Posts tagged Music
Before the live-music industry became a billion-dollar behemoth, being on the road was, for many bands, a wild west of sex, drugs and even some rock’n’roll. Hedonism was rife, and it wasn’t just the musicians who pillaged. Their road crews were right there with them, benefiting from a macho atmosphere where the expectation was that after they had unloaded the gear they would match their employers in debauchery. 

Some roadies became famous in their own right. Led Zeppelin’s tour manager, for one: there’s a Richard Cole Appreciation Society on Facebook, glorifying the man who was, according to the unofficial band biography Hammer of the Gods, “responsible for much of the mayhem” around the group. 

Then there was a metal roadie called Jef Hickey, who carved out such a reputation that half an episode of Vice.com’s 2011 documentary series, On the Road, is devoted to him. Rock musicians speak of him in awed tones: “One time we were on a plane, and he went up to this stewardess and asked her if she had any drugs,” claimed former Queens of the Stone Age bassist Nick Oliveri – and that was only the most printable of Hickey’s antics. Roadie annals are full of such stories, many of them involving unpleasant treatment of female fans. 

But that era has long passed, and with it the idea of roadies as folk legends. They have since osmosed into “techs” – low-key professionals who often have degrees and treat the job as a job. “Bad behaviour isn’t acceptable any more, to be drunk and carrying on,” says Chris McDonnell, the Charlatans’ sound engineer. “A lot more is expected of you. People think it’s crazy backstage, and it’s girls and drugs, but it’s not. It’s people working and having a cup of tea.” 

The end of the roadie: how the backstage boys grew up | Music | The Guardian

Before the live-music industry became a billion-dollar behemoth, being on the road was, for many bands, a wild west of sex, drugs and even some rock’n’roll. Hedonism was rife, and it wasn’t just the musicians who pillaged. Their road crews were right there with them, benefiting from a macho atmosphere where the expectation was that after they had unloaded the gear they would match their employers in debauchery.

Some roadies became famous in their own right. Led Zeppelin’s tour manager, for one: there’s a Richard Cole Appreciation Society on Facebook, glorifying the man who was, according to the unofficial band biography Hammer of the Gods, “responsible for much of the mayhem” around the group.

Then there was a metal roadie called Jef Hickey, who carved out such a reputation that half an episode of Vice.com’s 2011 documentary series, On the Road, is devoted to him. Rock musicians speak of him in awed tones: “One time we were on a plane, and he went up to this stewardess and asked her if she had any drugs,” claimed former Queens of the Stone Age bassist Nick Oliveri – and that was only the most printable of Hickey’s antics. Roadie annals are full of such stories, many of them involving unpleasant treatment of female fans.

But that era has long passed, and with it the idea of roadies as folk legends. They have since osmosed into “techs” – low-key professionals who often have degrees and treat the job as a job. “Bad behaviour isn’t acceptable any more, to be drunk and carrying on,” says Chris McDonnell, the Charlatans’ sound engineer. “A lot more is expected of you. People think it’s crazy backstage, and it’s girls and drugs, but it’s not. It’s people working and having a cup of tea.”

The end of the roadie: how the backstage boys grew up | Music | The Guardian

In Boston last week to deliver the commencement address at the Berklee College of Music, Jimmy Page, the founder of Led Zeppelin, learned to his surprise that the school had a course in which his guitar licks were minutely analyzed. “They go into all these things and deconstruct them,” he said, “the harmonies and the voicings and the progressions, the arrangements.” 

For Mr. Page, who turned 70 in January, the encounter was a reminder not just of his exalted status among guitarists but also of the practical applications of a project that occupied his attention for the better part of the last three years. Track by track, he has been remastering the entire Led Zeppelin catalog of nine studio albums and combing through the group’s archives looking for alternative versions that can illuminate how the band created songs that came to define 1970s rock and influence generations of musicians since. 

“I knew it was a long haul, that it would involve hundreds of hours of tape,” he said in an interview in New York on Wednesday. “I had to listen to everything, every bootleg that was out there, too. But it has to be done if you’re going to do something really authoritative. I wanted to be sure this holds up, and I hate to think, if I wasn’t around, what was going to happen.” 

Remastering, Reflecting: Everything Still Turns to Gold - NYTimes.com

In Boston last week to deliver the commencement address at the Berklee College of Music, Jimmy Page, the founder of Led Zeppelin, learned to his surprise that the school had a course in which his guitar licks were minutely analyzed. “They go into all these things and deconstruct them,” he said, “the harmonies and the voicings and the progressions, the arrangements.”

For Mr. Page, who turned 70 in January, the encounter was a reminder not just of his exalted status among guitarists but also of the practical applications of a project that occupied his attention for the better part of the last three years. Track by track, he has been remastering the entire Led Zeppelin catalog of nine studio albums and combing through the group’s archives looking for alternative versions that can illuminate how the band created songs that came to define 1970s rock and influence generations of musicians since.

“I knew it was a long haul, that it would involve hundreds of hours of tape,” he said in an interview in New York on Wednesday. “I had to listen to everything, every bootleg that was out there, too. But it has to be done if you’re going to do something really authoritative. I wanted to be sure this holds up, and I hate to think, if I wasn’t around, what was going to happen.”

Remastering, Reflecting: Everything Still Turns to Gold - NYTimes.com

WinterSpringSummerFall

"This is the mysterious producer behind a lot of what’s on the Beyonce self-titled. Mix dropped today, methinks!" - Our Source. 

