The pop star’s seventh solo album is “Act I” of work born during the pandemic, a time she “found to be the most creative,” she said in a statement.The new Beyoncé album has officially arrived. In a rare breach of the pop queen’s carefully choreographed release plans, an unauthorized version of “Renaissance,” the singer’s seventh solo studio LP and the first part of a teased trilogy, leaked two days early online.Beyoncé acknowledged the hitch in a statement upon the album’s wide release on streaming services at midnight on Friday. “So, the album leaked, and you all actually waited until the proper release time so you all can enjoy it together,” she wrote to her dedicated fans. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she added, thanking her followers “for your love and protection.”The debut of “Renaissance” followed a marketing rollout that, for Beyoncé, was oddly conventional. After years of ripping up the standard playbook for releasing new music — eschewing early radio singles and interviews for surprise drops and elaborate multimedia spectacles — Beyoncé spent six weeks beating the promotional drum. She announced the album more than a month ahead of time, did an interview with British Vogue, put out the single “Break My Soul,” revealed a track list and finally began posting on TikTok.Yet on Wednesday, about 36 hours before the appointed release time, high-quality copies of the album’s 16 tracks appeared online, spreading across social media even as Beyoncé’s most vigilant fans encouraged one another to hold out (and to tattletale on the bootleggers). “I appreciate you for calling out anyone that was trying to sneak into the club early,” Beyoncé wrote in her statement on social media as the album was released.Sleuthing observers speculated that the tracks may have come from copies of the CD that were being sold in some European stores early. In a perverse way, the old-fashioned leak of a blockbuster album seemed to fit the throwback theme of “Renaissance,” which throbs with the sound of dance music from across the decades.Referencing disco, funk, house, techno, bounce and more, the generally upbeat songs draw from a wide array of writers and producers, with some tracks crediting more than dozen people. In addition to reliable Beyoncé collaborators like The-Dream, Pharrell Williams, Hit-Boy and Drake, experimental songs like “Energy” and “All Up In Your Mind” also feature electronic producers including Skrillex, BloodPop and A.G. Cook of PC Music among their eclectic personnel.The samples and interpolations run the gamut as well, from the regional and esoteric to the indelible: “America Has a Problem” pulls from the Atlanta bass pioneer Kilo, while “Summer Renaissance,” the closing song, includes an interpolation of Donna Summer’s 1977 electro-disco classic “I Feel Love.” On “Move,” a feature from the cultural chameleon Grace Jones is paired with the rising Afrobeats star Tems; elsewhere, Beyoncé links the sounds of traditional Black music genres like soul and R&B with subcultures like ballroom vogueing.“I’m one of one/I’m number one/I’m the only one,” she intones on “Alien Superstar.” “Don’t even waste your time trying to compete with me/no one else in this world can think like me.”In an explanatory statement posted to Instagram last month that Beyoncé expanded on her website on Thursday, she said “Renaissance” was part of a “three act project” she recorded during the pandemic. She called the album, which she refers to as “Act I,” “a place to dream and to find escape during a scary time for the world.”Adding that she hoped the dance floor-focused tracks would inspire listeners to “release the wiggle,” she added: “My intention was to create a safe place, a place without judgment. A place to be free of perfectionism and overthinking. A place to scream, release, feel freedom.”Beyoncé also cited her late “Uncle Jonny,” whose battle with H.I.V. the singer has spoken about before, as an influence for the music and its historical ties to the L.G.B.T.Q. community.“He was my godmother and the first person to expose me to a lot of the music and culture that serve as an inspiration for this album,” she wrote. “Thank you to all of the pioneers who originate culture, to all of the fallen angels whose contributions have gone unrecognized for far too long.”Since “Lemonade” (2016), her last solo studio LP and accompanying film, Beyoncé has tided fans over with a number of ambitious in-between projects.In 2018, she performed as one of the headliners at the Coachella festival, where her show paid tribute to the marching band tradition of historically Black colleges and universities, and was widely hailed as a triumph — one that “reoriented her music, sidelining its connections to pop and framing it squarely in a lineage of Southern Black musical traditions,” as The New York Times critic Jon Caramanica wrote. The performance was later turned into a Netflix special and an album, both titled “Homecoming.”Also in 2018, Beyoncé and Jay-Z, her husband, released a joint album, “Everything Is Love,” credited to the Carters. And in June 2020, at the height of national protests in wake of George Floyd’s murder, she released a song, “Black Parade,” with lines like “Put your fist up in the air, show Black love.”