Early during this year’s March Madness, I said, “My annual worry with the Bruins: they don’t have enough ‘dawg’ for the SEC teams and Coach Cori overcoaching in big games.” Well, I was proven wrong on both counts. The 2026 National Champions got there by defeating the two best teams in the SEC, and by the end, Cori Close had ascended to join the ranks of the most quotable and noteworthy coaches in basketball. It wasn’t the Xs and Os that garnered so much attention for UCLA’s leader, though I think that’s an underappreciated aspect of her attributes; it was how she talks about the culture she’s cultivating, the lessons and habits she’s building in her locker room, and her commitment to never losing sight of her role as an educator and dream merchant. The best coaches in women’s basketball all seem to have these qualities, but what clicked for Close this year is that she’s figured out how to do it her way: earnest, selfless, demanding, hokey, and, perhaps most important of all, joyful.
“I love these girls,” is what Most Outstanding Player, Lauren Betts, has been saying during their whirlwind media tour since winning the championship. There’s something going on in Westwood. Unabashed happiness. Relentless care. Both in pursuit of excellence. We’ve seen it at gymnastics meets and volleyball matches, and most recently at Easton Stadium with the ninth-ranked softball program.
Last year, I couldn’t put my finger on what was behind my allegiance beyond proximity, but on a beautiful day watching the Bruin bats dismantle the Cal Bears in a doubleheader, I realized that it’s about more than being able to get to campus in twenty minutes or less. The softball squad exhibited characteristics similar to those of the championship basketball team. During every pitch, infielders constantly encouraged whoever was on the mound. When someone was at the plate, the coach was, to use the parlance of athletes, pouring into them. Before blasting her 31st homerun of the season, senior Megan Grant was encouraged by Coach Kelly Inouye-Perez to “send a missile.” And over the back wall, she did. On the rare occasion a pitch made it past one of her players and was called a strike, Inouye-Perez turned into their advocate, informing the umpire that “it wasn’t a good pitch,” calling out the particulars that made it as such. Regardless of the outcome of each at-bat, hitters were told they had made good choices. “Pro choices.” “Team choices.” Each person seemed encouraged to bring their unique flair to their position, while all were incredibly invested in their collective performance rather than individual success. During the afternoon, Grant and fellow senior Jordan Woolery became the first teammates in NCAA Division I history to collect 30 home runs in a single season. The Bruins would break three other school and conference records during the two wins.
We drove the backroads from Burbank to Hollywood, reminiscing about a time when our nights out felt more random: talking with strangers at the bar, late-night vittles, bad ideas powered by bartenders with heavy pours and better stories. Back in my day, we didn’t trade friction for convenience. Back in my day, we were outside.
What a bunch of middle-aged bullshit.
As I surveyed the near-capacity crowd at the Hollywood Palladium on a Tuesday night, I realized the city hasn’t stopped moving. I might just be comforting myself with old stories instead of paying attention. Folks still pack into venues, still dance and sweat and sing along. They’re still out on the sidewalk buying bacon-wrapped hot dogs. Randos still ask odd questions.
And I still have feet and hips that work.
Despite our comfortable balcony seats, I got up and danced for most of Little Simz’s final stop on her North American tour. Midway through her nearly two-hour set, Simz brought out her DJ kit and cranked the energy up another level. Even the usher paused her aisle-policing to break it down for a minute. I took that as my cue to see if I still had a little step-ball-change in me.
I do.
After the dance party, Simz shifted gears to talk about the creative process behind Lotus, her latest album. She called it “muddy waters.” She wasn’t feeling inspired. She didn’t trust her ear. There was self-doubt. But she kept showing up. She kept working. Eventually, she found her way through and made one of her most personal and mature records—raw, intentional, and honest.
On “Free,” she raps, “Love is every time I put pen to the page.” Hearing that live hit me harder than I expected.
I’ve been wading through my own swamp—circling ideas, hesitating, telling myself I’m waiting for inspiration while ignoring the truth: creatives create. A writer writes.
Before getting back to rocking the mic, Simz dropped one more gem: “It’s easy to get started. It’s much harder to finish.”
Whew.
It was a fantastic show.