Official Tracklist

1. A Day in the Life of Jordan Asher
2. Dust
3. Howl / Your Move
4. Fade Away
5. Alright
6. No More [ft. Shlohmo & Jeremih]
7. Autumn (Lude I) [ft. Kelela]
8. EST
9. Sheep / Lookin’ Muthafucka (Lude II)
10. Troubled World [ft. Son Lux]
11. Olive Trees and Blue Skies and Hills
12. My Heart Is A Stone Today (Unharmed)
13. Atom
14. Ride By (Lude III) [ft. Margot]
15. Ride Ride Ride
16. Dreams [ft. Beyoncé]

Every March, Ultra Music Festival turns downtown Miami into a monolithic nightclub, complete with mind-blowing light displays and a never-ending supply of booze. 

There are live acts, old-school acts, emerging acts and top-tier ones. It’s a raver’s paradise. Still, there’s something missing: women. Of the 250 electronic dance music artists descending on the three-day fest (Friday through Sunday), “five percent are female,” says Adam Russakoff, Ultra’s executive producer. “I wish there were more choices, but I wouldn’t book a woman simply because she’s a woman. I wouldn’t insult a woman by doing that. We book based only on music, not gender.” 

The dearth of female acts isn’t unique to Ultra. It’s a puzzling problem throughout the genre. Glance at any EDM festival lineup, from Electric Daisy Carnival in Las Vegas to Electric Forest in Rothbury, Mich., and you’ll see very few women, with Krewella, Nervo and Rebecca & Fiona appearing on nearly every bill. 

"Once, I was going through security at an airport with my laptop, which has the Krewella sticker on it, and one of the TSA guys said, ‘That guy’s dope, I listen to him, too,’ " says Yasmine Yousaf, one-third of Krewella, a band of two sisters and a guy. 

For female DJs, EDM can be a no-spin zone

Every March, Ultra Music Festival turns downtown Miami into a monolithic nightclub, complete with mind-blowing light displays and a never-ending supply of booze.

There are live acts, old-school acts, emerging acts and top-tier ones. It’s a raver’s paradise. Still, there’s something missing: women. Of the 250 electronic dance music artists descending on the three-day fest (Friday through Sunday), “five percent are female,” says Adam Russakoff, Ultra’s executive producer. “I wish there were more choices, but I wouldn’t book a woman simply because she’s a woman. I wouldn’t insult a woman by doing that. We book based only on music, not gender.”

The dearth of female acts isn’t unique to Ultra. It’s a puzzling problem throughout the genre. Glance at any EDM festival lineup, from Electric Daisy Carnival in Las Vegas to Electric Forest in Rothbury, Mich., and you’ll see very few women, with Krewella, Nervo and Rebecca & Fiona appearing on nearly every bill.

"Once, I was going through security at an airport with my laptop, which has the Krewella sticker on it, and one of the TSA guys said, ‘That guy’s dope, I listen to him, too,’ " says Yasmine Yousaf, one-third of Krewella, a band of two sisters and a guy.

For female DJs, EDM can be a no-spin zone

“I don’t feel pressure to make anything because of how people talk about me,” says the rapper Khalif Diouf — better known by his stage name, Le1f. People talk about him plenty.
Since the video for the horn-skronking, space-rap anthem “Wut” broke through in 2012, the quick-rhyming New York rapper has enjoyed the fawning attention of fans, who splice his booty-popping music videos into suitably alluring GIFs, and Internet haters, who narrow in on his status as an openly queer rapper in a world where that’s still a notable enough designation to attract attention.
With a brand new EP and recently inked deal with Brooklyn-based Terrible Records, best known for indie bands like Grizzly Bear, as part of its joint deal with XL Recordings (Adele, Jack White, Radiohead et al), the rapper finally seems poised on the brink of mainstream stardom — but hasn’t sacrificed the aesthetic that’s taken him this far. He chatted with Newsweek about facing homophobia, working on his first commercially available LP, and coming up with one-word text-speak song titles.

“I don’t feel pressure to make anything because of how people talk about me,” says the rapper Khalif Diouf — better known by his stage name, Le1f. People talk about him plenty.

Since the video for the horn-skronking, space-rap anthem “Wut” broke through in 2012, the quick-rhyming New York rapper has enjoyed the fawning attention of fans, who splice his booty-popping music videos into suitably alluring GIFs, and Internet haters, who narrow in on his status as an openly queer rapper in a world where that’s still a notable enough designation to attract attention.

With a brand new EP and recently inked deal with Brooklyn-based Terrible Records, best known for indie bands like Grizzly Bear, as part of its joint deal with XL Recordings (Adele, Jack White, Radiohead et al), the rapper finally seems poised on the brink of mainstream stardom — but hasn’t sacrificed the aesthetic that’s taken him this far. He chatted with Newsweek about facing homophobia, working on his first commercially available LP, and coming up with one-word text-speak song titles.

Elvis Otieno — Sir Elvis, as his fans call him — seems to have lived a childhood quilted from country music lore. He was born in 1977 (the same year Elvis Presley died) near a railroad track in a small shanty town. His father was a Pentecostal preacher who played gospel music on the guitar; his mother collected American records and exposed him to Western country singers: Johnny Cash, Jim Reeves, Charley Pride, and the like. At age seven, Elvis and his family moved to Norway, where he started his first country band and began playing shows at small clubs. When a school trip in his early teens brought him to the United States, he got the opportunity to see one of his idols, Shania Twain, perform live. It changed his life. Elvis returned with a conviction: ““what you love most is what you’re most likely to succeed in.” He left his engineering job in Norway and returned to Kenya in 2003, intent on carving out a career as a country singer. “At the time,” he says, “there was a very small country music scene. It was very hard to build an audience.