Started by wanderingmaker8 · · 👁 5 views · 48 replies
Michael Newman50 said:If you’re looking for some fresh sounds to dig into, there are a few acts currently making enough noise that I think they deserve a bit more attention than they're getting. I’ve spent most of my weekend digging through various underground lists, and while much of what passes for "cutting edge" these days feels like recycled nostalgia, a few names actually seem to have some grit behind them. It’s a bit exhausting trying to stay ahead of the curve when everything feels so derivative, but I suppose that's part of the ritual. If you have some time to kill, you might want to keep an eye on these groups before they become too mainstream for comfort.
It’s a heavy thing to sit with, watching The Beatles essentially float through an era where they seemed to find a strange, dark sort of peace in the idea of self-destruction. There is a certain melancholy weight to their later work, a sense that they weren't just playing songs, but were actually flirting with the void itself. It feels less like a provocation and more like a weary acceptance of the end, which is perhaps why it still hits so hard today.
Scissor Sisters
Rufus Wainwright
I’ve been sitting here thinking about Merzbau lately, and I can't help but feel a certain sense of exhaustion just contemplating it. It's one of those concepts that feels almost too heavy to hold onto for very long. There’s a specific kind of madness required to build something like that—to create an environment that swallows you whole—and sometimes I wonder if we aren't all just building our own little psychological labyrinths without even realizing it. It reminds me of a rainy Tuesday back in Seattle, years ago, when I spent far too much time staring at the cluttered corners of a basement studio, feeling like the walls were slowly inching inward. We spend so much energy trying to organize our lives, yet the most profound expressions often come from that chaotic, overwhelming urge to simply let the structure collapse under its own weight.
Ravi Shankar * Wilco
Ravi Shankar * Wilco
I’ve been sitting here thinking about Bjork lately, nursing a lukewarm coffee and wondering how much of her influence still lingers in the cracks of modern production. It’s funny; I remember listening to her back in the day when everything felt a bit more visceral, a bit less polished by algorithms. There was this raw, almost unsettling connection between the electronic textures and that singular voice that you just don't see much of anymore in the mainstream. It makes me feel old, I suppose, but there’s a certain weariness that comes with watching the industry move toward such predictable patterns while she continues to exist in her own orbit.
Tech N9ne
Ghostface Killah
Bobby Conn
Morton Subotnik
Cola Porter
I’ve been sitting here thinking about The String Cheese Incident, and it strikes me how much our perception of live music shifts as we get older. When I was younger, I used to think a concert was just about the volume and the immediate rush of the crowd, but now, there's something almost meditative about watching a band like them weave through those improvisational jams. It reminds me of those long, aimless drives through the Midwest where the landscape just blurs past the window; you aren't necessarily trying to get anywhere, you're just existing within the movement. There is a certain weary sort of comfort in that kind of musical unpredictability, a reminder that even when things feel structured, there is always room for a bit of beautiful, wandering chaos.
I’ve been thinking lately about the sheer, unadulterated grit of Eagles of Death Metal, and how much they seem to represent a certain kind of resilient rock spirit that feels increasingly rare in our overly polished modern landscape. There was this one rainy Tuesday back in Seattle when I found myself sitting in a dim corner of a dive bar, nursing a lukewarm coffee and listening to an old live bootleg, and it struck me just how much their garage-rock swagger cuts through the noise of everything else. It isn't just about the catchy hooks or the driving rhythm; it's that sense of effortless, almost weary cool that makes you feel like you're part of something authentic, even if it's just for the duration of a three-minute track. In a world where everything feels manufactured to satisfy an algorithm, there’s something deeply grounding about a band that stays true to that raw, dusty energy.
I’ve been sitting here thinking about Polyphonic Spree lately, wondering why that specific brand of choral euphoria feels so much more exhausting than it does uplifting. There was a time, back when I was drifting through certain circles in New York, where you couldn't escape their wall of sound—that massive, orchestrated swell that felt like it was trying to force a spiritual awakening on anyone standing too close to the speakers. It’s a heavy thing, being asked to feel awe on command by a group of people dressed in white, singing in perfect, overwhelming unison. It reminds me of those overly ambitious art installations I used to see in Chelsea that demanded your reverence before they even offered a single coherent thought. Sometimes, I find myself missing the quiet, the subtle imperfections, rather than this relentless, polished crescendo that leaves you feeling strangely hollow once the last note fades into the air.
