The Weeknd and the Grammys are in the midst of a lovers-to-enemies arc for the ages. After racking four wins in two years in the mid 2010’s, one would be forgiven for thinking the Weeknd would continue to dominate the awards for the next few years. But in 2021, after receiving no nominations for his album After Hours, he publicly declared he would no longer be submitting his work for Grammy consideration. This stirred up enough controversy that the Recording Academy CEO, Harvey Mason Jr., acknowledged the Weeknd’s issues, and after the artist performed at last year’s Grammys, it seemed like the feud was resolved. But the clear Hurry Up Tomorrow snub for the 2026 Grammys calls that into question. 

Hurry Up Tomorrow’s accompanying film, written and starring the Weeknd as himself, received enough terrible press that it almost certainly infected the album’s reception. Whether the cross-contamination of public opinion is deserved or not, the album as a standalone work is neither the Weeknd’s best nor worst. The album wants chaos, grit, and to float between LA house parties and spiritual psychosis. It pulls off chaos, but is too vague to be affecting. Previous work, such as Dawn FM, succeeds in large part due to its laser-sharp focusing on theme and clear-eyed direction. 

Though the album as a whole was slightly disappointing, individual songs off of the album absolutely deserved to be nominated this year, both in cultural impact and pure quality. “Timeless” ft. Playboy Carti was one of the biggest songs of the year. Produced by titans of the music industry Pharrell Williams and Mike Dean, the song achieved both commercial and critical success, peaking at number three on the US Billboard Hot 100. Less recognized, but a personal favorite off of the album (and maybe out of the Weeknd’s discography) is São Paulo ft. Anitta, a vibrant dance track produced by Mike Dean with deep roots in Brazilian funk. It’s a bold departure for the Weeknd, and it blends effortlessly with his existing sound, creating an energetic and woefully underrated track. 

Out of every album I have listened to that was released this year, hands down the best one is Something to Consume by Die Spitz. It’s enthralling. It’s heart-wrenching. It’s Punk. It’s Metal. Full of obsessive yearning and a gripping hunger that will not be apologized for, Something to Consume has a track for every listener. This unsubtle debut album builds seamlessly on their frenetic yet cathartic EPs, Teeth (2023) and The Revenge of Evangeline (2022). With inspirations like Black Sabbath, Pixies, and Nirvana, Die Spitz has crafted the perfect modern Metal sound. This album polished their energy into something that leaves you on the edge of your seat after every song, dying to know what will come next. I had been a fan of Die Spitz for about two and a half years by the time Something to Consume was released. It instantly became my favorite piece of their work. “Sound to No One,” “Voir Dire,” and “RIDING WITH MY GIRLS” are all standout tracks, but the real crown jewel of the album is right at the top: “Pop Punk Anthem (Sorry for the Delay),” a melting, bubbling, story of all-consuming queer love that feels like sound waves catching fire in your earbuds. This album is new and fresh, and I think it more than deserves to be an instant classic. Tragically it was overlooked for this year’s Grammy nominations, but in my heart, Something to Consume easily wins album of the year.

Wednesday is a wholly unique band. Notably absent from the recent 2026 Grammy nominations, the band has gained lots of attention in recent years for albums like Twin Plagues (2021), Rat Saw God (2023), and Bleeds (2025). What makes Wednesday stand out is not only its syncretic blend of indie rock, shoegaze, and alternative country, but also the novel songwriting style of frontwoman Karly Hartzman. 

Hartzman’s songs move between vividly described particulars–memories, images, and references–and memorable introspective one-liners. “Wound Up Here (By Holdin On)” starts with a storyline based on a memory of Hartzman’s friend pulling a body out of a lake and then rips the start of its chorus, commenting on the fragility of life, straight from a poem by Evan Gray–“I wound up here by holdin’ on.” Hartzman’s lyricism also highlights the surrealities of modern Americana. “Turkey Vultures” speaks of “...a sex shop off the highway/With a biblical name,” while Twin Plagues has a whole song about “The Burned Down Dairy Queen.”

To me, these descriptions call to mind experiences of strong, yet contradictory emotions, living between big cities, between big things, and outside the kinds of obvious, culturally-engrained symbolisms of time and place that pop-singers try to encapsulate in archetypal, universalizable experiences. To that end, I always find myself much more willing to listen to a collection of moments from Wednesday than a contrived dramatism made to attract big audiences by someone else. But the GRAMMYs have a right to their own opinions.

