Staff Pix 2/7: 2016
“Don’t Hurt Yourself” By Beyoncé, Jack White
On “Don’t Hurt Yourself”, Beyoncé first asks “Who the fuck do you think I is?” before telling her “boy” that he can watch her fat ass twist as she bounces to the next dick. BOOM!!! 2016 was Beyoncé’s year to be pissed and “Don’t Hurt Yourself” is pure uninhibited anger—lyrics trail off in screams and shrieks rather than classic vocal runs, cymbals crash and rattle, there’s dissonant wailing in the background. In between comparing herself to a dragon, a lion, and Malcom X, Beyoncé lets us know that she’s aware we cheated on her (“I smell that fragrance on that Louis knit, boy…”) and if we mess with her again we’re basically gonna die (“This is your final warning / you know I give you life/ If you try this shit again / you gon’ lose your wife”). While “Don’t Hurt Yourself” is not like any other Beyoncé song (yet!), it’s surely a standout on what is possibly the most iconic album ever of 2016. — Lauren Williams
“Closer” by The Chainsmokers, Halsey
Ah, 2016. For ten years, people have been hoping for one just like 2016 thanks to a nostalgia whose intensity won’t quit: think of the thousands of frozen yogurt shops, Musical.ly, and the rose gold iPhone 6 and tell me it wasn’t the best year ever. The air was crisp, all of our glasses were rose-tinted, and Halsey had one chance to make it big. She struck (rose) gold with her feature on “Closer” by The Chainsmokers and you probably still know every lyric from the first line, “Hey, I was doing just fine before I met you,” or the song’s 12-week run on the Billboard Hot 100. As a major contribution to 2016’s radio with more than three and a half billion streams today, “Closer” stands stronger than simply nostalgia bait for 2016; the song is a solid hit whose catchy, tumbling lyricism and EDM synth draws you in like magnetized karaoke. Halsey is the star (I unfortunately couldn’t name either member of The Chainsmokers duo if you asked me to…) and makes “Closer” more than just a 2016 hit with Boulder, Tucson, and blink-182 shoutouts—it’s a summer anthem whose narrative currents of fleeting flings, living in the moment, and youthful freedom make it the perfect new addition to your on-repeat playlist in 2026. — Heather Thorn
“In Heaven” by Japanese Breakfast
For me, 2016 was the year that I only wore beat up combat boots and filled several Strathmore sketchbooks with drawings of gel pen cats. For Michelle Zauner, it was the year that she released her first album Psychopomp under her new band, Japanese Breakfast. Technically, I didn’t find Japanese Breakfast until a year later in 2017–but both year’s summers featured flutters of indie-pop that would color my music taste throughout my teenage years, and “In Heaven” is a necessary part of that lineup. “In Heaven” is an ode to Zauner’s mother, who passed away from cancer two years prior to its release. The song is a somber exploration of grief, but the light and ethereal instrumentals sound like sitting in the backseat of my dad’s car, wired headphones playing YouTube indie playlists and the sun beating down on my little face as I dreamt about being an adult and living in the city. Several years later, in 2025, adult me finally saw the song played live at Brooklyn Paramount–Zauner stood in a large prop clamshell, singing her lament. And I, still wearing beat up leather boots, cried and sang along. — Julia Schramm
“Cosmic Hero” by Car Seat Headrest
Car Seat Headrest, while known best for their melancholic wail, have always starkly resisted a one note oeuvre. The deep lows of songs off an album like Twin Fantasy require equally palpable highs. Highs provided in ample supply on the band’s 2016 record, Teens of Denial. This force is no more present than in the album’s second track, “Vincent.” The track warms up with an echoey trailing roof soon giving way to the song’s chugging engine, the lengthy peals of guitar which vamp from high to low in stringing wavelengths coloring the entirety of the track, the motif only finding reprieve in a drum break kicking at 5:34, more than halfway through the runtime! This section is key to the movement, its unceasing form lulling listeners into a trance allowing more frantic overtones to greater influence the mood of the track, with Toledo’s leading voice as finishing touches, spouting lyrics evoking points of no return and runaway relationships, perfectly complimenting the established feeling, only coming to a close with a final cut, contrasting the previously swelled energy, as if not just the singer but the band as a whole have suddenly veered off the highway and crashed into a tree. Toledo wrings the last bits of music out of the track with flat intonation on the final words of the final lyrics, “now I have nothing to say,” trailing off with little pomp or compliment, a stark end to charged motion as Car Seat Headrest’s “Vincent” comes to a close. — Declan Ireland
