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      California Bill Could Restrict the Use of Rap Lyrics in Court

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      The bill, which applies more broadly to other forms of creative expression, has unanimously passed the Senate and Assembly and could become law by the end of September.A California bill that would restrict the use of rap lyrics and other creative works as evidence in criminal proceedings has unanimously passed both the State Senate and Assembly, and could soon be signed into law by Gov. Gavin Newsom.The bill, introduced in February by Assemblyman Reginald Jones-Sawyer, a Democrat who represents South Los Angeles, comes amid national attention on the practice following the indictment of the Atlanta rappers Young Thug and Gunna on gang-related charges. Prosecutors have drawn on the men’s lyrics in making their case.The California measure, however, would apply more broadly to any creative works, including other types of music, poetry, film, dance, performance art, visual art and novels.“What you write could ultimately be used against you, and that could inhibit creative expression,” Mr. Jones-Sawyer said Wednesday in an interview. He noted that the bill ultimately boiled down to a question of First Amendment rights.“This is America,” he said. “You should be able to have that creativity.”Mr. Newsom has until Sep. 30 to sign the bill into law. If he neither signs nor vetoes the bill by that date, the measure would automatically become law. The law would then go into effect on Jan. 1, 2023, Mr. Jones-Sawyer said.When asked whether Mr. Newsom planned to sign the bill, his office said that it could not comment on pending legislation. “As will all measures that reach the governor’s desk, it will be evaluated on its merits,” it said.Though the bill’s genesis is in preventing rap stars’ lyrics from being weaponized against them, the measure loosely defines “creative expression” to include “forms, sounds, words, movements, or symbols.”It would require a court to evaluate whether such works can be included as evidence by weighing their “probative value” in the case against the “substantial danger of undue prejudice” that might result from including them. The court should consider the possibility that such works could be treated as “evidence of the defendant’s propensity for violence or criminal disposition, as well as the possibility that the evidence will inject racial bias into the proceedings,” the bill says.“People were going to jail merely because of their appearance,” Mr. Jones-Sawyer said. “We weren’t trying to get people off the hook. We’re just making sure that biases, especially racial biases toward African Americans, weren’t used against them in a court of law.”The bill would require that decisions about the evidence be made pretrial, out of the presence of a jury. For decades, prosecutors have used rappers’ lyrics against them even as their music has become mainstream, with critics and fans arguing that the artists should be given the same freedom to explore violence in their work as were musicians like Johnny Cash (did he really shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die?) or authors like Bret Easton Ellis, who wrote “American Psycho.”In other cases, though lyrics were not used as evidence, they were discussed in front of the jury, which “poisoned the well” by allowing bias to enter the court, according to Mr. Jones-Sawyer’s office. It also noted that while country music has a subgenre known as the “murder ballad,” it is only the lyrics of rap artists that have been singled out.Charis E. Kubrin, a professor of criminology, law and society at the University of California, Irvine, who has extensively researched the use of rap lyrics in criminal proceedings, said that the way prosecutors have used defendant-authored lyrics in court was unique to rap.The practice, she said, essentially treated the lyrics as “nothing more than autobiographical accounts — denying rap the status of art.” The California bill is significant, Dr. Kubrin said, because it would require judges to consider whether the lyrics would inject racial bias into proceedings. “This is bigger than rap,” she said.Among the first notable times the tactic was used was against the rapper Snoop Dogg at his 1996 murder trial, when prosecutors cited lyrics from “Murder Was the Case.” The rapper, whose real name is Calvin Broadus, was acquitted.Snoop Dogg entering a Los Angeles court in 1996, where a prosecutor cited his lyrics during a murder trial. He was acquitted.Mark J. Terrill/Associated PressMost recently, the charges against Young Thug and Gunna have called national attention to the tactic. Both men, who have said they are innocent, were identified as members of a criminal street gang, some of whom were charged with violent crimes including murder and attempted armed robbery.Young Thug, whose real name is Jeffery Williams, co-wrote the Grammy-winning “This is America” with Childish Gambino and is one of the most influential artists to emerge from Atlanta’s hip-hop scene.In November, two New York lawmakers introduced a similar bill that would prevent lyrics from being used as evidence in criminal cases unless there was a “factual nexus between the creative expression and the facts of the case.” It passed the Senate in May.In July, U.S. Representatives Hank Johnson of Georgia and Jamaal Bowman of New York, both Democrats, introduced federal legislation, the Restoring Artistic Protection Act, which they said would protect artists from “the wrongful use of their lyrics against them.”The California bill is supported by several other music organizations and activist groups, including the Black Music Action Coalition California, the Public Defenders Association and Smart Justice California, which advocates criminal justice reform.In a statement of support from June, the Black Music Action Coalition, an advocacy organization that battles systemic racism in the music business, said that prosecutors almost exclusively weaponized rappers’ lyrics against men of color.“Creative expression should not be used as evidence of bad character,” the organization said, maintaining that the claim that themes expressed in art were an indication of the likelihood that a person was violent or dishonest was “simply false.”Harvey Mason Jr., the chief executive of the Recording Academy, which runs the Grammy Awards, said that the bill was intended to protect not only rappers, but also artists across all genres of music, and other forms of creativity.“It’s bigger than any one individual case,” Mr. Mason said. “In no way, at no time, do I feel that someone’s art should be used against them.” More

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      Creed Taylor, Producer Who Shaped Jazz for Decades, Dies at 93