Although I admittedly don’t pay much attention to the Grammys, the one band that I was really hoping to see nominated this year was The Fearless Flyers. 2025 saw the air-tight, syncopated speed-funk quartet finally part ways with Vulf Records, a label that, while responsible for the band’s creation, bound them to a curated sound and image and limited them from operating at their full creative capacity. The Fearless Flyers V, their first record since the split, has proven that they’re anything but a gimmicky spin-off group and distinguished them as key players in the modern jazz-funk and instrumental music scenes. 

FFV sees the band firing on all cylinders—shedding the rigidity of their signature sixteenth-note shredding style in favor of genre-fluidity, they soar from peppy, crisp, and flawlessly metrical funk jams to spacey and dissonant long-form pieces with startling cohesion and virtuosic proficiency. Although this album’s tracks haven’t yet achieved the same popularity as the band’s old school hits, its innovation and versatility are the hallmarks of an exciting new era. If not a nomination for best album in the “Contemporary Instrumental” or “Alternative Jazz” categories (like the one that their previous record received), some of FFV’s standout tracks could at least have garnered individual attention (my vote would go towards tight tracks like “Flyers Crusade” and “Exotic” or the sweeping sonic odyssey that is “Autobahn”).  

Regardless of this record’s lack of recognition, it’s undoubtedly a signal of great things to come—it’s safe to say that these funk olympians have taken fearless flight towards bright new rhythmic and harmonic horizons. 

Let’s be honest. The Grammys are a real hit-or-miss awards show. The main problem with the concept—of a show that awards the best of the best in all prominent genres of music—is that there is so much music released every year, it’s incredibly difficult to familiarize oneself with the major releases in any given genre, let alone in general. So logically, when the nominations come out in November every year, a whole lot of standout releases will be overlooked.

If they were to have gotten around to it, I have no doubt that Recording Academy voters would agree with my assessment that Ninajirachi, who released her debut album, I Love My Computer, in August, belongs in this year’s Dance/Electronic category. Bringing both infectious pop vocals and bouncing electro house tracks to the table, the record pays tribute to the dance records and the internet landscape that she grew up on while pushing the genre forward. Songs like “iPod Touch,” “Fuck My Computer,” and “Delete” all display instincts for rhythm and melody incomparable among peers in the genre. Beyond her musical prowess, I also extol the virtues of Nina’s debut because of how deeply relatable it is for me. The image of a pre-teen kid exploring the depths of the web and developing a deep love for listening and making music is not just one that she weaves on the record—it’s one that I can distinctly recall from my own youth. It probably helps that she’s only a few years older than I am, but that shared experience of growing up on a computer and combing the depths of the massive digital world is conveyed incredibly through Nina’s lyrics and instrumentals. If you hadn’t gotten around to listening, I implore you to take the plunge. The Recording Academy may not have caught the wave yet, but I certainly have, and I hope you can, too.

He dropped at the 11th hour of the eligibility window, but I'm shocked STAR LINE by Chance the Rapper got shut out. We know the Academy plays favorites, so Chance's history of success at the GRAMMYs—he was the first male solo rapper to win Best New Artist and collected multiple wins for Coloring Book at the 2017 Awards—makes his exclusion surprising. Maybe 2019's The Big Day was just that bad. Even Chance acknowledges that he "had an F-minus, but that's behind us" on "Star Side Intro" and retorts "Surprise! It's the boy from the premature burial" on "Back To The Go," so I'm sure he heard the noise.

But STAR LINE is a return to form. Chance delivers witty punchlines laced with lucid commentary on the world around him. Some of the heavier elements are balanged by breezy delivery and Chance's naturally high-pitched cadence, so it never feels like he's preaching, but the content is there for those of us with eyes to see it and ears to hear it. Look no further than the name of the project, named after Marous Garvey's back-to-Africa shipping line, to understand how unapologetically Black STAR LINE is. Chance delivered one of my favorite projects of the year. I would've liked a Best Rap Album nomination, or even a Best Rap Performance nod for any of "Letters," "Back To The Go," or "No More Old Men," all of which are better than every song nominated sans "Chains & Whips."

