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Demystifying Scriabin

Over 100 years since his death, the world still struggles to understand Scriabin.

Alexander Scriabin Songs, Albums, Reviews, Bio & More | AllMusic

The Russian composer poses at his desk. 

Demystifying Scriabin

Mystery and mysticism shroud Alexander Scriabin’s life, acting as both an impenetrable veil and all-encompassing motif. Barely five feet tall, effeminate, and with a mustache to rival that of Nietschze, the Russian composer’s unassuming appearance cloaked an obsession with art that surpassed the boundaries of sanity. His beliefs and music were unparalleled in every aspect. Composition was more than a career, more than a passion, more than the results of artistic mania; it was the means through which he could bring salvation to the planet.

His followers’ cult-like fanaticism impose even more obscurity onto his life. “Cult-like” is perhaps too generous of a term; “cultic” is more fitting. After all, what other composers dubbed themselves “God?” Who else attempted to end the world through their music? Even his death is interpreted as an act of God, who struck the artist down to prevent fulfillment of his musical vision. His followers view him not just as a lover of art, but as its martyr.

In honor of his 150th birthday, Demystifying Scriabin attempts to shed light on the all-too-enigmatic composer’s life, beliefs, and music. Edited by music theorists Kenneth Smith and Vasilis Kallis and published by Boydell Press in 2022, the book is a collection of essays by musicologists and musicians who have dedicated their careers to Scriabin. Smith and Kallis open the introduction by posing the question, “How do you solve a problem like Scriabin?” In between inconsistent spellings of his name, they assert that doing so is a lost cause: he didn’t understand himself and was hell-bent on making sure no one else did either. His writings and beliefs are riddled with inconsistencies and contradictions, and making sense of the senseless is a pointless endeavor. However, investigating his music, philosophy, mysticism, performance, religion, synaesthesia, and cultural legacy can, at the very least, blow away a portion of the haze obscuring his life.

The essays are divided into three sections: Shaping Creativity, The Music as Prism, and Reception and Tradition. Shaping Creativity attempts to demystify by exploring Russia’s impact on Scriabin’s music, a force “represented by the frontiers of disparate musical and cultural trends.” The Music as Prism “offers us a musical way of working through the metaphysical ideas about identity, philosophy, time, and space.” It analyzes his music in relation to his beliefs and life, offering us new perspectives on both specific compositions and his overall body of work. Lastly, Reception and Tradition outlines Scriabin’s influence and “the waves of tradition that passed through him.” Written by a diverse group of Scriabinists, each section aims to both explain the composer and initiate new discussions for this end.

Unfortunately, Demystifying Scriabin is riddled with almost as many issues as the man himself. The book’s divisions appear arbitrary, as the first and third sections both focus on historical influences. Beyond this, the organization of chapters within sections seems random. The first chapter discusses Scriabin’s mystic chord, a recurring device most famously used in Prometheus, and its connection to the Russian Silver Age – yet it’s not until the second chapter, “Scriabin and the Russian Silver Age,” that an adequate description of the era is provided.

While occupying an odd place structurally, the first chapter serves as an intriguing opening. Author Simon Morrison argues that the mystic chord represents the Silver Age through its symbolism. The chord is theorized to represent Satan, and a pentagram can be found through analyzing the relationships between the notes, thereby “becoming the equivalent of a Ouija board.” While this chapter would be better served as an immediate sequel to “Scriabin and the Russian Silver Age,” or perhaps in The Music as Prism, it effectively introduces readers to the mysticism surrounding the composer.

After outlining his writing and compositional influences in the third and fourth chapters, the section concludes with “Studying Scriabin’s Autographs: Reflections of the Creative Process.” The chapter uses the Alexander Scriabin Collected Works to “glimpse a deeper understanding of Scriabin’s creative process.” In the first half, its author, Pavel Shatskiy, thoroughly analyzes the history of the composer’s publishers and the potential errors in original printings and manuscripts. The chapter’s second half uses this information to establish a chronology of when his pieces were written, as opposed to when they were published. This chapter is both out-of-place in the section and unnecessary to the larger goal of the book. There’s no discussion of historical influences, and whether or not Scriabin’s publishers omitted an accent here or there is superfluous to the act of demystifying him. While this is important in other discussions regarding the composer, it brings little to the table in Demystifying Scriabin.

