The gallery was nearly empty when I arrived this morning, just the sound of my footsteps on polished concrete and the so...
The streaming wars just entered their most bizarre chapter yet, and honestly? I'm here for it. If you've been anywhere n...
The first time I heard Yussef Dayes' drums crack through the opening of "Black Classical Music," I was standing in a gal...
The awards season dust has barely settled, and already we're seeing the ripple effects of this year's most unexpected wi...
There's a moment about four minutes into Makaya McCraven's "In These Times" where everything clicks. The drums—his drums...
The first note hit like a question mark hanging in the smoky air of the Blue Note last night. A tenor sax, breathy and d...
The awards season dust has barely settled, and already we're seeing the real story emerge: the traditional gatekeepers o...
The gallery was nearly empty this afternoon, just the soft shuffle of the guard's shoes on marble and the hum of the cli...
I've been living with Björk's Vespertine for weeks now, and it keeps revealing itself like frost patterns forming on win...
The streaming wars just entered a new phase, and honestly? Nobody won. We're watching something fascinating unfold right...
The gallery was nearly empty at four, that suspended hour when natural light softens and the guards shift their weight f...
I keep returning to Migrations, the new album from cellist Abel Selaocoe, and each listen reveals something I missed bef...
I stood in front of the same painting for nearly twenty minutes this morning—a landscape I must have passed a hundred ti...
Walking into the exhibition hall, I'm immediately struck by Yayoi Kusama's "Infinity Mirrored Room - The Souls of Millio...
The trembling reverb at the edge of Bill Frisell's guitar sounds like memory itself—soft, uncertain, impossibly tender....
Walked past a small gallery this morning—storefront barely wider than my shoulders, dusty window catching pale winter li...
The award season machine is in full swing, and I can't help but notice how the conversation around this year's slate of...
I still think about the first time I heard Coltrane's A Love Supreme on a rainy afternoon in a café somewhere in New Yor...
I spent this morning in the bright corner of the gallery where natural light washes everything pale gold. The walls were...
I still remember the first time I heard Coltrane's A Love Supreme—I was nineteen, sitting cross-legged on a dorm room fl...