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      He made scores of albums with artists who were well known and others who soon would be. He also founded two important record labels.Creed Taylor, one of the most influential and prolific jazz producers of the second half of the last century, best known for the distinctive work he did for his CTI label in the 1970s, died on Monday in Nuremberg, Germany. He was 93.Donna Taylor, his daughter-in-law, said he had been visiting family there when he had a stroke on Aug. 2. He never recovered, she said.Mr. Taylor began his career as a jazz producer in the 1950s, and in 1960 he founded the Impulse! label, which would become the home of John Coltrane and other stars. He did not stay there long, though, and most of the label’s best-known records were produced later.He moved to another jazz label, Verve. He made a lasting mark there by producing recordings by the saxophonist Stan Getz that popularized bossa nova, including “Getz/Gilberto,” the celebrated 1964 album by Getz and the guitarist João Gilberto that included “The Girl From Ipanema,” with Mr. Gilberto’s wife, Astrud. Both the album and the single, a crossover hit, won Grammy Awards.Mr. Taylor made a lasting mark at Verve Records with recordings by the saxophonist Stan Getz that popularized bossa nova, most notably “Getz/Gilberto.”In 1967, Mr. Taylor was at A&M, where he founded another label, Creed Taylor Inc., better known as CTI. Three years later it became an independent label, which over the next decade became known for stylish albums by George Benson, Stanley Turrentine, Grover Washington Jr. and others — and for a degree of commercial success that was unusual for jazz.“In many ways the sound of the 1970s was defined by CTI,” the musician and producer Leo Sidran said in introducing a 2015 podcast featuring an interview with Mr. Taylor.The records Mr. Taylor released on the label often emphasized rhythm and favored accessibility over esoteric exploration. As J.D. Considine wrote in The New York Times in 2002 when some of these recordings were rereleased, Mr. Taylor “believed that jazz, having started out as popular music, ought to maintain a connection to a broader audience.”Some purists might have scowled at the time, but the effect was undeniable.“The true measure of his impact was that at the height of the 1970s when so many musical styles were jostling for attention, more people were listening to jazz than ever before,” Ashley Kahn, a music historian, said by email. “For most, CTI wasn’t thought of as a jazz label; it was a sound, a musical identity like Motown. When you bought a CTI album you knew it was going to be top-quality on all levels, with at least two or three tracks you’d be grooving to for a long time to come.”Impulse!, still a force in jazz, memorialized Mr. Taylor on Twitter.“He was a genius when it came to finding new and special music that would stay with listeners forever,” the company’s post said.Creed Bane Taylor V was born on May 13, 1929, in Lynchburg, Va. His father was, as Donna Taylor described him, a “gentleman farmer,” and his mother, Nina (Harrison) Taylor, was a personnel director.Mr. Taylor grew up in Bedford, Va., and in a bucolic area known as White Gate, west of Roanoke, where his family had owned land for generations. He played trumpet in high school, inspired by Harry James. He was surrounded by bluegrass and country music, he said in a 2008 interview with JazzWax, but much preferred jazz.“It was cooler music,” he said. “It made you feel hip, not corny.”He enrolled at Duke University, where he studied psychology until the Korean War interrupted his schooling. After finishing his service with the Marines, he completed his psychology degree in 1954 but quickly made his way to New York to pursue his real interest, music. An earlier one-week visit to the city, he said on Mr. Sidran’s podcast, had whetted his appetite.“Fifty-second Street was on fire,” he said. “You could walk into any little club at the base of any brownstone in that whole section and at no charge you could hear Basie, Ellington, Getz, you name it. I could hardly wait to get back again.”Mr. Taylor at the Institute of Audio Research in New York in 2005. With the revival of vinyl in recent years, collectors are valuing the records he made for his CTI label in the 1970s.Jack Vartoogian/Getty ImagesHe was inspired, in a manner of speaking, to go into producing by “Jazz at the Philharmonic,” the long-running series of concerts and recordings organized by Norman Granz, whom he would later succeed at Verve: He didn’t like it.“The long bass solos, the tenor solos, you name it,” he said on the podcast. “Drum solos, and the crowd, and all the excitement — what happens to the music in all that? ‘Jazz at the Philharmonic’ was, for me, a circus.”In 1954 he landed a job at Bethlehem Records, where he produced albums for the vocalist Chris Connor and others. It was an era when producers did everything for a record, from lining up musicians to trying to get radio stations to play it. Mr. Taylor enjoyed being Mr. Do-It-All.“I was fascinated by the record business,” he told JazzWax, “from how to put a record’s cover and liner notes together to getting the records into stores and selling them.”And sometimes, it meant discovering the artist. He told JazzWax that in late 1954 he moved to an apartment in Greenwich Village and became intrigued by a flute player he could hear practicing as he sat in his backyard garden.“He’d play scales and then launch into amazing jazz lines,” Mr. Taylor recalled. “I decided I had to find out who the devil was playing.”He followed the sound and knocked on the musician’s door. It was Herbie Mann, then still largely unknown; Mr. Mann recorded some of his first albums for Bethlehem.In 1956 Mr. Taylor moved to ABC-Paramount, where he produced all sorts of albums (one was a collection of speeches and other highlights from the career of Dwight D. Eisenhower) but concentrated on jazz, making records with the trumpeter Kenny Dorham, the singer Bobby Scott and countless others before forming Impulse! as a subsidiary label.There and at his later stops, he encouraged his artists to try new things, and not to shy away from other genres. One of his George Benson albums, for instance, was “The Other Side of Abbey Road” (1970), featuring Mr. Benson’s guitar interpretations of songs from that Beatles album.At CTI in the early 1970s, he also packaged artists together in star-studded stage shows. “A real jazz festival has finally come to Atlanta,” The Atlanta Voice wrote in 1973 when the CTI tour played that city with a lineup that included the vibraphonist Milt Jackson, the guitarist Eric Gale and the singer Esther Phillips.Whatever the project, Mr. Taylor’s stamp was distinctive.“The through line to the labels Creed worked for or started — including Impulse, Verve and CTI — was an auteur-like, 360-degree approach to creating high-quality recorded product,” Mr. Kahn, the music historian, said, “recruiting A-list jazz players and being open to familiar pop melodies — like bossa nova, soul and R&B tunes, even the Beatles. He used top studios — Rudy Van Gelder’s most often — arrangers like Don Sebesky, and placed museum-quality photography on the album covers.“He thought and acted like a one-man record company, and then became one: CTI. Think Phil Spector, but with a deep feeling for jazz and soul, and without the guns.”Mr. Taylor’s first marriage, to Marian Wendes in 1956, ended in divorce in 1984. In 1988 he married Harriet Schmidt. She survives him, along with three sons from his first marriage, Creed Bane Taylor VI, Blakelock Harrison Taylor and John Wendes Taylor; a daughter from his second marriage, Courtney Taylor Prince; and five grandchildren.The CTI label, though successful early, ran into financial trouble — Mr. Taylor said he made some ill-advised decisions on distribution matters — and filed for bankruptcy in 1978.He also got into a protracted legal dispute with Warner Bros. over the rights to Mr. Benson’s music. After a jury found in Mr. Taylor’s favor in 1988 and awarded him more than $3 million, he was able to revive the label for a time. By then, 1970s CTI records had begun to be reissued by CBS Records, which had acquired the catalog. Rappers were sampling his records, and, with the revival of vinyl in recent years, collectors were valuing them.In 2012 Mr. Taylor spoke to a jazz studies class at North Carolina Central University, recounting stories of how he got the guitarist Wes Montgomery to try new things, how he talked Nina Simone through the recording of her album “Baltimore,” and more. He encouraged any would-be producers among the class to remain ever curious.“You have to keep your eyes and your ears open the whole time,” he said. More