The structure of The Music as Prism is more cohesive. The first chapter, “Scriabin’s Miniaturism,” describes his love for miniaturism, a love influenced by Chopin. This is followed by “The Scriabin Tremor and Its Role in His Oeuvre.” The music theorist Inessa Bazayev argues that analyzing him through the lens of disability studies allows listeners to understand a musical sigh that acts as a motif throughout several of his pieces. She claims that this tremor represents a hand injury Scriabin suffered in his early twenties. While an interesting argument, the essay is purely speculative as she fails to provide evidence that he intentionally based the tremor off of his injury. However, it does bring attention to an under-discussed, widely-used motif in his music.

Editor Kallis reintroduces the mystic chord, this time expanding on the analysis started by Morrison. He argues that the chord is influenced by counterpoint and reflects Scriabin’s reverence for classical traditions of composition. Antonio Grande moves away from pitch analysis in “Temporal Perspectives in Scriabin’s Late Music,” instead opting to approach the body of work from a temporal angle. He defends Scriabin’s surprisingly conventional sonatas, arguing that under a closer investigation, their temporal evolution is avant-garde. Kenneth Smith continues these sonata analyses in “Scriabin’s Multi-Dimensional Accelerative Sonata Forms.” He explains Scriabin’s two-dimensional (and sometimes three-dimensional) sonata form was a trail-blazing innovation, one misunderstood and overlooked by theorists for decades. Ross Edwards wraps up part two in “Setting Mystical Forces in Motion: The Dialectics of Scale-Type Integration in Three Late Works.” He argues that Scriabin’s reliance on the conservative sonata form “set Scriabin’s most radical and ‘mystical’ forces in motion.” While it would have been interesting to read about a wider array of Scriabin’s compositions, the section does a wonderful job of resolving the conservative features of his music with the radical, demystifying him with one analysis at a time.

The third and final section, Reception and Tradition, opens with “Scriabin’s Synaesthesia: The Legend, the Evidence, and Its Implications for Multimedia Counterpoint.” Anna Gawboy does away with the myth of Scriabin’s synaesthesia by examining sources claiming his color system was thoroughly designed and thought out, rather than a psychological condition. The color system was an attempt to access the Theosophical astral plane, “a transcendent realm of spiritual existence that generated life, energy, creativity, and metaphysical knowledge.” He believed it could only be achieved through “clairvoyance, which was characterized by multisensory perception.” Gawboy concludes by stating discussions of Scriabin are unproductive when his music is viewed in isolation from his beliefs – an argument that calls out many of the essays in the book’s second part. However, after reading Kallis and Smith’s introduction, one can’t help but wonder if this goes against the earlier assertion that his beliefs were intentionally designed as meaningless and contradictory. 

Marina Frolova-Walker pivots in “Playing Scriabin: Reality and Enchantment” by treating him not as a composer, but as a pianist. The essay begins by compiling accounts of Scriabin’s playing, accounts partially disproven by his existing piano rolls. She then compares these renditions of his playing and argues that none capture what he intended – even those performed by himself. 

Kallis and Smith return to provide a general overview of scholarship regarding Scriabin’s music system. Like the concluding chapter of section one, this essay establishes an important timeline, but one that’s generally unnecessary for the purposes of the book. Perhaps it would make sense as a preface to the second section. But as a stand-alone chapter, it doesn’t bolster other information or contribute to the demystification of Scriabin.

The penultimate chapter, Ildar Khannanov’s “Scriabin and the Classical Tradition,” similarly deviates from the book’s theme. He analyzes Scriabin’s compositions in order to determine just how revolutionary he truly was. While Reception and Tradition aims to discuss tradition, Khannanov is the only author to tackle this concept. The chapter feels out of place in relation to its neighbors, all of which discuss his reception. The section seems to have “Tradition” in its title for this chapter alone, a chapter that would belong in either of the previous sections.

James Kreiling ends the book with “Scriabin’s Critical Reception: Genius or Madman?” Kreiling compiles first-hand accounts of Scriabin’s playing, compositions, and personality, contradictory accounts that are unable to answer this question of his sanity. He concludes by speculating that “Scriabin will most likely always be a composer who divides opinions” (319). Only by performing his work with the utmost imagination can his works be understood, and only through approaching him with the greatest openness can his music be loved.