As a self-proclaimed concert junkie, I feel overly qualified to answer this question. No matter how much I hate crowds, the screaming ache in my feet after hours in a GA pit, or the inevitable moment when an egregiously tall man plants himself right in front of me, you’ll still find me there. Because nothing compares to live music. It scratches an itch in my brain that Spotify could never reach, even on its best day. It’s the physicality of it—the bassline vibrating through your ribs, your heartbeat syncing up with the drums, the lights pulsing along in perfect harmony. Lighting techs, by the way, are the unsung heroes of the music industry.

There’s a reason so many people first fall in love with music in church. Live music feels spiritual. The collective effervescence is like a drug. It dissolves the distance between performer and audience until everyone’s caught in the same current. Even the worst bands and the most mediocre songs can feel sacred once performed live. For those few minutes, the world stops, and all that exists is sound.

The La Femme Lolla Aftershow this August at the Outset. La Femme is a band that is inextricably linked to my second year of college and, sorry, my first love. I initially started listening to the band to impress this person, but, quickly, this ulterior motive transformed into an absolute obsession with the music. I had never heard anything like it. I don’t speak a word of French, yet they make me feel like I can understand. La Femme ranges between frenetic, head banging, wild dancing energy to soft, resonant, aching, other-wordly tunes. When my now-ex (hey, no hard feelings) told me he’d seen them live like, six times or something, because, quote, “They’re just the best, Roxane,” I knew I needed to see for myself. When Lolla dropped their aftershow lineup and La Femme was playing a few days before my boyfriend was moving away, it felt like the universe was giving us a lovely little parting gift. 

They played a wicked set–some of our absolute favorites like “Cool Colorado” and “Antitaxi” come to mind first. As I had been told, the two female band members, Fanny Luzignant and Yse Grospiron, were absolutely mesmerizing, dancing whimsically across the stage throughout the show while tearing up keyboards and tambourines and singing beautifully. The best I can say to encapsulate La Femme’s stage presence is this: They played a healthy 2ish-hour set, and I felt like it all happened in ten minutes. I’m sure everyone around was dancing, but I honestly didn’t notice. In a rare, beautiful instance, I was in the music and nowhere else.

July 10, 2012, was a life-changing day for me—the day of my first concert. I put on my best Justice top and denim shorts before my mom, sister, and I made our way to Lakewood Amphitheater to see Big Time Rush perform on their Big Time Summer Tour. We met up with a few of the girls from my Girl Scout troop and waited patiently for Cody Simpson to take the stage as the opener. Once the Australian teenager hit the stage, the rest of the evening was a blur. Somewhere between “All Day” and “iYiYi”, my memory starts to fade. By the time Big Time Rush came out, I was so overcome with excitement that I have no recollection of their performance. 

That’s what makes live music great. It suspends time. The lights dim, the professional sound system envelops you, and suddenly nothing matters except the music and the people sharing it with you in that moment. The roar of the fellow concertgoers, the handpicked visuals, and creative liberties an artist can take at a concert are the perfect storm for a euphoric experience every single time. 

My personal favorite aspect of the performance is the humanity granted to the artist. Your favorite artist is no longer a disembodied voice in your headphones. When Tyler, the Creator is within 30 feet of you, it’s hard not to see him as a man getting to live out his wildest dreams. Experiencing that makes me want to live mine. Every concert I’ve been to has changed how I listen to music and how I live my life, and I hope to experience many more in my lifetime. 

The crowd always. While it’s obvious most people go to concerts to see the artists, having seen so many different artists live, there’s no doubt that the energy of the room is carried by the audience. From pits, crowd surfing, and two-stepping at DIY shows to chorus of voices as fans sing along to a ballad. That being said, artists who directly interact with a crowd to incite such liveliness create those moments. I remember earlier this year seeing IDLES at Riot Fest. The way the crowd lit up as they surfed across the ocean of fans. Or when I saw Julip open for the band After at Schubas—she might have forgotten some of her lyrics, but the jokes she cracked with us in the audience made it so memorable. These audience interactions and moments of collective energy are what make these live performances so unique, and so much more enjoyable than just me and my headphones in my room.