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      Ingrid Andress, a Nashville Outsider Who Paved Her Own Path In

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      The singer-songwriter almost gave up on country music. Instead, her debut earned her a Grammy nod for best new artist. Now she’s back with an LP about the arc of a relationship.NASHVILLE — When Ingrid Andress answered the door at her home in her hilly Nashville suburb one afternoon in July, feet bare and hair wet as she gamely played host before hurrying off to a tour date, a shiny Yamaha grand piano was visible behind her.There was a moment in 2017, shortly before she signed a label deal, when she fantasized about decamping to Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles and walking the path laid out by Joni Mitchell. Adding the oversized instrument to her living room makes it official: Andress, the 30-year-old pop-versant singer-songwriter, is sticking around to make her home in country music. That doesn’t mean that she’s conformed to genre orthodoxy. What she does, as her manager Blythe Scokin put it, is “pleasantly disrupt the status quo.”“More Hearts Than Mine,” a ballad off Andress’s 2020 debut, “Lady Like,” that showcased the rich detailing of her ruminations, broke through at radio after she fought to release it as her first official single. She excluded her most recent Top 20 hit, the Sam Hunt duet “Wishful Drinking,” from physical versions of her new album, “Good Person,” lest it be a digression. The immersive arrangements on the new LP, out Friday, are meant to set moods, and its narrative arc — gradually grasping that a partner hasn’t been a partner at all and opening herself to something new — is meticulous‌.It’s common for contemporary country artists to emphasize where they come from, and shape their entire personas around it. The Denver suburb where Andress spent part of her youth is more of a footnote in her story. Her father was a coach for the Colorado Rockies, and since the family decamped to Arizona each year for spring training, Andress and her siblings were home-schooled by their mother, who made piano part of the curriculum.“You lived with your piano teacher, so she would know if you practiced or not,” Andress noted, nursing a glass of rosé.Her parents restricted the kids’ access to secular pop culture, but Andress had ways of broadening her horizons — neighbors burned her CDs, and left their labels blank so she could scribble the names of contemporary Christian acts as camouflage. Still, she was aware of missing out.“I think that’s where my outsider syndrome comes from,” she said, “because when you start that young thinking that you’re different from everybody and don’t fit in, it just kind of stays with you.”These feelings fueled her early songwriting, but athletics was the path that held promise. She enrolled in school in eighth grade in hopes that playing soccer and volleyball would land her a college scholarship. A few years later, she was in Boston to see a World Series game when she heard rehearsal sounds emanating from a Berklee College of Music building and ventured inside to investigate: “My whole world just got flipped, to where I was like, ‘I’m going to go here,’” she said. “Luckily, I didn’t know how prestigious it was, because I’d never heard of it.”Andress auditioned to study jazz voice, and found herself among students who seemed to have professional paths on lock. Searching for hers, she joined first one, then another a cappella group, and competed on consecutive seasons of the NBC competition show “The Sing-Off.” After that, a songwriting course taught by the hitmaker Kara DioGuardi steered Andress toward songcraft. Scouting Nashville on a student trip, she seized on its reputation as the “songwriting capital of the world.”Andress lugged her keyboard to writers’ rounds for two years before landing her first publishing deal in 2015 and embarking on a crash course in country songwriting culture, beginning with its primary instrument: guitar. No workrooms at her publisher’s office were set up for keyboards; it was suggested that she learn to strum an acoustic, “like everyone else.”Writing appointments paired Andress with Music Row pros who embodied a combination of clever, commercial craft and rugged, tradition-conscious masculinity that she’d never encountered. Thrown by experiences like being told that cursing didn’t become a woman, she nevertheless resolved to proceed with respect.“‘I have to learn the rules so that I can break them,’” she recalled of her ethos then. “‘I can’t just skip to breaking them.’ Which was a big reality check for me.”There was still tremendous demand for bro country-style songs, with their dirt-road revelry and programmed beats, and thanks to the ongoing inequalities baked into country radio programming, limited room for women. She struggled and began making trips to write and create tracks in Los Angeles. She was developing a personalized way of straddling country and pop, but beyond the occasional Charli XCX single (“Boys”) and country album cut, she was cautioned that her specialties didn’t fit either lane.To prove her songs were worthy of recording, Andress self-released “The Stranger,” a pensive portrait of disintegrating intimacy, in 2017, intending it as her last effort as a Nashville striver. She’d already secured a California apartment, eager to commence her Laurel Canyon phase. Then satellite radio started spinning her ballad, and labels wanted to meet. “It was like the second I gave up on Nashville is when everybody was interested,” she said.“I went from literally nobody knowing who I was to just being plopped front row of the Grammys,” Andress said of her breakthrough.Sara Messinger for The New York TimesBut Andress was determined to be a country-pop artist who wrote and co-produced her material, roles that had traditionally been separate in Nashville: “I almost went out of my way to let people know, ‘This is what you’re dealing with.’”Ultimately, she signed with Warner Music Nashville, with reassurance that she could remain the architect of her sound, and found a manager, Scokin, who had helped steer pop careers and was also working her way into the country music industry’s good graces.Andress recorded much of “Lady Like” in the home studio of Sam Ellis (Hunter Hayes, Kane Brown), who’d become an important collaborator. “There’s no doubt that she has chops, that she knows what she’s talking about,” Ellis said in a video interview. “She’ll bang out an idea on the piano or the synth or guitar or whatever. She has that vocabulary.”What she couldn’t do when her debut album came out in March 2020 was make the promotional rounds. But even without opportunities to win over peers and gatekeepers, she was nominated for her genre’s marquee awards shows and picked up a nod in the Grammys’ best new artist category. “I went from literally nobody knowing who I was to just being plopped front row of the Grammys,” she said though the socially distanced pandemic ceremony she attended felt more like “your dry cousin’s wedding.”During lockdown, Andress ‌grew intensely introspective about relationships in general, and hers in particular. “I realized that I wasn’t happy,” she said, “and that was wild to me, because I’d been with this person for six years. I just couldn’t stop writing about it.” She scrutinized the dynamics and emotions until she had the makings of a song cycle about the realizations, reckonings and the conscious risks of new love.Even with a slightly bigger budget for her second LP, Andress gravitated to the studio in Ellis’s house, no bigger than a spacious bedroom. They farmed out more drum parts to remote recording, but Andress removed some of them, making rhythm a rippling, implied presence; synthesizers mingle with that most molten of traditional country instruments, steel guitar.“No Choice” is her anguished account of why leaving was necessary for self-preservation, while “Blue,” her take on a torch song, exults in the sensuality of romance with the melancholy awareness that it could fade. And late in the title track, an inquiry into religious authority, she implores, “The right hand of God, tell me, what is it like?”‌ It’s her subtle, searching way of engaging with a core country concern: what it means to live uprightly.“Anybody who says country is dumb, that makes me so mad,” Andress said with casual conviction, after close to a decade of studying it. “When done well, it’s smarter than any pop song ever.” More

