She's dropped her first album at 15 years old.
It was around 3 a.m. when a moment of surreal beauty unexpectedly burst forth from the grotesque chaos that marked the final day of Woodstock '99, soon to be re-dubbed "the day the music died." Perhaps Woodstock '99 was pressing its luck, having achieved a surprisingly successful edition in 1994 despite (or because of) fans tearing down the fences and entering for free. But Woodstock '94 had the benefit of being staged at the peak of the alt-era. Fast forward five years, though, and youth culture had fractured.
Nirvana did what all great bands do: they made everyone else catch up. Mainstream radio accommodated alternative music's idiosyncracies, in the case of Nirvana the confrontation of Cobain's distorted guitar, vocal roughness, sonic dissonance, and deliberately nonsensical lyrics. Whatever one's view of Cobain, it is undeniable that he set pop music on a new course.
It's that time of year again, when critics, reviewers, amateur enthusiasts of all things aural pull tiny muscles in their large heads compiling and posting for public consumption their lists of Top Albums of the Year. A female friend once pointed out that these oftentimes inane lists are (strangely, suspiciously) almost always the domain of men. We demand demarcation. We want to know. We need to know.