform around the city. The Vibe Check Band shares their 99

music right in Harvard Square in between studying for school. Despite being only 15 years old, their sound transports listeners back to the ’70s with their funkrock influences. Music provides the power to heal and provide comfort in times of universal hurting. Rao is full of desire to share music accessibly with the people around her in hopes of providing a sense of healing. “A pandemic is the perfect time to share art and love, especially when people aren’t able to get out and go to concerts. I want to heal, help, and provide service to myself and others,” Rao says. When you cross a street performer, you rarely know their backstory or what led them to where they are. Vivian Luo, also known as Violin Viiv, is an electric violinist and a Boston regular. She gifts Faneuil Hall with her untraditional yet powerful sound. You may recognize her from her covers of hit songs or bright rainbow outfits. Luo lost most of her eyesight due to Acanthamoeba Keratitis, an infection in the corneas, but this doesn’t stop her from performing incredibly time after time. Performing provides joy to her and her audience as well as the chance to form various connections. Luo told the Faneuil Hall Marketplace blog that “spontaneous dance offs, toddlers and kids that become my biggest fans and the other vendors that feel like family,” are her favorite things. Luo set up outside of TD Garden on a night that Lil Nas X went to a Bruins game. As the game ended and TD Garden started to empty, Lil Nas X heard “Old Town Road” booming from Luo’s amps outside. Lil Nas X approached Viiv as she jumped up and down with joy playing “Old Town Road.” The rapper recorded and put her on his Instagram story. Just days earlier, Viiv expressed on her Instagram how she would love to play for him. One morning on my way to high school, I sat on the busy downtown 1 train and watched a man bang on an overturned white bucket as another performer started 100

rapping to the beat. I took out my AirPods and watched art being created spontaneously, both men connecting together through their style of music and passion. Different acts and genres fuse together, forming new sounds and connections. These musicians spread inspiration. The man banging on upside down buckets is proof that music can come from anywhere. Get creative with it, and this creativity can stick with people and spread like wildfire. More and more people now become inspired to make music, even if it’s just tapping a rhythm on their desk or humming a melody in the shower. It stands as a reminder that music is for everyone. You don’t need expensive tickets and a sold out venue. All you need is open ears, a little melody and absolutely anything that makes sound.

Visual by Sam Palmer

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With the popularity of different music genres coming and going, pop stars rising and falling, and the internet changing how we listen to music, the music industry will never stay stuck in one place. However, there are a few things that haven’t changed about the music industry that are important to our history and need to be recognized consistently: that is the influence of Black culture in music, one of the most critical impacts of the music industry. Whether it’s paving the way for the creation of new genres, bringing genres to their peak popularity, or spreading influential messages through lyricism, Black musicians consistently bring their passion and talent to the table. One of the standout characteristics in Black music is the artist’s storytelling abilities. Great lyricism is one of the most important aspects in being a great artist; one experience is able to reach and resonate with so many listeners. The Black experience is something that is commonly misunderstood around the world. Whether it’s hardship, misfortune, success, or love, the Black experience is one that can only be told through words of Black artists; their widespread stories become a point of learning and understanding. Many Black artists use these skills for the better today. Cleveland-based rapper and producer Scott Mescudi, aka Kid Cudi, is said to have saved multiple people’s lives due to his ability to not only to combine rap and hip-hop with electronic music, but also be vulnerable and open about his issues with depression and loss. A lot of people do not realize the lack of exposure surrounding discussions about mental health in the Black community. Many mainstream Black artists project harmful themes of hypersexualtiy, objectification, and aggression in their music, indirectly imposing these ideologies onto their listeners. Black hypermasculinity also poses a continual issue both in and out of the music industry. Listeners believe that adopting or enjoying anything that is not considered masculine is automatically feminine, leading to the immediate rejection of topics like mental health. A lot of Black 103

kids, including myself, did not know what was wrong with them or how to fix this feeling of loneliness — Kid Cudi felt this way too. Through Cudi’s transcendent beats and relatable yet devastatingly truthful lyrics to the hyper-masculine hip-hop scene, he was able to not only influence the betterment of his listeners, but also popularize a new kind of production to other artists like Kanye West and Schoolboy Q. The impact of an artist’s message makes music essential in and to society. When artists spill their thoughts and ideas, the amount of change that can be provoked within a four minute track or a forty-five minute album is revolutionary. I saw a huge need for influence in the music industry, especially from Black artists, in the summer of 2020. With the Black Lives Matter movement picking up momentum, many Black artists stood with the activists by doing what they do best: using their talent for change. Rappers like Anderson .Paak, Lil Baby, and more released protest anthems to raise awareness around the movement, the mishandling of the protests due to the brutality of police officers, and more. Lil Baby’s protest song, “The Bigger Picture,” gained incredible traction during this time, gaining 176 millions streams on Spotify and 155 million views on YouTube. In the song, Lil Baby states:

“So it’s only right that I get in the streets March for a reason, not just on GP, I can’t lie like I don’t rap about killing and dope, but I’m telling my youngins to vote.” 104

When artists use their voices to promote positive change, people listen and get behind the message. These fans look up to their favorite artists and want to be just like them when they grow up. When change and justice are the most important things our country needs, artists are almost like our superheroes. As a young Black woman myself, I have been extremely influenced by my favorite Black artists. Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood and attending multiple predominately white institutions (PWIs), I felt very alone in my experiences when it came to growing up and relating to my friends. However, I could always count on one person to share my feelings with: my twin sister, Summer. Summer and I’s biggest connection with each other is through music. Whether it’s attending concerts together or sharing our new favorite songs, music is our permanent link. I distinctly remember back in 2018 when we received tickets to see Beyoncé and Jay-Z on their “On The Run 2” tour for our 16th birthday. Seeing such a powerful Black couple take over Soldier Field in Chicago represented one of the most inspiring experiences for the both of us. We look back at videos and fawn over the power they had over us while performing. Based on that influential experience, I asked Summer a few questions about her relationship and connection to other Black artists in her life. Sydney: Who are Black artists that have been a positive influence on you and how? Summer: Beyoncé has always been influential, as she is quite literally one of the greatest musicians of all time. Vocally she is talented, but she is incredibly dedicated and passionate about her work. She is extremely hardworking and many of her songs have powerful messages [ie. “Run the World,” “Pretty Hurts,” etc.]. I like SZA, as I can relate to certain things in her music as a Black woman. I also like J. Cole because he reminds me to be comfortable in who I am and to appreciate what I have. In general there are many Black artists in all music genres that have impacted me in some way, but I especially love it when 105

these artists allow me to embrace who I am as a young Black woman. Of course their music is phenomenal, but the messages are just as valuable. Sydney: Why do you think it is important to listen to Black artists, especially today? Summer: I think that listening to Black artists is important because you’re able to relate to specific issues and feelings that an artist expressed in their music. You may even relate to the artist themselves.

Listening to Black artists makes me feel connected and embracing of my Blackness. It’s important to have artists in your life that are talented. It’s like a sense of pride to have people in your community become influential in some aspect. No one can do it like us. We’re also really diverse and come

from different backgrounds and experiences. Black people are involved in all genres which I think is really cool. Sydney: Where have you seen Black artists influence other artists, no matter the race? Summer: I think that musicians can be influenced by fellow artists and use their work as inspiration. I also think that in general, many people view the work of Black creators and at times attempt to recreate their art. Black people are the blueprint for a lot

of things and it’s important that we receive credit and acknowledgment of our talent. I think you

also see how Black culture and music has influenced other genres. Rock music appears to be more white dominated when in reality, it resulted in the popularity of rhythm and blues. Sydney: I feel like because Black culture has so much influence on multiple cultures, there can be some negative effects that come with the positive effects too. Do you agree? Summer: Hearing rap music makes some people think that all Black people participate in drugs, illegal activity, crime… Stereotypes of us being uneducated 106

if we do “mumble rap” saying all rap is “trap music.” There’s also lots of cultural appropriation by celebrities taking from Black culture too. I mentioned before that jazz music also influenced rock music, which was also popularized by white people. As Summer mentioned, some negative outcomes come from the popularity of Black artistry. Exploitation of Black music and anti-Blackness has been a huge issue in the music industry for decades now. Artists like 6ix9ine and Nav have both used the n-word repeatedly in their music while neither of them are Black. Before artists like Tyler the Creator or Lil Nas X came around, Black artists were rarely deemed eligible to be called “pop artists’’ because pop music was always a space associated with white artists. Even on TikTok, Black creators are popular but have their content stolen and popularized by whites creators, which is why dance and inspiration credits have become necessary to include in the captions of many videos. Although their impact is great, we still have to be knowledgeable about knowing the difference between influence and exploitation. There is no denying that Black influence is everywhere and anywhere. It’s so impressive and comforting seeing how much Black artists have paved the way, especially in terms of making and listening to music; I hope other listeners, especially those not a part of the communities these artists represent, realize that full impact as well. As the music we listen to changes over time — and that change is necessary — it’s important we remember where the music we listen to now comes from and know the efforts of Black artists will only continue to flourish over time.

