Editorial

It is spring in Kyiv, but there’s a cover of snow. It dusts a fat fern tree. A van stands alone, stares at grey buildings, windows with a high cross frame like a just-slipped barricade. And cutting the frame, to the right, are sandbags. “This is what spring looks like,” says President Zelensky, head lifted lightly to the camera. “Spring is harsh.” A cloud slithers behind concrete. Something is...

There are artists, and there are Artists. We sometimes have to catch ourselves even using the term at all, as pop music is such an ephemeral process.

Will Toledo is a furry. He came out onstage in Brooklyn, dressed as Mortis Jackrabbit, a gasmasked mammal with a coat like an old fox. His eyes glowed, plucked from a Fallout dream. Limbering up to ‘Bodys’, one of the best songs by his quite good band, Car Seat Headrest – and we can only assume with a smirk beneath the mask – he looked as if he was just getting used to himself at last. “Do yo...

Getting screwed by an artist never felt so pricey. But one day, you may find yourself somewhere special with someone who can’t get their hand off your junk. Neither can you. Kissing and blind, you hush them off with a grin. They stop. You know what they’re thinking. It’s the first time they’ve been at your place, but they’re really knowledgeable about you. Sometimes you achieve radical insigh...

This is the story of how I listened to this six-hour work in one sitting, and came closer to existential dread than I think I will ever want to. Ever.

There is something about a man who carries around a prosthetic of his own head at a gala while dripping in Gucci. It’s not just me, is it?