I used to think of Joni Mitchell as an acquired taste. I first heard her in 1997, when her voice was sampled in the chorus of Janet Jackson’s “Got ‘Til It’s Gone.” The song’s credits taught me where that sample came from; before that, I’d thought “Big Yellow Taxi” was originally by Amy Grant. The second time I heard one of her songs was when Travis covered the beautiful “River” as a B-side.
Mitchell always seemed a bit too “adult” for me, or too folky, or too jazzy. Like Bob Dylan—another legendary artist I never quite connected with—I had written off her voice as something you had to learn to appreciate. My childhood home was filled with Michael Jackson, TLC, and Meat Loaf, and as a teenager, I leaned toward singer-songwriters like Alanis Morissette, who channeled my angst.
I shared this somewhat embarrassing backstory with author Ann Powers, whose book Traveling: On the Path of Joni Mitchell tells a similar tale. “With time, I came to realize that Joni’s great gift is for capturing the tangled ways in which people ruminate and, trying to make connections, communicate with each other,” she replied, mentioning Mitchell’s classics Blue and Hejira. She added that my reference to Janet Jackson made her think of Prince, whose favorite Mitchell album was 1975’s The Hissing of Summer Lawns, an experimental gem that was misunderstood at first. “It’s her vibe-iest album and the one in which she fully employs her gift for social critique,” Ann said.
She’s right—the album is full of atmosphere, and after a few listens at home, it perfectly accompanies a walk on a crisp winter day. My early favorite is the avant-pop track “The Jungle Line,” which uses an early form of sampling to create an intoxicating swirl of distorted drums and synthesized percussion. Lyrically, it’s an abstract collage of modern city life and music industry politics, delivered in a half-sung style I recognize from Laura Marling. I also hear Kim Gordon in the detached tones of “Harry’s House,” a song about domestic tension, and the synth-heavy “Shadows and Light” reminds me of Prince during his Purple Rain era.
I have to admit, the album’s midsection—the jazzy “Edith and the Kingpin” and the orchestral softness of “Shades of Scarlett Conquering”—doesn’t fully grab me. At home, I try the more emotionally direct Blue, and it instantly fits the evening dusk. When “River’s” raw emotion hits, I almost cry into my Baileys. As Q-Tip said on “Got ‘Til It’s Gone”: “Joni Mitchell never lies.”
I cringe at Kendrick Lamar’s high-pitched vocals. Earlier this year, after I wrote a lukewarm review of Drake’s three Wireless festival shows, his fans repeatedly accused me of being a Kendrick Lamar supporter, trying to fuel the feud between the two rappers. Nothing could be further from the truth: I’ve been a fan of Drake’s music since downloading mixtapes from DatPiff, and I’ve never been able to stand Lamar’s music. There’s one simple reason: his voice. I find it incredibly nasal and grating, and it often triggers my misophonia—a lower tolerance to certain sounds.
Lately, though, I’ve been thinking I need to reassess my relationship with Lamar and get past my reaction to his higher pitch. I appreciate a wide range of Black music, so how can I outright refuse to listen to someone considered one of hip-hop’s greatest figures, whose conscious lyrics and portrayal of inner-city life earned him a Pulitzer? I was very impressed by his Super Bowl halftime performance, especially his flawless breath control and the clever staging and social commentary.
I turn to a close friend of mine, Der…Rien, a Lamar superfan who discovered him during the peak of hip-hop blogs when he still went by K.Dot, appreciates that Lamar isn’t for everyone. “I gravitated to him because I found his lyrics to be quite layered,” he says. “They were like a puzzle to figure out, so I’d listen with Genius open to decipher them.” For Rien, there’s also a personal connection. “I really resonated with his story, especially ‘Good Kid, MAAD City,’ because the title alone spoke to the struggle of trying to develop a moral compass when you’re surrounded by gang culture.”
So, where should I start with Lamar to follow through on my resolution? Rien recommends the deep cuts, sending me a wide-ranging playlist. I begin with “Black Boy Fly,” which immediately resonates with my own experiences growing up in the inner city, dreaming of escaping your environment—particularly the notion that success only came through sports or rap: “Shooting hoops or live on the stereo like Top 40.” Then there’s “ADHD” from his debut album Section.80, which captures the feeling of overstimulation and the numbing effect of growing up amid chaos.