I’ve been sitting here thinking about the legacy of The Faint, and honestly, there’s something almost haunting about how they managed to capture that specific, jittery energy of the early 2000s indie scene. It wasn't just dance music, and it certainly wasn't traditional rock; it was this strange, pulsing intersection of both that felt like walking through a neon-lit alleyway in Chicago at three in the morning when the air is just a little too heavy. I remember being in a basement club years ago, the kind where the walls sweat and the floor feels perpetually sticky, listening to those jagged synth lines cut through the darkness, and realizing that most modern acts are just pale imitations of that raw, electronic grit. They had this way of making you feel both incredibly energized and deeply unsettled all at once, which is a difficult needle to thread. Most bands today seem too polished, too afraid of a little sonic friction, whereas The Faint leaned right into the chaos.
Interpol * Tegan and Sara * Erasure
Interpol * Tegan and Sara * Erasure
Interpol * Tegan and Sara * Erasure
I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about the lasting impact of Le Tigre, and how their specific brand of electrified, politically charged dance music seems to resonate even more deeply in today's fractured social climate. It reminds me of those late nights back in my college years, wandering through dimly lit clubs in Chicago, feeling that singular tension between wanting to lose oneself in a beat and needing to stay acutely aware of everything happening in the streets outside. There was always something subversive about their sound—a way of layering catchy, rhythmic hooks over lyrics that refused to let you settle into comfortable complacency. It wasn't just music meant for movement; it was music meant for reckoning.
Gossip
The Doors
I've spent enough time drifting through various concert venues and listening to different iterations of live music to realize that there’s something uniquely hypnotic about the way Phish operates. It isn't just about the technical proficiency—though they certainly have that in spades—but rather about that specific, sprawling sense of improvisation that can make a single night feel like an entire lifetime. I remember sitting in a dimly lit theater back in the early 2000s, nursing a lukewarm drink and watching them navigate a jam that seemed to stretch toward infinity, and it struck me then how rarely you encounter music that feels this alive and unpredictable. It's a strange, beautiful kind of chaos that stays with you long after the lights come up.
Phish * Queen
I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about the lasting impact of The Strokes, and honestly, it feels like we’re living in a world that has largely forgotten how to capture that specific kind of raw, urban tension they mastered so effortlessly. There was something about those early days in New York—that gritty, unpolished energy that felt less like a performance and more like a shared secret between the band and anyone lucky enough to be in the room—that just doesn't seem to translate to the polished, algorithmic pop landscape we navigate today. I remember sitting in a cramped, dimly lit dive bar in Chicago back in the early 2000s, listening to their debut on loop, feeling that sharp, rhythmic precision hit like a sudden chill in the air, and realizing that music had finally found its pulse again. It wasn't just about the catchy hooks, though there were plenty of those; it was the way they managed to sound both incredibly effortless and intensely calculated at the exact same time. Now, everything feels so manufactured, so stripped of that beautiful, jagged imperfection that made them essential.
I’ve always found myself circling back to Sufjan Stevens * Morrissey, wondering if there’s something inherently melancholy about how certain artists manage to capture that specific, hollow ache we all carry around. It reminds me of those rainy Tuesday afternoons I spent drifting through used bookstores in Seattle, looking for something that felt real, even if it was just ink on paper. There's a weight to their work that stays with you, much like the lingering scent of old coffee in a quiet cafe, refusing to simply fade away.
Morrissey(?questionable?)
Pet Shop Boys
I’ve been sitting here thinking about the sheer weight of legacy and how it tends to crush even the most formidable icons under its own gravity. Take Metallica, for instance. There is something inherently exhausting about watching a band attempt to navigate the transition from being the vanguard of a movement to becoming an institution that people respect mostly out of habit rather than raw, unbridled passion. It reminds me of those long, rainy afternoons I used to spend in Seattle back in the nineties, staring at the gray sky and wondering if anything truly revolutionary could ever actually last without eventually turning into a polished, corporate version of itself. You watch them go through these cycles—the lightning strikes of their early years followed by the inevitable, calculated shifts toward something more palatable for the masses—and you can't help but feel a certain weariness. It isn't that the music lacks merit, of course; it's just that when greatness becomes a brand, it loses that jagged, dangerous edge that made us care in the first place.
I was sitting in my study the other day, nursing a lukewarm coffee and thinking about how much the landscape of heavy metal has shifted since I first started listening to records in my teens, when the thought of Judas Priest crossed my mind. There’s something about that specific brand of classic, leather-clad heavy metal that feels increasingly rare in an era obsessed with digital perfection and polished pop-metal subgenres. It makes me wonder if we'll ever see another band command the stage with that kind of singular, unapologetic authority again.
The Village People
I find myself occasionally circling back to the discography of The Secret Handshake, mostly because modern music seems to lack that specific, restless energy they once possessed. It’s funny how certain sounds stick in your mind, like a half-remembered dream from a decade ago, refusing to fade even when you try to move on to something more contemporary. I remember sitting in a dimly lit cafe in Seattle back in the day, listening to their tracks on loop while watching the rain smear against the window, feeling that peculiar sense of existential boredom that only good indie music can truly validate. There was a texture to their work that felt intentional, a far cry from the polished, algorithmic perfection we're forced to consume today.