Demystifying Scriabin doesn’t claim to solve or explain the composer – just to demystify and create new dialogue among Scriabinists. Unfortunately, few of its chapters make headway on these fronts. Several, most of which are found within The Music as Prism, are original, interesting, and provide new valuable insights. The remaining majority only contains rehashed information. The world doesn’t need another essay about the dubiousness of his synaesthesia, the influences of the era on his music, or a timeline of his music. Structural issues aside, these remaining problems would evaporate had the book been marketed as a general crash course on Scriabin – but this was not the goal put forth by its editors. However, its failure to demystify speaks volumes of Scriabin. If he truly didn’t want to be understood, this book serves as a monument to his success in that mission.

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Beauty Beyond the Storm: Rachmaninoff’s Resilience

150 years since his birth, Rachmaninoff’s music lives on as a testament of depression’s inability to destroy beauty.

Was Rachmaninov the most complete musician of the past 150 years? | Gramophone

A displaced Rachmaninoff poses in front of a Redwood tree. 

Two years had passed. A year of writing, a year of waiting. But the seconds before the opening felt longer still. Drastically underprepared, the musicians nervously awaited their signal to begin. The butterflies in their stomachs were dwarfed by the violent, storm-ridden rainforest within the composer’s. And as the conductor waved his baton, the cacophonic sounds of rainforest flooded the room.

The premiere was a disaster. The audience’s expectations were through the roof, but their disappointment was greater still. It was Sergei Rachmaninoff’s first symphony, after all. But the former child prodigy appeared to have lost his talent at the age of 23. The Russian composer Cesar Cui went so far as to write, “If there were a conservatory in Hell, and if one of its talented students were to compose a program symphony based on the story of the Ten Plagues of Egypt, and if he were to compose a symphony like Mr. Rachmaninoff’s, then he would have fulfilled his task brilliantly and would delight the inhabitants of Hell.”

While the audience escaped the hell at the end of the piece, Rachmaninoff remained in its chasms throughout the following years. The failure led to a deep depression fueled by self-doubt and loathing. But the symphony’s failure was not a result of his inadequacy. The blame lay singularly on the conductor: Alexander Glazunov. Well-regarded for his compositions, his musical talent did not extend to conducting. In this performance in particular, he took one too many creative liberties and one too many shots of vodka beforehand.

150 years since his birth, 80 since his death, depression is still as central to Rachmaninoff’s legacy as it was to his life. His struggles with mental health cast a shadow larger than that of his 6”6’ frame. Historians’ fixation on suffering being a prerequisite to artistic genius is near-pathological when discussing Russian artists, and as a gloomy, Tim Burtonian giant with sunken, elongated facial features, Rachmaninoff’s appearance marks him as a prime target. Yet his looks might have been the source of both his disorder and success. Although he remained undiagnosed throughout his life, Rachmaninoff is theorized to have suffered from acromegaly, a condition marked by malfunction of the pituitary gland. An excessive production of growth hormone resulted in his foot-long hands and distinct facial proportions – but depression resulted as an unfortunate byproduct of the hormonal irregularity. While these struggles served as inspiration for his music, he found himself mentally crippled for years.

His life provided amble kindling for the fire of depression. Born April 1, 1873, Rachmaninoff started off with every conceivable advantage. His family found great success in the military, owned a total of five estates, and provided him with music lessons throughout his childhood. Raised alongside five siblings in estates in western Europe, Rachmaninoff was set for a life of privilege. However, illness and poverty cut his childhood short. His father squandered the family’s money and placed them in near-irreversible debt. After selling all their estates, his father promptly abandoned the family for Moscow, an abandonment both preceded and followed by the deaths of Rachmaninoff’s two sisters.

Rachmaninoff’s grandmother, a devout member of the Russian Orthodox Church, stepped in to rescue him from familial chaos. She tasked herself with reinstating stability through a religious education. This period marked a transformative chapter in the ten-year-old’s life, as his immersion in the rich tapestry of religious music left an indelible imprint on his soul. These influences crept into his musical education at the Moscow Conservatory, where he studied composition and piano throughout the remainder of his childhood. 

