Five Cent Sound Spring 2026

Hey Reader!

The spring semester has been a whirlwind of excitement leading to the bittersweetness of the semester’s end where we’ll say goodbye to our friends for the summer and say our goodbyes to the seniors that are graduating.

With this bittersweet feeling, we at Five Cent Sound wanted to have a theme that offered a guiding light through any dark moments of this year. From our long winter to our fraught political climate, Luminous is shining through. Luminous to me brings about thoughts of evening drives as the sun is setting or early morning coffee runs as it rises, the Hunchback of Notre Dame soundtrack playing back to back with some ABBA or Hozier as I write from my room, and even the feeling of summer approaching with crisp mornings and bright skies. It reminds me of past trips to Walt Disney World or museums in D.C. or Seattle. Most importantly, it’s a reflection of what Five Cent Sound means to me in light of the rest of my Emerson College career and I’m so happy to get to share this magazine with you.

A big thank you goes out to Mia, my co-editor in chief, who has joined me in many late nights hosting meetings or group events, planning social media posts and launch, and helping bring the magazine to life in your hands. It’s so sad to see you go after this semester and I can’t wait to follow your career as you grow!

More big thanks goes out to Lauren, our head designer, because without her, this magazine wouldn’t look anywhere near as good as it looks right now. I don’t know what we’re going to do without you next year.

Thank you to our wonderful editorial team who worked tirelessly over multiple weeks to ensure

our pieces were the best they could be. Thank you to our writers who put their heart and soul on the page for us to read and enjoy. Thank you to our wonderful E-Board members who stepped up to help ease some of the weight off of the shoulders of our editorial team! Thank you to our wonderful visuals and creative team who have made the magazine look gorgeous and something for all of us to be proud of! I’m entirely grateful for all of you and we may have been a small team this semester, but we were mighty.

Let Luminous be your guiding light into the summer and the years beyond this semester. Whether you’re looking for the light or finding persistent hope, we hope Luminous means as much to you as it does for us.

To another great semester!

Olivia Lindquist Co-Editor in Chief

Dear Reader,

Thanks for being here!

To write this letter and not sound a little cheesy would reduce the love I have for Five Cent Sound. Just thought you should know that.

It’s safe to say that this magazine is more than a publication. It’s a community; one that I saw myself in that welcomed me before I even submitted an application. Now, in my fifth semester at Five Cent Sound, I’ve had the greatest honor of being your social media manager and co-editor-in-chief alongside Olivia–who really embodies everything good about publishing and everything wonderful about this publication specifically. Thank you for your guidance and your friendship.

This semester’s print theme, Luminous, holds a very special place in my heart. I could not think of a better glue to hold this edition together than light, especially in a time when darkness seems so all-consuming and inescapable.

Here, you’ll see beautiful interpretations of luminosity from artists, communities, even films, and most of all, our incredible team of writers.

To have a group of people recognize and admire such light in times of darkness gives me hope: hope for tomorrow, hope for the arts, hope for humanity, and hope for the world. To me, this is what Luminous is all about.

It is a tale as old as time that music brings people together. Five Cent Sound is perfect proof. To our entire team, thank you. Thank you to our writers who can craft a story that reads as lovely as a song. Thank you to our designers and photographers for putting pictures to those stories and songs and for capturing them when they are fresh out of an artist’s mouth or instrument. Thank you to our E-Board for offering expertise

and guidance in every area of this publication and for amplifying its voice across channels. Thank you again to Olivia and every EIC that came before us: it is easier to step into this role with people to inspire you. And, finally, thank you for reading this and for stepping into this musical moment we’ve created for you.

If you can take anything from Luminous, let it be that light is never lost as long as there is one person who chooses to look for it. Be that person. Find it in places where others never choose to look, in people you never expect to love, in chances you’re never ready to take, and–because I know it’s a guarantee–find it here.

To Five Cent Sound, Luminous, to hope, and to you!

Mia Rodriguez Co-Editor-in-Chief & Social Media Manager

our team

Executive

Co-Editor-in-Chief - Mia Rodriguez

Co-Editor-in-Chief - Olivia Lindquist

Head Designer - Lauren Mallett

Co-Managing Editor - Marianna Orozco

Co-Managing Editor - Emie McAthie

Assistant Managing Editor - Giulia Gordon

Head Online Director - Sydney Johnson

Assistant Online Director - Savannah Girling

Photo Coordinator - Ari Mei-Dan

Creative Director - Lila Williams

Playlist Coordinator - Norah Lesperance

Social Media Manager - Mia Rodriguez

Marketing Manager - Chloe Morehouse

Assistant Marketing Manager - Altea Bulajewski

Assistant Marketing Manager - Flynn Plowman

Head DEI Editor - Rachel Dickerson

Creative

Visual Artists

Liam Alexe

Savannah Girling

Mia Rodriguez

Nadia Rosa

Lila Williams

Editorial

General Editors

Katie Bergelin

Jasper Chen

Jackson Day

Tiana Di Stasio

Katie Lew

Emie McAthie

Sienna Phillips

Emma Samuels

DEI Editors

Katie Bergelin

Jasper Chen

Jackson Day

Katie Lew

Emma Samuels

Copyeditors

Elliot Berkley

Tiana Di Stasio

Giulia Gordon

Tess Hennedy

Emie McAthie

Mariana Orozco

Sienna Phillips

Emma Samuels

Eleanor Wu

our five cents

Let the Light In by Flynn Plowman // 8

“You brought music back into the house”: The Persistent Hope of The Sound of Music by Maggie Kaprielian // 14

HD: Under Laser Light: Dance Music and Raving as a Revelation of Self by Katie Bergelin // 20

Fight & Fusion by Sophia Getz // 28

Not for Radio - María Refuses Silence by Maya Martinez // 34

Finding the Light Through Music by Savannah Girling, Giulia Gordon, Sofia Holden // 38

Light in Hozier’s Discography, by “Someone From A Warm Climate” by Mia Rodriguez // 44

The Stage Lights Shine: Concert Photography Featuring Liam Alexe, Alex Cuozzo, Sophia Getz, Morgan Glantz, Hannah Miller, Lila Williams // 54

How Hunter White Is Rebuilding Music Discovery by Hand by Liam Alexe // 60

The Beach Boys Love You, and You Should, Too! by Jack Day // 66

It’s Hard to Beat: Eric Delaney and the Art of Performance Drumming by Nadia Rosa // 74

Let the Light In

“Heavy” — Shawn Mendes

“Now I’m In It” — HAIM

“Can I Jump?” — Freya Ridings

“After the Storm” — Kali Uchis ft. Tyler, The Creator “Dreams” — The Cranberries

“Sunrise” — Norah Jones

“Begin Again” (Taylor’s Version) — Taylor Swift

“New Perspective” — Noah Kahan

“Aperture” — Harry Styles

“the light is coming” — Ariana Grande ft. Nicki Minaj

“Lights Up” — Harry Styles

“Shake It Out” — Florence + The Machine

“Getting Clear” — Bradley Simpson

“Rainbow” — Kesha

“Everywhere” — Fleetwood Mac

“Golden” — Harry Styles

“GLOW.” — Kesha

“Solar Power” — Lorde

“Here Comes The Sun” —The Beatles

“Send Me On My Way” — Rusted Root

“Dog Days Are Over” — Florence + The Machine

“Come On Eileen” — Dexys Midnight Runners

“Daylight” — Taylor Swift

“Clean” (Taylor’s Version) — Taylor Swift

“Clearly” — Grace VanderWaal

Ivividly remember sitting in my family room with our square TV, grinning with baby teeth, watching seven children and their governess dance around the streets of Salzburg. I am one of many in my generation raised on the 1965 movie musical, with my mom introducing it to me before I fully understood the story’s broader meaning.

