As music critics we struggle to separate ourselves from the social media cavalcade, hurried by deadlines, aggrandizing our own curation and tastes. Christgau is blissfully unconcerned with any of that.

These states cluster around the paradox of dance floor dissociation: that feeling of being vacant and yet amenable to epiphanic thought. 

You have become locked into a perpetual toil; making meaning out of this endless string of similarity becomes a matter of close reading, of overlaying the real with the symbolic and from there identifying surges of intensity.

I have loved Fred Moten’s voice since I first heard it, but perhaps never as much (or at least not in the same way) as when listening to Moten​/​López​/​Cleaver, a phonopoem with a world inside.