The film depicts the dilemma of a typical teenager of the time, who feels that no one, not even his peers, can understand him. Humphrey Bogart commented after Dean's death about his public image and legacy: "Dean died at just the right time. He left behind a legend. If he had lived, he'd never have been able to live up to his publicity. Joe Hyams says that Dean was "one of the rare stars, like Rock Hudson and Montgomery Clift , whom both men and women find sexy".
Dean has been a touchstone of many television shows, films, books and plays. The film September 30, depicts the ways various characters in a small Southern town in the US react to Dean's death. It was staged by the director Robert Altman in , but was poorly received and closed after only 52 performances. While the play was still running on Broadway, Altman shot a film adaptation that was released by Cinecom Pictures in November It was later revealed that some footage from the episode was first featured in the documentary, James Dean: Forever Young.
Numerous commentators have asserted that Dean had a singular influence on the development of rock and roll music. According to David R. Shumway, a researcher in American culture and cultural theory at Carnegie Mellon University, Dean was the first iconic figure of youthful rebellion and "a harbinger of youth-identity politics". The persona Dean projected in his movies, especially Rebel Without a Cause , influenced Elvis Presley  and many other musicians who followed,  including the American rockers Eddie Cochran and Gene Vincent.
The music media would often see Dean and rock as inextricably linked [ As rock and roll became a revolutionary force that affected the culture of countries around the world,  Dean acquired a mythic status that cemented his place as a rock and roll icon. In his book, The Origins of Cool in Postwar America , Joel Dinerstein describes how Dean and Marlon Brando eroticized the rebel archetype in film,  and how Elvis Presley, following their lead, did the same in music.
Dinerstein details the dynamics of this eroticization and its effect on teenage girls with few sexual outlets. And I've made a study of poor Jimmy Dean. I've made a study of myself, and I know why girls, at least the young 'uns, go for us. We're sullen, we're broodin', we're something of a menace. I don't understand it exactly, but that's what the girls like in men. I don't know anything about Hollywood, but I know you can't be sexy if you smile. You can't be a rebel if you grin. Dean and Presley have often been represented in academic literature and journalism as embodying the frustration felt by young white Americans with the values of their parents,   and depicted as avatars of the youthful unrest endemic to rock and roll style and attitude.
The rock historian Greil Marcus characterized them as symbols of tribal teenage identity which provided an image that young people in the s could relate to and imitate. Today, Dean is often considered an icon because of his perceived experimental take on life, which included his ambivalent sexuality.
But I'm also not going to go through life with one hand tied behind my back.
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Journalist Joe Hyams suggests that any gay activity Dean might have been involved in appears to have been strictly "for trade", as a means of advancing his career. However, the "trade only" notion is contradicted by Bast  and other Dean biographers. I don't think he was homosexual. But if he could get something by performing an act Rebel director Nicholas Ray is on record as saying that Dean was gay,  while author John Howlett believes that Dean was "certainly bisexual".
Not true. I think that he had very big appetites, and I think he exercised them. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. This article is about the American actor. For other uses, see James Dean disambiguation. American actor. Marion, Indiana , U. Cholame, California , U. Main article: Death of James Dean. This section needs additional citations for verification. Please help improve this article by adding citations to reliable sources.
Unsourced material may be challenged and removed. Kidder; Noah D. Oppenheim October 14, Retrieved July 21, Dean was the first to receive a posthumous Academy Award nomination for acting and is the only actor to have received two such posthumous nominations. American Film Institute. Stackpole Books. Chicago Review Press. Perry James Dean. DK Publishing, Incorporated. Duke University Press. James Dean: Tribute to a Rebel. Publications International.
The Unknown James Dean. James Dean: A Life in Pictures. Barnes and Noble Books. Harbin; Kim Marra; Robert A. Schanke University of Michigan Press. The Daily Beast. Retrieved March 24, STARbooks Press. February 11, Archived from the original on July 13, Retrieved October 16, Enslow Publishers, Inc.
Broadway Books. London: The Times. March 6, Retrieved January 6, Archived from the original on October 6, Retrieved September 29, University of Texas Press.