When I complain things have changed, maybe I’m the one choosing comfort over friction. Am I becoming the curmudgeon wistful for the way things used to be? Or am I still the person willing to adapt, stay open, and lean in when things get difficult?
Because surprise, delight, and joy still show up for the people who put in the work.
And on a night when I said yes and stepped out with a friend for an adventure in Hollywood, the city rewarded me.
As we got closer to Halloween, social media was filled with creators, influencers, and regular folks dressed to surprise, scare, or delight. The holiday has become a showcase for imagination, titillation, and referential humor, with little connection to the pagan or Christian rituals at its roots.
I sometimes lament not feeling as compelled to dress up as I once was. That won’t change, though. As I get older, I’m less interested in wearing a costume to amuse colleagues and friends. There’s nothing wrong with that. I love a good Halloween meme. Someone came to the office party dressed as a Labubu, and it was terrific.
But these days, I’m drawn to something else: remembrance. Why ignore, mock, or ward off the spirit world when the evils of our time don’t come from beyond? They are right here in human form, adorned in the clothing of authorities.
This Halloween, Tiffany and I took the Metro downtown for a night at the Mark Taper Forum to see Jaja’s African Hair Braiding. The show was her idea—a last-minute addition to our social calendar—but it turned out to be precisely what I needed. We arrived early and wandered through Grand Park, where the annual Día de los Muertos installation had transformed the plaza into a celebration of color, reverence, and resistance.
After my dad’s passing last year, I began reading about Día de los Muertosand the significance of the ofrenda, the altars families build to honor and invite departed loved ones back into their lives.
One of the exhibits invited visitors to write a message to someone who had passed. On a small index card, I wrote:
Dad (KT),
Dominique is getting married soon. Your presence is requested!
You are missed and loved.
—JT
It was the first time I’d written directly to him rather than about him. Usually, when I write or speak for the dead, it’s for myself or others. A way for us to process loss. But this felt like a conversation, a hope he might hear, and that with open invitation, he might make his presence known, especially at such a momentous occasion. This spirituality is so unlike me, but I meant every word. I hope he joins us.
The Grand Park installation also honored the living, especially those in Los Angeles whose lives are made precarious by our country’s immigration enforcement policies. With City Hall glowing behind it, the exhibit called out the trauma caused by ICE raids and border policies that tear families apart. Surrounded by marigolds and the righteous indignation of our Chicano brethren and sistren, I was reminded why I love this city. Los Angeles isn’t perfect, but it shows up. We fight for one another. We build community from loss and struggle.
And that spirit carried into the theater.
Los Angeles is the final stop for Jaja’s African Hair Braiding’s initial touring company and likely the last time so many members of the original ensemble will perform together. To do so here feels right. As playwright Jocelyn Bioh said, “to culminate in such a special city that understands the power of community and coming together, that doesn’t feel like an accident.”
Set in a Harlem salon where a group of West African women—many working under tenuous visa conditions—build a makeshift family, the show is sharp, funny, and profoundly human. It captures what it means to chase the American Dream while being told you don’t belong.
By the time the curtain fell, I felt grateful. For the play, for this city, for the way art challenges me to stay open and engaged in my community: to remember, to listen, to love.
2025 told us early on that this year would be a battle for Los Angeles. The Palisades and Altadena fires burned while Top Dawg Entertainment disciples and homegrown hip-hop heroes dominated my headphones with full-throated representations of our spirit. Kendrick Lamar’s “Dodger Blue” is a tour of the city, focusing on its black and brown parts, in particular. He and SZA would sell out stadiums throughout North America later in the year, bringing LA sensibilities to the rest of the country and beyond.
Self-expression, self-confidence, introspection, and, ultimately, togetherness across color lines is the “California Dream” of Ab-Soul’s Soul Burger and Tyler, the Creator’s Chromakopia. We love our home and the people in it. We’ve got our problems, but they are ours to fix, and they aren’t solved by militarized theater and separating families.
In February, a friend died. Through shock and tears, I yearned for the kinetic spirit of Sharon Jones and Hepcat’s Right on Time, specifically “Together Someday.” In my grief, the flirtatious refrain transformed into a spiritual declaration: “I know that we’ll be together someday…” Shannon, Dad, and all those I’ve loved who have passed. I don’t worry myself with the unknowable, like the afterlife or what happens when we die, but the certainty of that “I know” brings me comfort.