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For decades, musical artists have leaned on stage fashion to catch the attention of their audiences. Whether it’s James Brown’s intricate suits or Elton John’s feathers and flared ends, stagewear has always had the ability to capture one’s music and personality. Today’s artists are following the legends’ footsteps with what they perform in. The phenomenon often occurs with musicians that are reviving genres more popular in the past. Bruno Mars’s and Anderson .Paak’s R&B duo Silk Sonic have done some brilliant performances in attire that mimic frequent onstage looks in the seventies, dawning earth-tone suits with dramatic detail. These fashion statements are such an important element to not only the performance and capturing the audience, but also conveying the artist’s music and personal style. Artists will often use their onstage clothing to express not only their discography, but also their true personality. Songs are written as a form of expression, so when the stage attire coincides with the music, it creates a captivating energy for the audience. Stevie Nicks’s outfits emulated her whimsical lyrics with her scarves and layered skirts. Lil Nas X enters the stage in his varying country-glam outfits, circling back to his viral hit, “Old Town Road.” They are great performers in their own ways, but their iconic looks are a sizable part of their stage presence. You can always count on women artists to wear some of the most stunning onstage attire. Chaka Khan, Diana Ross and Tina Turner are just a few women that surely pioneered today’s on stage fashion. No one can forget the way the details on Tina’s dresses twirled while she mesmerized the audience with her dancing. Current artists like Dua Lipa and Doja Cat are clearly drawing inspiration from the closets of the talented women in music that came before them. Dua wears various outfits coinciding with looks that were dawned in the Studio 54 era to go along with her mystifying album, Future Nostalgia, which also pulls musical elements from the same period and gives each song an impending sound. Doja’s outfits have a visible hint of Chaka’s attire 109

while also appearing as a character from her recent release, Planet Her. Local artist Skylar Weiss and his band Skylar Symone & the Local Enigma love to dress however they want for performances. Weiss describes his performance, fashion, and style in general as ever-changing, saying it’s “a little bit like a chameleon.” The band wore t-shirts, jeans and baseball caps for one show at a skate park to skate after and also rocked a completely pink face at a local Midway Cafe performance. Weiss indicates his main musician style influences include legends like Prince, David Bowie, and Jimi Hendrix. As a transgender person, Weiss feels there is a lack of representation in high femme men fashion. He pinpoints the Fletcher twins of The Garden for inspiration and representation and also looks to Dorian Electra, a musician with an unbelievable array of powerful hair and makeup. Weiss does feel as though Skylar Symone & the Local Enigma is an outlier in the Boston music scene, sometimes feeling pulled to prove their identity or worth as attached to their clothing choices for performances. He hopes to dissolve the binary largely prevalent in Boston’s music scene. “It’s harder to be taken seriously. People see you as showy… I’m not apologetic for being flamboyant,” says Weiss. Skylar is quite DIY not only with his music, but his style as well. Coming from his hometown of San Francisco, amazing thrift stores have always been available to him. He enters these stores with confidence, knowing he has the potential to turn anything into a look. Weiss often gravitates to textured fabric, emphasizing the importance of getting creative instead of monopolizing the nice things from Goodwill or a local thrift store. He also shops with an open mind, explaining that “sometimes the most feminine items I decide to take and make a man-look for me.” He recently purchased a pair of platform boots painted pee dripping down the sides of them to coincide with Skylar Symone’s single “Don’t Piss On My Leg,” hoping to debut them soon when performing the song. 110

“My dream [is] to be unrecognizable in the way that Daft Punk is with helmets, but with makeup and style, the way people perceive me,” says Weiss. An array of men existing within different genres have also brought some of the most memorable looks to the stage. Whether it be in rock, punk rock, R&B, pop or hip-hop, male artists are not afraid to look just like their music. Some of today’s male artists, such as Harry Styles and Kid Cudi, follow their inspirations by pushing fashion choices outside of societal gender boundaries and using their platform to make their audiences feel comfortable with their identities. The majority of the male artists dressing brilliantly in the past are now looked to as role models for breaking out of the gender norms rigid during their primes or openly exploring gender fluidity. Unfortunately, at the time that they were doing so, people outside of their fanbase were not accepting of their endeavors. Current nonbinary artists praise those who represented gender fluidity in the past. Their impact ranges beyond the reimagination of different style concepts — it instills affirming confidence into these identities. The astonishingly multi-faceted musician Tash Sultana recently partnered with New Balance to promote the brand’s new gender-neutral line, XC-72. This pairing aligns with their on-stage aesthetic, as they often perform in androgynous casual attire. Yves Tumor, a nonbinary electronic rock artist, adopts a similar mentality to expand upon the experimental choices present in their discography. They often rock eye-catching outfits and makeup looks inspired by the ’70s, generally dawning unique details or patterns. Creativity has a large role in what these artists wear on stage to enhance their performance. From designers to stylists, to the artists themselves, all have a vision that circles back to the music. Although the cycles of backdressing makes it difficult to predict what exactly musicians will wear on stage in the future, one thing is for certain: current artists are infatuated with looks of legends, extracting bits and 111