Time Incorporated Books. American Prince: A Memoir. Crown Publishing Group. Barton Palmer Larger Than Life: Movie Stars of the s. Rutgers University Press. Thorndike Press. Retrieved October 5, Meyer; Henry Veggian East of Eden. The Making of Rebel Without a Cause. Jefferson, N. Pacific Transcriptions. Osborne Academy Awards Oscar Annual. ESE California. Barton Palmer ed. Hansom Books. SUNY Press.
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The New Yorker. Retrieved October 14, Archived from the original on March 5, Retrieved June 18, Pier Angeli: A Fragile Life. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. The Guardian. Retrieved December 21, Retrieved December 20, Archived from the original on January 1, Bastei Entertainment. San Luis Obispo Tribune. Retrieved October 6, November 13, Kindle Edition. Beath December 1, The Death of James Dean. The facts were that Jimmy had been in his proper lane, there was no evidence that his speed was a factor in the crash, and the other driver had crossed over into Jimmy's right of way.
Roberts October 2, Style Icons Vol 1 Golden Boys. Fashion Industry Broadcast. Los Angeles Times. Archived from the original on October 25, James Dean: Little Boy Lost. Grand Central Pub. Garber, Bisexuality and the Eroticism of Everyday Life , p. See also "Bisexuality and Celebrity. Making Peace with the 60s.
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Princeton University Press. Retrieved February 24, Oxford University Press. Columbia University Press. CBS News. April 21, Reagan: American Icon. University of Pennsylvania Press. Archived from the original on November 20, Peretti February 1, Jazz in American Culture. Ivan R.
One of them, Elvis Presley, brilliantly blended black blues and gospel with the white actor James Dean's movie persona. Shumway January 19, In Andy Bennett, Steve Waksman eds. SAGE Publications. Simon and Schuster. In Timothy E. Scheurer ed. American Popular Music: The age of rock. Popular Press. In Gina Misiroglu ed. University of California Press.
Pavilion Books. Dwyer June 10, The Origins of Cool in Postwar America. University of Chicago Press. Little, Brown. University of Toronto Press. Palgrave Macmillan UK. In Joe Bonomo ed. Conversations with Greil Marcus. What were we to make of a man who made party music out of a death rattle? How should I know? This February, after a period of uncharacteristic dormancy, Future — born Nayvadius Wilburn in in Atlanta — returned with a barrage. He released two albums in two weeks, and there are rumors of a third. Future has always had a cockeyed crooner alter-ego; here, it takes the whole stage, suggesting one tantalizing path forward for his discography.
The song hints at a certain kind of violence and ruthlessness, the kind suggested by a criminal setting off into the night and choosing to leave the ski mask at home. Historically, M. But when Future describes his voluminous intake, he does so with all the zeal of a man popping open a days-of-the-week pill organizer. It feels reductive to try to pin an artist down on the sins of his persona. But with the rate at which Future was rapping about drugs, one question was inevitably posed: Is this an addiction? If so, it was a new spin on a classic trope. The arc of pretty much every drug movie mimics the whiz-bang of the initial high and the eye-blackening horror of the inevitable comedown.
Emails, calls, texts, pleadings. Soon, I received word that Future was ready to talk again. It was in Toronto that we actually met, and where it was so cold that the streets had a kind of a permafrost hue. The pavement felt as if it could, at any point, shatter. For a few days, I tagged along with Future and his affable crew. The first order of business was an interview with a TV station on the 19th floor of a high-end hotel.
The interviewer, a friendly reporter in all black, was drinking a glass of white wine. She had ended a long-term relationship, she said, because of his music. In person, Future provides no outward signs that you should approach him with confessionals. He is also beautiful. And almost immediately, Future went back to thumbing through his phone. After a few beats of silence he finally looked up. The next day, I finally had my chance to connect.
We were upstairs at a middlebrow bistro with a lot of bare wood, and Future had just finished off an impromptu date. They ate sushi, chicken wings and steak salad. And I know this because during the totality of the date, the team and I were sitting at the adjoining table. Finally, we talked. I brought up London. He smiled. I guess you could call it a sheepish smile. I asked him why he was going through with it.
The conversation rolled on, meandered. It even clicked into gear at a few points. He talked about his itinerant childhood, how he never wanted to have a fixed address so no one with an antagonistic agenda would ever be able to find him. He talked about the love and care of the family members that sorted him out. And he said that it all, eventually, changed everything. It was nice, and fleeting. But I never was able to get a hook into him. I never could formulate a question that made him want to really talk. I was reminded of a moment back in London.
