Francois, Mixed Bag, Music for Thought, Playlists, Story, Thinker, Writing

Hak Baker – Conundrum

I have a ritual. Divulging it may help countenance the way we interact with music on the enormous, inescapable digital platforms—Spotify, in this case—or it may just add more noise to the whirlpooling soundscape of the internet. Like the book and film industries, most new music (singles, LPs, EPs) is officially released on Fridays. Spotify capitalizes on this through its prominently-placed New Music Friday playlist. It’s an effective if scattershot showcase of the newest big-label, big-artist songs accompanied by a slew of algorithmically selected tracks based on your listener profile. But I’m skeptical of algorithms. And I still like the relatively safe spaces of albums; whereas a playlist categorically defined by the newness of the seven-day drop cycle, computer learning software be damned, hop scotches too much from genre and tempo on play-through.

Maybe, I’ll admit, I even like the skeuomorphic renders that scrolling through the cover art of the new albums and singles presents. The tiles offer a glimpse into the personality behind each project; their arraignment a concession to how much the labels pay Spotify for top-of-the-list preference. So, I stay up on Thursday evenings and wait for the New Releases tab to update. (More often than not, this doesn’t happen at the stroke of 12:01 am, but hours later during the morning rush hours.) Regardless, sometimes, in this digital crate digging exercise, I find something worth pilfering for my own playlists. At other moments, I scratch my head and hate-judge whoever thought the new Mount Kimbie album was deserving to rest on the ocean floor of this sea of sound.

If you’ve never before clicked the Browse tab then this all might sound like quaint idiosyncratic behavior. But if you do and you have feelings about how music is presented to and consumed via Spotify, then you would be surprised to know that even at my most untrusting of Spotify’s transparent attempt at personalized playlists such as New Music Friday, worthwhile music can be had on the Discover tab (even if you only go there out of laziness or accident or pretension: “How misguided are these recommends going to be?”) as well. But a rose by any other name is still a rose.

This is how I came across the work of Hak Baker.


Despite his thin output, I knew Baker’s lullabying tune “Conundrum” was perfect for a playlist I continue to invest stupid amounts of energy on and whose architecture is built around the idea “What else would you listen to if you loved Frank Ocean and hip-hop?” “Conundrum,” an unsentimental look at life in East London, is just voice and acoustic guitar. A simple formula that has worked well-enough for the Amy Winehouses and Chris Martins of the world. The lyrics have depth and surprising diction while the guitar playing is reminiscent of third-week-of-YouTube-music-lessons skill. Baker’s voice is, however, palpable, clarifying, almost sad.


I bring my belief in fortuitous circumstances to my playlists. By the Sunday after the most recent new music releases, I had managed to add, including “Conundrum,” seven new tracks. The day had started off slowly as I tried to slough off the dull feeling that hung around me following the previous night’s tennis and dancing and a number of pulls from a bottle of Jameson that was also seven in number if not more. Actually, I was supplementing my taking-life-into-account state of affairs with a reckoning of Neil Young. Apparently, the old man’s catalog is now on Spotify and I was searching for a specific live album a friend had played for me on his record player on another, whiskey-soaked Saturday. It’s there, I’m sure, but I needed to get outside at least once today. (The ways in which I wasn’t being productive were staggering: The articles I needed to write, the emails waiting to escape the “drafts” folder wasn’t getting any slimmer, and I began this post in a devil may care manner. Wasting time, right here, right now.) So, at no later than 10 pm, I made my way to a slice joint on the other side of the highway that deals in half-cuts upon request. An easy 15-minute walk from my Brooklyn neighborhood.


It’s worth mentioning that this pizza shop is heavy-metal themed and when I got there, early Black Sabbath was playing loudly and two drunk on life (also beer) patrons were debating which of the pizza-punned t-shirts to get. Each black tee features a screen-printed front in the style of classic metal album covers and they’re all great. Because superstition is leashed to low expectations, I couldn’t grin any more dumbly or widely at my fortune. This would be the third time I ordered half-slices and got full ones instead. Rarely do I place much stock in my propensity to not speak loudly, but there I was, walking home the winner of a twofer. Superstition, too, harbors an appreciation of luck no matter its scale. The playlist switched to shuffle and what could be described as an unfair sequence of 5 songs played back to back. It was as unfair as the starting lineup of the Los Angeles Dodgers, though that simile may not hold as the majority of these artists were British.