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      Morgan Taylor, Inventive Children’s Performer, Dies at 52

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      His popular character Gustafer Yellowgold was aimed at youngsters and, more generally, “people who enjoy humor and absurdity and good pop music.”Morgan Taylor, a children’s performer who with fanciful songs and hand-drawn animation drew youngsters into the world of Gustafer Yellowgold, a saffron-colored explorer from the sun who shared a house with an eel and enjoyed music by a rock band made up of bees, died on Aug. 11 in Miamisburg, Ohio, near Dayton. He was 52.His death, in a hospital, was caused by sepsis, said his wife, Rachel Loshak. Mr. Taylor, who lived in Chatham, N.Y., was visiting family and friends in Ohio when he became ill.First in his native Ohio and then, beginning in 1999, in New York City, Mr. Taylor toiled for years in relative obscurity as a guitarist in minor rock bands and a sound engineer. Occasionally, for his own amusement, he would record nutty songs he’d written. About 20 years ago, his wife, a singer-songwriter, suggested he try writing a children’s book, and he went back and gave those nutty, just-for-him songs another listen.“I had accidentally built this entire universe in these scattered pieces that all fit together as I wrote song after song over the years,” he told The Philadelphia Daily News in 2011. “All I had to do was shake the sieve.”One ditty in particular, “I’m From the Sun,” inspired him to create Gustafer Yellowgold, whom Mr. Taylor introduced in 2005 in a CD and DVD, both called “Gustafer Yellowgold’s Wide Wild World.” He developed a stage show to go with that release, singing songs from the record while animated videos he had made played on a screen.Mr. Taylor said his Gustafer songs and stories — two of his albums received Grammy nominations — were “about the roller coaster childhood can be.”The target audience was younger children, but Mr. Taylor was nothing at all like Raffi or the Wiggles. His songs had a rock sensibility and, he hoped, wouldn’t make parents cringe.“It’s really for adults,” he said in 2011, “and it’s really for people who enjoy humor and absurdity and good pop music.”He performed his Gustafer shows all over the country, including at Symphony Space in Manhattan, where Darren Critz, the director of performing arts programs, was always glad to book him.“Morgan’s music, through Gustafer Yellowgold, reflected everything a parent could dream to see in their kids’ lives: joy, a love for life, creativity, wonder, and even a touch of rebellion,” Mr. Critz said by email. “All of it encouraged kids just to be who they were, and to never stop growing into who they wanted to become. What a great gift for parents to be able to share these ideals with their kids through music, rather than a pep talk that would inevitably bring about toddler-style eye-rolls.”Mr. Taylor released a series of Gustafer CDs and DVDs over the years, and they grew more ambitious as they went along. “Gustafer Yellowgold’s Infinity Sock” (2011), his fourth release, was the first to have a narrative thread (Gustafer searches for the toe end of the longest sock in the universe), which carried through all 10 songs.“For me it’s easy to make up stuff that’s freaky and funny,” he told The Dayton Daily News of Ohio that year. “The challenge is to pull it into some semblance of organization, so I thought it was important to have a plot. It was a good challenge for me because it’s easy to be absurd, but I wanted it to be absurd and linear.”Mr. Taylor’s songs were full of colorful word juxtapositions — one was called “Wisconsin Poncho,” another “Melter Swelter” — and the kind of absurd plotting that makes perfect sense to a child. The song and video “Gravy Insane,” for instance, told the story of a family of bats that was adept at making gravy and had to establish an impromptu gravy store on the roadside when its gravy-laden truck jackknifed (“’cause bats can’t drive,” the lyric explained) and the spilled cargo drew a crowd.“Gravy Insane” appeared on “Dark Pie Concerns,” a 2015 Gustafer release that was nominated for a Grammy Award for best children’s album. “Brighter Side,” released in 2017, was also nominated.Morgan Andrew Taylor was born on Sept. 5, 1969, in Kettering, Ohio, near Dayton, to Gordon and Elizabeth (Young) Taylor. At his memorial service on Aug. 18 at Southminster Presbyterian Church in Dayton, among the stories told about him was one that noted his ability, as a child, to imitate an assortment of sounds convincingly. His version of the end-of-the-period school bell was so accurate that he would sometimes get his class dismissed early by employing it, leaving whichever teacher he victimized baffled as to why no other classes were funneling into the hallways as Mr. Taylor and his classmates were sent on their way.He graduated from Kettering High School and attended a local college for a time, though he never completed a degree. More formative than classroom learning, he said, was his discovery in 1988 of the Minnesota rock band Trip Shakespeare.“I was completely blown away and became obsessed with their music,” he told The Pioneer Press of St. Paul, Minn., in 2011. The infatuation is why, when he developed Gustafer’s origin story years later, he had the creature arrive on Earth by landing in a Minnesota lake.After playing in bands in Ohio, Mr. Taylor moved to New York in 1999. He found a job as a sound engineer at the Living Room, a Lower East Side club that showcased local musicians. Ms. Loshak sometimes performed there, and, as Mr. Taylor recounted to The New York Times in 2006, one night “she stayed after her gig, and we talked, and all of a sudden the sun was coming up and we were kissing on a street corner.”They married in 2004. In addition to his wife, he is survived by their two sons, Harvey and Ridley; his mother; a brother, Grant; and a sister, Ann Wiseman.Mr. Taylor built Gustafer Yellowgold into a modest franchise, which included plush toys he designed. He also had a radio show on WKNY in Kingston, N.Y., and had recently created a podcast about Trip Shakespeare.John Munson, that group’s bassist, memorialized Mr. Taylor in a statement.“He made the realities of growing up less scary for all of us,” he said, “parents and children alike.” More

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      ‘Bluey’ Is About Everything, Especially Music