The Sound of Music follows Maria, an upbeat postulant recruited to nanny an Austrian naval captain’s seven children. She brings music back into the home, teaching the children the joys of life, all while developing a romance with the captain. Simultaneously, the story is situated in “the last golden days of the thirties,” right before the Nazis take over Austria. The captain refuses to side with fascism and leads Maria and the children to flee Austria.

Fascism wasn’t a word I could comprehend as a seven-year-old. I just knew that my eyes melted when all the characters sang on-screen, filling summer days with melodies that showed up in my dreams. The film defined my childhood and raised me to incorporate music in every step I take. As my scrawny legs carried me with the melody, fascism was the last thing on my mind. A few years passed, and I woke up to my mom distraught, solemnly announcing that America had a new president. The world became darker, and my favorite musical gained a new meaning.

In 2026, fascism is the new reality. I’ve had a complicated relationship with my country since I became politically conscious. Typically, I hold onto hope. But it is increasingly difficult to latch onto when, every day, I see US tax dollars being funneled to bomb civilians in other countries, while on our own soil, families are being ripped apart. Standing against atrocities gets you killed, while being a white supremacist and felon gets you into office.

I understand that The Sound of Music is a lot more serious than a beautifully made film about children learning how to sing. I understand that the boy who dances with Liesl in the rain isn’t just someone who betrays her, but someone who sides with the wrong side of history. I understand that within all of the sweet scenes of an Austrian summer, there’s a darker reality. While my eyes are open, the innocence isn’t shattered. In the presence of fascism, these sweet scenes are vital. They prove that music is a lifeline, a source of community, love, and a persistent hope.

When Maria first arrives at the Von Trapp’s residence, there is no music. Out of grief, the widowed captain runs his home like he does his navy. He grows distant and cold, not even knowing who his children are anymore. The children themselves long for the days when the family felt like one. They have become estranged from their father and from music. All it takes is

Maria singing about her favorite things to calm the children through a thunderstorm. The children gallivant around her room as she sings, and suddenly, the fear is gone. From “girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes,” to “snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,” singing about life’s small wonders reintroduces the children to the idea that not everything has to be gloomy.

In the Austrian Alps, Maria introduces the seven children to the anatomy of a song with “Do-Re-Mi.” Through an aesthetically directed sequence, Maria teaches them that “when you know the notes to sing, you can sing most anything.” Music becomes an accessible avenue for the children to express themselves.

It doesn’t take long for the captain to overhear his children sing. Touched, he thanks Maria by saying, “You brought music back into the house. I had forgotten.” Through a song, he reconnects with his children. As his internal walls collapse, the captain sings a calming lullaby, “Edelweiss.” Named after a flower that symbolizes Austria, the song captures a simultaneous innocence and perseverance. He sings to the children: “Blossom of snow, may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever.”

The song resurfaces at the end of the film when the family performs at a festival before fleeing the newly annexed Austria. A chorus of voices sing: “Edelweiss,

edelweiss, bless my homeland forever.” Despite the horrors surrounding them and their country, the family persists with their song, blessing their homeland and clinging to the hope that Austria’s integrity will survive.

Sounds a bit familiar.

I, along with many others, have recently turned to “Edelweiss” to make sense of modern America. I grew up here, raised to embrace everyone in this melting pot with open arms. People I care about, people from all different walks of life, people who make this place special, we are all here. Maria, the captain, and the children love their country, just as I love mine. Out of that love, they won’t accept deteriorating freedom and an extremist regime. That is why music is a protest. “Edelweiss” advocates for a prosperous Austria where everyone can bloom and grow. In America, everyone should have the opportunity to bloom and grow. Not everyone can, which is why this song, why this musical, is so prevalent.

The Sound of Music proves that whether grieving a personal matter or a country’s descent into fascism, music heals. It doesn’t have all the answers, and it won’t fix all the world’s problems. But music shouldn’t be overlooked as a means of hope.

It is all too easy to feel isolated and overpowered by the cruelty of what we are experiencing. In moments of grief, I look towards Maria and wonder what she would

do. It is written in the song, sharing a title with the musical’s name: “I go to the hills when my heart is lonely / I know I will hear what I’ve heard before / My heart will be blessed with the sound of music / And I’ll sing once more.” Maria consistently returns to the Alps to sing, knowing musical expression is how she grounds herself.

If you are feeling lonely, frustrated, confused, or anything in between, I encourage you to turn towards music. Whether the soundtrack of The Sound of Music or any tune that has grown in your heart, let the notes absorb into your skin. Let the melody calm your nerves. In times of doubt over the future, remember the power music holds. Even when you are terrified, become that little kid again, dancing uncoordinated to a song. And always remember: “The hills are alive with the sound of music.”

Beads of sweat gather in a cluster on my brow, threatening to drip down into my eye as my body bounces to the downbeat. My forearm haphazardly wipes the area between dance moves as pyrotechnics spew out from all across the stage. The crowd whoops in excitement as the hellish heat from the fire mingles with the Florida humidity and pulsating heat from the EDC Orlando crowd.

Suddenly, a cleansing wave of fresh air. I relish in the coolness like a golden retriever with its head flopping outside a car window. Beside me, Maddie, my friend from undergrad and fellow freshmanyear-mold-poisoning survivor, brandishes a sparkly fan and a giant smile. She unleashes an exclamatory expletive as the music transitions. It’s the song I played for her while pregaming: “Acid Blood” by 999999999.

We look at each other with a devious smile before throwing our hands up in the air and thrashing our bodies around to the noise. The generously poured tequila Diet Coke from our pregame gains a second wind and a buzziness migrates through my bloodstream and into my head. Screens lining the back of the stage flash with geometric shapes and vibrant colors, the pyrotechnics persist and lasers shower the crowd in light. As I smile and scream, the glistening face gems lining my eyes poke into my skin and smile lines. I continue dancing with reckless abandon.

