Bandcamp is waiving revenue shares today, and you should support POC artists.
Today is another Bandcamp Friday, meaning until midnight tonight, the platform will be waiving revenue shares and letting artists take 100 percent of profits.
Now more than ever, as Black Lives Matter protests occur around the world, it's extremely important to lift marginalized voices. The music industry has repeatedly erased Black voices throughout history, despite the fact that most mainstream genres were invented by Black people.
Today is a perfect excuse to treat yourself to some new music, better yet if that music is by Black artists. We've compiled a list of some of our favorite Black artists for you to peruse, no matter your favorite genre (note: some of these are bands that aren't entirely Black, but are fronted by a Black person).
Now, go forth and shop.
Taking inspiration from songwriter extraordinaires like Joni Mitchell and (Sandy) Alex G, Texan musician Christelle Bofale blends notes of jazz, dream-pop, folk, and her family's Congolese roots into a brand of indie rock that's entirely her own.
It's no secret that the emo genre hasn't always been welcoming to folks who aren't white and straight. Brooklyn band Proper. are a refreshing change of pace, layering their vibrant guitar riffs with lyrics that are either tongue-in-cheek or stop you in your tracks. Take these exclamations from "New Years Resolutions": "If your feminism isn't intersectional, we don't want it / If only cisgendered black lives matter to you, we don't want it / If you're only an ally on a keyboard, we don't want it!"
Meet Me @ the Altar is a trio of women of color stretched between Florida, New Jersey, and Georgia. Their rapid kick drums and face-melting riffs are juxtaposed with Edith Johnson's crystal-clear vocals.
A trio based out of Ohio, Teamonade's upbeat, mathy indie rock is just as refreshing as an ice-cold Arnold Palmer. Their latest single "goin thru it" is a candid account of mental health issues that feels particularly heartwarming in the midst of "self care" trends. "I've never spent cash on a new pair of shoes," vocalist Osi Okoro sings. "Unless my mom told me that I had to look good for the Lord."
Deja Carr's first album as Mal Devisa was originally released in 2016, but the New England musician's haunting indie rock feels just as relevant four years later. With a quiet rage, Carr is defiant and assured, taking inspiration from the Black Lives Matter movement. "Does it kill you to know that we're all dying?" Carr sings on "Fire." "It kills me to know."
Alfred. channels frustration into his unique breed of alternative hip-hop. The Virginia rapper's latest project One Trick Pony feels like self-expression in its truest form, building off of clever sample usage and a hypnotic flow.
Over the past few months, Brooklyn rapper Medhane has gone from an underground favorite to one of music critics' favorite rising voices in hip-hop. The languid, homespun feel of his new album Cold Water is sure to appeal to fans of alt-rap torchbearers like Earl Sweatshirt, while his profound lyrics and moody delivery would make Biggie proud.
Having gotten her start in Brooklyn's DIY scene, Lætitia Tamko—a.k.a. Vagabon—has become an inimitable, enigmatic force in indie music. While her 2017 debut Infinite Worlds was a delicately stunning collection of stripped-down rock, her self-titled album from last year expands into experimental synth-pop.
South Carolinian artist Ahomari wavers between synth-pop, experimental electronica, and lo-fi beats in a sound that's entrancing and complex. They've said that they use music to cope with the stresses of being a queer Black person based in the South, and that sublime, escapist feeling in their music translates to listeners.
Vancouver-via-Nigeria producer/singer Debby Friday also uses music as a way of coping with everyday oppression. Taking cues from left-field industrial acts like Death Grips, Friday's music is dark, aggressive, and bone-chilling, culminating into a wash of catharsis.
Angelboy + the Halos embody everything that is good in sunny, guitar-forward indie rock. Their bright sound feels youthful and fresh, reminiscent of your favorite albums of the 2000s.
Experimentalist Yves Tumor knows no bounds. Throughout their career, the Italian-based musician has shapeshifted between ambient noise and maximalist, orchestral pop; both sides of the spectrum are stunning. Yves Tumor's latest record, this year's Heaven to a Tortured Mind, saw them move towards a lustful, rock-leaning sound.
Breaking down the bias of comfort films.
With the constant onslaught of complicated news that 2020 has brought, sometimes you just want to be able to shut off your brain, relax, and feel happy.
Enter comfort films. These are the feel-good movies that feel like a warm hug when you finish them, the ones that allow you to escape for a short while. We often turn to these types of films in times of trouble or extreme stress, and when we're not sure what films of this nature we should watch, we turn to the Internet for options.
Rivera's "Glee" character was not just important, she was groundbreaking.
As a young queer girl growing up in the south, I was lucky that my parents weren't homophobes.
My parents believed that people were sometimes born gay, and while they wouldn't "wish that harder life" on their children, they certainly made me and my sister believe that gay people were just as worthy of love as anyone else. I was lucky.