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      “Ladies and gentlemen! I will now play for you the ‘Rondo alla Turca.’”From the first scene of “Bluey,” the hit Australian canine cartoon that amusingly, frankly and ever-so-understandingly takes the hands of children and parents through the escapades of the Heeler family of heelers, classical music is as much a part of playtime as the toys scattered around their suburban Brisbane home.Bandit, the stay-at-home, try-to-work father who, with Chilli, his wife, has become the idol and the envy of parents everywhere for his willingness to entertain his children anywhere, anytime, anyhow, is on the floor, with his 6-year-old daughter, Bluey, draped over his knees. He cracks his knuckles, takes on airs and tickles her mercilessly to the tune of the Mozart sonata. Bluey’s adorable 4-year-old sister, Bingo, watches, begging to be the piano herself.“Magic Xylophone,” the first seven-minute installment of the three seasons currently streaming on Disney+, is notionally about the importance of taking turns. But like most episodes of “Bluey,” it’s also about far more than the immediate lessons it teaches through the Heelers’ antics, at least in the giggly way that the show is “about” everything from family and friendship to marriage and mortality.Amid the slapstick, “Magic Xylophone” is about the power of music to transform us. Bingo finds a xylophone in a toy box, one with the make-believe ability to freeze people in place. Once stuck, they can be subjected to all manner of embarrassments — such as when the girls’ target is their father — or pleaded with to share, as when Bingo ensnares Bluey. All the while, we learn that “Bluey” is going to be no ordinary children’s show in another way, too: This is a show that repays listening, as well as watching.As the girls have their fun, the Mozart sticks around, becoming the basis for a strikingly well-crafted score that stays enchantingly true to the spirit of the original material even as it deviates wildly while the girls argue with their mother, or suffers from comical wrong notes when Bluey and Bingo fight. By the end, Mozart’s rondo has found its way to major-key joy, and the girls have, too, sitting arm in arm as their father sprays himself in the face with a hose.“BLUEY” DID NOT NEED to have music this good. “Peppa Pig,” for instance, its predecessor in fickle toddlers’ hearts, sometimes plinks and plonks to make a point, but its music usually does little more than start and end another episode in its endless cacophony of oinks.But the producers of “Bluey” intend its episodes to be thought about as short films instead of televisual fodder, and the scoring has a cinematic quality that helps make it the kind of show that parents might want to actually watch rather than curse from a distance.“I always knew that music was going to be almost half the show,” Joe Brumm, its creator, said in an interview, explaining his admiration for the role of sound in films like “True Romance,” “The Truman Show” and “The Thin Red Line.”“I didn’t want the usual kids’ TV scoring,” he continued. “Some shows just use one track for an entire season, or a variation of it. I’d worked on ‘Charlie and Lola’ years ago, and they had a couple of musicians who played multiple instruments, and every episode had its own score. So that was the norm for me; it’s definitely not the norm for a lot of shows.”The music of “Bluey” is a collaborative endeavor, but it is primarily the task of its composer, Joff Bush. Bush, 37, switched from jazz piano to composition as a student at the Queensland Conservatorium, and he later attended the Australian Film Television and Radio School. He leads weekly, hourslong Wednesday sessions, at which Brumm and others talk through the philosophy and the psychology of an episode while he improvises at the piano, before later writing a score. It’s work that Brumm is so proud of that he has given Bush his own character in tribute, a musician called Busker.Far from every episode of “Bluey” uses classical music, and Bush’s tastes are eclectic. Some of its more than a hundred shows take inspiration from folk, jazz or rock, and almost all of them are then filtered through what Brumm calls the distinctively “jangly” sound that comes from Bush’s collection of old guitars and his habit of ignoring his mistakes. Even when Bush does color with the classical canon, there is a charmingly offbeat oddness to his work, something that helpfully reminds you that no real family could possibly be as agreeable, as forgiving or as functional as the Heelers, however much your children might reason otherwise.“There’s a humanness to it, I hope,” Bush said.THERE IS A LONG HISTORY entwining classical music with animation, one that dates back well beyond Elmer Fudd singing “Kill the Wabbit!” to strains of Wagner in “What’s Opera, Doc?” “If cartoons have become associated over time with any one musical genre, it is classical music,” the musicologist Daniel Goldmark writes in his book “Tunes for ’Toons: Music and the Hollywood Cartoon.”But the Warner Bros. cartoons from the 1930s to the ’50s used classical music as an “endless source of jokes at the expense of concert hall culture,” Goldmark writes. When concert music and opera were more prominent than they are now, many viewers had certain expectations about Romantic-era music — Wagner most of all — that could easily be subverted, and puncturing its pretensions with a cartoon rabbit was anyway inherently funny.“We do actually steal that approach, sometimes,” Bush said, “taking these grand things and messing with them.”Sometimes Bush does that with glee: A squabble in “Ice Cream” gets sprinkled with absurd grace when Bluey and Bingo waltz, tongues wagging, to Tchaikovsky; their divalike cousin Muffin has become associated with music from “Carmen”; even Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” gets trotted out in “Escape” as the girls dream of chasing down parents who dare venture out for a night. Sometimes the nods are less obvious, as when Elgar drifts in to accompany a crowning ceremony in the backyard paradise of “Rug Island.”Bush is certainly interested in breaking down elitist ideas of what classical music should be — in showing, as he puts it, “that these are great pieces of music, and they don’t have to be heard in a concert hall where we’re all sitting quiet. They can be for everybody.”But Bush — unlike the composers of the Warner Bros. era, and at a time when classical music is less widely known if still set high on its lonely pedestal — tends to do this less through satire or mockery than by remaining somewhat faithful to the composers themselves, whether to the cheekiness of Mozart or to the intricacy of Bach.And there is a lot of Bach in “Bluey”: a Brandenburg Concerto’s counterpoint as a girl-gang’s game of nail salon on a tree stump intertwines with their fathers’ manly-man efforts to chop it up in “Stumpfest,” for example, or a prelude from “The Well-Tempered Clavier,” its already disjointed theme broken up by Bush and made to flow only when the girls successfully deliver a love letter that resolves a parental fight about the trash in “Postman.”There are also episodes that reward thought, like “Bingo.” Bluey goes out for the day, leaving Bingo to struggle by herself while Chilli endures her own traumas trying to fix a toilet. Bush chose a solo piece to illustrate solo play, Mozart’s “Sonata Facile” for piano. “The melody is this little loop,” he said, “it’s this idea of Bingo starting again and getting stuck.”There’s a deeper message in that choice of music. The Mozart looks so simple on the page — and sounds like it, too — that it’s easy to forget that it can be devilishly hard to get right. So too is playtime, for children on their own. Or plumbing.“Any pre-Romantic music, you’ve got free rein,” Bush said. “So much of that is about the beauty of the music itself, rather than ‘This is a sad piece; be sad.’” You can really mess with the music a lot more, without hitting on any meanings.”“THERE’S NOTHING WORTHY going on,” Brumm insists when asked whether this is all part of a grand plan to educate children in music appreciation, à la Walt Disney’s “Fantasia,” even if as an occasional classical listener he sees nothing wrong with getting them interested in it. Bach is available to use without a licensing fee, after all, and the composer isn’t around to protest a misuse.During weekly sessions where the show’s creators talk through the philosophy and the psychology of an episode, Bush improvises at the piano, before later writing a score.Natalie Grono for The New York TimesBush feels likewise, as much as he revels in seeding slivers of Saint-Saëns across an episode so that he can drop the big entry from that composer’s “Organ” Symphony at the climactic moment in “Calypso.”“I don’t think we ever approach it from the place of getting kids into classical music, or anything like that,” he said. “It’s always about the story, about what feels right and fits.”Nowhere is that narrative honesty more brutally effective than in “Sleepytime,” Bush’s balletic masterpiece, which turns the nightly nightmare of getting a family some sleep into an outer-space emotional epic to the sounds of Gustav Holst.Using “Jupiter” from Holst’s “The Planets” for “Sleepytime” was Brumm’s idea, but Bush’s execution is sublime. Carefully, he teases the intervals of its famous theme whenever we glimpse parental affection, giving it an ethereality when cuddles are involved, or an impudence when Bluey pops up to ask for a glass of water then inevitably needs Bandit’s help as she goes to pee.Only when Bingo finally keeps her promise of sleeping in her own bed — “I’m a big girl now,” she tells the sun, a symbol of Chilli’s comforting embrace in a dream inspired by a book about the solar system — does Bush unfurl Holst’s melody in its full splendor, marking the glow, the nobility, the certainty of a mother’s love.“There’s a time in a child’s life when they are starting to build their own identity, and their own independence,” Bush said. “The idea that they are going alone but their parents’ love will always be there is such a powerful one. It needed to be something like ‘Jupiter’ that is bigger than what it is.”You know what’s coming, and when it does, it lands with the devastation of an asteroid strike; the domestic turns into something sublime. Good luck not crying. More