My introduction to 999999999 came well before I ever saw the Italian duo perform live, all thanks to an Italian waiter and a Google search. The summer before my junior year in undergrad, in hopes of fasttracking my university’s foreign language requirements, I found myself severely out of my comfort zone living with a host family in Florence, Italy. As I dragged my overweight luggage up a seemingly endless flight of stairs, I ran through the small arsenal of Italian vocabulary and basic sentences I learned on Duolingo. It barely helped. Google Translate became the middleman in my first few dinners with my Italian host parents.

Luckily, I met Ferruccio, a lithe, prancy waiter with spiky bleach blonde hair who worked at the pub a mere 10 steps away from my accommodation. Throughout my time in Florence, our relationship blossomed. He delivered spritzes and charcuterie as encouragement as I plowed my way through homework assignments. I occasionally stopped to ask him for help as he floated from table to table delivering drinks and taking orders. I kept Ferruccio company as he took his smoke breaks. His Jack Skellington-esque fingers gingerly packed and rolled cigarettes as we gabbed about our pop culture favorites. We both shared an affinity for Lady Gaga, high fashion runway shows and RuPaul’s Drag Race, but he poked fun at my limited Italian music playlist, which only consisted of

songs I Shazamed while watching White Lotus season two. Ferruccio implored me to expand my research of Italian musical artists, which ultimately led me to find the acid techno stylings of 999999999. An aspiring artist himself who fused the vibes of Indira Paganotto and SOPHIE in his own demos, Ferruccio introduced me to a global community of artists and dance music appreciators dedicated to keeping the roots of the genre alive.

Ferruccio’s lessons in dance music and rave culture extended beyond the little pub patio in Florence. When I took an internship in London the following summer, I engaged with the city’s extensive musical history, and it became my pathway to connection with the city and its people. Nowhere was this more evident than in the basement of The Scotch of St. James. The basement hideaway in the heart of Mayfair opened its doors in July 1965 and invited big names of the ’60s to party and perform, including Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton and The Beatles. However, instead of listening to the piercing rock and roll songs that built the club’s reputation, I bopped along to tech house, jungle, and garage beats with a glass of red wine in tow.

Interestingly, my time in London also aligned with the release of Charli XCX’s Brat album. The minimal but visually iconic album branding covered trucks and billboards across the city to announce the release date and a sold out release

event. I latched onto the album as a mantra for my summer, as did much of the world. “365” and “Club classics” provided nightly motivation, a “do it for plot” energy that reverberated from my phone during pregames. While walking to class or my internship in the dreary London fog, “Rewind,” “Sympathy is a knife” and “Everything is romantic” spurred sobering reflection while still carrying the sonic energy of a wild weekend.

XCX’s “Brat summer” signaled a sonic revolution for both herself as well as her listeners and even dance music as a genre. The album, which went on to win a GRAMMY for Best Dance/Electronic Album, intertwined the carefree energy of a warehouse rave with introspective lyrics that reflected on fame, comparison, loss and personal trauma. This album became a cultural touchpoint for listeners worldwide, but for me personally, it remains a constant reminder of my time in London and my interactions with the city’s rich music history.

When I returned to the United States, I waved goodbye to the carefree lifestyle associated with a summer abroad, which I assumed could only be unlocked again on another European vacation. I swung back into university life in Texas, where my academic planner became my closest confidant as I counted down the days until May commencement, which felt light years away. While keeping up with class assignments and school newspaper deadlines, I maintained

the college senior social life, scrounging up the last moments of undergraduate life while I still could.

However, I found myself turning back to raving after finding minimal solace from stress in the typical college social scene of dive bars and frat parties, where, surrounded by my peers, I was reminded of academic responsibilities and the fact that my future beyond the confines of my campus felt like one big question mark. While no longer living abroad in Florence or London, I allowed myself to feel as such, attending countless dance music events throughout my final year of college. It was during this time that I began to see dance music as a means of therapeutic communication with myself. I started on a pursuit of cathartic release, relinquishing my mind and body to the music, which allowed for self-reflection and total escapism.

SILO Dallas, a grain storage facility turned live music venue in the heart of Dallas’ Design District, became a familiar weekend spot for my friends and I throughout our senior year. Entering into the event space, pillars rose from the ground like grain stalks, corralling the crowd on the dance floor. The room, sheathed in darkness, received its light from a massive video wall and lasers that bathed smiling faces in technicolor. Big names provided the backing track for my late nights and early mornings, from Galantis to Mau P and Solomun. Once in this room, my body felt

uninhibited and unperceived. I allowed myself to exist without the threat of a nearing deadline snaking its way into my mind and just danced.

My year of unrelenting dancing in Dallas ended the night before my graduation. Instead of getting my eight hours before walking across the stage to receive a pricey piece of paper, I jumped along with Sammy Virji as he transitioned between UK garage hits. Zero thoughts of exhaustion crossed my mind that night, and as I left to prepare myself for the all-university commencement ceremony that was set to happen in just a few hours, I still felt energized by the night. With zero job prospects, a hope to freelance and the promise of a summer back home in the North Carolina mountains, I left everything on the floor at that Dallas venue. While the big question mark on my future remained, I felt less worried about the road ahead of me. I knew that I had dance music and a connection to its global community that will certainly find me wherever I land in this world.

Fight & Fusion

This editorial explores how clashing music genres can still fuse into beautiful art. Across three staged confrontations: punk vs. jazz, country vs. EDM, and disco vs. classical. pairs of models are styled as opposing genre stereotypes and directed to interact in their own world. Although their body language is often charged with tension, their synergy is made evident through experimental lighting and deliberate color. From saturated reds and blues to neon night ambience, Fight & Fusion demonstrates a symbolic approach to luminosity and the beauty of a musical mesh. Even when the scenes feel worlds apart, they are tied together by the energy of their music, which is always evolving, colliding, and finding new ways to coexist.

María Zardoya is a Puerto Rican singer and songwriter from Los Angeles and the lead vocalist for the successful psychedelic indie pop band, The Marías. As of October 10, 2025, María split off from the group to craft her own personal debut solo project: Not For Radio. Her newest album is titled Melt, inspired by María’s admiration for nature and the art of paying attention to little details of the world around us.

The album is a soundtrack for grief and processing loss. María wanted to answer the question, “Is love worth the pain?” through her lyrics and melodies. She successfully captures the essence of the “alternate reality” she desired to build for her fans through her ethereal display of sound and emotion. Within the title, Not For Radio, María communicates to her listeners that this project is an intimate door to her life and personal relationships. Melt is a peek into María’s diary, full of passion and a collection of processing heartache.