“Conundrum” kicked it off and, while I was toting my pizza beneath an underpass, Rex Orange County’s “Paradise” began afterward. Belonging to the hangover genre of songs, it makes a good case for not drinking beer to get drunk just because everyone else is which felt particularly relatable right then. From Rex’s first album, which is emblematic of the best efforts of bedroom producers, “Paradise” is mostly deep bass notes and an unstellar drum machine behind which synthesizer keys fade in and out. Then, after the song’s abrupt ending, was the comparatively expertly-produced “Laidback” by Rat Boy. In this case, the upbeat song finds the British youth expressing a love for someone whom he can’t directly express that to emphatically. So, just as the song title heavily features in the refrain, Rat Boy needs to occupy the premier emotional state and posture of Western millennials: chill. Who isn’t chill as much as she’s cavalier is Jessie Reyez. This song, a would-be bold choice for karaoke, is called “Fuck It” and Jessie’s attitude wavers between a spoken-poetry aspect to a roll call of “Fuck It”s. The track came to my attention via another sort of algorithm: Daniel Caesar’s Instagram Story. He was riding in an Uber as it played on the radio if I remember correctly, again underscoring my hunch that many things are possibly better in Canada. The next and final song was the most clever cover of 2016: Sunni Colon’s interpretation of “Black Hole Sun,” the anthemic Soundgarden song that is likewise the best about heroine since “Beast of Burden.” Colon’s airy track reworks the chorus of the grunge-era hit to a dance floor juke. That is, dancing in the way that “F.U.B.U.” by Solange is a dance track—they both share a bass and bump that engenders creative movement.


On a street corner near my apartment, three books were left atop a garbage can for recyclables. (It’s all very Brooklyn, I know.) The books seemed relatively clean and I took two titles: A short story collection by the late Denis Johnson and a large history of Lewis and Clark by Stephen Ambrose. Balancing this all and jiggering my keys into the doors I needed to pass through to get home, I had my hands full.

Chayed Out, D-Man, Deep Cuts, Mixed Bag, Music for Thought

Musical Ai

On Nitch, the Instagram page with enough scrolling power to prod you out of bed in the morning, there’s an image of Banksy sitting in a chair, his face cloaked behind an oversized hood and his fingertips welded together as if in prayer.

The caption reads, “I don’t know why people are so keen to put the details of their private life in public; they forget that invisibility is a super power.”

Sometimes this idea prompts me to hang back. To watch while others spread themselves thin. But when I discovered Spotify and the opportunity to be totally transparent about my listening habits, I leaned in.

Spotify gives me a heightened awareness about people’s connection to music. A track off Bon Iver’s For Emma might signal a rough day. ODESZA’s Divinity Remix hints at a moment of teeth-gnashing action. And when my grandfather, a man dedicated to his vinyl records, joined Spotify, I watched as he suddenly transitioned from Bach, Handel and Arthur Rubinstein to Frank Zappa, revealing a rare glimpse at a subterranean rebellious streak.

Maybe it was naive to overlook that all this public data could be harnessed for something besides interconnectedness. With great data comes great responsibility and recent news is uncovering a growing suspicion about how Spotify may be using that data.

Journalists and bloggers are accusing Spotify of creating songs by “fake artists” to fill in some of their ambient playlists to save money on royalty fees. Several artists stepped forward, others like Deep Watch remain eerily quiet.

Then there’s the potential connection between Echo Nest, Spotify’s data collection hub that tracks user’s listening habits, and the recent hire of Francois Pachet, a revered French professor and machine learning guru.

Bloggers speculate that Spotify is accumulating listening data so that they can use machine learning to create customized music. With millions of hours of listening data, Spotify’s algorithms could pinpoint the chord progressions, rhythms and styles that resonate with users. They could theoretically customize music for a specific moment in time.

The goal is awesome. And for me it would be the end of a long journey after stumbling on the crowdsourcing capacity of Hype Machine. I’ve always fantasized about a sixth sense for what song belongs in the current moment. An algorithm would take out the guess work.

We may not even be that far off. The glowing boards laid out in front of a D.J. and the prevalence of pro tools has introduced a new member of the band – a formula, a computer, or whatever cuts and hems raw tracks.

It’s hard to resist that mathematical precision. By definition technology makes things easier. Venmo means you don’t have to take cash out. Uber Eats means you don’t have to leave your couch to eat sushi. But I’m of the belief that easier doesn’t always mean better in the long term.

