J. Clarke articles

Before the needle even drops, Marvin Gaye’s Here, My Dear already feels like a diary he never meant to hide. It’s bruised, soulful, a little petty, and completely unlike anything Motown had ever expected from its most velvet-voiced hitmaker. Gaye didn’t just record an album—he built a monument to heartbreak wrapped in funk grooves and emotional side-eye. And the story behind it is equal parts confession, coping mechanism, and cosmic payback.

Some stories are born bingeable and others are built for one big night at the movies. The problem is, nobody told the studios. So we get sprawling epics squeezed into two or three hours, and TV shows that spend six episodes doing what a film could handle between trailers and credits. Here’s a look at the cinematic universes and small-screen sagas that probably turned up on the wrong side of the streaming menu.

Beyoncé has never been the type to simply drop an album—she drops events. But when she released Lemonade in 2016, she delivered something far bigger than a collection of songs. She handed the world a deeply personal story wrapped in stunning visuals, ancestral symbolism, cultural commentary, and enough emotional voltage to light up an entire art form. This wasn’t just pop music; it was a reckoning. A reclamation. A reminder that even the world’s biggest superstar can bleed and rebuild at the same time.

Something happens to TV every December, and it’s not just the sudden appearance of decorative mugs and fake snow. Shows that normally thrive on sarcasm, chaos, or existential dread suddenly lean into joy, nostalgia, and questionable sweaters. Characters who can barely stand each other unite for tree-trimming, gift-giving, or attempts at reinventing the holiday altogether. These Christmas episodes don’t just fill airtime—they become comfort food, traditions, and in some cases cultural landmarks. Here are 22 of the greatest holiday episodes ever to air, each one doing its part to keep the season merry, bright, and occasionally unhinged.

Rick James didn’t just walk into pop culture—he strutted in wearing leather, lace, and enough attitude to power an arena tour. He was the self-crowned king of punk-funk, the man behind one of the most unforgettable basslines ever recorded, and a performer whose swagger could light up a city block. But behind the wild persona was a deeply talented musician who kept getting swallowed by the very chaos he made look effortless. His life was a high-speed chase between brilliance and disaster—and both sides fought hard for the wheel.

The moment MTV burst onto the scene, it didn’t just reshape music. It reshaped everything—style, language, teen bedrooms, and the way albums became cultural events. Suddenly, a record wasn’t just something you listened to. It was something you watched. These 20 albums didn’t just ride the MTV wave; they created it, fueled it, and made the network feel like a wild new frontier. Think neon, synths, leather, and that unmistakable sense that music had somehow gotten bigger, louder, and more cinematic.

There’s nothing more unsettling than watching a movie, clocking the supposed “big bad”...and slowly realizing you kind of agree with them. Sure, they’re blowing things up, kidnapping people, or plotting galactic genocide—that’s not ideal. But under all the chaos there’s often a pretty reasonable thesis statement the heroes are too blinkered, privileged, or naïve to admit.

Weddings are full of surprises—emotional vows, questionable dance moves, and at least one uncle who misjudges the power of an open bar. But one thing that's never surprising? The music. For better or worse, certain songs have cemented themselves as wedding-playlist royalty, popping up so often they practically carry engraved invitations.

Before Bill Withers ever considered walking away from the spotlight, he had already carved his name into music history with songs that still feel like warm sunlight. His story isn’t the typical rise-and-fall arc—if anything, it’s the tale of a man who realized he didn’t need fame to validate his talent. Instead of clinging to the spotlight, he shrugged, stepped back, and proved that sometimes disappearing is the loudest statement an artist can make.