Papa Roach's Jacoby Shaddix on teen pop, toxic masculinity and 25 years of ‘Infest'
Four hours or so before he's due onstage at Inglewood's Kia Forum, Jacoby Shaddix lifts a steaming water bottle to his lips as he sits backstage in a plush leather armchair.
'On show days, I drink hot water to keep my voice lubed,' says the 48-year-old Papa Roach frontman, his hair swept up in a punkish do. 'I'm very disciplined with my lifestyle — borderline monk status at this point. Discipline and obedience is like the new rebellion to me.'
The scene of middle-aged restraint last week was a contrast to the rock-star excess that greeted Papa Roach in 2000 when its song 'Last Resort' — a bruising rap-rock anthem about suicidal ideation — exploded on the radio and MTV, propelling the band from small-town Northern California to a Grammy nomination for best new artist and to triple-platinum sales of its album 'Infest.' (Among the LP's other standouts: 'Broken Home,' in which Shaddix yowls, 'I know my mother loves me / But does my father even care?')
Twenty-five years after 'Infest' came out, though, Papa Roach's audience has endured on the road and on social media thanks in part to Gen Z's discovery of 'Last Resort,' which never seems far from popping up in a TikTok video. On Spotify, where the song has been streamed more than 1.3 billion times, Papa Roach counts 13 million monthly listeners — more than Soundgarden, Alice in Chains or Smashing Pumpkins, to name three rock acts held in higher esteem a quarter-century ago by critics and tastemakers.
In January, the band — which also includes guitarist Jerry Horton, bassist Tobin Esperance and drummer Tony Palermo — released 'Even If It Kills Me,' the lead single from an album expected to arrive later this year. Shaddix, who's married and has three sons, looked back on 'Infest' and how it happened.
You were 23 years old in early 2000. What did you see yourself doing at 48?I'll tell you this: We put out our first full-length in 1997 called 'Old Friends from Young Years.' And the reason we titled it that was because we had this wild-ass dream that we wanted to do this for our entire life. So I'd like to say I dreamt of this moment. I did dream of it, but I wasn't sure I was gonna get here.
Because the band would flame out, or you'd die, or what?Part of it was just the reality of the music business setting in and realizing how cutthroat it is — how tough it is to maintain relevance. We had years where our success was waning.
And now you're in the middle of a comeback. Is that a word you're comfortable with?I'm fine with it — 'resurgence,' 'comeback.'
Are you surprised that you're playing arenas in 2025?It was always the goal, but the reality is surprising, you know what I'm saying? Actually living it, I'm like, 'Holy f—, we're here.' Because even at our hottest, we never did a headlining arena tour.
That's weird to me.It is, right? At the height of our career, we just kept supporting — for Eminem or Korn or Limp Bizkit — instead of seizing that moment for our own selves. They were paying us great, but it was totally a mistake. We should have gone, 'No, we're not gonna support you — we're gonna go headline the arena.'
Though here you are now.Everything happens for a reason. Maybe I wasn't ready for it at that time in my life. I'm just so grateful that we never packed it in and said, 'We're out.'
Ever get close?Every time I tour an album and I go home, I think it's over. Then I'll get back in the studio and we'll write a batch of new songs, and I'm like, 'This is sick — let's go!' But I pride myself on the fact that I'm a family man, so it's always hard to leave again.
Performing and parenting both require a ton of emotional energy.Dude, I'm plugged into the ultimate power source. When I get home, I'm exhausted. But being with my family — with people that I love and adore and admire — it's recharging to me. A goal of mine was to not repeat the cycle of my family history. I came from a broken home, and I was just like, 'This isn't my path — I'm not gonna repeat this thing.' As passionate as I am about my music, I'm just as passionate about fatherhood.
As a dad, is your experience as a son always in your head?The best way I could explain it is that pouring myself into the relationship I've built with my boys is what heals the brokenness inside me. And so now I stand here, 48 years old, and I'm totally at peace with what I walked through in my life because I righted the situation. It's just a rad place to be in. Even my old man — my biological father — I got peace with him. He asked me, 'Do you forgive me?' I'm like, 'Life's too f— short, man — I ain't trying to hold a grudge on you.'