Under the guidance of Nikolai Zverev, Sergei Taneyev, and Anton Arensky, Rachmaninoff studied alongside Alexander Scriabin in the conservatory. The pair would form a close bond, one later rendered uneasy with maturation of beliefs. Rachmaninoff wrote his first opera, piano concerto, and string quartet during this period and found almost instantaneous fame following his graduation. Inspired by the carillon chimes of the Orthodox Church, he composed his Prelude in C# Minor, a solemn, foreboding, yet melodically gentle piece for the piano. The piece failed to provide him monetary success, but propelled him into the international spotlight. 

Rachmaninoff’s popularity did not last. He dedicated the following years to his first symphony, and its failure delivered a colossal blow to both his confidence and career. Attempting to rouse him from depression, his aunt arranged for him to meet Leo Tolstoy in 1900. Rachmaninoff, returning to writing for the first time in years, composed a solo work for piano accompanying a poem by Tolstoy. But upon hearing the piece, the author had only one thing to say: “Is such music needed by anyone?”

These words uttered by the nation’s hero pushed Rachmaninoff over the edge. There was only one course of action: hypnotism. While the efficacy of the treatment is heavily disputed, what cannot be disputed is that Rachmaninoff emerged a changed man in 1901. He completed his Piano Concerto No. 2; he won the coveted Glinka Award; and he soon after found love. 

After marrying, Rachmaninoff floated from job to job, working as a teacher, conductor, composer, and pianist. During this period, he wrote The Isle of the Dead, All-Night Vigil, and Symphony No. 2. Although he struggled with bouts of financial instability and the sudden death of Scriabin, he led a peaceful life with his two daughters and wife. But this interlude of happiness ended under the turmoils of political revolt. The 1917 Revolution forced Rachmaninoff to flee the country, and he spent the following years working as a touring pianist. Few pieces emerged during this time. Those that did were marked by his inexorable homesickness and depression. In reflecting on this period, Rachmaninoff said, “I left behind my desire to compose: losing my country, I lost myself also.” 

Yet this loss of desire was not absolute. It served as a filter for what needed to be written and what could be written. The few pieces that emerged, such as Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Symphonic Dances, and Piano Concerto No. 4, are among his greatest works. Mirroring the form of his life, almost every prior composition was defined by a simple yet otherworldly melody varnishing a tumultuous monsoon of instruments and notes. The melodic beauty of his music shined through the life-long battle he waged against depression and grief. Abroad and with old age approaching, this monsoon endured, yet was far less pronounced. But his melodies displayed no such retreat. Rachmaninoff pushed his melodic eloquence to unseen lengths, allowing it increased independence from the heavy complexities underlying his previous pieces.

Yet it would be inaccurate to say that Rachmaninoff found peace during this time. His longing for Russia was less extreme than the immobilizing depression of his youth, yet happiness remained an unachievable dream. He wrote of his situation, “I feel like a ghost wandering in a world grown alien.” But his dreams of returning to Russia evaporated under the oppressive Californian sun, where he succumbed to melanoma in 1943.

Despite efforts to relocate his body to Russia, his ghost remains destined to an eternity of displacement. Perhaps we should let him rest. While it was in instability that he created art, his time at the piano is gone. An undying testimony to beauty in spite of anguish endures, one that persists in the hearts of listeners throughout the world.



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Dictator Discoteque

David Bryne premiers his Marcos disco musical on Broadway.

Imelda Marcos (Arielle Jacobs) dances amidst the audience.

Here Lies Love defies convention, weaving a vibrant tapestry of disco, Broadway, and the life of Imelda Marcos. Written by David Bryne and Fatboy Slim, the show follows the life of the Philippines’ most notorious First Lady. Best known for her greed and husband’s cruelty in the 20th century, Marcos’ story is chronicled from her childhood until her husband’s fall in the People Power Revolution, all through a dazzling whirlwind of pop anthems and her 3,000 pairs of shoes. Only one man can stop her: her husband’s political enemy, her first love – the martyr, Ninoy Aquino.

As a three-time attendee to the show, I was initially motivated to purchase mezzanine tickets this summer to see Broadway legend Lea Salonga. Best known as Kim in Miss Saigon and as the voice actress for Mulan and Princess Jasmine, I attended as soon as I learned she’d be portraying Aquino’s mother. I realized the musical was different the second I stepped into the theater. I wasn’t walking into a Broadway musical – I was walking into a 70s discotheque. A light show and disco ball lit up the room; a DJ stood on a platform to the left of me; and a revolving stage was in the middle of a dance floor. Awestruck and blown away, I returned the following week. While traveling to NYC for Cornell’s fall break, I purchased tickets again, this time opting for the dance floor. The experience was completely unlike any of my previous encounters with the show.