My move was to sidle close to the stage door, in the alley, hoping for an opening. It never came. Then he exited the back seat and walked directly through the stage door, surrounded by an imposing security detail, with the massive hood of an arctic parka over his head. I never even saw his face. I chased Future through two separate sovereign nations and walked away remembering one thing: I love rappers.
They never break character. The occasion was a new sponsorship deal with Pentatonix, the astonishingly popular vocal quintet. Much like Cracker Barrel, Pentatonix is one of those cultural institutions whose existence you could go your whole life not noticing, until you do, when you realize it is everywhere. The result sounds like a barbershop quartet singing at an old-timey barn raising. There is nothing dangerous or dark or threatening in their work, which consists mostly of chaste covers of pop hits and Christmas songs.
No sex, only kissing. No bad behavior, no cursing and certainly no politics.
The five members of Pentatonix, though, represent a rainbow coalition of historically marginalized groups. One of the male lead singers, Mitch Grassi, is openly gay. Despite looking like a United Colors of Benetton ad styled by the Kardashians, the members of Pentatonix sound like the jukebox at a heavily chaperoned sock hop; through them, Cracker Barrel can dip its toes in the waters of inclusion without fearing any backlash.
Could it be that five choir nerds hold the secret to bridging a divided nation? Of course they did it. That moment made New York rap iconoclasm — and A Tribe Called Quest — matter again in one epic, epochal heartbeat: Who else are you gonna call when the dirty work of radical-oppositional boom-bap needs to be done, live and direct, in irony-redolent rhyme?
We need not hold our breath waiting, though. Its lyrics name and gather together all the targeted — Mexicanfolk, Muslimfolk, gayfolk, womenfolk, BlackLivesMatterfolk — under one force field. And under one intersectional, Queens-bred guerrilla meal plan:. There are two different ways you can keep up with pop. The first is by drifting along with the current, bobbing immersed in the changing of the charts — so lost from any point of reference on the shore that minor fluctuations the downfall of an air horn, the outflow of a sound hardly register. You, most likely, are in high school, or college, or somewhere that music flows like water all around.
Pop, in such places, is understood by osmosis. The rest of us — less lucky — must accept the second system. The beat on the track was the inverse of a banger — tinny and thin, compulsively looping, like something churned out with a really cool toy. In a voice that was somehow both droning and singsong, the year-old Atlantan wanly shrugged off commitment.
Catchy like a backing track in a commercial, it was sticky for all the texture it lacked. I listened on repeat with car-crash infatuation. The hip-hop establishment had little to offer. In Nautica shirts and plastic-beaded braids, he was an ungraceful hybrid of your grandpa and your niece. As old-schoolers and gatekeepers scratched their heads and wept, Yachty continued to rise through the ranks, buoyed by fans who had no trouble understanding.
His come-up was something straight outta LinkedIn, an origin uncaring toward the rap plot as we know it. What begins as Yachty on a yacht with three women quickly descends into maritime madness — jump-cuts from hammerhead sharks and harpoons, to dress-up in wet suits and other nautical garb, to glitch-art graphics of slow-swimming fish, calling to mind the early days of home computers. Yachty had to do his research, just like the rest of us. T he year-old musician Kelela favors the kind of fashion aesthetic that science-fiction films sometimes use to signify characters from the future: gravity-defying materials in iridescent or metallic colors.
1. Relying on an automatic return to church
For a recent rainy night in Strasbourg, the small city in the northeastern corner of France, she strode onstage dressed like a lieutenant in an anime cartoon, in an oversize gray bomber jacket, matching shorts and heels made from white fabric that stretched above her knees. She raised her hands and gave a hard stare to the crowd.
It has influenced every genre, pretty much, so anyone who thinks it is basic or rudimentary has another thing coming. There were no whoops, claps or even smiles. The audience remained passive. But tonight, the scene was homogeneous in a very European way: Women favored striped boatnecks, red lips and messy topknots; the men, zipped-up pullovers and spotless white trainers.
2. Appealing to people out of guilt or obligation
Kelela nodded at her D. True to her word, amid the switchbacks of her feathery falsetto voice, there was no mistaking the roots of classic R. At one point, her face and body were illuminated by an electric shade of cyan, while the background remained shaded in dark azure. The effect made Kelela look as ethereal and spectral as the music radiating from the speakers.