'Infest' spoke to a generation of disaffected young men in a way that felt healthy. Today, the mood around angry young guys seems pretty bleak.I'm a firm believer that it starts at home. So I operate in a way that's nurturing, and we're very open-dialogue with the boys. They come to me about anything, and I'm like, 'I can't always say that I agree with the way you're trying to live, but I got you.' The way that I approach the music has always been an open and honest conversation. If you look at the statistics in suicide, it predominately swings male — there's an issue happening where men are really struggling. Part of it is that third spaces really dwindled through COVID, and we're built for community.
Why do you think young men are drawn to a figure like Andrew Tate?Masculinity is a spectrum, and I think because it swung one way, it's swinging the other way to an extreme. The whole thing of toxic masculinity — I mean, there is that out there, but not all masculinity is toxic. Let's just be real with each other. Social media has become this thing where some voices get really loud, and so everybody goes, 'Oh, that's what masculinity is — that's terrible.' F— off with that. We gotta toughen up a little bit. I think us as a people might have gotten a little too soft for a minute. Pulling up your bootstraps and spraying some tough on it is important.
People worry about kids' lack of resilience, especially after the pandemic.Not my boys. My kids are resilient, and I'm grateful for that. But the culture has been kind of coddled. You gotta look out for your people and be sensitive to each other, but there's a balance to this thing. We're trying to find the balance again because it's felt catawampus for a minute.
'My name's Coby Dick / Mr. Dick if you're nasty.'Oh yeah.
What do you think now about your decision to open 'Infest' with those lyrics?I crack up inside. My wife, she cosigned for our first touring van — it was a big old, white 15-passenger van. We called it Moby Dick. My name's Jacoby, everybody called me Coby growing up. So then I was driving around Moby Dick, and they're like, 'What's up, Coby Dick?' It was like a joke, right? Then it just became my moniker.
So we put out this record, and I'm like, 'Mr. Dick if you're nasty' — I ripped it from Janet Jackson. 'Dr. Dick if you're sick, Old Saint Dick on Christmas, Count Dick-ula on Halloween' — all these dumb -isms. I loved Wu-Tang Clan, where they had nine members and they each had three names, so I had AKAs. Then when I started to read articles about us, it was like, 'Dick says…' I didn't think that through. That's why, when we came out with our next record, I was Jacoby Shaddix. It's a way cooler name, and it's my real name.
Did you feel understood by the record business before 'Infest' came out?F— no. We were trying to get a record deal, and nobody would sign us: 'You don't have an image,' 'You guys aren't punk enough,' 'You're not metal enough.' Maybe we thought we deserved a record deal before we were really supposed to get a record deal. But then we got a demo deal with Warner Bros., and we recorded 'Last Resort,' 'Broken Home,' all the big hits from that record. Our A&R at the time got fired, and nobody else at Warner Bros. gave a s—. They were like, 'We're gonna pass.'
Then this guy Ron Handler from DreamWorks somehow heard about Warner Bros. passing and was like, 'I want to come down to the studio and hear what you guys are doing.' He was the one that got it. He said, 'I love what you're doing — it feels raw and real and authentic. Let's finish up this record.' He told our producer, 'I can't have you overproduce this thing with a bunch of harmonies. Just record the band.' And we went and did that. Lenny Waronker and Mo Ostin, they were the presidents of the label, we played them the record, and these old cats just sat on the couch and took the whole thing in. They were like, 'We believe in this.'
Which struck you how?I had no idea the weight of it, but I knew it was huge. Then we put that album out and we had this machine behind us. We thought we were gonna get in the van and go sell a couple hundred thousand records like all of our peers did. Incubus, they built it. Deftones, they built it. All of a sudden we're selling 80,000 or 100,000 records a week. It was a freak-show moment for us.