Take Dave Grohl for example. As a kid he couldn’t afford a drum set so he’d beat wooden sticks on pillows, hitting the fabric as hard as he could to make an audible sound. That produced a breakneck style that drove Nirvana and the Foo Fighters. No one brings Dave Grohl on to play drums for a soft jazz track – they hire him to shatter snare drums.

My concern with AI generated music is that we will lose the ‘fuck you’ types. The narrative behind the music will become less important as it becomes a more streamlined experience. We will settle into a cyclical feedback loop, thoughtlessly mainlining the musical stream. Listening data goes in. Tunes come out. Listening data goes in. Tunes come out. Our past would prescribe our future.

But as we get further into AI territory, we may find that our experiences with music aren’t as transactional as listening data suggests. A friend recently told me that he associated Father John Misty’sNancy From Now On” with a second-hand surfboard he’d found in the back room of a well-lit surf shop. When he called the previous owner, the man told him that he’d shaped it for his wife, who was uninterested in the alternative design (it’s round like a pill or a bar of soap). As my friend twirled around the board he noticed a note on the bottom channel. Inscribed in pencil it said, “For Nancy.” The moment was cemented and the board became one with the song.

Algorithms are designed to root out randomness and chance. For an equation to work, you need a closed system. A self driving car can’t function if the roads are forever changing direction. The same would be true for AI generated music. You would need to construct a limit. A known quantity. Random chance would be deadly.

But music needs randomness. It needs chaos. It needs Death Grips. It thrives off leaps and bounds – unpredictable moments of improvisation. And for that, there’s no one better than a human.

Cymbal, Francois, Music for Thought, Story, Writing

Mura Masa – Blue feat. Damon Albarn

Mura Masa wasn’t on any particular musical radar I kept. Mostly, dipping into the memory banks here, when I hear the artist’s name, I countenance the image of a pretty girl in college: two years older, sorority member, laughably out of my league, and an audiophile. We stayed in touch, however, despite my better senses telling me it was perhaps best to put distance between sophomoric crushes out here in the ~real world~. When I saw her last it was autumn. We got dinner and drinks at a noisy Nolita taqueria. Neither of us is particularly loud and, well, you know how pretty girls listen but don’t hear. This was also the night I learned what Vetements is, but that’s a blog for another day. As a popular and raucous song began to play above us, we trapezed back some years and into the unique comfort of a running conversation: songs that sound good on paper but fail upon execution.

It was a tune designated for a land of shadows I call Sweetgreen Music™. Meaning, the song cashes in on the magic of Millennial pop by being of several styles and sensibilities at once without offending anyone. There’s a playlist for everything now, it seems. Mura Masa’s “Love$ick” is a top-earner in the Sweetgreen Music™ economy. We both hated the track. She thought A$AP Rocky soils the virgin production with his warm weather drive-by raps. The original orchestration wasn’t fetching. Though I thoroughly get down with the Four Tet remix of the track.

A graduate of the School of Soundcloud (RIP?), Mura Masa is the nom de plume of 21-year-old Brit, Alex Crossan. His self-titled debut album is here, and the immediate, overwhelming feeling goes as such: sheesh, what are the rest of us doing with our lives, huh? It’s a party album, made for dancefloors and, inescapably, Sweetgreens everywhere as well. What stands out most amidst the bubbling production, rippling and hefty bass lines, afrobeat and dancehall instrumentation, and is conspicuous even among the featured artists (basically a who’s who of i-D, Dazed, or Paper cover stories), is the track “Blu.” An early single and, now, the finale to the album, here is a track for the days ahead.

Damon Albarn lends his unmistakable tenor to the leisurely plod and 808s-rife song. In the background are, as the British musical icon waxes on about a sanguine kind of love, whizzing noises and harp strums. Near the end, there’s only a softly plucked acoustic guitar and Albarn’s magnified, reverberating voice. Finally, the music drifts for a beat and muffled London street noises become evident—where they there the whole time? Lasting for over thirty seconds, the innocuous sounds play the album out.