The Marías use both English and Spanish within their lyrics as a form of cultural pride, artistry, and style. I had the privilege of attending The Marías’ Submarine tour this past summer at the Moody Center in Austin, Texas, and was a witness to an accepting community of Latin Americans celebrating their voices through music. In the middle of her performance of “Otro Atardecer,” María ran onstage with a giant Mexican flag draped around her shoulders like a cape. She was running around the stage wearing it proudly and overjoyed to be celebrating and honoring the most prominent Latin root country of her Tejano fans. She was grinning, shouting out different Latin American countries, and encouraging the audience to participate in cheering. Her joy was contagious as she excitedly ran into the audience afterwards, highfiving and holding the hands of fans. The

visuals were bright and colorful, illuminating the stage and audience with reddish and orangish hues. She gave a heartfelt speech in Spanish, reminding everyone not to be ashamed of being different and thanked us for giving her the love, support, and platform to share.

To mirror the psychedelic otherworldly feel of their music and lyrics, The Marías utilized artificial haze that dramatized the dark saturated blues and reds used throughout the performance. During María Zardoya’s Not For Radio Tour, she employed a similar tactic by transporting the audience to an alternate dimension through an eerie glowing display of radiant stage lights. The haze diffused the hard light to replicate the atmospheric feel she was trying to achieve with her new album, Melt. María created a wintry, gothic aesthetic where her listeners desire to sit outside in nature and listen along for deeper introspection. María revealed on Instagram about the writing process: “And that’s

exactly what we did in the snowy woods, tucked away, as ice melted beneath our feet and as we melted into the songs. What grew from the melted ice is this album.”

Due to her growing popularity, María added a final show in Los Angeles to wrap up her solo tour. All proceeds of this fourth and final show in her hometown were donated to the National Day Laborer Organizing Network (NDLON). NDLON is an organization dedicated to helping immigrants impacted by the devastating ICE raids throughout America. NDLON’s mission is to “Improve the lives of day laborers, migrants, and low-wage workers by building leadership to challenge inequality and stand up for civil rights.” Their organization is dedicated to keeping the public informed of their rights, especially in an age where immigrants with English being their second language are preyed upon and taken advantage of. NDLON is influencing nationwide government change through its legal department and fighting back with organized committees, campaigns, and representation in cases defending immigrant rights. While navigating the website, the interface is straightforward and user friendly, with Spanish being the primary language for different informational pages.

In a country continuously trying to eradicate the rights of its people by encouraging ignorance and silencing those being attacked, it is becoming progressively imperative for celebrities and artists to use their platforms to advocate for those who cannot. In addition, rather than just talking about the problem and spreading awareness, those with money have power. Many who have the ability to help often do not, enabling more bystanders with actual influence over change. María set an example by choosing to give back to her people by supporting, advocating, and educating those impacted by ICE.

Finding the Light Through Music

Light is a familiar subject in the world of music. In Hozier’s discography, it’s one of his most persistent companions. It flickers through his songs in many forms: sunlight, fire, revelation, innocence, hope. It’s something capable of opposing forces in equal measure.

It’s this complexity that compelled me to trace light across his body of work. For this piece, I searched for those luminous moments that have stayed with me in more ways than one.

“Sunlight” – Wasteland Baby:

“Sunlight” draws an explicit relationship between someone’s love and sunlight. “Oh, your love is sunlight,” is repeated fourteen times throughout the song. In tracing light and luminosity across Hozier’s discography, this song felt unavoidable; because, however on the nose, “Sunlight” encapsulates the essence of this journey through his music. Specifically, it illustrates light as something exuberantly powerful, encompassing, and faceted.

To me, the direct comparison between love and sunlight in this song, addressed directly to a lover, is almost photosynthetic. The lover becomes the sun; their love, sunlight; and the narrator, the flower. Here, light is a life force: The sun gives the flower what it needs to grow and thrive. But, Hozier complicates this metaphor with his introduction of the myth of Icarus, presenting a striking duality. He sings, “Know that I would gladly be / The Icarus to your certainty / Oh my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight / Strap the wing to me / Death trap clad happily / With wax melted, I’d meet the sea / Under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.”

It is this faceted nature of light—in this case, sunlight—that gives it so much power. Hozier presents sunlight as a guiding, enriching force, but also as one that carries the potential for destruction. More importantly, as love is placed

in direct comparison, the song suggests the idea that such fervent devotion can be as dangerous as it is enduring. The Icarus myth serves to paint this picture vividly: Icarus, the narrator, flies too close to the sun, his lover; and in doing so, he accepts the inevitability of his fall.

In perfect Hozier fashion, the narrator goes beyond acceptance and actually embraces this risk. He recognizes the dichotomous power of love and finds it all the more irresistible. As a flower longs for the sun, he longs for this love—so completely, in fact, that he’d be willing to “meet the sea” so long as he remains “under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.”

“From Eden” – Hozier:

The devotion presented in “Sunlight” finds a friend in the longing that permeates “From Eden.” Written from the perspective of the Devil addressing Eve, the song becomes a meditation on the allure of humanity.

This song is a perfect stop on this musical journey, as it continues the exploration of light’s faceted nature and many manifestations. In “From Eden,” light exists as innocence and purity, what the song figuratively frames as the illuminated parts of human nature. This light is embodied in Eve, directly recalling the biblical tale. However, the narrator (the Devil as the serpent) does not find this light to be the sole source of his attraction. Rather, it’s the coexistence of darkness alongside it that draws him to her.

“From Eden” becomes a dynamic embodiment of the duality of human nature. The narrator pairs opposing traits to tell this story, describing Eve and her world as “tragic” and “magic,” “wholesome” and “lonesome,” “wretched” and “precious.” These juxtapositions subvert the narrative of pure innocence so often assigned to Eve, and by extension, to humanity at large. What essentially captures the narrator is not her innocence alone, but her complexity and capacity to house both light and darkness.

He sings, “Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword / Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know? I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door.” Here, he places Eve beyond the confines of Paradise. He rejects the idealism that demands untouched innocence, instead embracing the traits that live in the shadows. In this embrace, Hozier assembles a more honest architecture of humanity—one that acknowledges the inevitability of darkness. By insisting on purity, we flatten the complexities that make us human. To see only the light and refuse darkness, Hozier suggests, only blinds us from who we are.

“Who We Are” – Unreal

Unearth

What made me so inclined to follow light through Hozier’s discography goes beyond his ability to write a good song: he knows how to tell a story.

In songs like “From Eden,” we see his affinity for retelling and reimagining familiar tales. Unreal Unearth, Hozier’s third studio album, expands this storytelling beyond the scope of a single song. Instead, it conceptualizes the human experience in a framework inspired by Dante’s Inferno. Each song on the album depicts Hozier’s metaphorical journey through the nine circles of Hell.