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      Making the Rounds on Nashville’s Singer-Songwriter Circuit

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      For music fans, songwriters’ nights at often unassuming venues provide an inexpensive and illuminating glimpse into Music City’s most celebrated business.On a recent Sunday night in a Holiday Inn lounge on the fringe of Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Paul Jefferson, a local songwriter with spiky hair and skinny jeans, took the stage to sing a couple of his better-known tunes, popularized in recordings by Keith Urban and Aaron Tippin. Between “You’re Not My God” and “That’s as Close as I’ll Get to Loving You,” he talked about crafting a song, finding inspiration and the hustle it takes to make it, including playing a gig at the airport on the same day he would appear on the country’s longest running radio show.“That’s the Nashville story, from baggage claim to the Grand Ole Opry,” he joked.For many songwriters, the road to discovery starts in a Nashville club like this one, hosting free or inexpensive writers’ nights where authors play their originals. In the past, these showcases were a way to secure publishing and recording deals, and though social media channels and televised talent shows have diminished their power as an audition channel, they remain vital forums for many of the artists who provide the words and the melodies to country music and pop stars, or who aim to become stars themselves.“I’m old school,” Mr. Jefferson said, “but this is a great way to hone your skills.”For music fans, songwriters’ nights provide a glimpse into Music City’s most celebrated business, as songwriters share stories about how they managed to get a track to the likes of Tim McGraw, and an opportunity to hear a hit — present or perhaps future — stripped of studio frills and distilled to its essence.Because clubs still reserve prime weekend time for bigger acts, most songwriters’ nights take place early in the week (one exception is the club 3rd and Lindsley, which has a Saturday afternoon showcase). Arriving for a four-day-stay on a Sunday, I checked into a studio with a Murphy bed at the stylish new BentoLiving Chestnut Hill ($125) in the Wedgewood Houston neighborhood, a few miles south of downtown, to attend three shows.Though Nashville is booming — adding a new resident each hour for the past decade, according to its mayor, John Cooper, despite the pandemic — it’s not hard to tap into its frugal side when it comes to music (with the exception of the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, where admission starts at nearly $28). Most of the shows were free or cheap ($5 to $10 admission), and budget-friendly dining abounds, from the hearty, cafeteria-style Arnold’s Country Kitchen ($13 for a meat and three side dishes) to the burger joint Joyland from the chef Sean Brock (burgers from about $6).John Sparkman performs during a songwriters’ night at the Commodore Grille in Nashville, Tenn.William DeShazer for The New York TimesFrom novices to prosOn Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, the unassuming Commodore Grille in the Holiday Inn, my first stop, hosts Debi Champion’s Songwriters Nights, a starter showcase for budding players, a proving ground for working writers and a warm home for successful veterans.Starting at 6 p.m., the free shows introduce newer talents — sets of three share the stage, each taking turns playing their allotted three songs — and progress to more seasoned songwriters.“The hit writer gives aspiring writers a chance to meet and talk to somebody who’s done real good. It’s motivating and encouraging,” said Ms. Champion, who, over the past 30 years, has hosted showcases in Nashville featuring the likes of Jason Aldean and Chris Young on their way up. Ms. Champion is a low-key, familial host, introducing the musicians in her gravelly drawl from a stool at the soundboard in the back of the darkened room, occasionally providing backup vocals or an accomplished whistling solo over the mic.“We call her the champion of songwriters,” said Karree J. Phillips, a songwriter who runs a farm and raises Australian cattle dogs in Carthage, Tenn., and drives about 50 miles into the city to play the showcase a few times a month.Over more than three hours, roughly 20 writers covered a broad range of styles, including a rousing call-and-response number from Ms. Phillips. In an early round, Alexandra Rose sang movingly about dementia. Among more seasoned writers, Ryan Larkins, who recently co-wrote a song recorded by “Whispering Bill” Anderson and Dolly Parton, strummed out the bluesy “Love Like a Lincoln,” equating the slow roll of a classic Town Car to big-hearted love. Even the novelty tunes — the writer and performer Jerry K. Green sang, “If you think my tractor’s sexy, you oughtta see my plow” — drew hoots from the audience.Sipping a $6 draft beer, I sat between a couple visiting from California and Jerry Foster, a Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame member, who showed up in Nashville in May of 1967 and had a cut — or recording — with Charlie Pride by that summer. With his partner, Bill Rice, he went on to write thousands of songs. At the showcase, which he calls home, the gregarious showman, 87, played a few, including “Song and Dance Man,” cut by Johnny Paycheck in 1973, and “The Easy Part’s Over,” recorded by Charlie Pride in 1968 and subsequently by a jazz world legend. “Not many hillbillies got a Louis Armstrong cut, but we did,” he winked.Mike Henderson performs at the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville.William DeShazer for The New York Times“A 10-year town”The profession of songwriting is celebrated near downtown on Music Row, where former residential bungalows, amid more recently built office buildings, are deceptively filled with record companies and publishing houses. Here, yard signs often salute the writers of hit songs.“We throw parties for them when they hit No. 1,” said Leslie Roberts, an assistant vice president in the creative division with BMI, a performing rights organization that collects and distributes royalties to its members over coffee at the stylish new Virgin Hotels Nashville on Music Row.