At this point, it almost feels reductive to say that Ye is a controversial figure. The word “controversy” implies surprise, and there hasn’t been much of that left in his case for years now.

In a landscape where music is constantly positioned as content to be ranked, reacted to, clipped, and categorized, there’s something grounding about an artist whose work simply exists.

Without good soundtracks, cinema would be one-dimensional, limited by the audience’s perception of what the scene is supposed to sound like. That’s a big chunk of the reason why great movies are great: the music supervisor has excellent taste.

A shared song becomes shorthand for a feeling, a moment, a version of yourself you didn’t have the words for yet. If even one of these tracks finds a home in your rotation, then that connection has already done its job.

Think of the last time you felt overstimulated, poorly rested, or underappreciated; like you’re out at sea during a hurricane and there’s no land in sight. If you could go back to that moment, what kind of playlist would steady the boat?

By the time I stopped receiving lessons around the age of fifteen, my understanding of music theory was about at the level it should have been at ten.

The rich, organic sound of vinyl has a certain magic to it, evoking emotions and memories in ways that digital files simply cannot replicate.

Now it’s 2024, and we’re actively witnessing history repeating itself, only this time it’s country music.

As glamorous and exciting as the event may be, it’s nothing more than a soiree for music’s elite to celebrate their figurative employees of the month.

Just because the artist might not have created the result entirely on their own doesn’t mean it’s any less artistic.