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We need to talk about merging the genius of “Russian Doll” with the dopeness of Wyclef’s “Carnival”
Minor spoilers
Nostalgia is the engine of survival when you’re stuck in the lackluster orbit of abandonment, as part of the generation that suffers from the “middle child syndrome.”
It used to be that pop culture was the celebrated unifier that merges the tastebuds of consumers, who recognize dopeness without relying on the compass of influencers and generic trends.
But those days vanished the moment being Insta-worthy and Snapchat-ready became the verified mode of communication.
Suddenly Cardi B is the absolute shit who will soon claim her Las Vegas residency with a sparse catalogue of hits.
Names and faces of notables resemble a photo album of strangers that force you to search for proof that your tribe hasn’t died out.
And the era when the genre of film and music converged to produce the purposed soundtrack, that elevated characters and the events that defined them to the heights of creative excellence, has been replaced with bits of verses and beats that enjoy a minute of adulation before the cycle moves in a trendier direction.
When I moved to NYC back in the early summer of 1997, I had already spent a torturous year in…