Her music can keep the lovesick company in bed just as easily as it can shepherd a party past sunrise. But that night the concertgoers remained inscrutable. Some 4, miles away, they seemed more excited than the people physically present in the concert hall.
The audience, charmed at last, succumbed to the irresistible beat and danced along. The moment was buoyant but short-lived: It was her last number. She thanked the crowd and then bounded offstage.grupoavigase.com/includes/381/3647-ofertas-de-empleo.php
9 Things That Worked in the Church A Decade Ago That Don’t Today
When she was back in her dressing room, the composure Kelela had projected to the audience quickly dissipated. She stood with her hands on her hips, chewing on her lip. Her boyfriend — a filmmaker named Cieron Magat, with whom she shares an apartment in London — murmured words of reassurance and handed her a cup of homemade ginger tea. Magat told her not to worry, but Kelela wanted to deconstruct the performance.
The music of these women is aimed squarely at the heart chakra of young black women; it legitimizes as much as it asserts the value of being yourself — even if that self is thought to be a little off-center. Kelela, in particular, explodes the notion that blackness is monolithic, a single Pantone square instead of untold variations.
Her music is geared to a generation that lives for juxtapositions and unexpected arrangements, sonically and visually. She asked for a demo and gave the song to Solange, who asked Kelela to come on tour with her later that year, introducing Kelela to an audience who could appreciate her innovations in R. At the time, Kelela wanted to see how far she could push herself as an artist and play with the boundaries of R.
Pitchfork gave the collection a rare 8. It felt like a sonic relic of the past unearthed years in the future. Since then, fans have been waiting for her first full-length album, which Kelela expects to release this year. In her dressing room, Kelela folded herself into a pretzel on the couch next to me. A candle burned in the background.
She knew it had been an off night, but because she loves performing so much, she was still buzzing from the energy. Kelela Mizanekristos was born in to Mizanekristos Yohannes and Neghist Girma, students who escaped war-torn Ethopia and immigrated separately to the United States.
She was raised in Gaithersburg, Md. He often took Kelela with him, and she fell in love with the culture of music. You can still catch the influence in her voice — the way she turns sounds into sacred geometry, almost unconsciously stairstepping through the vowels and consonants. In her early to mid 20s, she would go to a Washington bar called 18th Street Lounge for its Sunday-night house sessions. Her first boyfriend, Kris Funn, whom she met when she was 19, played the upright bass, and she sat in bars for hours, watching him and his friends play.
Eventually the couple broke up, but Funn encouraged Kelela to trust her instincts and not be intimidated by her lack of formal music training. By that time, Kelela was a student at American University, studying international studies and sociology. In my head, I am supposed to be a college graduate. I wanted to finish. But I was not motivated to sit there and do that paper. I had a lot of resistance. She dropped out. This was in , and synthpop, epitomized by bands like the Knife, was trending.
She began recording in a punk house in Washington, a city with a hard-core lineage that included acts like Fugazi and Bad Brains. She thrived in an environment devoid of rules. Just try. She spent hours on MySpace, scrolling through pages of music and listening to instrumentals. She recorded herself singing over sounds she liked. Then she would send the artist her sample, along with an invitation to collaborate. Two notable electronic producers agreed, including Daedelus, who featured her on a track.
At the same time, a friend introduced her to the electro duo Teengirl Fantasy, and they created a song. By then, Kelela was living in Los Angeles, and Boston brought her a thumb drive of sounds from the label and its British counterpart, Night Slugs. Kelela spent the next several days poring over the files, improvising lyrics over the sounds she liked, turning them into songs. She loved the otherworldliness of the instrumentals — staccato mixes that used sound effects like tinkling glass and guns reloading over drum machines.
The music complemented the gossamer scales she likes to sing in. Two of the songs she produced during this time were on the mixtape she released in Electronica, Sushon told me, is referential in the same way that R. Because of the internet, he explained, musicians can share references more easily than they did in the past. Google, YouTube and SoundCloud make it easy. I watched Kelela and her D. Here, suddenly, was the thrilling flicker of a decade-old hit that had almost entirely faded from popular culture, tucked into her own noir love song.