Albarn, of course, is a polymath and band savant. He’s the frontman of Blur, creator of Gorillaz, and just generally has his hands in all sorts of pots. The most recent Gorillaz album, out earlier this year, was, well, a lot. The personal and critical consensus seems to agree; it’s good in the gestures-of-approval-kind-of-way that doesn’t necessarily satisfy. The deluxe edition is out soon and promises more tracks, perhaps great ones. But why settle for an opus when a song will do? Demon Days was a gateway album for me and young Crossan (who told The Fader as much), revealing to us both the possibilities of music without boundary. Of combined genres, sounds, artistry, and visuals. It’s a weird, sonic showcase that seems to make a point of its genius by being playful and apocalyptic at once. Albarn made up a band, for chrissake. I still haven’t quite recovered. Nothing that outstanding had graced MTV since Kanye West who, dressed as a bear mascot, flipped rap on its head.

Perhaps, all of this is a roundabout way of suggesting that I unreasonably stress over any new output from Albarn. Can he be Demon Days great again? A dumb question, sure. I understand that our past both informs and haunts our every move, both in creative endeavors like music writing as it does in mundane procedures like figuring out lunch. Sometimes you want music that will free you from your teenage ennui. Other times you just need Sweetgreen. “Blu” is a cryptic lullaby. It is also over a half a minute of nothing. And, on repeated listen, it plays its hand. A couple of talented artists—one who impressed me and another who’d done similar to a years-ago crush—from across the ocean combined their talents and made something exceptional. We are all different people in different places now. “Blu” is what I hope to hear more of, wherever I am.

Shoutout to the good folks at Cymbal for sharing their Universal Player with the world. It’s easy, good looking, and intuitive. Like me.

Chayed Out, D-Man, Music, Music for Thought

Why Father John Misty Removed His Generic Pop Songs From Soundcloud


Father John Misty stepped towards the mic as the Saturday Night Live crowd applauded. A red spotlight lit up the stage and his hands swept up the neck of an acoustic guitar. His pencil-thin mustache moved with the syllables of the first lyric…

“Bedding Taylor Swift / Every night inside the Oculus Rift.”

Father John Misty loves controversy. And he has a knack for orchestrating it to evolve into humorous headlines.Rolling stone



“He’s got no filter,” said a friend who’d seen him live years ago. “He’s the kind of guy who will intro a song by telling you about how he was jerking off that morning.”

To promote his upcoming album, Pure Comedy, Josh Tillman (Father John Misty) released three songs on Soundcloud (Generic Pop Song #4, #29, #30). Each track was a satire of a familiar pop trope. There was a drop that would make the Chainsmokers green with envy. A love song. And a lamentation of how hard it is to be famous.

It was as if FJM was leeching himself of his pop tendencies – letting the sappy verses and pro tools seep out before settling in for the real deal. But the true irony was that these satirical pop songs were good. The satire felt like celebration. The comment section was confused: “wait, I like this.”


And apparently this isn’t the first time Tillman has pulled music. In 2015 he yanked a Ryan Adams cover because Lou Reed visited him in a dream, saying, “Delete those tracks, don’t summon the dead, I am not your plaything. The collections of souls is an expensive pastime.

So at least he’s consistent. Although predicting what Father John Misty will do next is impossible. Will the Generic Pop Songs ever resurface? Is this a sign that Pure Comedy is a satirical album? But a good satire, so not really a satire? Talking about Father John Misty means talking loops around yourself, until you’re unsure what to believe.

Which is how two unsuspecting British anchors looked this weekend after Father John Misty told them what had inspired his new album. “A lot of the answers to sophisticated, modern questions are really simple and oftentimes ironic.” said Misty. His legs were crossed and he wore skin-tight jeans. “Like for instance, the first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”

Both anchors cocked their heads to one side like dogs waiting for a treat, realizing that Tillman’s earlier comment, “Does someone who calls himself Father John Misty have a good reason for doing anything?” was ringing true.

Chayed Out, D-Man, Music, Music for Thought

Bonobo’s Migration


I was reading Grayson Schaffer’s, “A Healthy Dose,” when I remembered Bonobo’s new album, Migration, had just been released. Grayson is a senior editor at Outside Magazine and his article is a confessional about experimentation with ayahuasca, a potent drug that gives users hallucinatory revelations. For Grayson, it was the catalyst for a spiritual and physical metamorphosis. He dropped ten pounds, lost interest in booze, and shed a heavy, more burdened version of himself.

Despite a lingering skepticism of drugs, I like reading about psychedelics. It’s fun to think about a spiritual realm where Hells Angels befriend Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, to flirt with the idea of interconnectedness and build a greater architecture of being that reveals a burning curiosity for life. It’s trippy shit, but basically water cooler talk for ayahuasca disciples.

