The miserable blight of a song with infectious energy is a phenomenon in its own right.

Sad music makes people happy. Why? Perhaps that is because of its downward spiralling tempo, illuminating patterns in your spiderwebby subconscious. Perhaps because of the words, which depending on your own state of mind can be anywhere from comforting, to embarrassingly familiar, to alien enough that you again, feel safe and a little cocooned (though a little more smugly illuminated as to human suffering than you might have before). It might not be the utmost popular genre, which seems to be floor-crashing dance and…

Generation Z — the generation that wasn’t relentlessly taught how to over-dream and can thus just sort of, I don’t know, like, live its life — is now being labelled the “domestic cosy,” generation.

We are imprisoned inside a memory palace. Anyone, that is, that spends half of their life under glass, like an insect trapped, which is to say almost everyone. Your life, at least, is under glass, that of your phone, and large parts of both your personal memories and psychological peculiarities — a record of what memes you follow, the imagery you especially pursue— are to be found there.

Ironically we are chasing the moment, fuelled by fomo, the fear of missing out (a cousin of the even more irritating Y.O.L.O, the metaphysically unsubstantiated claim that you only live once,): a…

Sister Nancy and the most popular song you’ve never actually heard

the original, from 1965
right now, someone still has that number.

The other day I thought that I heard a song that I recognised, banging by out of a passing car hanging a sharp hair-trigger left turn, grazing a few inches from my ankle — but that song though, was what really got my attention. One that really gets in my head, and in everyone’s head, without you being able, at first, to decipher what that is. That’s because it’s one of those songs that have been oversampled, and…

Did you feel that? It’s the breeze cut in the air by the Scythe of Death. Cheery, huh? How, uhh, metal.

9/11 was our moment,” she said, despite that she had been thirty-five when it happened. “Our moment of cohesion, as a generation, is what I mean. Of growing up.”

“Why?” I asked.

“ It…forced us to see ourselves full-time as grown-up,” mused my friend. “ Not as still transitional somehow. Living in a bleakly adult world, I guess.”

“ But you were thirty-five when this occurred,” I deadpan. Perhaps it is, after all, a mindset thing.

Surely, growing up was a matter of social ritual, rather than something that can be brought about by a sudden cataclysmic event. Other of…

Trust me, this is an incontovertibly accurate manual.

What Snoop Dogg, the British aristocracy, and Cardi B have in common

Snoop Dogg is fond of saying “West, West, y’all” — a reference to, all at once, the West Coast rap game (known as versus the East Coast rap game, traditionally,) more generally to his Californian home (he was born in Long Beach), and arguably signalling a loyalty that began and ended with his youthful affiliation with the Rollin 20s Crips gang of Eastside, Long Beach.

Unusually for a West Coast person, possibly because I spent so long, admittedly, living nearer…

Susan Byron

author of Cruft Head: Stories from Sry, CARCINOGEN, and Night of the Long Dr0nes IG: @susiebyronicheroine Twitter @SusanBByron

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