“They call Nashville a 10-year town,” she said, referring to the decade usually required before a writer hones their craft and gets established. “You have to have that dedication to just persevere, because it’s not easy.”Nashville’s reverence for music is reflected in its biggest attractions, including downtown’s Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, my next stop, where the original handwritten lyrics to Kris Kristofferson’s “Me and Bobby McGee” and “I Still Can’t Believe You’re Gone,” by Willie Nelson, were among the artifacts on display.By midday, a few blocks away on Nashville’s famous honky-tonk strip of Lower Broadway, music spilled out of every bar. From one club’s open window, a woman sang to passers-by, belting out a cover of the Zac Brown Band’s “Chicken Fried.” The whooping passengers of pedal trolleys and party buses loudly rolled past.After four mostly club-concentrated blocks, Broadway ends at a greenway beside the Cumberland River where Jack Springhill, a street musician, strummed the Doobie Brother’s “Black Water” on an acoustic guitar for tips. He considers himself “the wasabi palate-cleanser” to the Broadway gauntlet, or what he called “the new Vegas,” and played his own humorous original, “Batman Loves You,” which hails the superhero who “loves to listen when you speak, it’s his favorite technique.”Kaylin Roberson, third from left, performs during Song Suffragettes, a one-hour weekly, all-female showcase, at the Listening Room in Nashville.William DeShazer for The New York TimesChanging the subjectCompared to raucous Broadway, the Listening Room Cafe, a club lodged in a former International Harvester showroom in the SoBro neighborhood just a few blocks away, is a sanctuary for songs meant to be heard, rather than shouted over. Rows of tables, filled with an all-ages audience nibbling on barbecued pork, run up to the theatrically lit stage.“People looking for the real Nashville, if we’re lucky, they find out about this, or any writers’ room,” said Todd Cassetty, the founder of the club’s Monday night showcase, Song Suffragettes, featuring an all-female lineup of singer-songwriters.Song Suffragettes was born in 2014, inspired by the dearth of women in the genre; only about 14 percent of songs played on country radio annually were written by women, according to research from the SongData Project, which explores music culture.In its eight-year run, Song Suffragettes has vetted more than 2,000 applicants, inviting about 350 women to perform. Of those, roughly 75 have landed recording or publishing deals. Breakout stars include the singer Gayle, whose pop anthem “ABCDEFU” topped charts around the world in 2021.That night, Kaylin Roberson led the quintet of 20-somethings on the homey stage with a shag rug, canvas backdrop and five mismatched chairs. Each round started with the full-throated Paige Rose, whose “Whiskey Drinker” sounded ready for radio. Julie Williams brought social realism to her songs about being mixed race, including the hummable “Mixed Feelings.” Sam Hatmaker’s takes on female empowerment were raw and urgent. Sasha McVeigh, the only first-timer, thanked the audience for being here for her “bucket-list moment.”Artists warm up before performing in the Song Suffragettes showcase at the Listening Room.William DeShazer for The New York TimesA sixth performer, Mia Morris, 18, is the only regular at the showcase, adding beats to each song from atop the cajon, a box-shaped percussion instrument.After the show, Ms. Roberson, the sunny M.C. dressed in orange bell bottoms and a black camisole, talked about the convention-challenging content of the Suffragettes’ songs compared with popular country music.“Country music radio is really far behind,” said the irrepressible singer-songwriter who that night would appear in a pre-taped episode of “American Idol,” airing her successful audition for the show.The apex showcaseThe concept of a writers’ night didn’t start at the Bluebird Cafe, the legendary club in a modest strip mall five miles from downtown where Garth Brooks was discovered and Taylor Swift was recruited to a new recording start-up. But it became synonymous with them, popularized in movies (including Peter Bogdanovich’s 1993 film “The Thing Called Love”) and television (the series “Nashville”).Songwriters continue to return to the Bluebird, which turned 40 in June, “to be recognized for the creativity and talent that they are, to be really celebrated as the people who are the bedrock of the music and as a proving ground for the song,” said Erika Wollam Nichols, the general manager of the Bluebird. “If you’re sitting in this room, up against a bunch of people’s grills, you know whether your song’s working or not.”Aspiring songwriters audition to make the Bluebird’s selective Sunday night showcase (free admission, $10 food and beverage minimum). Other hopefuls try for a spot in the Monday night open mic (free), which has become so popular the club went to online registration.Established writers headline shows the rest of the week (usually $10 to $15 admission). A recent show featured the Warren Brothers, Brett and Brad, who have been writing together for more than 25 years, producing a string of hits, including nine No. 1s.“Every single time we get a chance to play at the Bluebird, we always say yes,” Brett told the audience. “It’s just a magical place.”To the packed room of about 80 clustered at tables just a foot below the stage, the pair played a solid hour of radio hits, from the haunting “The Highway Don’t Care” to the sensual “Felt Good on My Lips,” both recorded by Tim McGraw. A woman from Florida sitting beside me liked their version of “Little Bit of Everything” over Keith Urban’s.By the time they got to “Red Solo Cup,” a 2011 ode to drinking recorded by Toby Keith that still reverberates at college keggers, the audience was singing along, “Red solo cup, I fill you up, let’s have a party … proceed to party.”“I know what you’re thinking,” Brett interjected as they played the bouncy tune. “If that’s what you gotta write to be a hit country songwriter, I’m moving to Nashville.”Elaine Glusac writes the Frugal Traveler column. Follow her on Instagram @eglusac.Follow New York Times Travel on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. And sign up for our weekly Travel Dispatch newsletter to receive expert tips on traveling smarter and inspiration for your next vacation. Dreaming up a future getaway or just armchair traveling? Check out our 52 Places list for 2022. More