The marketing at the time definitely leaned into your mental health struggles. I wondered whether you ever felt exploited in that way.I had a story to tell, and I had people going, 'Your record saved my life.' So I looked at that and was like, 'Who cares about the business? This is purpose-driven music.' When we got on the cover of Spin and they dubbed us 'broken homeboys' — I was a little put off by that. On the other hand, I saved that magazine. I still have a copy of it. Now I look back, I'm like, 'I was too sensitive — get over yourself.'
But I never felt exploited. There was a purity within us as young creators — we hadn't been tainted by the world in a way, so it was like we could trust our gut. After we had crazy success, then that inner knowing almost disappeared: 'Oh s—, now I'm here and everybody's telling me, 'You gotta do this, you gotta do that.'' It was a wild one. I toured so hard. I partied so hard.
Too hard?I drank enough vodka to kill a small village.
You drink these days?Nah, man. 2004 was when I first put down the bottle. I relapsed a bunch till 2012, then it was no más. Haven't touched it since.
Music in 2000 was pretty polarized: Papa Roach, Creed and Limp Bizkit on one side and Britney Spears, NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys on the other.All the rock bands were like, 'F— the pop groups!' And the pop groups were like, 'Why? We like you guys!' I remember I met Justin Timberlake — we were in Germany, and he sent a security guard: 'Hey, Justin wants to meet you.' He comes in and he's all, 'This s—'s like wrestling — behind closed doors, it's cool.' And I'm like, 'You're right, dude.' I told him straight-up: 'I've been an a—.'
It's funny: I saw AJ from the Backstreet Boys — we were all out at the iHeartRadio Music Festival [in 2024] — and I knew he was a sober guy. I was like, 'What's up, man? I'm Coby from P Roach — I just want to meet you and get to know you.' He and I hit it off, exchanged numbers. He's like, 'Dude, listen, I got a studio at my place — one of these days let's get together and do some songwriting.' All the walls are down.
What's the best song on 'Infest'?'Last Resort' — the fans have spoken. I really love 'Blood Brothers.' 'Dead Cell' is up there. But we knew 'Last Resort' was special — that's why we wanted it to be the first single. There were no other songs on the radio that started with the vocal.
What's the worst song on 'Infest'?Probably 'Never Enough.' Lyrically, it's a little meh.
Last year, Carrie Underwood joined you to record a new version of your song 'Leave a Light On.' Who's somebody else we might not expect to be into Papa Roach?Timbaland. We found out he was a Papa Roach fan when he cited us in Rolling Stone. Will.i.am from the Black Eyed Peas — met him out at the clubs, and we ended up doing a collaboration on their album 'Elephunk.' Swizz Beatz was a fan. I'm not a rapper, but hip-hop was a huge influence on us early on, so to have that respect from the Black community was f— cool.
You wouldn't call yourself a rapper?I mean, I could spit some bars. The last few records, I rap on some of them. So, yeah — I got multi talents when it comes to that microphone. MC Dick! I won't go by that, though.