Live performance is an art that elevates (or derails) any setlist. To be fair, the floor is high: as long as the artist isn't up there relying on a backing track with studio vocals, I’ll enjoy myself. But live music is often so much more. Your fellow audience members elevate the experience. Yes, singing along to your favorite song with a bunch of people who share the same favorite song is exhilarating, but it's deeper than that. Hundreds, thousands, or even tens of thousands of people can unite because of one set list. Concerts are one of the last shared spaces that we as humans can gravitate to in a world that continues to fracture. When an artist understands the sanctity of that shared space, you'll never question their commitment to the bit. Outfit changes, special guests, live bands, remixes you'll never find on streaming services, encores, tributes, crowd work, breath control. Everyone's got their niche. Performance is a special talent that rewards inventiveness and artistry. It will always be special because no opaque social media algorithm or label-funded bot farm can bless you with it.

In a situation like this, any introspection or melancholy in the music I often listen to becomes a virulent plague that leeches the positive energy I’ve accumulated over the course of a hypothetical party. As I experience the jarring transition between a crowded space and the lonesome walk home, I find it best to ride the high, letting the party bleed into that exodus. I’d lean towards something instrumental with a healthy dose of funk, something like “Dallas” by L’Eclair. I previously used the song in a satirical video I made with some friends so listening to it by myself creates that illusion of togetherness, vaguely and briefly relocating my own December 2023 to the present day. “Dallas” has a smooth, brilliant sheen about it. Its downbeats uniquely compliment my footfalls on the concrete sidewalks that support my saunter home. I’d say either that or Kevin Gates’ herculean masterpiece, “Two Phones.” I don’t think I have to explain why I would at any point listen to one of the greatest musical works of the modern era. 

Perhaps it’s not the most spooky choice, but “Do You Think I’m Pretty” by Racing Mount Pleasant has been my choice for an end-of-the-night song for a while now. I always feel unsettled after the adrenaline rush of a good party, and the intensity of those feelings take some time to fade from my mind. So, I tend to gravitate towards something contemplative which matches the pace of my wind down and this song fits perfectly. It starts quietly with just a voice and guitar but quickly expands into the full range of the band. The lyrics are intimate and honest, with a raw vocal delivery to match. The song itself has this ebb and flow, a pulse, building until you’re drawn in and completely surrounded. Its culminating moment feels very intense, like an overflow of sound and emotion. And then the music slows and you emerge again just listening to the same voice and guitar from the beginning. While it is a very melancholy song, it also feels relaxing to me somehow. The immersion of the music breaks whatever dregs of excitement I carry home with me. It's the perfect song to keep me company whenever I wander back from a party through empty streets before sunrise.

The walk home after an apartment party is unparalleled, but the soundtrack depends on how the night is going. Am I still riding a high—there's a double entendre in there somewhere—or have I already mellowed out a bit?

If I'm looking for more energy, I can queue up "FOMDJ" from Playboi Carti's MUSIC. Teased during MUSIC's never-ending rollout, I was surprised this song wasn't on the standard edition of the album; we just had to wait a few more weeks for him to put it on the deluxe. "FOMDJ” sees Carti drop the middling Future impression he's done a ton since "FE!N" in favor of vocals closer to the inflection we’re used to. But I barely care about what he sounds like here; just listen to the beat. Carti ditches the basic trap that infects most of MUSIC and picks up swirling synths that swirl even more when you're not quite sober.

On more relaxed walks, I'll turn to a song like "Champagne Shots" by Sainte. In barely two minutes of rapping, the Leicester City MC oozes charisma and lets you know he's the HNIC. His frequent producer Parker Jazz provided a stripped back instrumental that simultaneously leaves a lot of open space and has a nice momentum to it; those bass kicks scratch an undeniable itch I can't quite pin down. "Champagne Shots" feels like having a silk robe on, gazing out of floor-to-ceiling windows from the 20th floor: a great nightcap.

After a night out I pretty much always want to listen to Lucki. It’s probably something about the relatively monotone vocals compared to the somewhat funky and at times energetic beat selection. My Go-to has to be 197 trap talk, with its strange and almost homey instrumental while Lucki raps about his thoughts on the debaucherous life to which he is committed and the feelings that he has about. The lyrics are simple, witty, and at times hard hitting, with nostalgic interludes where others speak braggadociously about the lifestyle and the glamour that comes with it. I think what really attracts me to the song is the calm simplicity and honesty with which Lucki speaks about his own trepidations and pride regarding the drug-ridden and violent reality that his album “body high” is centered around. The lyrics almost actively contradict the old fashioned and grainy production. In some ways the silences and absences of action or activity in the song become one of its greatest strengths. The interludes also give the song enough flavor and happiness to bring the night to a calm close while I wind down and maybe play some fifa, and the silences and slow pace of the song make it easy to think.