After the show , back at her Strasbourg Airbnb, Kelela changed into oversize gray sweatpants and a black button-down crop top, and padded into the kitchen in white slippers. She plugged in an electric kettle and made another cup of ginger tea as our conversation turned to her debut album. I expected her to talk about its sound, but she wanted to speak about the intention behind it. I like that. I like playing to mixed crowds. These women helped her make sense of the racial and sexist forces that shape the world, and she still turns to them to navigate the music industry.
She internalized their insistence to not be apologetic for her womanhood or blackness and not be debilitated by exclusion. Kelela is aware of how artists like her get co-opted, morphed into something symbolic that they no longer control, and is determined to avoid it. I had already heard the lengths to which she would go to prevent this from happening. The first night we met, I asked her how she managed expectations as an artist in an age of hyperconsumption.
I mostly meant her reserve on social media, despite the disturbingly insistent demands in her Twitter and Instagram mentions for her next release. Instead, she described an encounter with Fendi, the Italian luxury brand, which invited her to perform at its new headquarters in Rome to celebrate the start of a new website aimed at millennials. She asked Fendi representatives to agree to release a statement addressing her concerns as a condition of her involvement.
She sees herself as someone who can wield her status as a celebrity to catalyze change. As the evening wound down, Kelela invited me to get comfortable and listen to some of her new tracks. She gave me earbuds and left me alone to listen. When I pressed her about a release date, she made a coquettish face and demurred, saying the songs were still being mixed.
In reality, she just signed with Warp Records, which will take over the release of the album. But I could never not make anything from any other place. Her voice is as pretty as ever, rising and crashing like cresting waves over beats that swing from a druggy drone to throbbing bass lines perfect for dance-floor grinding. In their own way, they are a quiet protest: They feel radical in the way a Kerry James Marshall painting or a Ntozake Shange poem expresses the humanity and beauty of black life. The video , which has been viewed over million times and depicts a summer romance on a Greek isle, is followed by hundreds of comments from jubilant global citizens who have finally trapped their earworm.
For nine weeks, it was the most Shazammed song in the world. The retro, cheerful, almost cloying guitar riff? The result is youthful magic, the aural version of dancing until dawn with a boy you just met. Of smoking cigarettes on a rooftop all hot summer night. These days, an enterprising year-old can browse YouTube, find something that catches his fancy, transform it and broadcast it to the world. Our atmosphere is on track to become one long hot summer night. In harrowing times, this earworm asks little and gives a lot. Sometimes you just want to kill somebody, you know? Really end their life: make mourners of their friends and family, make orphans of their children, leave a hole in the world where a person once was.
But sometimes you do. But if you do, when you do, maybe sometimes it kind of gets away from you, right? Would you cover your tracks? Try to hide the body? Go into hiding and hear about yourself on the news? Walk through the doors of the police station and turn yourself in? You think about these things when you want to kill somebody. You have the occasional dream about them. How did you get like this? Brain chemistry? Read too many stories about Ozzy Osbourne biting the heads off bats when you were a kid? For some people, that means hitting the gym.
For others, it means a stereo with a volume knob. Heavy metal has been providing people with catharsis for nearly 50 years. I listen to it because of how it makes me feel. They have six studio efforts, numerous EPs and a live album to their credit, and every song on every album except one takes, as its theme, a known serial killer. Others are so obscure that only true crime buffs are likely to recognize their names. Look them up at your peril: These are people whose crimes will give you nightmares.
It begins with a thudding kick drum all alone, with the central guitar riff ambling in murderously after two bars — a figure that lurches methodically through three five-note patterns to resolve on three descending chords that land like boulders being dropped on a house. My iTunes play count shows that I listened to it more than I listened to any song in except for drafts of songs I was writing myself.
Scott Carlson of the legendary Repulsion sings it; the incarnation of the band was essentially a reboot, with Mikami the only original member. It has a cowbell. You can bang your head and sing along. I have spent a fair bit of idle time over the years wondering what it says about me that I want to indulge this mood at least a few times a week for the rest of my life, occasionally at earsplitting volumes in clubs. When I was young, if I heard something that sounded too celebratory of death, it terrified me. How much time can I spend with it? What part of me is it? What does it look like up close?
The cheap answer is something about the cathartic value of transgression, etc. The truer answer, for me, is that sometimes you really wanna kill somebody. It would be wrong. You try not to do wrong. But if you spend a little time in the presence of a perfect groove contemplating the wrong directly without moralizing about it, you can ride the feeling in safety and go in as deep as you want, emerging later not wanting to kill anybody.