As I read, I flipped on Bonobo’s new album, Migration. An experienced DJ and producer, Migration is Bonobo’s sixth album. With guest appearances from Nick Murphy (formerly Chet Faker) and indie white unicorn, Rhye, anticipation was high.

By pairing Bonobo’s downtempo, electronica with Grayson Schaffer’s fervid transformation from Patagonia bro to Dean Potter reincarnated, I was intentionally creating my own concoction. I wanted to slip into the subconscious. Find that sweet spot where reading and understanding coalesce.

It takes concentration. Often we’re yanked out by something discordant or we simply lack the attention span. But Bonobo’s new album Migrations (and his music in general) is designed to be played front to back. To pluck and pick at individual songs doesn’t do justice to Bonobo’s uncanny ability to link music into a cohesive journey. He’s a modern composer, using strings and percussion to orchestrate an out of body experience and lead the listener into a hyper focused state.

I became blissfully unaware that there was work to be done and lay the magazine across my keyboard, bobbing my head up and down to Bonobo’s Migrations.

Since the North Borders, the majority of my time has been spent in transit. For a year living unrooted between cities whilst touring. A large part of this record was conceived during that time in unfamiliar spaces and within the constraints of temporary workspaces and the lack of a permanent home or base, something I feel contributed to the process and ultimately made this record something I’m immensely proud of.” – Bonobo

Chayed Out, D-Man, Music for Thought

The Rebrand

All the thief left was a pair of shoes, which Sam picked up 45 minutes South of San Francisco. Everything else – pants, socks, work shirt, countless pieces of memorabilia, familiar fits and wrinkles – were gone.

The audacity of it hit Sam as soon as he saw the broken glass shining on the concrete, but the feelings of loss took some time to develop. He’d reach for something, before realizing it was gone.

The optimistic type, Sam began to rebuild. We called it a re-brand. It was an opportunity to try out a new look, buy the shit he really wanted. It would be a total revamp of Sam.

He bought his first round of new shirts, then went home and washed them. Walking around in starchy, pressed cotton made him feel like a mannequin. Like humans, clothes take time to gather character. A scratch at the elbow. A roughening of the material.

To help with the transition, Sam started reading about Buddhism. Most relevant was the idea that we are more than our material possessions. Sam doesn’t derive meaning from a t-shirt. His essence is more innate. Constant.

That sounds pretty good on paper, but the reality is much more materialistic. Passerby’s judge you in seconds based on your branded chest. The leap to Buddhist indifference was a little much and Sam was thrown into a existentialist crisis of self discovery. The jean jacket he’d bought was still dangling on a hanger. This went beyond clothes.

In any rebrand, it’s important to have a goal. A North star to lead the way in times of darkness. But Sam went into this whole thing unwillingly. A thief in the night, pulling on a Hamilton College soccer t-shirt. But he soon found his anchor.

Narrative. We construct them without even thinking. We assess, judge and make it fact, all from the fenceposts of our own cranium. Sam might construct the narrative that his clothes were stolen because of bad karma. Or that the thief was some type of divine intervention forcing his hand into a much needed rebrand.

Or the truth is much less theatrical. His shit got stolen. There’s no narrative beyond that, no need for the dramatic coloring of simple details. And with that as a mind pump, Sam began to notice other narratives that were unfurling around him, pulling them in to inspect the source.

D-Man, Deep Cuts, Music, Music for Thought

White Ferrari – Frank Ocean

The man in front of me moved his fingers cautiously, as if one wrong move would demolish his chances. I watched over his shoulder – a quiet observer.

He stopped to stare out the train window, Oakland rushing by, tents hanging under highway ramps and an orange light reflecting against a shipping container.


We hit a tunnel and the man got back to work, his fingers springing upwards after tapping each letter. He began to edit, adding the date of the event, then the location, the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA).

His last edit was his worst.

Totally fine if you can’t make it, he wrote.

His finger hovered over the “send” button, but he stopped to look back out the window. Maybe to wait for some sign that this was right, that whatever he had written would mesh with the ongoing narrative. Or would he hear silence?

He hovered over the “send” button again, then clicked his phone off, and placed it in his pocket, moving to get off the train.