Perhaps it’s my Hayward friend’s influence that’s nudged me north musically as this year has gone on. E-40, Souls of Mischief, and, more recently, Ruby Ibarra have inspired and ignited. After the tears, we dance.
By March, Poptimism arrived in the form of Blackpink solo albums from Lisa’s Alter Ego to Jennie’s Ruby. With so much heaviness, I craved escapism. Forgive me if I’m dreaming about the resort life at The White Lotus or the ideal Coachella Weekend. I watch from the comfort of my couch now, but memories of those desert festival days still reside in my bones. Let me have a renaissance with Beyoncé’s Renaissance. I’ll be over here consuming Sabrina Carpenter’s Short ‘n Sweet (Deluxe) like the confection it is. GloRilla’s GLORIOUS takes me on imaginary flights to Memphis. I’m revisiting Amy Winehouse’s discography and imagining smoky clubs and late nights in London. I love LA, but I’m longing to be anywhere but here.
Scenes like those in MacArthur Park or outside Glendale Hospital—where local officials are trying to stand up for us against the dim-witted cruelty of this administration—pull me back to reality. I’ve got the blues. The kind of blues that runs through the film and music of Ryan Coogler’s Sinners. The score and soundtrack are easily my albums of the year thus far. Alice Smith’s rendition of “Last Time (I Seen The Sun)” is my song of the year. My heart and head have been living in the same liminal space between hope and despair that defines the composition and the genre.
I don’t like feeling this way, but I’m grateful for the opportunity it gave me to explore a style I’d previously ignored. Ludwig Göransson has long been a composer particularly adept at crafting the right musical textures for films that explore the Black experience. He and his contemporary, Nicholas Britell, have soundtracked the movies and shows that have had the most impact on me over the last decade.
The city seems quieter, but I’m unsure if this is a seasonal pattern or a survival strategy. Bounty hunters and emboldened immigration agents roam our communities in masks with weapons and zip ties, while our beaches still fill with sunbathers, our local teams try to win games, and movie premieres go on. You’re never truly able to get a pulse on this city. LA is too big, too diverse, too vibrant to be any one thing. But you can pick up the vibes. There’s something about the energy when we remember to fight for each other.
Magic happens here. I’m not thinking about our soundstages—many of which are unused while Hollywood transforms. I mean the magic that hides in the open if you’re only willing to get out of your car and explore. That’s where the happy accidents happen, like discovering Brandee Younger inside an Alice Coltrane exhibit at The Hammer Museum. Magic is in a sorcerer like Terrace Martin, the prolific LA native, who releases music constantly while producing and appearing on many of the best records this city has made over the past twenty years.
Even in the chaos, magic is what we do.
Ice Cube said, “Mix them and cook them in a pot like gumbo,” on N.W.A.’s “Straight Outta Compton” some 35 years ago. LA is like that seafood stew, blending cultures into something surprising, delightful, and uniquely ours. LA is Korean BBQ tacos and elote pizza. LA is donuts in pink boxes served with horchata, boba, or Thai iced tea. That spirit will survive this battle for Los Angeles. It is our greatest strength.
The music I’ve spun so frequently this year isn’t for a nation’s wayward heart. Instead, it’s the soundtrack of resilience and rebellion. I’m spinning records for people who believe, who beat the odds, and who stand up for one another.
The best music of the year represents the spirit of this city I call home, even if the songs and artists didn’t originate here or now.
Albums
Sinners (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) – Sinners Movie
Sinners (Original Motion Picture Score) – Ludwig Göransson
I’m at The Regent Theater in Downtown LA to see Ruby Ibarra, the 2025 Tiny Desk Contest winner from the Bay Area, perform. Local public media stations, including LAist and KVCR, are in the building, handing out fans and making the case for public media. The Regent is packed with a classically multicultural Los Angeles crowd—this time, with a strong showing from the Filipino community. People came out to see the diminutive Pinay rapper with a big voice and even bigger presence.
Ruby doesn’t mention the delay until her final song, but when she does, she doesn’t mince words. She’s a first-generation immigrant, and her music centers the Filipino immigrant experience. Before launching into “7,000 Miles,” she reminds us: “No one is illegal on stolen land!”