But it’s the 12-minute “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” that truly moves me emotionally. To my surprise, I find Lamar’s shifting vocal delivery cinematic and searching rather than jarring, adding an authentic complexity to a track partly narrated from the perspective of a murdered friend. Rien tells me that even a notorious Lamar critic and vlogger cried while listening to it. I understand. I feel like I’m on a spiritual path leading toward conversion.
My first encounter with the truly uncategorizable music of Diamanda Galás was at London’s Royal Festival Hall in 2012—a performance that moved me to tears but left me none the wiser about her place in the pantheon of 20th-century avant-garde artists. At least I started the right way: experiencing her multifaceted mezzo-soprano in person is the best introduction, according to devotee Luke Turner, co-founder of the music website the Quietus. “When I’ve seen her live, I’ve been in tears, and time goes weird,” he says.
Why hadn’t I returned to Galás after that show? On paper, she offers a lot of what I like: weird, imperious, glam, politically radical—and, with those incredible pipes, fusing opera with Middle Eastern modal scales and black metal intensity. But I admit I don’t really understand opera or operatic styles. My brain is tuned to repetition, and Galás’s music demands that I sit down and listen closely.
“She’s the sort of artist where you have to focus—it’s not background music,” Luke advises. He once interviewed Galás in the early 2000s and prepared by spending a weekend immersed in her records. Unfortunately, “it was when I was splitting up with my then-wife, in a half-empty flat—it was a real psychic rinsing. But it was good; it worked.”
I try to focus on the elements that appeal to me: notes of blues, goth, punk, free jazz, and experimental composition. Over her 50-year career, she’s collaborated with Led Zeppelin’s John Paul Jones on The Sporting Life (a soft no from me, as a committed Zep-hater) and groundbreaking composer Iannis Xenakis on N’Shima, an abstract piece for mezzo-sopranos, horns, trombones, and cello (a massive yes, with my Wire-reading hat on).
Luke points me toward industrial Galás—particularly The Divine Punishment, from a trilogy of records about the AIDS crisis released in 1986, when the disease was still heavily stigmatized and poorly understood. “I think she found the goth scene incredibly homophobic,” he notes. And this is the stuff: sparse, haunting, and powerful.Spooky, bizarre, confrontational, and compositionally out-there—it’s like a soundtrack to a real-life horror movie. Finally, he guides me to her 2008 version of the Appalachian folk song “O Death,” where her floor-shaking, melismatic vocals seem to channel something ancient and terrible, like Rosalía summoning Cthulhu. What more could you want? — Chal Ravens
‘Who has the time for Neil Young’s 60 albums?’
In my mind, Neil Young has always been in an amorphous category with musicians like Bob Dylan, Nick Drake, and Leonard Cohen, linked only by a vague idea of what I think they sound like: old-fashioned, miserable, and boring. But whenever I say this out loud, someone always jumps to defend one of them, and it’s almost always Neil Young. My encounters with his music have been pleasant but limited—”On the Beach” via an old boyfriend, “Harvest Moon” via Eat Pray Love—and I’ve never bought into the hype. Why didn’t I explore further? I’m stubborn, no doubt, but also because Young has such a huge discography: over 60 albums, including bands and side projects. Who has the time?
But in the spirit of trying something new, I reached out to John Mulvey, editor of Mojo and a committed Neil Young fan, to see if I could finally understand his appeal. John highlighted three key areas in Young’s vast catalog: “the longform frazzled electric jams,” the more commercially successful folk side, and the “Ditch Trilogy” of Time Fades Away, On the Beach, and Tonight’s the Night. “It’s a constantly unravelling, capricious, and hyper-detailed story that can be very addictive,” he told me. “But obviously you need some basic love of what he does to get drawn in in the first place.” With that in mind, I started with the classics: 1972’s Harvest and 1975’s Zuma, a favorite among several of my friends.
Over the next few weeks, guided by John’s suggestions, I tried repeat listens of these, plus about ten other albums across different styles and eras. I played them at work, on the bus, and while running errands; once, I even listened to After the Gold Rush on the way home from a club. I noticed tracks growing catchier as they became familiar, and I even jotted down a few for future listens (“Tell Me Why,” “Motion Pictures (For Carrie),” “Don’t Cry No Tears”). Still, it felt like homework.
