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Nothing new happened this year.
There were plenty of solid albums to get excited about, but they were just that: solid, not particularly extraordinary. With the exception of Grimes and Kendrick Lamar, no one really released anything challenging or unexpected—and even those are questionable.
Grimes sucks, and no one wants to admit it.
Grimes may be an alt-pop genius—Rihanna with hairy armpits and a Windows 98 password—but the truth is no one has any idea what the fuck she's doing, and no one wants to be the first to say, "This is pretentious bullshit."
Vinyl is bullshit.
It doesn't sound better. And it's too expensive. I switched back to CDs this year. CDs sound fucking great. Your vinyl collection is just furniture that no one can sit on.
Spotify is awesome.
It is, hands down, one of the best ways for the millennial generation to discover new, non-mainstream music. The company might not be cutting checks to each cash-strapped Elliott Smith wannabe, but it sure is good exposure for up-and-comers.
Father John Misty is boring.
I get it, Mr. Tillman, you've made it your role to cross-examine pop culture and shit on the very industry that's made you famous. I'm just tired of craning my neck to hear you from that high horse you're on.
Portland rock is too macho.
This year, Seattle made rock-mag headlines and scored pieces in The New Yorker for its rising feminist art-punk scene. Portland, meanwhile, has Black Pussy and legions of beta-male indie slackers. Seattle might suck in comparison, but its bands are adding a lot more to the conversation.
Adele gives me no feels.
She's got a big voice, sure, but her heartbreak is not greater than any other love song in the history of music. Just because she can hit high notes doesn't make her the voice of a generation.
Justin Bieber is still our worst pop star.
Not long ago, this wouldn't have been controversial, but ever since Skrillex and Diplo reverse-engineered Bieber's voice to sound like Ecco the Dolphin playing a pan flute, critics are trying to convince us otherwise. Nah, dog. And "Boyfriend" is still his best song, anyway.
I'm pretty sure Ryan Adams' 1989 was meant as a joke.
It was weird to see all the music-crit Swifties fawn over Adams' indie-dude validation, when all he did was take an exceptional pop album and make it as boring as, well, the last couple Ryan Adams albums.
The world needs less music.
Personally, I really didn't need an hour and a half of Fetty Wap, three discs of Titus Andronicus or the cumulative 2,587 tracks Future and Young Thug released this year. Let's hope the "less is more" philosophy returns in 2016, or at least the concept of the fire one-off EP.
Portland still isn't truly supporting its hip-hop scene.
Sure, it's better than it was pre-Blue Monk, with more rappers popping up at PDX Pop Now and in our Best New Band poll. But until we see more hip-hop shows at tastemaking venues like Doug Fir, Mississippi Studios and Rontoms Sunday Sessions—and not just the same two or three artists over and over—the notion of inclusion is still mostly lip service.
Willamette Week