No song is more thematically fitting for this prompt than 21 Savage’s “monster.” This isn’t some anthemic ditty about goblins and ghouls—the party is over. The monsters of power, money, and fame entailed in the chorus provide some realistic scares for party-age people. Reaching further, perhaps the costume donned by 21 is that of an American, a mask briefly removed in 2019 when it was revealed that he originated from Britain. 

But for those who label the faux-American rapper a one-trick pony, this restrained departure of his may come as a shock. Disarming synths and chilling pianos create a perfectly uncanny ambience to help wind down from any high-octane tricks and treats. There’s even a pleasant final jumpscare in the form of what is perhaps the most buttery-smooth surprise feature ever. Just enough eeriness looms in the track’s outro to leave you looking forward to next year, when the festivities will once again rise from the dead.

I have a very specific answer. This spring I lived in Malaga, Spain. I learned bits and pieces of Spanish, played beach volleyball, and went out more than anyone should. I lived in El Palo, the working suburb a fifteen minute bus ride down the coast from the city center.

In the daytime, the 8 bus was crowded, loud, and smelled of cigarette smoke. The night bus was different. Past 3 am, the four seat-compartments where I liked to sit were empty. Sometimes, my legs would intertwine with a friend across the seat or rub against one next to me. More times than not, I found myself alone. When that happened, Lou Reed was on.

Like all great songs, “Perfect Day” found me. It did so the day I met the three guys I still talk to every week. For the first time since I’d been there, I finally had a hold on my life. I loved, and love, that the “you” was ambiguous: it could be a good new friend, old friend, a lover, or my mother. That day, it was me. I was glad I spent it with my three new friends. But more than that I was happy to spend it with myself — a feeling I’ll forever associate with that song. 

Something about the end of an era (e.g., the mourning of halloweekend) fills me with a somber tranquility. At times, the music of the quiet street itself is enough: the crisp Chicago air, the rustling of tree branches, and the crunch of the leaves under my feet. The sound of my thoughts adds a melody to the song. I love recounting my favorite events, the funniest jokes, and the smiles of my friends around me. The moon shines through the midnight clouds, and I want to laugh, cry, and yell all at once because, well, it’s over.

Now, if I want to put my headphones on, it’ll most likely be “Mystery of Love” by Sufjan Stevens. The song leaves me physically numb, and the montage from Call Me by Your Name plays in my head as moments like these truly help me relate to Elio. As much as it hurts to leave such fun moments behind, the bliss from knowing I lived them is unmatched.

I rarely want to continue the energy going if the night is over, but “CRANK” by Slayyyter has been on repeat and would be my song of choice because I do get so gay off that tequila.

I don’t like ‘beef’ narratives, mostly because they’re so cloaked in marketing that they come off as executive shadowboxing half the time. True hatred can’t be instrumentalized into a streaming check. I want beef so potent that the involved parties won’t acknowledge each other publicly, but the corrosivity in their hearts leaches into their music. Private people. Burial and Aphex Twin. That would be a true heavyweight championship, two foremost electronic pioneers dukin’ it out in encrypted bleeps, bloops, and Ray J samples. Despite their comparable magnanimity and influence, their dispositions couldn’t diverge more: Aphex the in-your-face eccentric, Burial the elusive enigma. The two have mutual respect that would erode into some generational music. I’d love to hear Burial’s desolate Londonscape blanketed with asbestos and Aphex’s crystalline funhouse broken into shards. The only downside—if the meme-hungry public caught wind of the secret feud, it’d be so insufferable I’d have to quarantine myself from the internet for at least a month.