Everything is political.
Earlier that day, I’d been listening to We Insist 2025!—the new album from Terri Lyne Carrington and Christie Dashiell, a reimagining of Max Roach’s We Insist! One song in particular, “Joyful Noise,” features a spoken word piece that stayed with me:
And when we struggle, when times are tough, we draw strength from our ancestors. We put away our differences and we come together. When folks try to take away our freedoms, we don’t just let them. We fight back! We don’t become despondent or complacent, and we don’t drown ourselves in escapism or give up on what we know is right. No! Instead, we say, “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
Emmett G. Price III
That’s the spirit that got me out of the house on a Tuesday. That’s what I felt in the room.
Shoulder to shoulder with my neighbors—many of them immigrants or their American-born children—we smiled, sang, and bobbed our heads as one. During Ruby’s homage to Bay Area hip-hop, we even got a little hyphy.
When opener Tish Hyman performed her song “Lucky,” that’s exactly how I felt, too.
There’s not a lot going right in my life—or in the headlines—but after a night of making joyful noise, I can at least envision a better tomorrow.
Freedom is smiling in the face of adversity because you know in the depth of your soul, just like your grandma told you, everything is going to be alright.
I feel like, as an artist, the whole point of the platform, other than making music, is to inform. However we do that, right? The music that I create, the art that I create, is mirroring what’s happening in my head and then in my bedroom, in my house, on my kitchen counter, on my street, in my city, in my country. So, it’s really important to me that I’m going to be up there talking about ‘I got a new haircut’; I also have to talk about what I’m seeing. And right now, there are a lot of little people suffering.
What I see on my street is beautiful, as Los Angeles often is. Birds chirp. The sun shines. The jacarandas are in bloom, littering the sidewalks with purple petals. Neighbors walk their dogs and babies. I could be deceived into believing that life is normal.
But my city is in crisis.
A senator was handcuffed for asking a question yesterday. The National Guard has been deployed, despite objections from our elected officials. At a basketball game earlier this week, a child in the stands proudly held a sign that read, “Melt ICE!” Friends are in at-risk neighborhoods trying to protect their communities. Others are marching downtown, expressing outrage at the latest policy decisions and public actions.
And I’m sitting here, unsure whether I want to scream, cry, or fight.
At least for now, I’ll take inspiration from Ms. Hathaway—and write.
VANTABLACK, Hathaway’s 2024 full-length, has been on repeat in my headphones. Since watching Nubya Garcia’s NPR Tiny Desk Concert in early April, I’ve been falling down YouTube rabbit holes—first jazz, then soul, then Lalah. Go deep enough, and you land on Hathaway’s own Tiny Desk performance from six years ago. Twelve minutes long. Not nearly enough.
I’d enjoyed VANTABLACK when it first came out, but hadn’t gone deep. Now, with my ears primed for purpose, the album has a firm grip on my attention, and I’m desperate for a deeper connection with the work.
In a different era, these connections—the musicians, collaborators, and producers—would have been revealed through liner notes. You’d read them front to back while listening to the album, then again after the fiftieth spin when a note or riff hit different. Now, those same discoveries happen across platforms: a podcast like One Song, a Wikipedia entry, an Instagram reel, a Discogs post.
For this album, I’m scrolling Instagram, listening to podcasts, and returning to YouTube. Hathaway’s posts—especially her conversations with collaborator Phil Beaudreau—offer insight into how the music came together. But it was her appearance on Robert Glasper’s Black Radio Backstage podcast that truly struck me. That’s where I first heard the quote that opens this piece, and where she reminded me that creating art and bearing witness should be inseparable.
If an artist of Hathaway’s caliber is willing to bare her soul to make music that stirs mine, the least I can do is return the favor in my way.
I can learn the names of the musicians, producers, and engineers who helped bring her vision to life.
I can listen with intention.
I can appreciate the art and the people behind it.
I can write what’s going on in my head and heart.
I can give voice to the very real human, communal, and societal battles happening all around me.
