Even as they reached the Top 10 in Britain, appeared on TV and had young women swooning by the thousands across the pond, their first singles in the U.S. were released on tiny independent labels and went nowhere. What went wrong, and finally right, in the leadup to the night of Feb. 7, 1964.
What began as little more than a glorified metronome has worked its way into bedroom studios and state-of-the-art recording facilities alike. A new book chronicles the history and influence of the drum machine in all its wood- and plastic-paneled glory.
At the end of a year in which Sheryl Sandberg released Lean In, Miley Cyrus and Diane Martel provoked everybody, #solidarityisforwhitewomen was born, and British singer Lily Allen put her foot in it, Beyonce's album has reignited conversations about the boundaries of feminism today.
Follow the jibber jabber on the music internet and it sounds like emo — the broadly defined, male-dominated, compositionally complicated, often pained offshoot of American punk rock — is back. But what kind of emo has returned, exactly? And is it the beloved or the maligned parts?