Chayed Out, elgringo, Music for Thought, Stuff Besides Music

Matthew and the Atlas – Pale Sun Rose

Think about this: songs almost always reveal themselves in the initial listen. Whether it’s a club banger, a chill vibe, a folksy love tale, or a mellow downer – we know what kind of song it is meant to be right away. You agree, right? Rarely do songs polarize listeners, blur the lines, and provide multiple moods.

Pale Sun Rose is a song I’ve been chewing on for a few weeks, and I still can’t put my finger on it. After seeing D-Man dabbling in my Spotify and gravitating towards this song himself, I found he had a similar reaction. We know this is a good song immediately; it’s unique and captivating. But what is the story – is it sad? Adventurous? Reflective? How is the listener meant to digest the song – for a roadtrip, around a campfire, on an aimless stroll?

I’m still not sure myself, but I know it’s cool music. And we should acknowledge the songs that lure us to dig into them; songs that aren’t cookie cutter in their theme and feeling.

What does this song do for you?



Benny Cassette - Entertain Us - Francois
Bangers and Mash, Francois, Music, Music for Thought, The Aftermath Music

C’mon Now, Entertain Us

That there exists a subset of rap specializing in angst speaks to how far the premier musical movement of the last 30 years has come. Think about this for a second, angst rap. Well, alright, more like pop-rap than the genuine item.

*** ***

Speaking broadly, angst rap (shouts to Lupe Fiasco and Kid Cudi for popularizing the genre), is a close cousin to what Yung Lean, the King of the Sad Boys and his ilk begot. Now, listening to Benny Cassette’s “Entertain Us,” we see how much the hip-hop playing field has openend.

Delivered at a pace familiar to Top Forty rap listeners, with Millennial self-preservation at the receiving end of his criticism, Cassette riles his social discomfort along his smooth sing-talk delivery, taking aim at the male and female archetypes of the iPhone commentariat alike:

“Fuck yo twitta/Fuck yo Snapchat/ Fuck yo Instagram/ There’s so much bullshit happening I’m losing who I am,” goes the refrain.

Though an enjoyable song, we see angst for what it’s worth. Lamenting without the suggestion of change is just complaining from a cozy distance. He chants: “We’re so bored/Come and entertain us.” Is he really? Yet, “Entertain Us” is still an effective song for what it references and immediately brings to mind.

*** ***

Cassette’s banner ad of a song borrows its title from what, at least in my K-Rock uprbringing as the pinnacle of angst rock. Nirvana’s “Smells Like Tenn Spirit,” where Cassette paraphrases Kurt Cobain’s laconic grunge anthem for today’s audience: the social media addicted Millenials; brandishing today’s youthful gripes: superficiality, lack of real conversation, disconnectedness from the corporeal; all packaged to refract the best qualities of today’s dominant sound: rap music.

Come and entertain us
You can’t really blame us
It all feels shallow…


Chayed Out, D-Man, Mixed Bag, Music for Thought

Music – you’re in an interesting place

Yesterday Soundcloud announced it will be rolling out its paid subscription service, Go. That’s pretty big news for the music industry. For years Soundcloud has been amassing a huge user base without requiring a dime in return. But change is inevitable and the Berlin based music streaming service is positioning itself to take on the top dawgg in music streaming – Spotify.

I’m not stoked. In fact I’m a bit dissapointed with Soundcloud. Like many users, I love the site because it’s functional and free. It’s really that simple. But I understand their decision. Businesses need to make revenue.

But Soundcloud’s decision to switch to offer a subscription based service is more than just a fiscal push – it’s a pivotal moment for how we consume and digest music. Fifteen years ago if you were a 90’s kid eager to listen to Who Let the Dogs Out, you purchased a C.D. released by a Edel Records. You paid for your record and you listened to it.

Today, if you want to listen to Kanye West’s new album Life of Pablo, you have to download Tidal. If you want to party to SoundOf: Viceroy – Soundcloud. All of Bahamas’s happy ass music? Spotify. Streaming services are adopting the restrictive nature of record labels and artists are getting quarantined into disparate buckets of cloud based technology.

I’m worried about this disjointed structure. Songs getting quarantined. Three services, three fees. This kind of stuff keeps me up at night and makes me nostalgic for the days of mix C.D’s and iTunes. At least then music wasn’t as segmented and disjointed as a high school cafeteria.

Rant over. Back to the music.

Update – Apparently the music video for Jimmy Franco features A$AP Rocky. What?!