“Black Parade” took the Grammy Award the next year for best R&B performance, one of four prizes that night that brought Beyoncé’s career haul to 28 — more than any other woman. This year, Beyoncé was nominated at the Academy Awards for best original song for “Be Alive,” from the film “King Richard,” a biopic about the father of Venus and Serena Williams.How the early leak will affect the commercial prospects of “Renaissance” remains unclear. Years ago, the unauthorized release of music in advance could have devastating consequences for an album. But that danger has been mitigated by the shift to streaming.And Beyoncé, like most other artists today, took advance orders for physical copies of her album, which will count on the charts as soon as they are shipped — usually the week of release. On Beyoncé’s website, the four boxed sets of “Renaissance” and its limited-edition vinyl version are sold out. More

A schmaltzy ballad. A bubble-gum pop song. A raunchy rap anthem. All three Hot 100 hits feature Mars, a blockbuster singer and songwriter who is largely a cipher.It’s a free-for-all on the Hot 100 chart right now. “Die With a Smile,” a slick, sappy Lady Gaga ballad destined for oldies radio rotation in about 20 years, has been hovering around No. 1 since summer. “Apt.,” a peppy new wave-inspired cut by Blackpink’s Rosé that speaks the rhythmic, hyperactive language of TikTok, is also in the Top 10. And a little further down, there’s Sexyy Red’s “Fat, Juicy and Wet,” the kind of raunchy, would-be strip club anthem that seems to float into the mainstream every few years. Nothing really links these songs — except for the fact that Bruno Mars appears on all three.Mars checks many of the boxes of an A-list pop star. But unlike those who usually occupy the top slot of Spotify’s most-streamed artist ranking — which the 39-year-old musician has for the bulk of 2025 — it’s not always easy to discern his specific viewpoint, or even a favored niche. Pop has long rewarded shape-shifters like Madonna, whose careers are marked by bold artistic reconfigurations, but Mars is a different beast: a performer with such a malleable identity at one moment that his name stands for little except its association with hits.Depending on your vintage, you might best remember Mars as a sappy adult contemporary crooner, thanks to his early No. 1s like “Grenade” and “Just the Way You Are.” On “Locked Out of Heaven,” certified diamond for 10 million sales, he was in full Sting drag, belting over shimmery new wave. Silk Sonic, his collaboration with Anderson .Paak that yielded a 2021 album, reveled in a kind of throwback sleaze, perhaps in tribute to his semi-adoptive hometown, Las Vegas, where he has held down a residency at the Park MGM for an astonishing near-decade.In one of his early guises, Mars was an adult contemporary-style crooner.Chad Batka for The New York TimesRather than try to distill his essence into one sound, Mars has remained stubbornly chameleonic — though rooted in old-fashioned music-making, the kind that employs acoustic instruments and appeals to Grammy voters (he has 33 nominations and 16 wins). “Die With a Smile” hearkens back to his days as a Jason Mraz-esque wedding song maestro; despite its title, the song is pure soft-rock schmaltz, finding both singers indulging their worst impulses toward lounge act cosplay. “Apt.” taps into the new wave pep of his 2012 “Unorthodox Jukebox” album, this time cribbing familiar elements of hits by the Go-Go’s, Blondie and Bananarama.Both songs came with their own distinct visual aesthetic — ’60s Americana, and a shambolic, pseudo-punk look — and were colossal hits on TikTok, radio and beyond. While “Apt.” was always intended for Rosé’s December 2024 debut album, “Rosie,” Gaga initially said that “Die With a Smile” was a one-off, and had nothing to do with her forthcoming album, “Mayhem.” Six months later, fans noticed the song had been tacked on at the end of the “Mayhem” track list; it’s hard to argue with some two billion extra streams.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

In her 1999 book, “When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost: A Hip-Hop Feminist Breaks It Down,” the cultural critic Joan Morgan describes eloquently the ways in which racism often makes it difficult for black women to call out sexism within their own communities. “I needed a feminism that would allow us to continue loving ourselves and the brothers who hurt us without letting race loyalty buy us early tombstones,” she wrote.She reiterates that sentiment in “On the Record,” a wrenching new documentary by Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering, streaming on HBO Max. The film details the allegations of sexual assault against the music mogul Russell Simmons, but its scope is much wider: It explores the particular (and often overlooked) struggles of black women in the #MeToo movement. At its center is Drew Dixon, 48, who says Simmons raped her in 1995 while she was a rising A&R executive at his pioneering company, Def Jam Records. Dixon didn’t speak publicly about the incident for more than two decades, fearing that challenging the “godfather of hip-hop” would amount to a betrayal of her community. “I didn’t want to let the culture down,” she says poignantly. “I love the culture. I loved Russell, too.”