Upon scanning my ticket, an usher led me through a corridor in the basement-level of the theater. I emerged through a plastic strip curtain door in the center of the dance floor. Anticipating an oncoming battle with the crowd, I arrived early to secure a spot in front of the center stage. My guess was correct; within minutes, the stage was engulfed by a tight circle of audience members. The increasingly oppressive crowd’s movement was halted by the DJ’s booming announcement: “Welcome to Club Millennium!” As he led the pre-show announcements, he warned dance floor audience members that the stage would move throughout the performance. He directed us to follow pink-jumpsuited, light-stick wielding cast members during the stage’s revolutions, then returned to his soundboard to begin the first song.

Dancers materialized on platforms spread throughout the mezzanine and dance floor, engulfing audiences in all sections of the theater. Though the energy was impeccable, the dancing itself was not particularly memorable. Throughout the show, most of the ensemble’s performance consisted of waving their arms while standing in place, with a pinch of footwork sprinkled here and there. Although no choreographer would enjoy that aspect of the show, the dancing still created a uniquely immersive experience. What discotheque has Chicago-level choreography? I felt as though I could dance along to every number. The layout of the theater furthered this effect. No matter where you sat or stood, you had a front-row view. The audience’s proximity to the dancers filled the theater with a singularly electric energy. My prior experiences were incomparable to what I felt on the dance floor. Free from the constraints of traditional seating, I was dancing with the ensemble, who were mere feet above me.

The effects of proximity were even greater when the main cast took the stage. It would be near-impossible to find better actors than Arielle Jacobs to portray Imelda Marcos, Jose Llana as Ferdinand Marcos, and Conrad Ricamora as Ninoy Aquino. But it would be wrong to discuss them without first discussing their costume designers. As I had secured a spot at the front of the crowd, I was close enough to see every seam in their clothes and every crease in their shoes. Jacobs’ outfits underwent a drastic evolution throughout the show, one that mirrored and highlighted that of her character. Her character began as an innocent, lovesick teenager and ended as a cruel, heartless dictator. As Jacob’s Imelda saw her innocence corrupt into arrogance, charming floral dresses and petticoats gave way to imposingly straight, dark dresses with tall, angular sleeves. Llana’s unchanging black suits allowed his co-lead’s outfits to stand out – and hinted at his character’s everpresent dark nature. In contrast, Aquino’s wardrobe reflected his unflinching commitment to justice. Almost never without a white suit, white converse, and his iconic thick, black-rimmed glasses, his outfit highlighted his character’s personality as a spunky, fearless idealist set in opposition to the black-clad Marcos. 

Unfortunately, the vocal performance did not inspire the same amazement as the costume design. While talented, there have been better singers than the three of them. But the characters’ vocal requirements are not nearly as difficult as most Broadway shows. Instead, the producers focused on actors who brought much more to the table than their voices: their portrayals of the historical figures could be rivaled by none. Although I knew how the show would play out, Jacobs once again forced me to root for the impoverished Imelda, heartbroken by the “cruel” Ninoy. Llana convinced me that no other man had the chutzpah to succeed as the Philippine president. As the second half of the show began and the plucky “heroes” became the cold monsters of Philippine history, I was once again shocked by the sudden, jarring transformation.

While their performances were stirring, Ricamora was undoubtedly the highlight of the show. From his introduction to his death, his appearances never failed to make the audience erupt in cheers. He begins the show as a passionate, confident populist, one madly in love with Imelda Marcos. He ends the show as an messianic figure in exile. 

Purchasing a dance floor ticket didn’t just allow me to see the actors closer: it allowed me to directly interact with the cast. Actors walked through the dance floor to talk to audience members; they led us in political chants; during a rally, I even shook hands with Ferdinand Marcos. The audience involvement culminated with Aquino’s death, upon which his mother, once played by Lea Salonga and now by Vina Morales, led the audience onto the stage during his funeral procession, leading up to the emotional climax of the People Power Revolution.

When the show ended and I waited in line to leave the theater, I began talking to a woman standing behind me. Like me, she had fallen in love with the show. I loved it because of the music. She loved it because she saw herself in the story. A native oof Brazil, she spent her childhood under military rule. Both dictatorships shared a timeframe and a primary supporter: the American government. She described to me the horror she felt when she realized how easily a country that supposedly treasures its freedom could be swayed towards autocracy in the wake of the Trump presidency. 