Coates sat on the edge of a couch; Levi took a chair; each looked expectant, borderline anxious. It had been a busy year. Levi is also a producer and D. Coates has scored films, too, but is better known for his work as a cellist. Its 13 tracks, some less than a minute in length, jump from beat-heavy, densely layered and looped orchestrations to atmospheric and spacey noodlings.
It is a sketchbook in which every figure gestures toward newer, more exciting ideas to come, outlining musical rules a key, a beat, a melody one minute only to abandon them in the next. Before they listened to the record, Coates reached into his backpack and pulled out a coloring book. He showed Levi one of the images he had colored in, a mandala filled with bright blues and greens, thin wisps of gold, bursts of coral pink.
Levi leaned in for a closer look, drawing her finger across the page. It was a visual cantus firmus, she said: a fixed melody providing a structure for a limited range of improvisation. The pair sat in silence, pleased enough but also distracted. A few tracks later, Coates looked up at Levi, who was looking at his mandala. It seemed like a familiar conversation. Levi massaged her temples, thinking, listening. Maybe, Levi said, you set up the rules and then find a way to break them; color inside the lines, so to speak, and then scribble a face over the results.
Coates liked it. In fact, he added, his coloring was loaded with mistakes already, but the mistakes were what made the thing come together, in a subtle way. He turned the page, exposing the blots where the pen ink bled through to the other side and the sharp lines of the pattern were barely visible. Coates and Levi met almost a decade ago. Coates had come to perform student string quartets for a class Levi was taking, and he was struck by her compositions.
Coates sent Levi a video by the electronic producer Daniel Lopatin, also known as Oneohtrix Point Never; Levi sent Coates a mixtape she made with some tracks by Harry Partch, a composer who created new musical scales and built his own instruments. He wanted an experienced composer who had never written music for a movie, someone who would come at the task differently.
For 10 months, she worked on almost nothing else, worried that if she listened to anything — particularly another soundtrack — she would unintentionally steal from it. The soundtrack is unsettling, but also strangely empathetic. Levi describes much of her work as mixtapes. She was thinking of music not in terms of classical or hip-hop or any other genre, but in terms of people.
Some music was Oliver Coates music. Some music was Mica Levi music. I f you buy a record on brownsvilleka. Every few days, Ka sits in a study in his home near Prospect Park in Brooklyn and goes through the orders on his site. He was there on a morning not long ago, with a MacBook propped on his knees. On the floor were cardboard boxes holding copies of his five full-length albums. He placed five CDs in a padded envelope.
There was a time when Ka took a guerrilla approach to promoting his music. I still had, like, CDs left. So I started giving them away. This has become a tradition: On the day that Ka drops a new album, he tweets, turns up on a street corner and sells a few dozen records out of the trunk of his car. It would be hard to find a more thoroughgoing D.
Ka is the rare rapper who handles both rhymes and beats, writing his lyrics and producing the music that accompanies them. He has directed most of his videos, and he self-releases his music, on his own label. It is not a profitable venture. Over the past several years, Ka has released some of the most gripping music in any genre. His records offer a poignant, distinctive take on classic New York hip-hop: vivid stories of street life and struggle narrated in virtuosic rhymes over music of bleak beauty.
His output has won him a small but passionate fan base and critical raves in Pitchfork and Spin. In , the Los Angeles M. For Ka to have won even modest recognition is an improbable underdog triumph. He spent much of the s trying to make it as a rapper, quit music altogether and returned a decade later, releasing his solo debut at age Today he is This career trajectory defies one of the seemingly immutable laws of pop, and of hip-hop in particular, a genre in which the cult of youth and novelty is especially pronounced.
And when I come home, I try to make some dope music. Last Aug. With me, they had all three. Ka grew up poor, in Brownsville. As a teenager, he drifted into the drug trade, dealing crack and selling firearms. If Ka is not in the music business, his wife definitively is. Today she is chief creative officer for i am OTHER, a multimedia company founded by Pharrell Williams, the superstar rapper-singer-producer.
But a commercial breakthrough is far-fetched, and a prospect for which Ka seems constitutionally ill equipped. He has performed just a few live shows and professes little interest in playing more. Those records are, in the best sense, strange. His songs are unnervingly quiet and still; they hold a listener in thrall because they hold so much back.