J. Clarke articles

When Chris Cornell stepped onto a New York stage in May 2017 and delivered a fragile, aching rendition of “Nothing Compares 2 U”, the room fell silent. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t overproduced. It was just Cornell, a microphone, and a voice that sounded like it had lived a thousand lifetimes. Less than 24 hours later, he was gone. But as history keeps reminding us, voices like that don’t fade quietly.

R&B has always understood one universal truth: romance is beautiful right up until it absolutely isn’t. For every candlelit slow jam, there’s a tear-soaked anthem reminding you why your phone is on Do Not Disturb. Heartbreak doesn’t just live in this genre—it headlines it.

By December 1969, the 60s had already delivered moon landings, assassinations, protests, and a total rewrite of what pop culture could look like. But when The Rolling Stones rolled into Northern California for a free show at Altamont Speedway, what was supposed to be a triumphant celebration curdled into catastrophe. By the end of the night, a young man was dead—and the flower-powered optimism of the era felt like it had slipped through everyone’s fingers.

At the start of the 2010s, there was quiet chatter that hip hop had peaked. The blog era was fading, radio felt repetitive, and the old guard was either experimenting or coasting. Then the new class showed up—loud, weird, melodic, political, viral, regional, global—and suddenly the genre wasn’t just alive, it was sprinting.

In an era when artists are loudly reclaiming their work, Anita Baker did it her way—softly, strategically, and without turning it into a spectacle. Long before reclaiming masters became a trending headline, Baker was fighting a battle behind the scenes for ownership of the music that defined late 80s and early 90s R&B.

Ending a TV show is a high-wire act. Do too much and it feels forced. Do too little and fans riot in the streets—metaphorically, of course. But every once in a while, a series sticks the landing so cleanly that even critics have to slow-clap. According to critics, these are the most technically perfect TV series finales of the century. The kind that tied up arcs, honored themes, and closed the curtain with precision instead of panic. No messy loose ends. No emotional cheap shots. Just beautifully engineered goodbyes.

There’s something uniquely electric about a great diss track. It’s not just a song—it’s a declaration of war set to a beat. Fans don’t just listen. They debate, defend, dissect, and sometimes completely switch allegiances. These aren’t casual clapbacks. These are the records that split timelines, rewrote reputations, and forced entire fandoms to pick a side.

Some shows feel so perfectly engineered—so packed with twists, power plays, and “no way that happened” moments—that your brain automatically files them under pure invention. And then you learn they’re rooted in real events. Suddenly, the most far-fetched parts don’t feel like creative risks—they feel like receipts.

Law school is often pitched as a noble grind. You suffer now so you can make a difference later, armed with logic, precedent, and a very expensive degree. It sounds structured, principled, and—at least in theory—rewarding. Courtroom movies exist to destroy that illusion.If you’ve ever considered law school, the following movies don’t just entertain. They quietly ask whether you’re ready for what comes after the textbooks.