“Who We Are,” the eighth track on the album, situates us in the fifth circle: Wrath. Here, Hozier

paints a stark image of life and struggle, singing, “We’re born at night, so much of our life / Is just carvin’ through the dark.” He acknowledges darkness as an extended state of existence shaped by forces that—especially in the world we currently live in— tend to press in on us from the jump.

Despite this pervasive darkness, however, Hozier insists that “the hardest part” is not the struggle to see in the dark. Actually, it’s learning to see ourselves; “it’s who we are, it’s who we are.” The song becomes a raw exploration of self discovery in the midst of hardship. The idea that we “carve” our way through life also suggests two central truths: first, if we are carving our way through darkness, then there must eventually be light; and second, in this process we carve and shape our identities as well.

In this way, “Who We Are” advocates for a kind of radical acceptance. Life often forces us to shape our identities in the dark, without clarity or certainty, but the song suggests that we must learn to appreciate what emerges. Our identities become sculptures molded in darkness, and we must choose to see their beauty once we see them in the light.

“Arsonist’s Lullaby” – From Eden EP

Up to this point in this musical journey, Hozier’s songs explore the tension between light and darkness as opposing forces while also embracing them simultaneously.

In “Arsonist’s Lullaby,” however, we see a new manifestation of

luminous opposition: fire.

The title alone reveals the song’s essence. The word “arsonist” conjures an abundance of imagery: of violence, destruction, and chaos. Yet, “lullaby” complicates these images, softening them into something unexpectedly beautiful.

At its core, the song is about inner demons and their endurance from childhood into adulthood. More importantly, it subverts the very idea of inner demons altogether. They are not an internal darkness, rather an internal fire. Where earlier songs embraced darkness with light, “Arsonist’s Lullaby” goes one step further and actually alchemizes the two.

This fire is a manifestation of ambition, passion, anger, and drive. Hozier tells the story of coming to understand this force, of recognizing it not as an evil but an energy, and choosing to control it rather than extinguish it: “All you have is your fire / And the place you need to reach / Don’t you ever tame your demons / But always keep ‘em on a leash.”

Once again, Hozier captures humanity in all its complexity, rejecting once again the idea that anything is purely light or dark, good or bad. It is with this in mind that the role of “lullaby” becomes clear. The song does not seek to silence the fire but to soothe it, allowing it to remain powerful without becoming destructive.

“Nina Cried Power” (feat. Mavis Staples) – Wasteland Baby

This internal fire burns brightly

in “Nina Cried Power.” Arguably one of the most powerful songs in Hozier’s discography, the track pays tribute to artists who used their voices to provoke change—naming artists like Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, John Lennon, James Brown, Marvin Gaye, and Mavis Staples, who also features on the song.

Here light becomes power: a metaphor for truth, passion, and the exposure of systemic injustice. The repetition of the line “it’s not the wakin’, it’s the risin’” anchors this metaphor throughout the song. “Wakin’” represents awareness, as “risin’” represents action. In his tribute to his influential predecessors, Hozier makes it clear that there can be no change without action; change demands movement. He sings, “It’s not the song, it is the singin’ / It’s the hearin’ of a human spirit ringin’ / It is the bringin’ of the line / It is the bearin’ of the rhyme / It’s not the wakin’, it’s the risin’.”

“Nina Cried Power,” is a call to action. Though we may not all be musicians, Hozier urges listeners to “cry power,” to reject apathy and participate in resistance in whatever way we can.

The song intertwines music, protest, and light through the power of collective movement. Fire reemerges as a symbol of this, Hozier singing, “It’s not the shade, we should be past it / It’s the light and it’s the obstacle that casts it / It’s the heat that drives the light / It’s the fire it ignites.” Fire becomes a manifestation of collective resistance: the light as justice and truth; the obstacle as injustice exposed; the heat as voices joining together; and the fire as protest itself, capable of igniting change. “It’s not the wakin’, it’s the risin’”—“Nina Cried Power” is a call to action whenever action is needed.

I suggest we all listen to “Nina Cried Power” now.

“Wildflower and Barley” (feat. Allison Russell) –Unheard EP

I wrote a review on “Wildflower and Barley” nearly two years ago, after its release. Since then, it’s remained one of my favorite Hozier songs.

The song captures life during the Covid-19 pandemic with new eyes. Its lyrics paint the most vivid portrait of a world in transition, acknowledging change and transformation in the interplay of growth and decay, life and death, and “grief and sweet memory.” “Wildflower and Barley” preceded Hozier’s album, Unreal Unearth, with a story about the “limbo” between death and descent—one shaped directly by the stagnancy and separation that impacted the entire world during the pandemic.

The song contemplates the isolation of the time, dancing between themes of death and rebirth, but ultimately centers on hope.

“Wildflower and Barley” is about holding onto brightness until you are out of the dark. The reference to the springtime throughout the song allows us to visualize this tension. During the pandemic, as Hozier sings, everything came to a stop and we all retreated into isolation: “The world lying fallow / And you are apart from me.” Through this darkness, however, the song turns its gaze toward the light by observing the quiet healing of the Earth: Humans were forced to stop, “(I feel as) useful as dirt,” but nature kept going, “Everything in my vision is movement and

In this way, the song is a harmonious image of remembrance for what once was and reverence for what may be. It reminds us that the light at the end of the tunnel is always there; we may not constantly see it, but we can choose to remember it until we do. And, it is in this remembrance that we find hope.

“First Light” –Unreal Unearth

To discuss hope and not cover “First Light,” would do this entire exploration a disservice. Furthermore, I do believe that it is the best way to conclude this.

“First Light,” the very last track on Unreal Unearth, the representation of Dante’s emergence from Hell, is about finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. More importantly, it’s about changing your perspective upon this emergence.

Hozier suggests adopting a new perspective in this song—shaped not by the absence of darkness but by having survived it. “First Light” is not a naive celebration of brightness; it’s the recognition that light feels transformative because of the darkness that preceded it. The repeated lines, “Like I lived my whole life / Before the first light,” frames this illumination as a rupture in time; it divides experience into before and after.

The song presents light as an event, an emergence. It’s gentle and intimate, “soft and easy as your breathing,” yet it is heavy. Importantly, “First Light” puts emphasis on vision, perspective. When

Hozier sings, “Your eyes open, at first, a thousand miles away / But turning, shoot a silver bullet point-blank range,” he captures the shock of sudden clarity; truth can arrive quietly and still feel devastating.

Here, light is external and internal. It is something you can embrace in the world around you, as well as optimism, hope, even reanimation. What I love about “First Light” is that it holds this reverence while it does not deny the persistence of darkness; “it finds you either way.” What matters is not that darkness leaves you, but that you choose how much authority it has—this is clarity and the door that opens for hope. To end with this song is to suggest that hope is not found in avoiding darkness, but in passing through it and arriving changes. The light at the end of the tunnel does not erase the darkness, it reframes it.