I was certainly surprised to hear such a sentiment, but if there’s anything I learned from Here Lies Love, it is that a society which ignores the signs of democratic decline is doomed to suffer. The corruption of Marcos and his regime was preceded by his populist rhetoric and forewarned by visionaries like Aquino, yet the country did not take heed until far too late. With an experience like hers, who am I to dismiss her?

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Nicki Minaj’s Show-Stopping VMAs Takeover

Nicki Minaj premieres two songs from her upcoming album, Pink Friday 2.

Nicki Minaj Performs 'Pink Friday 2' Exclusive at 2023 MTV VMAs – Billboard

Minaj performs at the 2023 VMAs.

Pink is undoubtedly the color of 2023. If anyone heard this memo, it was Nicki Minaj. “Heard” might not be the right word; “dictated” is more fitting. Starting with her participation in the Barbie album and coming to a head with her upcoming album, Pink Friday 2, Minaj has been hyper-feminizing rap’s latest music since July, leaving a pink-colored world in her wake. This aesthetic is certainly not new for the rapper. Occupying a genre dominated by men, Minaj has always capitalized on her identity as a woman. She’s subverted audience’s expectations of stereotypical femininity through her identity as an unrelentingly powerful and confident rapper, while simultaneously bringing as much attention as possible to her femininity through her overtly-sexual music videos, lyrics, and outfits. Hyper-femininity is even baked into her fans, which the artist affectionately dubbed “Barbz.” Pink is inseparable from Minaj’s cultural image – both visually and representationally.

Her recent performance at the 2023 MTV Video Music Awards was certainly no exception. As the MC and a performer, no better choice could’ve been made than to include Ms. Minaj. Her performance opens with “Last Time That I Saw You,” the lead single of Pink Friday 2. Standing on a triangular platform and engulfed by pink lights and smoke, Minaj is welcomed to the stage by a sea of cheering fans. The opening notes silence the audience as they expectantly await the motionless artist to sing. Sing – not rap. Most people would describe her as a rapper first, singer second, but no attendee of this performance would. Her voice is almost unrecognizable in this form. But the pink sparkly eye shadow, diamond-studded microphone, and knee-length hair show the viewers that it is unmistakably the Harajuku Barbie.

Unlike her typical rough, expressive, perpetually-changing-accented rapping voice, her singing is soft, smooth, and quiet. I would believe anyone who tells me that she’s lip-syncing to  someone else’s song. Her voice is not alone in being unidentifiable. Her lyrics are absent of her iconic wordplay and memorable humor. Instead, she sings about feelings of regret following a breakup. However, these emotional but generally unmemorable lyrics could’ve been written by any number of artists.

Following the first iteration of the chorus, Nicki Minaj briefly raps, yet this too is unlike her typical music. Each line is a generic sentiment revolving around missing an ex, lines terminating in forced, unnatural rhymes. Her voice lacks the typical strength and expressiveness typically found in her raps. This results in a decent song, but one that doesn’t highlight Nicki Minaj’s strengths. The same cannot be said of the second half of her performance.

The Queen of Rap reminds audiences of her title’s origin in the following song. Dropping her large black dress, Minaj reveals a bedazzled two-piece outfit. “MTV,” she announces, “It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t give y’all a Pink Friday 2 exclusive.” The camera pans to the celebrity audience, where an unenthused Taylor Swift, no stranger to Twitter feuds with the rapper, claps. An animated Ice Spice dances behind the country-turned-pop singer. The co-rapper of Minaj’s “Princess Diana” and “Barbie World” turns to excitedly chatter to her neighbors, all while beaming with excitement.

Channeling her identity as Red Ruby da Sleaze, Nicki Minaj removes her diamond microphone from the stand, allowing her to freely strut across the now-red stage. The pop-ballad singer who was just occupying the stage is gone – Barbie is back. The backing track contains a much more conservative version of the hook; in her familiar style, with eyes wide and over-the-top facial expressions, she aggressively half-yells, half-raps over it. Assigning herself as the backing rapper and the primary rapper highlights the expressiveness of her live performance style. 