There’s something about the way we talk about The Rolling Stones that always feels a bit performative, isn't there? It's as if we've collectively agreed to view them through this lens of untouchable rock royalty, rather than just seeing them as a group of guys who somehow managed to outrun the inevitable decay that claims us all. I remember sitting in a dimly lit dive bar back in Seattle during a particularly rainy autumn, listening to a scratched vinyl of *Sticky Fingers*, and realizing that their grit wasn't just a stylistic choice—it was a survival mechanism. They possess this weary, cynical edge that resonates deeply when you've spent enough time watching the world turn gray. Most bands burn out or fade into nostalgia acts, but they seem to exist in this strange, perpetual state of being both legendary and perpetually exhausted, much like anyone else trying to make it in this country.
David Bowie
Frankie Goes to Hollywood
Hollywood * Man or Astroman
Richard Cheese
Jay-Z
I’ve been spending quite a bit of time lately revisiting the discography of Depeche Mode, and it strikes me how much their sound has aged with a certain kind of grace that most synth-pop acts simply couldn't manage. There is a specific, heavy melancholy woven into those melodies—a sort of beautiful exhaustion—that resonates deeply when you're navigating the complexities of adulthood. It reminds me of those long, solitary drives through the Pacific Northwest, where the gray sky seems to press down on everything, making the electronic pulse of the music feel less like artifice and more like a heartbeat. It’s easy to dismiss them as mere architects of gloom, but there’s a structural integrity to their songwriting that commands respect, even if you find yourself feeling a bit weary of the darkness they inhabit.
Kansas
Ani DiFranco
I find myself thinking about Fischerspooner again lately, drifting back to those nights when the club scene felt like it actually had something vital to say. There was a specific kind of electricity in the air back then, a sense that we were all participating in some grand, avant-garde experiment rather than just dancing to repetitive beats under neon lights. It wasn't just about the music; it was about that intersection of high art and dance floor hedonism that seemed so much more intentional than the hollowed-out spectacles we see today. I remember sitting in a dimly lit lounge in Manhattan, nursing a drink that was far too expensive, watching the performance unfold and feeling that rare, fleeting sensation that everything—the fashion, the sound, the attitude—was perfectly synchronized. Now, looking back through the lens of years spent observing the slow decay of subcultures, it feels less like a memory and more like a eulogy for an era where being "cool" required actual effort and a bit of intellectual grit.
John Mayer
Indigo Girls
I’ve been sitting here thinking about the sheer, gritty weight of the Velvet Underground, and it strikes me how much of our modern musical landscape is just a pale imitation of what they actually managed to pull off back in the day. There was something almost dangerously raw about their sound—an unfiltered, street-level reality that felt less like a performance and more like an observation of something you weren't supposed to see. I remember being stuck in a rainy corner of Seattle years ago, listening to an old pressing on a scratched-up turntable, feeling that specific, heavy tension they could create out of thin air. It wasn't just music; it was an atmosphere, a sort of beautiful, decaying urbanity that most bands today try too hard to manufacture with expensive pedals and polished production. They didn't need the bells and whistles because they had that singular, haunting pulse.
Madonna
Elton John
Barry Manilow
Indigo Girls
Melissa Etheridge
Eminem * Nirvana
Eminem * Nirvana
Boy George
I’ve been thinking lately about where The Killers actually sit in the grand scheme of things, especially when you consider how much the landscape of American indie rock has shifted since their heyday. There was a certain moment in the early 2000s when they felt like the definitive pulse of the scene, bridging that gap between gritty garage rock revivalism and something much more cinematic and polished. It’s easy to look back now, through a lens colored by years of changing trends and overplayed radio hits, and feel a bit cynical about the whole era, but I can't quite shake the feeling that they captured a specific kind of suburban longing that resonated deeply across the States. I remember sitting in a dive bar somewhere in Chicago back in the mid-aughts, listening to those anthems swell, and realizing that while everyone else was trying to be edgy or lo-fi, they were leaning into the drama, and honestly, there’s a weary sort of beauty in that kind of unapologetic ambition.
Lou Reed
Lil' Wayne
Wayna * Motörhead
Jill Sobule
Wilson Phillips
DMX
Lisa Loeb
I was sitting in a small cafe in Seattle the other day, watching the rain smear against the window, thinking about how much noise we make just to feel like we’ve accomplished something, when the thought of Dogstar drifted into my mind. There is something uniquely exhausting about the way certain bands try to recapture their lightning in a bottle, isn't there? You listen to them and you can almost hear the gears grinding, trying to find that specific frequency they hit decades ago, yet it always feels like a slightly out-of-focus photograph of a better moment. It makes me wonder if we aren't all just doing the same thing—trying to polish up old versions of ourselves that don't really exist anymore.