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      Jerry Allison, Who Played Drums With Buddy Holly, Dies at 82

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      An original Cricket, he was also a co-writer of two signature Holly songs, “That’ll Be the Day” and “Peggy Sue.”Jerry Allison, who played drums with Buddy Holly and was a co-writer of two of his signature late-1950s songs, “That’ll Be the Day” and “Peggy Sue,” died on Monday at his home near Nashville. He was 82.Peter Bradley Jr., board director of the Buddy Holly Educational Foundation, confirmed the death.Mr. Allison was still a teenager in Lubbock, Texas, when he began playing with Mr. Holly, who was three years older and had already made a tentative start on a music career, releasing a few records in Nashville that did not do well. Back in Lubbock, he, Mr. Allison, Niki Sullivan on guitar (soon replaced by Sonny Curtis, Tommy Allsup and others) and Joe B. Mauldin on bass began honing a sound that drew on Elvis Presley and on country and, especially, Black music.“We’d have to listen to a radio station out of Shreveport, La., to hear the real blues — rhythm and blues — we wanted to hear,” Mr. Allison told The Globe-Gazette of Mason City, Iowa, in 1989. “Groups like Etta James and the Peaches, and the Midnighters and the Clovers. That wasn’t common music around Lubbock, but that was the kind of music we were trying to write.”At first, things were slow.“We’d be playing at things like supermarket openings,” Mr. Allison told The Lansing State Journal of Michigan in 1979. “Sometimes we’d get as much as $10 apiece.”Then, in May 1956, he and Mr. Holly went to see a new John Wayne movie, “The Searchers,” in which one of Mr. Wayne’s most memorable lines was “That’ll be the day.”Days later, according to an account written for the Library of Congress, Mr. Holly suggested that he and Mr. Allison write a song together, and Mr. Allison, imitating the Wayne line, said, “That’ll be the day.”“Right away, Buddy starts fiddling around with it,” Mr. Allison told the Lansing newspaper. “In about a half-hour, we had it.”Mr. Holly cut a country version of the song in Nashville that was unloved (a producer there is said to have called it “the worst song I’ve ever heard”), but in 1957 he and the Crickets, as his Lubbock group was called, recorded a rock ’n’ roll version that became a national hit and remained in Billboard’s Top 30 for three months. Mr. Holly, Mr. Allison and the producer who recorded that version, Norman Petty, got the songwriting credit, and in 2005 the record was selected for the Library of Congress’s National Recording Registry.Another touchstone song of early rock ’n’ roll appeared later in 1957, this time released under Mr. Holly’s name: “Peggy Sue.” Mr. Holly and the band were in Mr. Petty’s studio trying to record a song called “Cindy Lou,” but Mr. Allison, hoping to solidify his relationship with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Peggy Sue Gerron, suggested a name change.In her autobiography, “Whatever Happened to Peggy Sue?” (2008), she described hearing the song for the first time when the Crickets played a show in Sacramento, Calif., where she was going to school. It was a complete surprise to her, and it ignited the crowd.“My heart pounded, and my cheeks were on fire,” she wrote. “With people all around me bouncing, swaying and singing my name over and over, I sank down in my seat, covered my face with my hands, and cried out to myself, ‘What have y’all done to me?’”Apparently she got over her shock; she and Mr. Allison later married. The marriage eventually ended in divorce, but “Peggy Sue” lives on as a rock ’n’ roll classic.Mr. Holly’s career was a short one; he died in a plane crash in 1959 — “the day the music died,” as Don McLean later sang in “American Pie.” Mr. Allison, though, kept performing and recording with an ever-changing lineup of Crickets for decades.“I don’t mind being called an oldie,” he told The Tulsa World of Oklahoma in 1996, “because we are.”The Crickets in 1958. From left, Mr. Allison, Mr. Holly and Mr. Mauldin.Everett CollectionJerry Ivan Allison was born on Aug. 31, 1939, in Hillsboro, Texas. He started playing drums at an early age.In a 2005 interview with The Sunday News of Lancaster, Pa., he said the name the Crickets came about because Mr. Holly liked an R&B group called the Spiders. At his house one day, he said, he and Mr. Holly started thumbing through an encyclopedia’s section on insects.They rejected “Beetles,” he said, because beetles were something people stepped on. Mr. Allison said he suggested “Crickets” because they “make a happy sound.”Mr. Allison eventually settled on a farm near Nashville. His survivors include his wife, Joanie Allison. His ex-wife, Peggy Sue Gerron Rackham, died in 2018.Buddy Holly and the Crickets had a lasting influence on rock ’n’ roll. The band helped establish the classic rock four-piece: two guitarists, drummer, bassist. And it helped inspire another four-piece that did pretty well.“Paul McCartney did tell me that if there hadn’t been the Crickets, there never would have been the Beatles,” Mr. Allison told The Associated Press in 2013. Mr. McCartney sang backup, played some piano and produced the title track of the Crickets’ 1988 album, “T Shirt.”Mr. Allison also thought the group, which generally kept its songs pretty simple, encouraged youngsters to take up the instruments of rock.“When we went out on tour, we sounded just like our records,” he told the Lansing newspaper. “And whenever kids were starting a group, our songs were some that they knew they could do.” More

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      Rage Against the Machine, Roaring On

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      Subscribe to Popcast!Apple Podcasts | Spotify | StitcherFor most of the past two months, the 1990s agit-rap-rock band Rage Against the Machine has been playing its first shows in more than a decade. It has been a roaring return, but one that was slightly derailed by an injury that the frontman Zack de la Rocha sustained during the show’s second stop, in Chicago, forcing him to perform seated for the remainder of the tour.It did not blunt the impact of the music, though. The group’s messaging feels particularly well-suited to the political moment, and the physical rush of its performance feels like a corrective to much of contemporary rock.On this week’s Popcast, a conversation about Rage Against the Machine’s comeback tour, the ways its message has evolved in a shifting political climate, and whether legacy bands need to update their act for a revival — or if it’s better to leave it intact.Guests:Andy Greene, senior writer at Rolling StoneJoseph Patel, former music journalist and a producer of “Summer of Soul (…Or, When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised)”Connect With Popcast. Become a part of the Popcast community: Join the show’s Facebook group and Discord channel. We want to hear from you! Tune in, and tell us what you think at popcast@nytimes.com. Follow our host, Jon Caramanica, on Twitter: @joncaramanica. More