As a last-ditch attempt, I tried a sideways approach through Young’s “stylistically diverse and chaotic 1980s” music, which John thought might align more with my tastes—like Trans, where Young experiments with a vocoder and electronics. I enjoyed the huge, soaring synths on “Computer Age” and was surprised by how hypnotic “Like an Inca” became over its nearly ten-minute runtime. John was certainly right about his range.
I still have over 40 Neil Young records left to explore, and while I wouldn’t yet call myself a fan, I now feel better equipped to explain why. Plus, I’ve picked up a few new tracks along the way. — Safi Bugel
‘I pretended I liked Radiohead in high school to impress older kids’
I love a lot of gravely serious music, but it would be a stretch to call myself a “serious person” in any sense. I think that’s one reason, among others, why I’ve never really been able to get into Radiohead, a band I’ve always seen as too morose and self-important. The closest I ever came was in high school, when I torrented a few albums to credibly pretend I liked them while hanging out with some older kids. As time has gone on, I’ve let go of my hang-ups about seeming smart and largely given up on trying to understand this indie music godhead.
When asked if I wanted to try a listening resolution, Radiohead seemed like the obvious choice, and the obvious…The previous expert I consulted was my friend Jazz Monroe, a fellow music critic and certified Radiohead fanatic. He asked me a few questions: What’s the closest thing to Radiohead that I like? I wasn’t sure; my boyfriend suggested Cameron Winter, and I’m still not certain if he was joking. Who do I prefer among REM, Pixies, and Robert Wyatt? REM. What’s my favorite Bowie album? I told him either Hunky Dory or Blackstar.
A day later, Jazz sent me a short playlist, assuring me it was “not canon” but might show me “a more sympathetic side” of the band. Knowing my deep disdain for corporate power and the wealthy elite, he explained: “Thom is one of those artists who gets so naively, childishly angry at the sight of a corporate smile or the sound of an automated phone line that he devotes himself to creating something beautiful to counterbalance it.” I found that a very compelling reason for making art.
I actually enjoyed many of the songs on the playlist, especially the more rhythm-driven tracks like “Weird Fishes,” “Blow Out,” and “Where I End and You Begin.” There, I felt Yorke’s voice was nicely balanced by the drums, which shifted between pounding and hypnotic. Some elements, like the warbling synths on the Hail to the Thief tracks, felt a bit overused—until I remembered that these sounds are everywhere precisely because Radiohead has been so influential. The songs that borrow heavily from jazz tended to be my favorites, which aligns with the fact that I genuinely enjoy The Smile, even though that doesn’t make much sense since they’re essentially Radiohead.
Will I dive deeper into their catalog? Probably not. I like these songs well enough, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve already filled any Radiohead-shaped gaps in my life with other music that serves a similar purpose. Still, I plan to listen to a few full albums just to be sure—partly because I think A Moon Shaped Pool is a gorgeous album title.
—Shaad D’Souza
Frequently Asked Questions
FAQs Our 2026 Listening Goals
Getting Started The Basics
What are the 2026 listening goals
Theyre a personal or community challenge to actively explore music genres or artists youve historically disliked or ignored aiming to broaden your musical taste by 2026
Why would I listen to music I dont like
The goal isnt to force yourself to like it but to understand it It builds musical empathy breaks down unconscious biases and can lead to surprising new favorites or a deeper appreciation for artistry
Isnt this just musical homework
It shouldnt feel like a chore Think of it as an adventurous exploration like trying a new cuisine The focus is on openminded discovery not passing a test
Who is this for
Anyone From casual listeners stuck in a playlist rut to seasoned music fans who want to challenge their own preferences Its especially valuable for critics creators and curious minds
Choosing What to Explore
How do I pick what to listen to
Start with iconic influential artists or albums youve always dismissed Alternatively choose a whole genre youve avoided
What if Ive already tried and hated RadioheadKendricketc
Try a different entry point For Radiohead if you hated the rock of Creep try the electronic textures of Kid A For Kendrick if dense rap wasnt for you start with the storytelling in Sing About Me Im Dying of Thirst Context can also help
Do I have to listen to whole albums
Its highly recommended for a full experience but starting with a few key tracks is fine The goal is deeper engagement than just a single song
The Listening Process Mindset
Whats the actual method How do I listen differently
1 Remove distractions Dont just have it on in the background
2 Suspend judgment Dont focus on do I like this Ask What is this trying to do What are the lyrics about How are the instrumentsbeats used
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