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Songs of the summer: underrated artists to listen to this summer!
Songs of the summer: underrated artists to listen to this summer!
Jiya Mahapatra, Y12
Summer is right around the corner, and there’s no better time to start listening to something fresh. If you’ve been searching for some new summer tunes, look no further, because we’ve put together a short list of a few underrated music artists that you may not be familiar with.
Wallows:
Wallows are a Los Angeles-based alternative rock band composed of Braeden Lemasters, Cole Preston and Dylan Minnette (yes, THAT Dylan Minnette from the show 13 Reasons Why). Their music truly is the definition of summer, full of peppy guitars, upbeat rhythms and infectiously catchy choruses. It’s the kind of music that makes you feel like you’re lying on the floor in someone’s garage with your friends while a CD plays in the background (although who really uses CDs these days). Some of their most popular songs include Are You Bored Yet? (feat. Clairo), Scrawny and 1980’s Horror Film.
Gracie Abrams:
If you’re looking to have more of a sad girl summer, Gracie Abrams may be for you. She gained a lot of popularity after opening for Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour, but has actually been making music under the radar since 2019. Her songs are melancholy, and tell stories of love, heartbreak, and the fear of growing up. Recently, she released an album called The Secret of Us, which includes a track that features Taylor Swift herself. Some of Gracie’s most popular songs are Mess It Up, Feels Like and I miss you, I’m sorry.
Declan McKenna:
Do you plan on laying on a beach this summer? Basking in the sunlight? Diving head-first into an ice-cold swimming pool? In that case, you absolutely NEED some Declan McKenna on your playlists, specifically his song Brazil. It’s hard to describe the feeling of this song, but it’s a little bit like that rush that you get when you hear an examiner say ‘The paper has finished, please put your pens down’ on the last day of exams (I’m looking at Y11 IGCSE students!) Declan McKenna makes music that only the dreamiest summers are made of.
Well there you have it. If you need a new soundtrack for the summer, you should definitely check out these artists. I would also recommend listening to Dominic Fike, Tame Impala, and Dayglow. Have a good summer!!
Everything I hate about school: a poem
Everything I hate about school: a poem
Sanjana Singh, Y10
Everything I hate about school.
I hate the grids of cruelty,
The black ugly scrawls of numbers,
The strict margins in crimson,
Rules that dictate if I write in pen or pencil,
Things to highlight, things to underline.
I hate that time becomes thick like molasses,
The constant ticking of the clocks (that are most likely wrong),
And the tired eyes that watch them,
The sun that gleams brightly outside the window,
Inviting me to join it.
I hate the humid summers,
How the walls drip with sickening sweat,
The heat that suffocates,
With only broken water fountains that help,
And wind from the open windows.
It’s repetitive, rigid and ruthless.
(“The best years of your life”)
This is supposed to give me happiness?
Bridgerton? More like BridgerTONS of anachronisms
Bridgerton? More like BridgerTONS of anachronisms
George Lyden, Y12
Dearest reader,
This author has been reliably informed that the third season of one Bridgerton has been causing quite a stir, and was anxious to add my response to the melting pot of opinions on the subject. However, instead of talking about how stupid Colin Bridgerton’s hair looks (it looks like if Jimmy Neutron had discovered pomade), I’ve elected to touch upon some things closer to my area of expertise; commentary on the historical accuracy (or lack thereof) of everyone’s favourite “period piece”. Be forewarned, this might contain spoilers for seasons 1-2 of Bridgerton.
Now, Bridgerton is set sometime in the Regency Period, between 1813 and 1827. We can just about date it based on mentions of Princess Amelia’s death (which was in 1810), and the knowledge that this was during King George III’s era of mental illness, before he died in 1820. The period was, as Bridgerton portrays, characterised its elegance and achievements in art and architecture, and overlapped with the cultural Romantic Period, of which notable figures included Lord Byron, Liszt, Jane Austen and the Shelleys. However, it was not Queen Charlotte who oversaw these cultural changes, but rather her son, George IV who was declared Prince Regent through the Regency Act of 1811. (That’s why it’s called the Regency Period, historians choose boring names for things). Queen Charlotte was not nearly as powerful as Bridgerton makes her out to be, and her son was not nearly as incompetent. In fact, one of the conditions of her marriage contract was that she was not to involve herself in politics. George was a great patron of the arts (aren’t we all), and the culture flourished under him, although really only for the upper echelons of society. It’s worth noting that behind all the Bridgerton glitter was a period of rampant poverty, where Londoners were forced into slums due to overpopulation caused by migration to the city for Industrial work. The Napoleonic wars were also still well underway when Bridgerton would be beginning, which would definitely have put a damper on the season’s balls.