This is less of a desire and more of a prediction, but I think Taylor Swift is going to shift her ire to Brendon Urie of Panic! At The Disco fame. I mean think about it—she's launched her showgirl-themed album to mixed reviews, and he's doing  sold-out 20th anniversary performances of the quintessential Vegas-burlesque-showboy(?)-top hat album A Fever You Can't Sweat Out. It's going to brew with shady subtweets about just who was to blame for the critically maligned Lover lead single—yes, the one that borrows his punctuational stylings and rhymes its title with itself at least ten times. It's going to culminate with Taylor declaring she's got a favorite singing, backflipping Mormon—and it's the one with the alliterative moniker and affinity for lunar-themed sweet treats. But she's got a wedding coming up, and he got his start crooning about just what exactly is going on with the groom's bride behind closed doors. 

I’m super hyped for the new Erykah Badu x Alchemist record dropping this fall (Alc and Freddie Gibbs’ Alfredo 2 was great). But when the lead single, “Next To You,” dropped in June, it received a lot of well-deserved criticism for using AI to create its uninspiring cover art and sloppy accompanying music video. 

Recently, many artists have spoken out about the use of AI content across the industry—from artists like Hiatus Kaiyote, Anderson .Paak, and King Gizzard calling for AI slop to be removed from streaming services to Mac DeMarco criticizing AI for stripping away “the human element” of music. I’m hoping that if Badu and Alc end up releasing a heavily AI album (please, prove me wrong), other artists will call them out. Hopefully, the resulting beef could spark a real conversation about the use of AI in art and music, and help Erykah (still my favorite) course-correct.

I’ve got two answers to this one, but they both involve Cameron Winter. 

Now I know Julian Casablancas is a big Geese glazer, but I still want to see him go after Winter. On some level Geese are just The Strokes with homework, Winter having replaced the raw hungover coolness of Casablancas’s crew with over-thought art-school anxiety. I imagine The Strokes’ frontman saying no less and Winter firing back with a baroque revenge album. It’d be a duel between a proper Brooklyner and an OG nepo baby—two men who built their myth on cool detachment, but only one who earned it through-and-through. Somewhere, Ezra Koenig moderates a panel, and the feud ends with a joint single: Casablancas mumbling into a vocoder while Winter pens a manifesto for the liner notes. 

Second, I want Winter to square off with Thom Yorke. Both write like the world is ending. A feud between them wouldn’t be about who’s better, but who’s more authentically doomed. Yorke’s alienation is global—surveillance, systems, the slow death of meaning—while Winter’s is self-inflicted, like he’s writing footnotes to his own breakdown. They’d probably realize they’re arguing over the same apocalypse, just scored in different keys.

I want to see SG Lewis vs Brutalismus 3000 beef this fall. Here is why: They are on totally opposite ends of the electronic music spectrum. SG Lewis has a basking in golden hour dance sound on a beach and watching a disco ball spin in the wind. 

While Brutalismus is much more Berlin warehouse hard-core techno vibes. SG’s diss track would have sultry energy with layered melodies and honeyed vocals that draw the listener in. But upon listening to the lyrics SG sings ‘ All distortion, no direction ‘… taking a stab at Brutalismus’s sound. Brutalismus’s diss track would include bumping techno with a series of screams rattling and exciting the listener. The screams would be saying “SG Lewis makes elevator music” similar to the way the group yells “Satan was a baby boomer”. This collision is the excitement that the electronic music community needs this fall!!!

I want to see Fakemink enter a beef with that one AI Velvet Underground dupe band and just like yell at them about how he's more intelligent. And also, how he is better dressed and is more sonically talented. And also, how they just suck in general. But then at the same time complain about how his life is so hard and also at the same time say he is merely a humble being and that he deserves no praise and is no better than anybody else.  Then I want the AI band to dox him and like leak his DMs or something and then they start making music about each other and it just develops into a nothing burger beef, because all beef in the music industry is nonsense and kind of just pointless spectacle.  

It’s time other genres beefed. For too long, Rap has dominated the beef market in music. For my generation, hip hop is the medium of big-time beef: Kendrick and Drake, yes, but Logan Paul, Jake Paul, and all the recess rap battles they inspired, too. But just because a group has guitars doesn’t mean they don’t hate their rivals, and I think it’s about time they started to act like it again. I want more of the Gallaghers getting up the Brits and belting “Allllllllll the people” with their fresh "Best British Band" trophy in hand, a year after blur’s win in 1995. I’d love to hear the Jungle rip into someone like that. Who knows, it might be blur again.