“On the Record” closely follows Dixon before, during and after her decision to go public with her accusations in a December 2017 article in The New York Times. It also weaves in the testimonies of seven other women who say they were raped by Simmons — including the writer Jenny Lumet, the former assistant and model Sil Lai Abrams and the hip-hop artist Sherri Hines. (Simmons has denied all accusations of nonconsensual sex and described his life as “devoid of violence” in a written response to the filmmakers.)[embedded content]The stories of these women hit the familiar beats of the countless #MeToo narratives that have emerged since the reckoning of Harvey Weinstein three years ago: abuses of power, derailed careers, fearful silences, doubts and dismissals. But for black women who have been assaulted by black men, the quest for justice is intersectional. It involves negotiations between solidarity and salvation.The film communicates these complex ideas with quiet, forceful emotional clarity. It’s the latest in Dick and Ziering’s formidable oeuvre of documentaries on the subject: Their previous collaborations, like “The Invisible War,” about sexual assault in the military, and “The Hunting Ground,” about rape on college campuses, provoked strong, polarized reactions and substantive policy changes. “On the Record” is a relatively modest film — more character study than exposé — but it has already attracted considerable controversy. Shortly before it premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January, Oprah Winfrey, one of its executive producers, dropped out, citing creative differences, and the filmmakers lost their distribution deal with Apple TV and moved to HBO Max.Amid speculation that Simmons might have pressured Winfrey to withdraw, she told The Times that she continued to stand by the women in the film but felt that their stories hadn’t been sufficiently “elevated,” and that the film lacked an appropriately broad context that took in the “debauchery” of the music business at the time. Winfrey’s concerns about the narrow focus and selective context don’t seem misplaced, but these strike me as strengths rather than shortcomings. “On the Record” is not a work of journalism. Most of the accusations have been reported on extensively in the last two years in various publications. What the film does is bring these accounts to living, breathing and moving life, taking us beyond the media cycles of allegation and denial to a survivor’s intimate confrontations with cultural pressures and trauma.Dixon makes for a stirring and charismatic protagonist, her face lighting up with joy as she describes walking the streets of Brooklyn with Biggie Smalls and putting together a Grammy-winning record with Method Man and Mary J. Blige. When the harassment began, she thought her talent would protect her from danger. “I am an executive with value, and he’s a businessperson,” she says. When she’s proved wrong, it’s a crushing lesson: Misogyny razes all ideas of value and worth, even in seemingly meritocratic settings.A few years later, while working a different job at Arista Records, Dixon is confronted by this reality all over again. When she rebuffed the advances of L.A. Reid, then the chief executive, she says he punished her by passing on two up-and-coming artists she had scouted: Kanye West and John Legend. (Reid has said he apologized if anything he had said or done had been “misinterpreted.”)Employing a plain, by-the-numbers style, Dick and Ziering make a deliberate choice to let their interviewees take center stage, contextualizing their stories with some archival images. These inserts can feel glib. One hasty sequence, which seems to support some of Winfrey’s reservations, starts with excerpts from rap videos to demonstrate the prevalence of sexism in hip-hop, then follows up with clips from songs by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to clarify, rather awkwardly, that sexism isn’t confined to hip-hop.But these nominal bits of editorialization are supplemented by a superb cast of cultural commentators, who represent the real, intellectual force of “On the Record.” In addition to Morgan, they include Tarana Burke, the founder of the #MeToo movement, Kimberlé Crenshaw, the scholar behind the theory of intersectionality, and Kierna Mayo, the former editor of Ebony magazine.As Dixon and the other survivors describe their painful experiences of harassment and shame, the commentators situate them eloquently within the broader picture of African-American history and raise important questions that have often remained at the periphery of the #MeToo movement. They explain, for instance, how black women’s fear of speaking out against their abusers is rooted in the legacy of false rape accusations against black men — and that the criminal justice system offers little hope to communities that have long suffered its biases.The filmmakers do an admirable job of switching between these micro and macro perspectives in a tight and accessible 95 minutes. Their movie makes a sincere case for Dixon’s quiet plea to the camera: “It’s time for somebody to acknowledge the burden and the plunder of black women.”On the RecordNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 35 minutes. Watch on HBO Max. More