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They Made It Big After a Tragedy — But Are Still Fighting for Royalties
John Slavin was in the green room when he heard some great news that made no sense. An old buddy of his was playing a show in Austin, and the scraggly-bearded Slavin, also a musician, showed up. But all the friend wanted to talk about was Slavin's old indie rock band, Blue Smiley. 'Have you seen your numbers?' the friend asked, referring to Blue Smiley's Spotify streams. More from Rolling Stone Get Ready for Greg Freeman to Be Your Favorite New Indie Rocker Can Dems Save Themselves by Spending $20M on 'Speaking With American Men'? How to Become a Fantasy-Sports Millionaire Slavin said he hadn't. In fact, up until that night in 2022, he'd made it a point to avoid pretty much anything related to his old music project from Philadelphia. So he was shocked when his friend pulled out his phone, pulled up the Spotify app, and showed him that Blue Smiley had, at that point, eclipsed 150,000 monthly listeners. One of the songs had over a million streams. Slavin's first thought was 'What the fuck?' His second was, 'It looks like I have some shit to figure out.' There are many reasons this news surprised him. For one, he and his fellow bandmates never expected to earn success or fans or millions of streams. Playing shows in Philly with people they loved was more than enough. Plus, between 2017 and 2022, Slavin says he only listened to his old band's music 'two or three times,' and only when he was drinking 'and in a hole emotionally.' In October 2017, Blue Smiley's frontman and Slavin's longtime friend Brian Nowell died from a fentanyl overdose. The death shook the Philly music scene and devastated Nowell's friends and bandmates, many of whom struggle to talk about their friend. 'I'm still dealing with it,' says former Blue Smiley bassist Mike Corso, who now lives in Connecticut, not far from where Nowell grew up. 'Up until that time, I really felt like I had a bigger purpose and a fire under me. Doing something that people were relating to; that felt good. After that, his death kind of burnt a fuse in me.' Yet this newfound streaming success was a catalyst for Slavin, Corso, their bandmates, and Brian's father, Ken Nowell. No one was receiving any kind of payment for these streams, and meanwhile, the numbers continued to climb. Slavin dashed off a Facebook message to Ken: 'I'm not sure if you remember me, but I was a very good friend and roommate of Brian's for years,' he wrote, before sharing the good news. 'It's a beautiful thing — the music has organically grown over the years, and there are hundreds of thousands of monthly listeners connecting to your son's lyrics.' Maybe, Slavin reasoned, we should talk about royalties. That message kicked off a three-year odyssey of red tape and 'retraumatizing' that continues to this day. Slavin, Ken, and Co. have fought multiple entities for multiple kinds of royalties, and most recently, they've faced their biggest hurdle yet: A mysterious person going by the name 'Eldde Simon' claimed credit for all of Blue Smiley's songs using the Mechanical Licensing Collective, which distributes a specific kind of royalty from streams. For months, the band assumed this potential fraudster had made off with tens of thousands of their dollars — and claimed ownership of music they'd come to love even more. But this story is about more than potential fraud. It's a story of how loss and music can stretch through the years, shaping the lives of everyone they touch. It's the story of an analog band that couldn't have attained its modern success without the help of an increasingly isolated, algorithm-driven world. And it's the story of a kid named Brian, who wanted to make music with his friends. It's 7 a.m. on a midwinter Saturday in Torrington, Connecticut (population: 35,000). In a couple of hours, families will go ice fishing on a frozen lake surrounded by epic, sky-grazing trees. But for now, Ken Nowell seems to have the world to himself. He's worked as an accountant in Torrington for decades, but this morning, he's poring over a unique set of numbers. His eyes are glued to his work computer, where Blue Smiley plays on a loop every day, Monday through Saturday. Ken knows the precise day the band hit its all-time listener mark, and when the numbers fluctuate, his mood sours, prompting a call from Slavin to try and cheer him up. 'The day Brian passed, I think 83 people listened to Blue Smiley,' he says, combing through his notes. Now, their top song is 'Flower': a one-minute-and-15-second showcase of the band's grunge leanings. It has over 30 million streams, a number that astounds the stoic Ken. But that's not the number he keeps coming back to. 'Usually, right around my son's birthday, 80,000 people will listen on that day,' he says. He calls Blue Smiley's music 'Brian in musical form. He has his upbeat, giddy, reckless style, and then you get the emotional Brian jumping in at various moments.' By his own admission, Ken was something of a helicopter parent. Even though Torrington is a small town, he felt fiercely protective of his son. 