As Sinners enters its second weekend in theaters, you’d think this town would be overjoyed: a high-concept, Black-led, original studio film opens to over $55 million putting butts in seats at screens across the country and helping to reverse the dismal box office trends of early 2025. But if you’d only read the trade coverage from last weekend, you might think Ryan Coogler’s big swing had stumbled.
The film’s creators and cast are predominantly black, making all the muted praise seem tinged with bias, whether conscious or not. An anonymous defender of the deal terms gives us this clunker (from that same Vulture article):
Look, here’s the problem in Hollywood, okay? There’s no rationale or logic behind absolutely anything. So anytime there is a filmmaker who has a lot of heat and — I hate to say this — but when you have a diverse or a female filmmaker who has a lot of heat off a movie, it’s all about, What can I get? Hollywood will pay for what they have to pay for. If you control it, and you have a lot of bidders, you can make a different kind of market.
“Conventional wisdom is more often convention and not wisdom,” replied Franklin Leonard, founder of The Black List and a relentless critic of Hollywood’s double standards. “It is a preconception that is not rooted in data. Let’s look at the numbers.”
But, I was curious, what are the numbers telling us?
Sinners had the best Easter Weekend gross for any film not based on existing intellectual property, such as a sequel, reboot, book adaptation, or true story.
Sinners also compares admirably with similar releases from other auteur directors.
Outside of Jordan Peele’s Us, which had a massive opening on a minimal budget, Ryan Coogler’s project aligns with other directors known for singular vision and a high hit rate for Originals. Sinners sits comfortably with well-regarded hits from Christopher Nolan, M. Night Shyamalan, Peele, and Quentin Tarantino.
There is also a widespread misperception in the industry that content starring Black actors will not perform well with international audiences. In 2019, the top films with Black leads were distributed in 30 percent fewer international markets on average—yet they earned nearly the same global box-office sales as films with White leads and earned more than those on a per-market basis.
Coogler received a budget commensurate with similar directors, and the cast and crew did international press tour dates in London and Mexico City. By comparison, Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood premiered at the Cannes Film Festival and had local premieres featuring the on- and off-screen talent in London, Berlin, and Tokyo.
As the McKinsey study suggests, the black-led film appears to have received a smaller global rollout than one by a white director with an equivalent budget and similar deal terms.
So why was …Hollywood framed as a hit while Sinners was met with skepticism despite their similarities?
Studio execs, agents, and consultants might debate deal structures (and defend their decisions to pass on this project now that it is a hit) as we all worry about Hollywood’s future. Some might roll their eyes at Ryan Coogler’s desire to have ownership terms that align with the premise of his magnum opus. Still, creatives should applaud him for taking advantage of the unique opportunity this project and his commercial and critical track record offered him at this point in his career.
Audiences already know what’s up. Franklin Leonard encouraged us to see Sinners again at this week’s live taping of Nobody Knows Anything. “Make an entertainment journalist mad,” he joked. The crowd’s response suggested they didn’t need much convincing. Their second or third screening tickets were already burning holes in their pockets like sunlight to a vampire.
The floor of The Echoplex pulses as bass pumps through the speakers. CeSee, in her black tank top and tutu, is center stage, freestyling her flowing dance moves in perfect harmony with every scratch, jab, and trick that each DJ delivers. Stacy Epps, Wildchild, and Sway Calloway hype the crowd, urging us to make noise for the performers, Los Angeles, and hip-hop.
The last time I was at The Echoplex might have been more than a decade ago—in 2014, for a show called Ultimate Breaks and Beats. I don’t want to believe that much time has passed, but so much of these past ten years has been a blur. Even these months since the fires in January have been lost in a haze of the near-daily disasters that have defined 2025. Here I am, though, among heads of all generations, seeking fellowship through breaks and beats.
From 7 p.m. until the wee hours, a roster of beloved DJs, beatmakers, and Rhymesayers rotate through 20-30 minute sets, crafting soundscapes from Madlib’s vast catalog, including unreleased joints, deep cuts, and rare grooves. Linafornia and DJ Benji B deftly open the show. Then comes House Shoes, whose presence yanks me back to the 2000s when I was chasing turntablists across every venue in town, trying to sustain the high achieved through deft blends and scratch mastery. Shoes mixes Madlib with Dilla in an “LA to Detroit” set that awakens something long dormant in me. The Gaslamp Killer follows with his signature chaos, spinning a hard-hitting electric fusion ending with an inspired blend of Kendrick Lamar’s “Squabble Up” and its sample, Debbie Deb’s “When I Hear Music” that is our return flight to the City of Angels.