Watch how your favorite pop hits get made. Meet the artists, songwriters and producers as Joe Coscarelli investigates the modern music industry.Watch how your favorite pop hits get made. Meet the artists, songwriters and producers as Joe Coscarelli investigates the modern music industry. More

The beloved tenor’s latest book and album emerged from a time when the pandemic forced him to question what exactly he does when he sings.Spring this year has been a particular joy for touring singers like me. The cloud of Covid seems to have evaporated: Restrictions have been lifted, audiences have (nervously) returned and the prospect of being stranded in foreign parts with a positive test is gone, not to mention the diminishing threat of serious or voice-impacting illness. Things will never be the same — they never are — but some semblance of normalcy has returned.When the endless travels of classical music were interrupted, though, and when I was forced into a kind of silence, I had time and the inclination to question what I was doing, to ask what exactly I’m up to when I stand up and sing a song. This interacted with two projects that were conceived before the pandemic but were largely undertaken during it: “Song and Self,” lectures and a resulting book, and a recording of “The Folly of Desire,” a song cycle written by and performed with the pianist-composer Brad Mehldau.This spring saw the consummation of both, with the book out from the University of Chicago Press in April, and the album out on June 2 on the Pentatone label. In my writing, I looked at some iconic works — by Monteverdi, Schumann, Britten and Ravel — exploring them in the light of concerns about gender identity, colonialism and death. Mehldau’s work, resolutely art and not remotely a work of analysis, treats the multiform and problematic nature of sexual desire, sometimes with a shocking directness and sometimes with a glowing compassion, but always with a visceral beauty.WHEN I BECAME a professional musician, in the mid-1990s, I forged my reputation as a singer of songs — particularly of lieder, German art song, that very niche but hugely significant branch of classical music reinvented by Franz Schubert in the 1820s and brought to global prominence by the legendary baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau after World War II.Ian Bostridge, right, performing “The Folly of Desire,” with Brad Mehldau at the piano in 2019 at Zankel Hall in Manhattan.Stephanie BergerThe big discovery I came to, as I made my first tentative steps into the world of music theater, was that the distinction I had unconsciously made between “song” and “opera” was misconceived and inhibiting. The boundary between the two was, rather, fluid and permeable.Having seen Fischer-Dieskau perform toward the end of his career in the 1980s, I had already half-learned this lesson. To watch him perform even as purely lyrical a song as Schubert’s “Meeresstille,” a setting of Goethe’s poem about a ship becalmed at sea, was to see a master actor at work. Some of the great stage directors I have worked with in opera — Baz Luhrmann, David Alden, Deborah Warner — have encouraged me to bring the special intensity of the song recital, the “expressive intimacy” identified by my baritone colleague Christian Gerhaher in a recent book, to opera.Conversely, song recitals involve the presentation of a persona just as much as any other piece of music theater. And the boundaries between acting as impersonation (think Daniel Day-Lewis’s film performances) and as intensification of the reinvented self (now think of Cary Grant’s work with Hitchcock) are constantly shifting.Hybrid forms, neither opera nor conventional recital, are particularly interesting in this regard. Three pieces of music theater that I have been lucky enough to bring to Lincoln Center in New York — Seamus Heaney’s translation of Janacek’s “Diary of One Who Vanished,” directed by Warner, and Netia Jones’s stagings of Schubert’s “Winterreise,” in a version by Hans Zender, and of Britten’s “Curlew River” — were exactly that: staged song cycles in the first two cases, and reimagined ritual in third. They encouraged me even more to explore an issue that I found slippery and abstract at first, but that gradually took on a clearer form.Identity is something that all performers have to confront. Each time we stand onstage to deliver a text — literary or musical, or some combination of the two — we have a decision to make about its character, and about our stance toward it. How do we go about embodying it? Do we take on the identity of the material we have absorbed, or does it reconfigure itself as it is molded to our own identity? What is our duty to the text? To the audience? To ourselves?My book “Song and Self” explores and worries at issues of identity that come to the fore in some of the works I love — issues of gender, for example. Is the real protagonist of Robert Schumann’s “Frauenliebe und -Leben” not the woman we see on the surface, but rather the composer, whose