Still, in my relatively sheltered world of Northern Virginia (a rich suburb near Washington D.C.), homophobia wasn't as blatant as hate crimes or shouted slurs, but it was generally accepted that being straight was, simply, better.
In high school, it wasn't uncommon to use "gay" as an insult or for girls to tease each other about being "lez." While many of us, if asked, would have said we were in support of gay marriage and loved The Ellen Show, being gay remained an undesirable affliction.
Even more insidious, I was instilled with the belief—by my church and my peers—that if gay and lesbian people could be straight, they would. But since they were simply incapable of attraction to the opposite sex or fitting into traditional gender roles, we should accept them as they are as an act of mercy. At the time, this kind of pity seemed progressive and noble. Those in my close circle of family and friends weren't openly dismissive or condemning of gay people, but we saw homosexuality as a clear predisposition with no gray areas.
Specifically: Gay men talked with a lilt, giggled femininely, and were interested in things that weren't traditionally "masculine." Meanwhile, gay women dressed like men, had no interest in makeup or other traditionally female interests, and probably had masculine bodies and features. In my mind, before someone came out as gay, they did everything in their power to "try to be straight" but were eventually forced to confront the difficult reality that they felt no attraction at all to the opposite sex. I viewed homosexuality not as a spectrum, but as a black and white biological predisposition that meant you were thoroughly, completely, and pitiably gay.
As a child, when I began to experience stirrings of attraction for other girls, I would reassure myself that not only had I definitely felt attraction for men in the past, but I also liked being pretty. I was a tomboy as a child, sure, but as I got older I recognized that my value was increased in the eyes of society if I tried to be a pretty girl. As it turned out, I even liked putting on clothes that made me feel good, I liked applying makeup, and I liked some traditionally "feminine" things. In my mind, this meant that I couldn't be gay, because gay women didn't like "girl" stuff.
As a teenager, I began to learn more about the difference between gender and sexuality, and the fluidity of both. I began to let myself feel some of the long-suppressed feelings of queer desire I still harbored.
Still, in the back of my mind, the instilled certainty of sexuality as an extremely rigid thing sometimes kept me up at night. What if I was gay? Would I have to change the way I looked? Would I have to give up some of the things I liked? In my mind, being gay meant your sexuality was your whole identity, and everything else about you disappeared beneath the weight of it.
But then, Santana came out as gay on Glee.
GLEE - The Santana 'Coming Out Scene' www.youtube.com
If you didn't watch Glee, than you might not know the importance of Naya Rivera's character to so many queer young women like myself. Santana was beautiful, she was popular, she had dated boys, she was feminine, she was sexy, and she was gay. There's even evidence that Santana had previously enjoyed relationships with men.
But the character came out anyways, not because she had to or because it was obvious to everyone around her that she was gay, but because her attraction to women was an aspect of her identity she was proud of. It wasn't an unfortunate reality she simply had to make the best of; it was an exciting, beautiful, aspect of her identity worth celebrating.
Before Santana, it had never really come home for me that being gay wasn't an entire identity—that it wasn't an affliction or disorder, but just another part of a person. She also didn't suddenly start wearing flannels or cutting her hair after coming out. She was the same feminine person she had always been. I had never realized that being a gay woman didn't have to look a certain way. Santana and Brittany's gay storyline showed two femme-presenting women in love, and for me, that was a revolution.
If it wasn't for Naya Rivera, we may never have had that important story line.
"It's up to writers, but I would love to represent [the LGBTQ community] because we know that there are tons of people who experience something like that and it's not comical for them in their lives," Rivera told E! News in 2011. "So I hope that maybe we can shed some light on that."
While Rivera herself wasn't gay (the importance of casting gay actors in gay roles is a separate conversation), she understood how important her character was to the queer community. "There are very few ethnic LGBT characters on television, so I am honored to represent them," Rivera told Latina magazine in 2013. "I love supporting this cause, but it's a big responsibility, and sometimes it's a lot of pressure on me."
Rivera wasn't just a supporter of the LGBTQ+ community on screen. In 2017, she wrote a "Love Letter to the LGBTQ Community" for Billboard's Pride Month. In it, she wrote, "We are all put on this earth to be a service to others and I am grateful that for some, my Cheerios ponytail and sassy sashays may have given a little light to someone somewhere, who may have needed it. To everyone whose heartfelt stories I have heard, or read I thank you for truly enriching my life."
Now, as we mourn the loss of Naya Rivera, at least we can take comfort in knowing that her legacy will live on—that the light her Cheerios ponytail and sassy sashays gave us won't go out any time soon.
Excuse me, I have to go weep-sing-along to Rivera's cover of landslide now.
Glee - Landslide (Full Performance + Scene) 2x15 youtu.be
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