However, we really can’t talk about Bridgerton without saying a word without the costuming. Certainly, by the era in which it is intended to be set, the dress silhouette had slimmed itself down to the empire waistlines we see, inspired by classical aesthetics, and there are reports of Queen Charlotte still favouring an older silhouette with wide skirts and traditional dresses. The necklines of the young ladies of the time would have been lower cut and square than the earlier dresses of the period. Some also would reportedly wet their legs so the skirts would cling to them, contributing to a slimmer silhouette. Yes yes, all of this would have happened... in FRANCE. Queen Charlotte not only favoured the older silhouette for herself, but for her court too. Certainly, the French courts of the period would have been all empire waistlines, but we were still wearing big hoop skirts in the presence of Lottie herself, who was famously very resistant to changes, and didn't particularly like the French either, so any ladies seeking her favour would not have been wearing what our debutantes do in Bridgerton. You know what’s more scandalous though? The abject lack of caps in Bridgerton! I think we see roughly 2 hats in the show, which regardless cover very little of the ladies hair. Season 1 is pretty decent, but by season 3 we’ve let it go out the window in favour of modern aesthetic sensibilities. Penelope Featherington’s smokey eye comes to mind. Don’t get me wrong, it’s “snatched”, as the kids would say, but it’s a very bold departure from the original source material. In all fairness, the hair and costuming is more used for storytelling than historical documentary, and it does an excellent job at that, but would it really kill them just to give me some bonnets?
All in all, the show does a good job at demonstrating the social politics of high society during the regency period. There are hints of what might have been going on at the time, but many elements are glossed over. But most importantly, the bonnets.
Yours truly, Lord George
(Just kidding, those high collars look hazardous and I’d rather keep my ears on, thanks.)
Other Eyes: A Short Story
Other Eyes: A Short Story
Aemilia Rice-Mileto, Y10
I’m a lucid dreamer. My dreams are better than my daytime.
Be honest - do you like your life? I don’t. By the time I graduated I’d already come to the conclusion that nothing was worth pursuing. I couldn’t compare to that tsunami of yearning humans out there - all searching for that spark, the touch of brilliance that’ll elevate them from the masses. I didn’t have the spirit to be another hamster on the wheel.
Don’t we all want to be special? Well, I came to terms with that a long time ago. I am still rather arrogant - a trait that has allowed me to keep the evil notion of marriage far from my lovers’ heads. Consequently, my life is boring.
Perhaps I’ve painted too negative a picture of myself. What redeems me are my dreams. There are empires in my mind. There are realms and creatures that even I, Creator, cannot truly fathom in their entirety.
Sadly, that’s where they stay. In my mind. The reason why my bestseller isn’t on the shelves is because the words stay trapped in my head, unable to flow out in a pen.
I do not write to fulfil some ridiculous expectation of sudden celebrity. I’ve simply…I need…I must tell someone.
I first saw…it…on October 12th, the day I got a concussion. Maybe this is all because of permanent brain damage. I was strolling leisurely in the streets of New York - never been there of course - admiring the 18 miles of the Strand.
It was the balloon that caught my eye. My eyes followed its shocking red downwards to the chubby hand that clutched it fiercely. It belonged to a little girl - the picture reminded me somewhat of It or that Balloon Girl by Bansky. What chilled me, however, was the fact that she was staring right at me.
It wasn’t just the looking that bothered me, you understand, but it was the uncanny feeling that someone was aware of me. Consciousness. That’s what lay in those big, unblinking blue eyes.
Then she was gone. I shrugged it off.
Two weeks later. This time I was swimming, a lake studded with stars, when I caught a glimpse of a dark, distinct line. A shore. And a dog - a black Doberman. I’d never put a shore there, let alone a dog.
Its eyes were glowing yellow. Aware. It didn’t breathe or make a sound. Waiting. I didn’t know I had moved until our eyes were inches apart. Then I was pulled under by the currents.
I woke up screaming.
After that day, it kept happening. Everywhere I went or imagined was intruded upon by that grating presence: an old man, birds, teddy bears, even a bright red mailbox.
I once chose a forest as a refuge. I made the trees and animals disappear, until there was nothing but the bare earth I walked upon. I didn’t want to look up. The sky had turned red.
I took pills, alcohol - anything to keep from slipping under. I barely had any control over my nightmares anymore.
Last night, I succumbed at last. I was standing in front of the Lungo Tevere, in Rome, facing a tall figure, sat on the bridge above the languorous waters. She was beautiful. Smooth white cloth confused itself with the curves of her body, red hair masking her face. Ethereal.
I hated her. A feeling of rage and helplessness as I ran - my fingers barely grazing her face before she vanished like a cloud of mist.
Was she gone? Something was burning into the back of my head.
I retreated. I could hear the blood in my veins, fluttering through my hands and in my temples. I realised that the crowd were facing me.
They encircled me, moving as one. All of them held a slab of broken glass in their hands, as if they’d broken a colossal mirror in the attempt to share it. Don’t look. But the floor, the sky, their faces: they were all mirrors now.
I looked.
There was no one in the reflection.
Now it’s over. I don’t dream of it anymore. I don’t dream, period. And now I have nothing. Because yes, I lied. I never came to terms with being mediocre. I thought I was better than all of you, because I was too proud to share my treasures.
Now I’m empty, wasted. I’ve lost the only thing I ever loved.
How can I go on?
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