“Somebody Else” by The 1975
2016 was the year I fell in love with what I deemed as “alternative” music. Every ride to school consisted of me nagging my mom, begging her to turn on “107.7 The End” (Seattle’s only alternative station) and only letting up when the synth of an unavoidable The 1975 track would play. It was “Somebody Else” that really captured my attention. I was initially transfixed by Matty Healy’s nasally warble and quickly fell in love with his trademark rasp and occasionally audible voice crack. For 10-year-old me, it was the ideal backing track for imagining I was in some sort of coming-of-age film (despite the fact I was barely reaching double digits), imaginations that were highly influenced by films like Me and Earl and the Dying Girl (2015) and Sing Street (2016). It’s a track that has consistently soundtracked my life, and no longer by choice. It seems to follow me into every Uber, every grocery store, every single concert turnover. “Somebody Else” is the epitome of 2016, dazzled in synthy production just vibrant enough to dance to and lyrically contemplative enough for 10-year-old me to rest my face against the cool car window glass, running my fingers dramatically down the backseat window. — Sophie Parrish
“Pick Up the Phone” by Travis Scott, Young Thug, and Quavo
In 2016 I was 9 years old wearing Yu-Gi-Oh shirts, cargo shorts and only really listening to Linkin Park’s Meteora through Beyblade AMVs, but that same year Travis Scott, Young Thug and Quavo were blessing ears everywhere with ‘pick up the phone.’ Although the song appeared on both Young Thug and Travis Scott’s albums (released days within each other) the real star of the show is Quavo. Offrip he compares himself to Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, expresses maturity by realizing he’s in the wrong to his current relationship and makes a double entendre for buying jewelry and making lean. Not only does he have the best verse, but he’s also the sole reason for the Travis Scott album’s iconic name, referencing American R&B singer Brian McKnight halfway through. If you think his 24 bars couldn’t get any better you’re simply mistaken, as he compares himself to ice cream sandwich bar Klondike and their polar bear mascot, right before he invents the word ‘discriminize,’ in reference to loving all women no matter their race. Filled with beautiful, autotuned harmonies from Young Thug, Travis Scott’s incredibly recognizable adlibs, Quavo’s best verse and insane production from MIKE DEAN, ‘pick up the phone,’ showcases the epitome of mid 2010’s trap music. — Mario Sierra
“Death of a Bachelor” by Panic! At The Disco
In 2016, The Chainsmokers ruled over trampoline parks across America and Adele made me second guess using the word “Hello” in my vocabulary. Too many pop songs from this time period absolutely torch my brain of any thought and it’s safe to say Panic! At The Disco was about to join the crowd. P!ATD has countless problems that can be revisited in a more lengthy conversation, but the 2016 release of Death of a Bachelor might just be the scraps of what was. The title track oozes with 2016 goodness, perfect for karaoke or to play inside a Macy’s. Even though Brendon Urie truly destroyed his legacy after this album with his 2018 release “Pray for the Wicked”, I hope we can pour one out for this modern 2016 classic. — Sam Shipman
“Never Ending” by Rihanna