What we can take from this:

If light, in all its forms, is one of Hozier’s most faithful companions, then perhaps it is meant to become ours too. Across these songs, light is never simple. It is sunlight that nourishes and burns, innocence that coexists with corruption, fire that can destroy or drive, clarity that shines only after we’ve carved through the dark. It is love, self-knowledge, resistance and hope.

What Hozier’s discography suggests is that we are not meant to extinguish our light or our darkness as separate or equal forces. Rather, we are to understand them, shape them and rise with them. We are asked to hold our fire in our hands, see ourselves fully, and choose action over apathy. We must embrace the light within ourselves without denying the shadows that made it visible, stepping into it with the intention of using it to love, grow, inspire, and make change.

The Stage Lights Shine

At 18 years old, Hunter White began his music review blog on Instagram, originally titled Feed Me Albums. He named it after his desire to listen to every album, song, and artist people would send his way.

Now, 25, White sits in his Manhattan apartment on Zoom, decorated with a window perch for his cat and a poster of rubble around the world from the Mmuseumm popup in NYC. A wrist tattoo of the Grim Reaper flashes across the screen as he waves his hands and reflects on his lifelong love for discovering music and sharing it.

White has been able to turn that passion and experience in the music community into a CD delivery service called DISSONANT. The app celebrated its one-year anniversary in December 2025, but the journey to create a fully formed service had far preceded that milestone. In October 2023, White texted the idea for DISSONANT to a group chat of his friends. Users would request new music, either from Hunter himself or from a list of curators with knowledge in specific genres. A surprise album would be personally picked out for the user based on their favorite artists and genres, then shipped with a note explaining why it was chosen for them. After listening, users have the option to return or keep the CD for their personal library.

As disillusionment with the corporate appropriation of curation continues to rise, so does DISSONANT’s popularity. The app has received praise from users on TikTok and has become a point of reference for members of CD-collecting subreddits. It’s a moment of clarity in an era where streaming services rely on AI to create playlists for users and give recommendations. Spotify has introduced features such as “Daylists,” which give users mood-based playlists that shift song selections throughout the day, all done through their algorithm. They’ve also recently been plugging AI artists on their

standard recommendation playlists like Discovery Weekly.

“It’s not just Spotify,” White says. “Most of these businesses — they don’t care about art. They don’t care about artists. We’ve always known [this]… but now they’re really leaning into it.” White acknowledges that streaming can make music more accessible and get an artist’s name out there, but it often creates a barrier between those creating it and those who are listening to it.

“What makes art great is the way we engage with it and what we take from it. I feel like [it can be] this,” he says while holding up a Magnolia Electric Co. CD. “Something tangible in the mail and then being excited because it was picked out, especially for you.”

Growing up an avid music fan, White witnessed the transition from physical media to streaming. Some of his earliest memories involve listening to Santana CDs in the car with his dad on the way to school in San Diego. His dad’s taste in “classic, dad-rocky stuff” influenced his first musical obsession with Grateful Dead at the beginning of high school, which not only involved the exploration of their music but also his first time being in a community of music lovers, in this case, the bands’ fandom of Deadheads. “For as long as I can remember, he was always the kid who was way too early into [bands like] Pink Floyd,” says his childhood friend Ryan Holcomb.

Around the same time, White was introduced to modern hip-hop by his older friends, particularly J. Cole, Childish Gambino, and Chance the Rapper. It created a “domino effect,” as he describes, of discovering new artists such as Kendrick Lamar, Charli xcx, and Kero Kero Bonito.

In his freshman year at the University of Wisconsin, White realized he needed an outlet to share his discoveries. “I’d always just been super

tight with my friends in sending music that I was finding and loving to them,” White says. “And then I think it just got to a point where I was like, I’m really annoying.”

In 2018, he created his Instagram album review account, now known as @wahwah.music, and was met with a booming community. Since then, he’s been able to grow his following to nearly 3,000 and engage with them through post series such as themed album picks and follower-voted GRAMMY awards.

At the beginning of COVID, White struggled with his connection to the music community at UW. He was particularly frustrated with a club at his school responsible for booking live shows; they went from hosting live performances in person to having them streamed on Twitch. “I quit [the club] instantly… And then it just turned into [me thinking] I’m just gonna listen to albums all day long,” he says. White says that during that time, a “concept like streaming [was something] you didn’t really think twice about, but now people have woken up to a lot of this stuff where it’s no longer passively consuming in the BS.”

One of DISSONANT’s main curators and app designers, 23-year-old Hen Farr, breaks it down further. “Algorithms and AI have completely destroyed those platforms because they were never really about community building,” Farr says. “Obviously, you could share playlists with people, but it never really felt like a real connection between you and the platform.”

While White puts a lot of his focus on the app, he works full-time as a data engineer at CVS. He balances his time between projects and spending time at movie theaters and concerts throughout the week, as well as running marathons from time to time.

White continues to work towards finding music “as accessible as possible to not just discover

music through streaming.” DISSONANT currently offers three tiers of payment options, the highest being $15 to help support those who can’t pay the full price for an album. All of the money made from the orders goes back into the app. White replenishes the supply of CDs he sends out for orders by buying them secondhand. His next goal for the app is to add more features, including a blog for people to discuss the music they’re receiving and a way for there to be more points of connection between curators and other users.

White summed up his rationale for the service with this analogy: “I started working on DISSONANT as a project in 2023 because streaming feels like junk food. I want there to be something that I can do, to listen to music and have it not feel like junk food, you know? And there weren’t very many options.”

As an artist, I often struggle with the idea that any creative endeavor I set myself upon will be incomparable with any piece of art I have fallen in love with. Hard to pair with this ideology is the aforementioned creative push: the final move to see your art into the world, to throw it into the void and hope that somebody is finally able to see it the way you see it yourself. This means that most of my nights consist of drudging through useless homework assignments or thinking about all of those ever-so-paramount pieces of art. Sometimes, I’d even dream of going back in time and selfishly imagine myself as the creator of those works of art, so insurmountable was their creative ingenuity to mine. The spark danced in front of me, lit for others, but never for myself.

The Beach Boys were one of these artists to me, dating all the way back to when I struggled to grasp the concept of what it meant to create music or to express myself in any creative fashion.

have managed to stick with me across many phases of my life. I can list so many moments when their music has outlined a sense of light in my life, whether it be through the creation of audial bliss (nearly every vocal coda Brian Wilson ever wrote) or just sheer musical brilliance, shining through the clouds of a mired creator’s mind to help show me the way. I wish I could say I discovered their music through some niche collection of their postPet Sounds experimentation. Smiley Smile, Friends, Sunflower, and Surf’s Up stand as some of my favorites of the group’s offerings, but those weren’t the ones that started my Beach Boys journey.