'When he was little, he was all we had by design. When he was born, and we learned it was a boy, my wife decided that's it. We're done.' Sometimes his protection spilled out into the public. When 10-year-old Brian came home with an assigned reading that Ken thought was inappropriate for kids that age, he raised the issue with the local Board of Education. As Ken recalls it, he was 'unanimously compared to a book burner.' At that point, Brian was already showing signs of interest in music and writing. He went on to form and sing in an eight-person high school ska band called Beat It With a Brick. And when his parents weren't around, he rebelled however he could. Dave Pashley, a childhood friend, remembers running around Torrington with Brian and setting off fireworks atop different buildings. Another time, during a kayaking trip at a nearby lake, Pashley and Brian traveled out to a small island where a house had burned down, leaving only its chimney. They were fascinated by these charred remnants, so they stayed for two hours, only realizing later that Ken was yelling for Brian the whole time, eager to get his son back before nightfall. What sticks out most to Pashley, though, is Brian's obvious musical talent. They played together in Beat It With a Brick, where Brian's natural instincts for creating interesting sounds put him in a different league than everyone else. Then the pair started a 'joke hardcore band for a hot minute,' but it was really only half a joke: Brian wanted to be on stage, so they'd crash Connecticut shows in the hopes that a band would let them on. Usually, they would. 'It was always just super clear to me that Brian just had an ear and also just wanted to be a part of that community,' Pashley says. Pashley stayed in Connecticut for college, but in 2009, Brian went off to Temple University in Philadelphia. That's where he got close with Slavin, a fellow jazz trumpet student who also played bass. Then, a few years later, Brian told Slavin he was making some demos and thinking about starting a band. 'What do you think?' he asked Slavin. Emily Daly lived with Brian around that time, in a part of Philly she calls 'not a great area.' She remembers Brian throwing an extension cord out the window so the drug dealers on their stoop could charge their phones while selling crack. She also remembers her old roommate casually talking about a band he had formed. 'He never talked about it like it was a very serious career path or project or anything,' she says. 'I think it was really just him having fun with his friends.' Even back then, before their millions of streams, Philly embraced Blue Smiley. It helped they played every show they could, and in turn, Brian was a mainstay at local shows across the city. They are now considered one of the seminal 'shoegaze' bands in a city known for its shoegaze music — even if they never used that term. 'Philly was the only place this could have happened,' says Corso, who took over on bass after Slavin moved away. 'There were many bands we would share bills with. Playing shows was like a constant exchange of ideas and understanding of what was happening.' Corso notes that the band already had some momentum by the time he joined, although their popularity was still largely confined to the Philadelphia music scene. They recorded their second of just two albums, called 'return,' in a 'gritty, kind of warehouse space in west Philly' called Sex Dungeon, and Brian rarely told Corso or drummer Matt McGraw what to do. 'I think the organic nature of the rhythm section is important,' Corso says. 'It's human, there's mistakes and imperfections. It's a bit of a jazz mentality, and that's part of what makes it sound good.' Ken called Blue Smiley 'Nirvana meets the Beach Boys,' and his son hated that. Even still, it's impossible to look at the dozens of photos hung on Ken's office walls and not notice Brian mimicking Kurt Cobain: long, unkempt, dirty-blond hair. According to Pashley and Slavin, Nirvana was an obsession for Brian, who was always prone to go 'all in' on his hobbies and causes, be it veganism, Nirvana, or the music of Elliott Smith. He would chase down every morsel of information he could: records, biographies, interviews, all of it. 'We listened to all of the records Elliott Smith released, but then there were all these really cool unreleased tracks, and we talked about how they were different from the others,' Pashley says. 'There was something sort of mysterious about how his time ended, but his music lives on, and that's his legacy.' Now, Pashley says, you could say the same thing about Brian. He was 'straight-edge' for years, friends say. But eventually drugs and alcohol became a regular part of his life. In 2017, the night before he died, Brian had dinner with his parents. He told them about plans for a Blue Smiley tour that would hit several cities throughout the country, then Ken and his wife dropped him off at a party at Drexel University. The next morning, they got a call from the police in Lansdowne, a suburb of Philly. Ken knew what it was. 