As we approach a full decade since Rihanna’s monumental and most recent album ANTI, I’m reminded of the days of vine edits and youtube fan compilations that made this album virtually inescapable, as well as the fact that it’s, you know… a Rihanna album. As an emerging fan editor myself at 10 years old, I distinctly remember stumbling across heaps of instagram edits to her cover of Tame Impala’s Same Old Mistakes, me personally gravitating more towards her cover than the original and quickly becoming one of my most replayed songs of 2016. As much as I was obsessed with that cover for a while, I think the song that came after Same Ol’ Mistakes in the tracklist really solidified the album for me as being totally unforgettable, and marked a distinct point in my childhood that I look back on fondly. “Never Ending” is a somewhat simple ballad that beautifully captures the intensity of falling in love, providing a very pleasant contrast to the dark synth-pop sound of Same Ol’ Mistakes. When I play this song I’m instantly brought back to being a kid in the summer of 2016, giving me vivid flashbacks of when I’d be strolling around my neighborhood during sunset accompanied by the light, soothing instrumentation and Rihanna’s gut wrenching lyrics. “Never Ending” is pure nostalgia for me, a song that I view as a sort of time capsule for a simpler and more pure time in my life, and I to this day continue seeking out songs with similarly warm ballads that for me are the epitome of peace and happiness. While ANTI is full of bangers and chart-topping hits, “Never Ending” is such a quietly visceral song that I think really adds more emotional dimension to the album, and perfectly captures that melancholy feeling of nostalgia I know that many of us have for 2016. — Diego Gonzalez
“Sahara” by DJ Snake, Skrillex
For me, 2016 was the year of EDM. The trailer to We Are Your Friends (2015) had introduced me to the genre. I begged to see the movie, but it was rated R and I was 12. Instead, I took to iTunes to listen to the soundtrack, and discovered artists along the way. DJ Snake’s Encore (2016) came out in the midst of my obsession. The album became the soundtrack to my bus rides to and from school as I listened on repeat. I remember each song with detail, but most of all, “Sahara.” It begins with the noises of an artificial storm, a wave of music coming over the desert. When the lyrics begin, they are indistinguishable from the instrumental. Then, in a flash, the beat drops. There’s a funky, screechy quality to what follows, much different from the meditative singing that ushered us in. At the time, listening to this song transported me out of the bus into a plane of nothing but sound. I probably haven’t listened to EDM seriously in the 10 years since. It was only with the resurgence of 2016 this year that I even thought of Encore again. I laugh thinking about myself in middle school listening to such intense music, but I am also inclined to blast it again on my walk to college. — Lily Suckow Ziemer
“Close” by Nick Jonas ft. Tove Lo
Rewind the clock ten years and Tove Lo is still topping charts, meanwhile Nick Jonas has just released his second solo album, Last Year Was Complicated. Track three is “Close,” featuring Tove Lo. I had no idea what streaming was, but I knew the music video second by second. Perhaps the visual of Nick Jonas being tied up is what initially led me to play the song non-stop on my iPad mini, but “Close” was the soundtrack of my dreams for a different reason. Jonas yearns heavily both in tone and lyrics from the second the song starts: “oh damn, oh damn, oh damn/ I’m so perplexed/ With just one breath, I’m locked in.” Steel drums back up the track on a short loop, echoing out from time to time, creating a sense of fleeting time. Like a mirror, Tove Lo enters at 1:22 giving her take on the obsession previously described by Jonas: “I am not really known for being speechless/ But now, but now somehow/ My words roll off my tongue right onto your lips.” At 11, I didn’t know how to like things, only love or hate. Obsession and indifference were my only options. So when my favorite Jonas brother released a song about desperation and intimacy, I was all over it. — Eleniz Cary
“33 ‘God'” by Bon Iver