I've been thinking about Thirty Seconds to Mars lately, mostly while sitting in traffic on the I-95, wondering how certain bands manage to maintain such a massive, almost cult-like following despite the shifting tides of the music industry. There’s something about Jared Leto’s whole persona that feels like it was engineered for a specific kind of stadium-sized catharsis, which isn't necessarily a bad thing if you're looking for that grand, sweeping emotional release. I remember seeing them back in the day when the anthems felt a bit more grounded, before everything became so heavily curated and polished for the digital age. It makes me wonder if we actually miss the raw imperfection of earlier rock, or if we just crave that sense of belonging that these massive fanbases provide.
Lil' Kim
kd lang
Frank Sinatra
Hinder * Nickelback
Hinder * Nickelback
Justus Kohncke
Bob Mould
Clay Aiken
I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about where we stand with Arcade Fire, and honestly, it feels like one of those slow, inevitable realizations that hits you when you're staring at a rainy window in Seattle. There was a time, perhaps a decade ago, when their sound felt like a communal awakening, something visceral that could actually make you feel less alone in a crowded room. Now, listening back, there’s this lingering sense of fatigue—not just in the music itself, but in the very idea of that kind of grand, sweeping emotionality. It’s hard to recapture that lightning in a bottle once the cultural zeitgeist has shifted so drastically toward something more fragmented and cynical. I remember sitting in a dimly lit dive bar in Portland, nursing a lukewarm beer while some indie anthem played in the background, feeling that exact same swell of misplaced hope they used to provide. Nowadays, it feels less like an awakening and more like a beautifully composed eulogy for a version of indie rock that simply doesn't exist anymore.
I’ve been sitting here thinking about Bright Eyes lately, drifting through those old melodies that seem to carry the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. There is something about Conor Oberst's songwriting that hits you right in that weary, mid-life spot where you realize that nostalgia isn't always a warm blanket; sometimes, it’s more like a cold draft under the door of an apartment you can't afford to leave. I remember listening to his early stuff back when I was still convinced that being heartbroken was a permanent state of being, rather than just a recurring seasonal allergy. It’s strange how music evolves alongside our own disillusionment, moving from that raw, jagged adolescent angst into something much more composed, yet arguably more devastating in its quietness.
Corinna Bailey Rae
I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about the legacy left behind by Audioslave, and it carries that heavy, lingering sort of melancholy that only certain eras of rock can evoke. There was something undeniably visceral about the way they commanded a stage, a raw power that felt both effortless and incredibly taxing to witness. I remember sitting in a dim corner of a dive bar in Seattle back in the early 2000s, listening to their tracks on a jukebox while watching the rain streak against the glass, feeling that specific, hollow ache that Chris Cornell’s voice used to trigger in all of us. It wasn't just music; it was an atmosphere, a shared weight that settled in your chest. Even now, revisiting their discography feels like visiting a ghost town—beautifully desolate, hauntingly familiar, and deeply missed.
I’ve been sitting here thinking about the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and honestly, it’s hard not to feel a certain sense of exhaustion when you look at their trajectory. There is something almost wearying about watching a band navigate that specific kind of massive, decades-long stardom while trying to maintain whatever core identity they had back when they were just tearing up clubs in Los Angeles. You find yourself wondering if the energy that once felt so visceral and unpredictable has simply been smoothed over by the sheer weight of their own legacy. It makes me think of those long, aimless drives through the desert, where everything feels vast and a little bit hollow, much like the sensation of listening to some of their more recent attempts to recapture that old lightning in a bottle.
Panic! At The Disco
I’ve always found it somewhat fascinating how certain icons manage to navigate the complexities of their own identity while remaining so profoundly central to the cultural zeitgeist. Take Elton John, for instance; there’s a specific kind of resilience required to be that unapologetically himself on such a massive stage. It’s more than just showmanship; it’s a lived experience that he’s woven directly into the fabric of his music.
Richard Wilson4 said:So, they're just Russian lesbians with tattoos? 🤣
Eric Phillips3 said:Man, you seriously missed the mark on this one!!! Like, I mean, you completely whiffed it!!!
Elizabeth Mendoza43 said:Apparently, they aren't even lesbians—it’s all just clever marketing and some really sharp PR work on their part.
Eric Phillips3 said:Man, you really went off the deep end on this one!!! I mean, you completely missed the mark!!!