'If he had just gotten himself hurt, it would've been a call from the hospital,' he says. 'If he had gotten arrested, he probably wouldn't have called us.' He pauses while recounting this story. He leans back in his office chair, and runs a hand through the thin tufts of silver hair on either side of his head. 'I wouldn't wish that on anyone,' he says. It's difficult to explain why Blue Smiley became popular years after playing their final show or releasing any music. But the people interviewed for this story float several theories. First, the band was unknowingly ahead of its time by making all of their songs under three minutes, perfect for easy streaming and short attention spans. There's also the morbid curiosity about Brian's death. However, many fans are still unaware of the band's backstory. Just as you can go on YouTube, TikTok, and Reddit and find people describing Brian as 'an icon,' 'a genius,' 'a legend,' you can find plenty of people with no clue about Brian's death, wondering when Blue Smiley will make more music. There's also a shoegaze revival happening, thanks in part to TikTok. Aided by algorithms, young fans are discovering music from the 90s, 2000s, and 2010s, some of which never attained a mass audience until now. But the truth behind Blue Smiley's seemingly random success may be simple: They're good. 'I think they had a really cool sound,' says Bissie Loux, a Philly-based digital artist who knew many members of the band. 'When there's death, that just draws a ton of attention to a project because it makes it more special, but they're just a really good band. I think it ultimately came down to that.' Still, the world is full of great bands who never attain this kind of following, let alone spawn acts who call themselves 'a Blue Smiley worship band' (as the buzzy Philadelphia band They Are Gutting a Body of Water, often known as TAGABOW, does). Molly Moltzen, an Austin-based writer and friend of Slavin's, spent roughly a decade managing bands in Boston, a job she now compares to being 'a glorified babysitter.' When Slavin told her about Blue Smiley's streaming numbers, she made sure to remind him, again and again, how lucky he is. 'You're really the exception,' she told him. 'It almost never works out this way.' Slavin knows he's lucky, but once he, Ken, and Corso started hunting for their royalties, they realized they were in for an uphill battle. Music royalties are maddeningly convoluted, and artists and music attorneys interviewed for this story admitted that even they struggle to understand the finer details. For Blue Smiley, the search boiled down to recording royalties, performance royalties, and something called mechanical licensing royalties, which are paid to writers based on the number of streams on Spotify and other services. Here's where it starts to get difficult. Whenever a Blue Smiley fan or new listener used Spotify to stream the band's music, both performance royalties and mechanical licensing royalties were being accumulated. However, in the U.S., only the Mechanical Licensing Collective (MLC) can pay the latter type of royalty when they're accrued through streamers like Spotify, and the MLC didn't exist when Blue Smiley was a band. Blue Smiley relied on cassette tapes (which they mostly gave away for free) and Bandcamp to publish their music, making them, as Slavin jokingly says, 'independent to a fault.' That said, Brian had also uploaded their music to Spotify via a British distribution service called RouteNote. Ken remembers his son getting $40 or so a month while he was alive. ('Just enough for a tank of gas every now and then,' he says.) Since Brian's PayPal account was eventually deactivated due to inactivity, RouteNote had no way of paying the thousands of dollars Blue Smiley started accruing as streams accumulated. So, for the first of many times, the band presented their frontman's death certificate to access money that eventually came in fits and starts. 'They took several months to get caught up with us, only depositing about six months' worth at a time, then four months, then two months as the monthly payments got larger,' recalls Ken. (RouteNote did not respond to multiple requests for comment.) Though Slavin hated the red tape and the cold formality of submitting his friend's death certificate — a step he says 'retraumatized' him — seeing that certificate also brought him some small measure of clarity. 'To be totally honest, for years, I was really mad at Brian for dying,' he says. 