In 2016, I was nine years old. I have no idea what I was doing with my life back then, let alone what I was listening to. I can tell you, though, that 2016 was the year Bon Iver released their iconic folktronica album 22, A Million. As a body of work, it expertly blends soulful and organic instrumentation with uniquely glitchy electronic elements that scratch the itch in my brain in just the right way. “33 ‘GOD’” is the fourth track on 22, A Million, and it initially stood out to me because of its chaotic, fragmented soundscape. The song includes a large number of sped-up and slowed-down samples from artists like Sharon Van Etten, Paolo Nutini, and Lonnie Holley, but the most frequently repeated sample is the line “when we leave this room it’s gone” from Jim Ed Brown’s 1971 song “Morning.” All of the lyrics within “33 ‘GOD’” are heavily imbued with themes of faith, spiritual doubt, and existentialism. The official video even opens with a phrase from Psalm 22: “why are you so FAR from saving me.” As someone who was a member of the Catholic church a decade ago and is no longer practicing, these words hold a lot of significance for me – when we leave this room, it really is gone. — Emeline Chopin
“Call This # Now” by The Garden
Everything you like—I liked ten years ago, or whatever omighty puts on their t-shirts. I was 12, respectfully. Trying to emulate my french exchange student that had every Kylie lip kit. That summer I went to San Francisco. Bomber jacket packed and American Apparel sought out upon arrival, everything was looked at with valencia filter glasses. So, in that retrospective, I don’t know where I found The Garden. Maybe from youtube recommendations of their very eclectic music video. They were a new dynamic with only a few singles to back up their discography at the time. My dad compared them to the likes of LA natives–The Gun Club. Saying that their rusty bass and tongue and cheek visuals were oh so California (Orange County to be exact).It felt good to discover something new that I enjoyed. Something odd and sometimes unnerving, but always in tune, much like being 12 in 2016. — Salem Ross
“Make Me (Cry)” by Noah Cyrus, Labrinth
In 2016, 11 year old me needed something to feel besides the discomfort that is middle school. Luckily, Noah Cyrus timidly crept out of her older sister’s spotlight to team up with Labrinth and create the emotionally-charged anthem of my sixth grade winter, “Make Me (Cry).” There is something exhilaratingly thrash about this single and considering Cyrus was only 16 at the time of its release, it definitely wasn’t that deep…but lowkey it was because Labrinth has never joked around in his life. The duo demonstrates how both combative and complementary love can be all at once; while Cyrus confesses hard truths through her identifiable belt, Labrinth uses almost industrial-sounding production elements to bring to life the tumultuous story the lyrics tell. This song (presently) rocks my world and was one of my first examples of a song well-done. — Serenity Holland
“Broccoli” by DRAM ft. Lil Yachty
“Ain’t no tellin what I’m finna be on, ayy, ayy,” DRAM sings overtop a piano riff that is as simple and optimistically childlike as “Chopsticks” the waltz. The year is 2016 and the message is clear as a sunny day: “I’m beyond all that fuck shit, hey.” This pop-rap track was a Summer anthem so potent that it seems, in retrospect, to sum up our entire generation’s ignorant teenage hedonism. See it in the first two lines: “Hey, lil’ mama, would you like to be my sunshine?/ N*gga, touch my gang, we gon’ turn this shit to Columbine.” That couplet exemplifies the desensitized edge so characteristic of our generation, kids born into the simulacra who couldn’t even conceive of (or deal with) real tragedy. After all, this is the year Trump first got elected, and the summer of the Pulse Nightclub shooting and Paris Bastille day terror attack. There’s also the myopic decadence: ice that cost Yachty “ten times three” (the kids were doing math), the “baby mama” all on DRAM at a Project X-type party, “salmon on a bagel with the capers on a square plate.” But at its core, “Broccoli” is, of course, a song about weed—first highs, good highs, higher highs, transcendent highs. Back when it was illegal, weed culture—matching, sharing pens, hitting apples—felt like a unifying social currency, a lingua franca that traversed type and caste in high school. But that high couldn’t last forever. Summer 2016 ended, people grew up, Musical.ly was swallowed into TikTok. And yet, we carry on the memory. Play it at any party and watch the room get lit: each person singing a long-gone reverie of water-bottle bongs, first crushes, that one house party they will never forget, and that one high where, despite chattering teeth and eye-drops, they could not stop smiling. — Christian Jones