Rhythms of the Village takes the stage at the show’s midway point. The cultural hub and store are among the event’s beneficiaries. Their performance is the night’s only non-hip-hop set. Before the djembe drums and singing begin, Onochie Chukwurah—a Nigerian elder and co-founder of the Altadena center for African heritage—addresses the crowd. “Even though the fires took our business, they didn’t take our lives,” he says. The din of the crowd quiets as he commands our attention—his words and the soulful performance root us. What could have been a bathroom break becomes a balm for the soul.
It’s 10:30, and unexpected guests are flooding the stage. Taboo and will.i.am are dapping up Miles Brown and others as Monalisa navigates her set, her laptop threatened by flying elbows and sloshing drinks. The man of the hour, though, was nowhere to be found. Wildchild tells us it’s no surprise: Madlib rarely wants the spotlight. The Beat Konducta doesn’t even own a cell phone. The show is being live-streamed on DJ Spinna’s Twitch, and we’re told he’s watching.
He’s not physically here, but his presence fills the building.
After all, he’s always performed partly in silhouette, rhyming through his animated alter ego Quasimoto. And as we move through his sonic legacy—beat by beat, sample by sample—you sense how impactful his unique point of view has been. It’s a retrospective 25 years deep. You don’t need to see him. You hear him. You feel him.
I look around and notice the gray in performers’ beards, the wrinkles on their foreheads, the stories about kids turning eighteen, and events from the previous century. I should feel my age, but that’s not the dominant emotion. Instead, I think of one of Madlib’s most transcendent projects: Shades of Blue, the 2003 album where he was granted access to the Blue Note archives and created something timeless. New recordings built from classics, made fresh for young ears.
That’s the magic Madlib and his peers have gifted us. It is timeless, communal, and everlasting.
I’m not, though. So we left The Echoplex before last call. That livestream Madlib was watching? I joined him there—from the comfort of my couch—as Nu-Mark, The Alchemist, J Rocc and others continued to guide us through sound.
As Mr. Chukwurah reminded us, coming together like this makes us better. In these layered frequencies, these echoes of jazz, hip-hop, and fellowship, we find ourselves and each other.
These are the shades of Madlib: fractured, funky, reverent, rebellious.
And Lord Quas willing, I’ll be back in the crowd again soon.
I root for most Los Angeles teams including USC, but my heart is in Westwood when it comes to this head-to-head matchup. Fandom is illogical. I am more impressed by Juju Watkins and Kiki Iriafen of USC. Lindsay Gottlieb is a cooler coach than Cori Close (though I like them both). There are far more LA Sparks fans rooting for USC than UCLA; yet, I know the UCLA fight song by heart and cheer along with pride. You rarely catch me raising my two fingers in a V for victory.
I figured the two teams would meet again in Indianapolis for the BIG10 tournament championship and the game didn’t disappoint. UCLA had their first good start to a game against the Trojans before Juju and the Trojan bigs imposed their will and pushed out to a ten point lead at the half. The Bruins didn’t crumble as they had in the previous two games and fought back. It helped that they had a much easier semifinal game than their opponents, who had to fight with the Michigan Wolverines until late in the fourth quarter the previous day. As the game closed with the Bruins up by five and Betts throwing a “V” down at the Trojans bench—USC did a whole lot of “Fours” down when they won the regular season title on the Bruins home floor just a week prior—I teared up with pride.
I don’t know what to tell you. Most of my friends who went to school locally went to UCLA. I have never attended, but I was once a regular guest/co-host of a late-night radio program on campus when a friend was in graduate school. I have a relationship with one of the graduate analytics programs. I love the Hammer Museum and the CAP UCLA programming. During the Pac-12 tourney last year, I would say to other attendees in Vegas that my allegiance lied with whichever California team playing in a game was closest to my house.
That’s UCLA.
Sorry, Trojans, I can’t help it. I’m rooting for y’all to get to the Natty. I’m rooting for the banner to get raised in Pauley.