'That was a lot of what my grief felt like, and so it was really hard for me to approach the music or even the conversation with a lot of people.' Old Philly friends would tell him 'Blue Smiley was the best,' and inside, he'd think, 'Well, it's fucking bullshit. It's worthless now.' Then, when he saw the certificate, it confirmed Brian's death was an accidental overdose. The anger melted away, eventually giving way to a dogged passion for getting the music in front of more listeners. The band formed an LLC, signed up with a record label for the first time, and released some merch and vinyl. As they saw it, the final hurdle was the MLC — and they thought it'd be an easy one. One day, during a lull in his nine-to-five job last year, Slavin created an MLC account and tried to register Blue Smiley's songs. He discovered that someone else had already done so, back in 2021. It wasn't their publisher or anyone else affiliated with the band. Apparently, it was an impostor. This isn't the first time a bad actor has used the MLC to claim work that's not their own. Stephen Carlisle, a copyright attorney, told Rolling Stone someone claimed credit for music belonging to his client, who, like Brian, had passed away. In Carlisle's case, when the impostor was called out, they 'rolled over' and relinquished the claim right away. For Blue Smiley, it was much more complex. The band engaged in a monthslong dispute with Simon, who did not respond to multiple requests for comment from Rolling Stone. It wasn't until February of this year that the MLC shared in writing that Simon hadn't, in fact, collected any royalties. (The MLC told Rolling Stone it had already flagged irregularities and suspended the royalties before Blue Smiley reached out, though the band says they were never made aware of that action.) That hasn't stopped Simon from claiming credit for other artists' music. Via the MLC's database, Simon has claimed credit for 33 other tracks by multiple artists, including a song by the Orlando-based artist Suissidee. 'They had no part in working on that song,' Suissidee tells Rolling Stone. 'It was just me and my friend.' Simon has also claimed credit for many songs by the artist Nuvfr, who told Rolling Stone, 'I don't know who Eldde Simon is.' This apparent imposter isn't the first person to try to game the music industry. Last year, the U.S. Justice Department indicted a North Carolina man named Michael Smith for using AI to create hundreds of thousands of songs, then employing bots to stream the songs billions of times. This scheme netted Smith over $10 million in royalties before he was caught. While these stories underscore how the music industry is ripe for fraud, experts say the bigger issue is the extreme level of difficulty facing indie musicians. Without lawyers, managers or in-depth technical knowledge, indie artists must navigate labyrinthine processes to claim their music and hope they can get some money in a timely fashion. 'In our case, the choice is either pay a lot out of pocket to collect an undetermined amount, or give someone who has nothing to do with the music partial ownership over a percentage of our music,' Slavin says. 'To me, this is the crux of the problem. The goal is to keep full ownership for the integrity of the work and memory of Brian and not bankrupt ourselves in the process.' Jeff Price, a music industry veteran who has worked with Metallica, Bob Dylan, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and many others, put a finer point on it. 'The whole system is set up to require an intense knowledge of copyright law in the United States, along with technical capabilities and an ungodly amount of persistence with constant auditing,' he says. Price argues that the issue facing Blue Smiley and an untold number of other musicians dates back to before the creation of the MLC, when Spotify 'flipped the business model' by launching its platform without licenses in place for every song. At the time, songs were streamed without the proper mechanical licenses, which was especially harmful for independent artists. Then the same law that led to the formation of the MLC gave Spotify and other services a blanket license to stream music. As Price puts it, this method is akin to starting a streaming service that's home to every movie in the world, then only paying Disney if they ask for their money. He's had clients with much larger followings than Blue Smiley who wait months, even years, to receive the money they're owed. Other experts and attorneys defend the MLC, citing the hundreds of educational webinars they've offered to reach artists, as well as the fact that royalties — and the music business at large — were set up to benefit the biggest players long before the MLC came around. In fact, the MLC is trying to stand up for artists, they say. One example: The MLC recently sued Spotify, alleging that the streaming service is attempting to reduce mechanical royalty payments by using 'premium' plans to bundle audiobooks and music. When the lawsuit was announced, MLC CEO Kris Ahrend noted that the MLC, 'is the only entity with the statutory mandate to collect and distribute blanket license royalties and take legal action to enforce royalty payment obligations.' In late January, a judge ruled in favor of Spotify. To Slavin, it's clear indie or self-published musicians are simply not valued within the current ecosystem. 