The first recollection I have of the Beach Boys was the compilation CD Sounds of Summer: The Very Best of the Beach Boys. Maybe it’s not the most comprehensive collection of their music, but I can’t blame my nine-year-old self for that. Back then, I remember seeing their music differently. Even that early in my life, I had moved at least five times. My father was a member of the Navy, a Supply Corps Officer whose job entailed frequent deployments. To put it simply, being a military brat was very unforgiving to maintaining friendships in a time when that seemed to be one of the only ways to anchor my life. When I first listened to Sounds of Summer, I distinctly remember having just moved from Stuttgart, Germany, to Jacksonville, Florida. I felt miserable: the lack of seasonal variance meant a never-ending barrage of sunshine and summer rain. Too much of a good thing turned sour, and the general malaise of the lifestyle wore thin on me.

I clearly recall one spring evening when my dad dragged my family to see a golf tournament. It was something I had seen many times before. As I watched the golfers raise and lower their clubs for the 50th time, I felt done with many things. Done with the sport, done with life in Florida,

done with the necessity to resettle once every two years. My dad must have sensed my cloudy temperament. He switched his Del McCoury CD for something I had always seen nudged in the folding case but had never asked to listen to before. The first 10 seconds lulled me into a sense of boredom (which I would now identify as akin to heresy), but what came next was truly a moment of revelation. It was a pure evocation of sunshine, a choir of angelic voices that were unknown by name but recognizable through timbre. As “California Girls” faded out in a typical heavenly Beach Boys vocal outro, I realized something new had hit my consciousness, something that gave me a slightly different outlook on my situation.

Slowly, I began to enjoy golfing with my dad (as strange as enjoying golf sounds) because it started to feel inseparable from the intangible feeling that the Beach Boys’ music gave me. The beaches that lined the coast minutes from my house became tolerable; echoes of gentle oceanic descriptors on “Surfer Girl” accustomed me to the placid white noise of waves and rain. I even managed to overcome some of my fears. One night, I remember my mom telling me the concept of A Nightmare on Elm Street. Watching the actual movie turned out to be completely unnecessary in scaring the pants off of young me: the idea of a man entering your dreams and killing you while you sleep was enough in and of itself. As my imagination roared, I remember listening to the song “In My Room” on repeat. It sounded almost like a hymn, a hushed prayer to the sanctity of one’s abode. That night, it performed as my only defense against Freddy Krueger, and well, I’m still here, so it must’ve worked. The rest of my Florida years were lived on the bright side of life, and the Beach Boys’ music spearheaded my shift towards a more creative life. I picked up more instruments (including alto saxophone and

piano), and I started to become interested in filmmaking. It goes without saying that the Beach Boys quickly became one of those insurmountable artists to me: even just this compilation CD had changed my life, my perspective, and my character. I didn’t even realize the differentiation of the songs from their separate albums, who Brian Wilson was, or who Mike Love was. For me, the music was it, and I fell in love.

As I grew older, I briefly fell out of their music. I couldn’t say why. As a newly found teen in middle school, perhaps I wanted to appear outwardly as some sort of cool person. But as I later became a composer in high school, I threw away the concerns around my appearance, and Pet Sounds became quintessential. My junior year of high school was nothing but Pet Sounds (with a little bit of Weezer thrown in for good measure), with me forcing my friends and family to listen to it as well. It was an inverse Pandora’s Box for both Beach Boys’ lore and music that would have been impossible without the innovations Pet Sounds made. “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and “God Only Knows” were familiar classics, but “That’s Not Me” and its gorgeous 12-string guitar part and major 7th vocal harmonies presented something deeper, more melancholy. Later on in the album, “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times” and “Caroline, No” represented something pure, not only in the sentiment described but also in the complex arrangement. It was a combination of musical depth and lyrical simplicity that hit me like nothing had before. Instead of the visceral rock my high school life had been populated with, it was gorgeous layers of vocal and instrumental harmony. Compared to what I previously knew of the Beach Boys, it was moving to tears. I remember lying on the floor of my bedroom listening to “I Know There’s an Answer.” I didn’t know the answer.

At that point, I barely even knew the question, but it gave me a path to discovering it.

Learning more about Brian Wilson’s struggles with mental health and the voices he heard in his head gave me a newfound appreciation of the album. The fallout of the Beach Boys’ very nearly happened post Pet Sounds, with Wilson’s failed Smile further throwing the group into disarray. Later on, Wilson would have very little input on the studio albums the group put out, with the possible exception of The Beach Boys Love You (in itself a very interesting and early synthpop record). To me, the existence of Pet Sounds is a testament to Wilson’s ability to shove through the darkness that plagued him and deliver something truly beautiful, profound, and personal.

Later, as I made the uncertain transition into college life, I found myself listening to Surf’s Up, the Beach Boys’ 17th studio album and their second release of the 1970s. Brian Wilson’s involvement was minimal, his greatest contribution being the last three songs on the album. Outside of that, his brother Carl Wilson took the reins. Not to say that Carl Wilson and the rest of the group’s added songs were mediocre (in fact some of them, like “Long Promised Road,” are some of the most underrated songs in the group’s catalog), but Brian Wilson’s three track run at the end was truly his last hurrah at the peak of his creativity as an artist. “A Day in the Life of a Tree” and “Til I Die” were like seeing stones into another universe: so unbelievably melancholy yet so confident in their distillation of beauty. To me, they represented change so beautifully, the nostalgia of a dying childhood wrapped in their transformative limbs. They used the pain of a tortured artist to breach through to the other side, from darkness to light, from tenebrosity to luminosity.

As an artist nowadays, I find myself struggling

sometimes to accept the fact that I will love the art that changed my life more than I ever will love the art I make myself. I find myself struggling to push through the clouds and tell myself that I’m worth it, that myself and my art are worth it. In a strange way, learning Brian Wilson’s personal journey, his own struggles with his art and mental health, was tremendously powerful to me. How could a person whose art was so lifechanging to me, that redefined how I saw music and my own creativity, have struggled so much with his artistic output, with his creative journey? If he was able to push through his struggles and release so much incredible music, music so clear to me and many others around the world, music that managed to lead me through multiple stages of my life and define the person who I am, maybe myself and many others around the world can learn. After all, The Beach Boys Love You, so maybe you should too.

After all, The Beach Boys Love You, so maybe you should too.