As the opening hook ends, the camera zooms out for a brief period of time. Minaj is surrounded by smaller platforms occupied by backup dancers, a drummer, and keyboardist. Why the dancers are there is a mystery; they sway back and forth while waving their arms, dancing as though they’re teenagers at a concert rather than professionals, while Nicki Minaj’s energetic performance and dancing consumes all of the audience’s attention. Even more of a mystery is the drummer’s presence. While he hits a cymbal here or there (a suspicious choice, as there’s no acoustic music in the performance), he mainly bops his head and arms up and down, occupying the role of a glorified dancer. As there’s no keyboard in the song, the keyboardist’s presence is equally perplexing. At least the drummer can dance. The keyboardist simply stands there, watching Minaj. But who wouldn’t spend the whole time watching her if they were on her stage?

“When Barbie touch down, the baddest of bitches is out,” Minaj raps, referencing the all-encompassing theme of her career. She raps about the world’s undervaluation of her contribution to the genre, but no one would think this upon hearing the audience’s screams. As the song comes to an end, she shouts, “Barbz, I love you!” The rapper sheepishly smiles and strokes her hair as the audience screams their love. She gingerly picks her dress up from off the ground, hoists it over her shoulder, and begins her descent from the stage. It’s clear that Nicki Minaj’s legacy, much like the color pink itself, remains vibrant and indomitable.



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Laufey’s Bewitched

Laufey’s newest album captures both her greatest musical strengths and weaknesses.

Icelandic jazz certainly hasn’t reached the same heights as New Orleans jazz. Despite this, the jazz-pop singer Laufey has managed to bewitch the world with her unique musical style. After her participation in The Voice and the release of her first album in 2022, Laufey has managed to carve out a cult-like following among Gen Z. Unfortunately, her newly released second album will be unable to hold the world’s attention.

Bewitched opens with “Dreamer,” a 60s-inspired jazz-pop piece, a song that begins with an acapella chorus of Laufeys, a chorus later reduced to one voice singing over a piano and drum. Although only three and a half minutes long, the song seems to last throughout the duration of the album. Every song following “Dreamer” sounds near-identical to the opening piece as Laufey softly sings about love over one or two accompanying instruments. She changes the lyrics and sometimes swaps out instruments, but the overall sound remains the same. 

Out of the fourteen songs, there are only two exceptions to this minimalist style: “Haunted” and “Bewitched.” “Haunted” contains a beautiful section of strings, which die out after the beginning to be replaced by a guitar and Laufey’s Fitzgerald-like voice. They return here and there throughout the song, adding a beautiful, complex, and, not to be too on the nose, haunted quality to the song. “Bewitched” is similarly structured. The piece opens with an grandiose, Disney-like orchestral excerpt in collaboration with the London Philharmonia Orchestra, one that reappears – much subdued in grandness but not in beauty – between sections of acoustic guitar. This departure from Laufey’s usual style is a resounding success. “Bewitched” and “Haunted” are not the only pieces that go in new directions; she additionally experiments with bossa nova in “From the Start,” a style of jazz Laufey once previously (and successfully) explored in her previous album with “Falling Behind.” While still simple and very in-style for Laufey, the piece has a degree of energy derived from the layering of instruments not found in the rest of the album.

These songs paradoxically highlight both Laufey’s talent and the underwhelming sound of Bewitched’s remaining pieces. It’s difficult to listen to pieces such as “Misty” and “Must Be Love” after listening to her stronger songs. The rest of the album is minimalistic, basic, and, at times, strongly ambient. None of these are intrinsically bad qualities. The choice to write these pieces in such a way is logical, as previous Laufey songs have found success due to these features. But after listening to one song in this style, listening to the rest of the album seems pointless, as each song sounds the same as the previous and following one.

Laufey certainly does minimalism well. However, this album makes listeners reconsider whether minimalism is the style best for her to pursue. “Bewitched” and “Haunted” strikingly contrast the rest of the pieces, almost all of which are simply ballads comprised of Laufey’s voice and an accompanying instrument or two. Although Bewitched has its moments – and strong moments at that – there are few highlights in the album. The majority of its songs are not distinct enough from one another to remember, or to even listen all the way through. Most listeners will leave thinking they just listened to an album created by an AI fed with Laufey’s music. But for die-hard fans of Laufey’s style, this album will be received with great blind enthusiasm and love. Hopefully the next album will be more deserving of that love.