pieces from iconic looks to create space for themselves in these conversations and subcultures.

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Visual by Kenny Wood

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Last semester, I wrote an article for this very magazine about the old Combat Zone neighborhood, where X-rated films, prostitutes, and music permeated the space that Emerson College now occupies. One of the main issues I encountered was the lack of information about any of the venues in this area. They seem like relics: fallen into internet depths where people might know a name or an image, but can never experience how they were. I could have chosen any of those venues in this area for a deeper dive, but none stand out as much as the Boston Tea Party. Sure, information about the club is readily available online. The venue was founded January 20, 1967, at 53 Berkeley Street, in what was once a synagogue built in 1872 (though many claim it was a Unitarian Church, with an inexplicable Star of David engraved in the top of the building). In the previous year, the location held the Filmmakers Cinematheque, which screened underground films by artists like Andy Warhol and Jonas Mekas. While the Tea Party started out hosting local bands, it would soon be hosting new acts like the Velvet Underground, The Who, and Fleetwood Mac, as well as older classics like B.B. King, Little Richard, and Muddy Waters. What cannot be told by all of the facts and figures is how The Boston Tea Party, along with other famous venues of the time, helped psychedelic and challenging sounds pervade the American consciousness. And somehow it is not remembered. This article is not about the

They seem like relics: fallen into internet depths where people might know a name or an image, but can never experience how they were. 114

history of the Boston Tea Party, but rather how it was and what its legacy is: a legacy that may be even more important than the actual event it was named after. The Boston Tea Party was incredibly indicative of its time. Like many other rock clubs, it was surrounded by a certain shadiness. Research online won’t fully explain who owned the club or who had a mere part to play in making it, though there were elites involved: lawyers, professors, and grad students. Those truly in the culture itself didn’t see much of a cut. Nonetheless, the club as its own entity was fully entrenched in a progressive scene. “Tea” was a colloquial term for marijuana that paid homage to the drug scene and invited it into its doors, helping sponsor a nationwide (and then worldwide) obsession with all things psychedelic. The aforementioned Velvet Underground and their visuals, conceived by Andy Warhol, helped bring psychedelic art to the forefront of the cutting edge. Lucid colors would swirl and wash over the audience members from the screen behind the Velvets, resonating with distorted guitar and Bachian melodies over monotone singing, sometimes for over ten minutes a song. In late 1968, frontperson Lou Reed even claimed the Boston Tea Party was their favorite place to play (of course he said it onstage at the Tea Party). Bands like The Grateful Dead played for hours, sometimes doing only one song, weaving back and forth through music, space, and time. On New Year’s Eve in 1969, the Dead tried to spike the drinks in the soda machine with LSD. The Boston Tea Party attracted these bands as a result of its openness, its freedom, and how it gave a big “fuck you” to anyone trying to stand in its way. In hindsight, it is highly debatable as to how much it really worked out in the end. Maybe the fuck you to the system was really a way for the owners to get the most money possible (and the children of hippies ended up voting for Reagan anyway), but it is inarguable that it had an effect on people and how the new generation saw things. The psychedelic it delivered was riveting, it was new, and its goal was the 115

expansion of the mind and consciousness. How bad could it be? The Boston Tea Party closed its doors in December 1970. Maybe it was due to the increased commercialization of rock & roll, where the money-go-round made bands charge more cash from venues and venues charge more from the audience. Maybe better clubs opened up. Maybe venues felt the pressure to get bigger and bigger until they became stadiums, the rock bubble bursting and killing the music. Maybe the owners were just sick of it. I could explain how the venue now is condominiums and how there’s currently a 7-11 store where its original location used to be, but that’s all trivial. You could look at it and pretend there’s leather jackets with popped collars and cheap sunglasses, holding their guitars in gun cases as they walk into the dimly lit space filled with cheers from the long-haired audience. But you’re more likely to see a strung out fellow getting a soda or fried thing and forget all about it. Yeah they ate fried shit in the ’60s, and they weren’t any cooler about it —they just thought they were. I want to say that the Boston Tea Party was influential, but it really wasn’t. It was a great club that was enjoyed at the time and helped give great bands and artists a platform. But if nothing else, the Boston Tea Party serves as an indicator of the true ephemeral nature of art. As psychedelia and rock music grew, so did the Tea Party; the ship eventually sailed away from its authenticity and into commodified rock. But that’s just the nature of changing tides, and we have to keep moving along with it (unless you want to sink like British tea bags!)