IT’S HARD TO BEAT:

ERIC DELANEY AND THE

ART OF PERFORMANCE DRUMMING

BY NADIA ROSA

Complete darkness and uncanny silence. To breathe would be a violation of the pure tension contained within the four walls of the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. A blinding light emerges. A drum’s low whisper bounces around the hall as the audience’s eyes adjust to the four copper timpanis on the left of stage. There stands Eric Delaney, the United Kingdom’s premier showman drummer, illuminated below by his drums like a film noir detective. The next hour or so of Delaney’s concert is a whirlwind of extravagant drumming, with Delaney running back and forth between his decked out kit, timpanis, and assortment of mallet percussion. With countless pop culture references and light coming from just about any item on stage, Delaney’s show is a spectacle in its purest form. Eric Delaney was a brilliant musician who reinvented what drumming could be when picked and prodded to its fullest extent. A beacon of originality and a technical wizard, Eric Delaney inspired countless musicians and led the way for other performance artists to follow in his footsteps.

Delaney was born on May 22, 1924 to a family of musicians, allowing him to grow up in an environment that not only fostered, but also encouraged his creative ambitions. In an interview with drumming educator and journalist Mike Dolbear, Delaney spoke of how he picked up drumming at 18 months old and began performing for profit at the ripe age of eight. Whether it be through his guest drumming or performances alongside his pianist mother and banjo-playing father, Delaney quickly caught the attention of local papers and the United Kingdom. In his early teenage years, Delaney began being referred to and billed as “Britain’s Best Swing Drummer,” launching his career dramatically. From the Ambrose Octet to Harry Roy’s Juveniles to Geraldo’s Orchestra, Eric Delaney solidified his

legacy as a force to be reckoned with in the European big band scene. Though jazz music dwindled in popularity, rock and roll becoming the UK’s new fad, Eric Delaney’s passion and performances never faltered.

It is clear to see how the eccentric, dramatic nature of big band jazz not so subtly snuck its way into Delaney’s performances—which spanned throughout six decades and from stages across Europe to the TV screens of the average Brit. Inspired by the late, great Louie Bellson —who played with Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and Harry James—Delaney made the double bass drum a staple of his over-the-top drum kit. Delaney’s kit was as such: one snare drum, four rack toms (highmounted, hollowed drums that range in diameter to provide different pitches), two crashes and two rides (one of each on either side), three mini cymbals for tricks mounted between the two central rack toms, and two floor toms (similar to a rack tom, but with a larger head and longer body to provide a deeper sound) to match the twin bass drums. In all my years as a drummer, watching performers live and online, I can say that Delaney might just have had one of the grandest drum kits known to man. The grandiosity of Delaney’s kit comes from more than just its size; it comes from the lights he put inside of the drums. With the internal luminescence of his kit alongside the flashing colored lights from all angles, the visual aspects of Delaney’s performance were just as striking and chaotic as his drumming.

Delaney’s drumming style can be best described as energetic, lively, and awe-inspiring. Delaney was similar to his many influences (Buddy Rich, Jo Jones, Big Sid Catlett, Sonny Greer, and Gene Krupa) in the manner that technique was paramount. The sheer independence of his limbs was remarkable; at times during his show, Delaney played a signature

up-tempo swing ride pattern with his left hand while simultaneously playing a syncopated melody on a vertical bell lyre with the right. Further exhibiting his melodic prowess, Delaney did something that might not resonate with the average concert-goer, but will make any drummer’s jaw drop—he made hits on the cymbals that align with the backing band’s parts while still keeping the non-stop energy of his full-kit soloing. Delaney’s right-hand technique was simply marvelous, his match grip could play constant swung-eighths or doubles at just about any tempo. Eric Delaney refused to confine himself to his kit, seen in the way he would run across stage in mere seconds to make the hall explode with his booming timpanis, run to center stage to play a gorgeous melody on a xylophone, and continue his percussion spree with a gong, bells, and any other instrument you can hit with sticks. As Ron Simmonds said, “By the time his show has finished [you’ve] seen and heard every item of a percussionist’s kit.” An array of flashing drums, colorful outfits, and a complete extravaganza, Eric Delaney’s musical ardor burned bright for all attendees to see. The blinding smile on his face throughout his performances said it all: this was a man who loved what he did and was remarkably good at it too.

Delaney passed away at 87 years old on July 14, 2011, yet his legacy lives on through the other performance drummers who sprouted from the soil he tilled, such as the Blue Man Group. The Blue Man Group expanded upon Delaney’s idea that drumming can be something greater than someone at a kit, that exhibition can be an art just as much as the music itself. Lighting plays an even more important role in the Blue Man Group’s artistry than it did for Eric Delaney. Even at the beginning of the group’s performances, the grassroot days, the lighting design of their shows closely tied into

the drumming; the lights emphasized the ebbing and flowing energy of the music’s foundation, contributing to the eerie atmosphere of seeing three bald, silent, blue men on stage. As the production value of the shows increased and the word of the Blue Man Group’s magnificence reached global audiences, light became even more important in their routines. The supporting band members began dressing in all-black attire that had geometric glow-in-the-dark designs, matching the intricate glowing makeup drawn on their faces. The group began putting colorfully lit drums on the walls, using boom whackers that provided the only shimmer of light in a completely dark venue, and putting glow-in-the-dark paint on the drums (of which would disperse so far into the audience that the concert-goers began to arrive in ponchos).

Mixing the visual, auditory elements of performance into an unforgettable experience, the Blue Man Group sprinted down the path that Delaney paved for them. What started as

three guys from the Lower East Side of Manhattan looking to get a reaction out of the public quickly evolved into one of the largest acts and pop culture groups of the past 50 years. In their more than 30 year run of shows in venues such as the Astor Place Theater, the Luxor Theater, and Universal Orlando’s Citywalk, the Blue Man Group have permanently impacted the ways instrumental musicians view live gigging. Between the music, the lighting design, and the interactive nature of the show, the Blue Man Group sought to get rid of the isolation that many of us feel in a world full of uncertainty, fear, and confusion. Through what they like to call their “ritual,” the Blue Man Group aimed to form a community and inspire their audience to explore every whim of their artistic desires, no matter how odd they may seem on the surface.

Seeing musicians reinvent their art can light a fire inside a young musician. It can let them know that despite the generations of creatives that came prior to them, there is always wiggle room for innovation if they are only brave enough to take it. By bringing performance beyond the act of simply playing an instrument, showmen such as Eric Delaney and Blue Man Group opened the door for future musicians to enter and expand upon. From the kids who decided to pick up drumming one Sunday evening after watching Eric Delaney on the “Six Five Special,” to someone like Kent Jenkins, who made his own instrument (the Rimbatunes) after seeing the Blue Man Group, these avantgarde performers told audiences that no idea is too outlandish. In fact, our craziest and boldest ideas may be just the guiding light that helps someone find their own creative calling.

CREATIVE DIRECTOR: NADIA ROSA

PHOTOGRAPHER: GAVIN RODRIGUEZ

MODEL/DRUMMER: CARLEE MORALES

GAFFER/ASSISTANT PHOTOGRAPHER: TORI DANELL

GRIP/BTS PHOTOGRAPHER: ALYSSA KNADLER