anxieties and passions inflect the cycle at every point? What difference does it make if the cycle is sung, as it was in the 19th century, by a man? Should I sing it today?Then again, how important is the gender of the Madwoman, which I have sung, in “Curlew River”? Britten uses the ritual resources of Japanese Noh theater to create a sort of distancing. Cross-gender casting is a part of this, but one which in blurring our perceptions of gender only amplifies the impact of the austerely told story: The Madwoman is all of us.Troubling political issues can also intersect with the sung persona as I discovered in my research into Ravel’s “Chansons Madécasses.” The second section of this powerful cycle, for voice and instrumental trio, is a setting of an 18th-century protest against longstanding French attempts to colonize Madagascar, voiced by a Malagasy. “Méfiez-vous des blancs” (“Beware of the whites”) he cries — but that cry was written by Évariste Parny, an opponent of slavery yet a slave owner.Ravel wrote the song in the midst of French colonial wars in North Africa, only a few decades after the bloody French conquest of Madagascar in 1896. Some early audiences saw the piece as political provocation. There’s something troubling about these twin acts of ventriloquism, Parny’s poem and Ravel’s music. In addressing the song we have to ask questions about the poet’s bad faith as a slaveholding abolitionist, about the composer’s motives and about our own. Who should sing this song? Who owns it?“Song and Self” is very much an exploratory work. It takes the notion of the essay at its word — as an attempt, an experiment. If I draw any conclusion, it’s that the way to approach classical music, in an era in which its relevance or ideological stance is constantly being questioned, is to explore where it comes from more closely, not to throw it away. Questioning is built into the classical music tradition; and interpreting this complex music that we have inherited means negotiating between the preoccupations of the past and the present so that we can discover more about ourselves.MEHLDAU’S “THE FOLLY OF DESIRE” demands similar questioning. I had first met Brad five or six years ago; he was playing jazz improvisations and I was singing “Winterreise,” we hit it off, and he offered to write song cycle for the two of us. What emerged, about 18 months later, was a group of songs that set the past and the present against each other in a way that also opened up new ways of thinking — in this case, concerning what William Blake called “the lineaments of gratified desire.”“Folly” both fits into and challenges the tradition of Romantic lieder that Mehldau and I love so much. It sets a series of poems in a dizzying sequence of musical styles that reflect the shifting perspectives on desire opened up by each poem he sets: the delicate darkness of William Blake’s “The Sick Rose”; the classical horror of Yeats’s “Leda and the Swan”; the sly lubricious perversity of a sonnet by Bertolt Brecht so obscene that his estate will not allow it to be translated; the rollicking jocks of E. E. Cummings’s “The Boys,” set in the style of Supertramp “with Wurlitzer.” The cycle ends with an epilogue based on one of the great poetic expressions of the ambiguities and compromises of sexual relationships, W.H. Auden’s “Lullaby”: “Lay your sleeping head, my love / Human on my faithless arm.”We performed the songs in recital with Schumann’s “Dichterliebe.” The pairing reinvigorated the weirdness and perversity of a piece from the 19th century so familiar as to be in danger of losing its edge. Mehldau’s cycle can also be shocking, but, as in the Schumann, to dramatic effect; juxtapositions of violence and serenity intensify our engagement with the mysterious movements of text and music. When a tiny motif from the first Blake setting reoccurs in the last — “What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song? / Or Wisdom for a dance in the street?” — we are moved, even if we hardly know why.In the end we decided to complete our recording with the jazz encores we had performed over the years, rather than with the Schumann. But hearing these standards — “These Foolish Things,” “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,” “Every Time We Say Goodbye,” “Night and Day” — set against Mehldau’s cycle also opens them up to questioning.“The Folly of Desire” explores different identities through text and music, some rebarbative and some consolatory, and in doing so shines a light on our experience of desire — its capacity for mindless destruction, its sublime creativity, its sheer idiocy. Folly indeed. As Mehldau writes in a composer’s note, it was written in a period when desire and its dangers were very much at the fore of public discourse, as #MeToo forced everyone to come to terms with the troubled issue of consent.But the piece is, as Mehldau says, “untouched by prosaic discourse.” Like other great works of the classical tradition, it allows us to inhabit other personas, other worlds. And it offers no answers, doing what art does in that spirit of negative capability, which Keats so perfectly encapsulated: to be “capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” More