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117 Visual by Sam Palmer

Personal music taste is sacred. How lovely is it to have songs that are a perfect depiction of how you feel at any given moment? From a comforting Faye Webster ballad to a Drake Certified Lover Boy pregame, music oftentimes serves as a best friend and favorite kind of company. Simultaneously, music serves as a time machine. Listening to a song you loved at some point can bring back a memory in an instant: Pink Floyd immediately makes me think of my dad, while Rex Orange County brings me back to my sophomore year of high school. Music highlights so many intimate memories and emotions, and can replicate different pieces of life in the most heartwarming, nostalgic way. However, the toxicity of music culture begins when individuals decide to define music as good or bad, wrong or right. Some may declare it’s “wrong” to listen to Kacey Musgraves because she is a country artist or that it’s “basic” to listen to Labrinth because of Euphoria’s popularity. Music is music outside of its connections or relations with other things; it shouldn’t be preconceived based on some broad assumption. “Good” music has no boundaries, and restricting labels can’t be placed on something so vast. Music taste is entirely subjective, and the concept and unnecessary pressure of listening to “good music” can deter people from finding the music they genuinely enjoy. From my personal experience, people have always made music taste so competitive. I grew up in Miami, Florida, and people around me were very confident about what they were listening to. The simple question of “Do you know this song?” was a secret threat sparking a chance for someone to look down on you, destroy you and slam their musical knowledge all in your face. I was often embarrassed to share the type of music I enjoyed for fear of getting shut down or made fun of. From what I have found, reflecting on personal music taste and being slightly embarrassed is a laughably common experience for Emerson students. From Twenty One Pilots junkies to Glee stans, every person has their secret guilty pleasure artist they would be nervous to play on aux. 118

It seems everyone has their own preconceived idea of what we are allowed to listen to, which may include artists that aren’t typically considered “guilty Pleasures.” Underlying pretentiousness in music taste is something that seeps into social situations, whether we are conscious of it or not. We want to match our music to the vibe of the situation, the location, the people we are around. When music is terrible at parties, people immediately jump to judgmental conclusions. So many subconscious pressures arise when a person is sharing their music taste with others, highlighting a different yet equally as important aspect to the fear of vulnerability. I played the song “Strawberry Fields Forever” by The Beatles while hanging in my dorm room last week. My friend perked up and immediately started spilling on how much he loved the group. “I love the Beatles, but I don’t talk about the Beatles. It feels like we aren’t allowed to talk about the Beatles.” I was honestly extremely confused by this reaction — The Beatles are one of the most talked-about bands ever; how would we not be allowed to talk about them anymore? It seems everyone has their own preconceived idea of what we are allowed to listen to, which may include artists that aren’t typically considered “guilty pleasures.” That preconceived notion of what you can and can’t play is different in everybody’s head, which only creates more stifling music tastes. I recently found out from some friends that Tinder and Bumble have features that show your top 20 artists on 119

your dating profile and provide links to your Spotify or Apple Music accounts. It creates a lot of pressure for people on dating apps. “I’ll totally swipe music taste sucks,” self. However, five music insecurities, shit I listen to is

left on someone if I think their my roommate said, giggling to herminutes later, she shared her own saying, “I feel like a lot of the considered bad or a red flag.”

Music is something to share and embrace. There is no real musical hierarchy, as art is incomparable and each person’s individual music taste is equally as important and valid. Anything and everything you enjoy listening to is amazing, and no one should tell you otherwise. Music taste is an invitation for someone to really get to know you, and understand what your chosen company sounds like. Keep your sacred collection close to your heart, because each song in your library represents a different piece of who you are.

Listen to Emerson students’s guiltiest pleasures here!

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Five Cent Sound Spring 2022

Articles inside

By Sadie Frankel

By Ashley Onnembo

By Zoe O’Neil

By Karissa Schaefer

By Daphne Bryant

By Pavton Cavanaugh

By Claire Moriarty

By Rebecca Zaharia

By Sam Silveira

By Jules Saggio

By Sophie Severs

By Minna Abdel-Gawad