'It feels like they want you to have a publisher that you have to pay your own money to,' he says. 'They really don't want you to be fully independent, even though there's all these claims that they do.' Corso, meanwhile, doesn't want people to read this and think he and his friends are about to get a windfall. (It's not 'quit-your-job money,' Slavin says.) Rather, he sees this as an opportunity to reclaim a bit of their friend's legacy. Brian wouldn't have cared about the money, Corso points out. But he wouldn't have wanted someone else to be credited for him and his friends' work, and he'd want more people to discover what they did together. 'I feel antiquated,' says the 37-year-old Corso. 'I feel past the expiration date in many ways. I'm not connected to this anymore, you know? This is the past. When we were a band, we were just a small-time band. I don't understand the modern era.' For him, the music can sometimes feel like a relic from a lost era: a time when Philly was both vibrant and affordable. Rent was well under $1,000; you could make a living as an artist. Royalties didn't matter, because gigs were enough. Now he's living in Connecticut, not far from Torrington. He's started playing more classical guitar, and he finds himself 'playing around with Brian's style: 'His right-hand picking was relentless, and he had a unique vocabulary of chords in the left hand.' 'I'm trying to sort it out,' Corso adds. 'I still have a shred of hope.' Ken agrees with his son's former bandmates that Brian wouldn't have cared all that much about the money. But he's glad they're pursuing the royalties, and once they finally get paid (which they hope happens soon, now that the dispute is resolved), Ken says they'll be donating some of the money to arts nonprofits in Philly and New Haven, as well as homelessness outreach organizations (another passionate cause of Brian's). Ken explains all of this while cycling through Spotify numbers in his office, though he eventually moves over to one of many Reddit threads discussing Blue Smiley. Someone commented, 'Who?'; Ken downvotes the comment. 'This guy says 'Awesome sauce,'' he says, pointing out another comment. He upvotes that one, along with another that begins, 'One of my favorite bands of all time.' Then he keeps scrolling, while Blue Smiley plays in the background. Best of Rolling Stone The 50 Greatest Eminem Songs All 274 of Taylor Swift's Songs, Ranked The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time
Los Angeles Times
an hour ago
- Los Angeles Times
Recipes for when strawberry season hits peak deliciousness (as in right now)
In California, strawberry fields really are forever. Strawberries are as red as anything could possibly be and, when you get a good one, more fragrant, succulent and flavorful than anything you imagined nature could create by itself. But to a native Southern Californian, strawberries are a bit like earthquakes. We don't give either much thought. (Or at least I don't.) We take the little fruit — so cute with its heart-like shape, candy-apple red, dimpled exterior and charming green toupee (even the flavor-challenged ones look like the cartoon of a strawberry) — for granted. California grows 90% of the nation's strawberries, from as far north as Watsonville in Santa Cruz County to San Diego County. Thanks to the state's strawberry capital, Oxnard, 60 miles north of Los Angeles, we have strawberries year-round. But peak deliciousness, where juicy, bright-red strawberries taste like sun-ripened candy, is right about now through August. Here in Los Angeles, you can't mention strawberries without hearing about Harry's Berries. These strawberries, grown on an organic farm in Oxnard since the late 1960s, run $15 for 1 1/2 pints at farmers markets and up to $20 or more at specialty grocers. TikTok videos — like a lot of TikTok videos — are made where the berry is eaten in front of the camera by a skeptical-turned-drooling content creator. The varieties they grow include Mara des Bois, smaller and more fragrant than conventional strawberries; Seascape; and Gaviotas, a variety developed by the University of California Davis that has become the gold standard if what you're looking for is a plump, red, juicy, sweet strawberry. 'What have we been eating? What are the other strawberries?' asks one content creator as he bites into a Harry's Berries strawberry. But if the price tag scares you — or just turns you off — rest assured there is a delicious strawberry world beyond Harry's Berries. 'My personal favorite strawberry will almost always be the Albion variety from Tamai Family Farms,' says McKenna Lelah, speaking of another variety developed by UC Davis. McKenna, through her company Handpicked by McKenna, buys from farmers markets and sells and delivers to chefs around Los Angeles. 'They have a nice firm texture, and really good strawberry flavor.' McKenna explains what should be obvious but what I'd never really thought about. 'Table shoppers come to farmers markets and ask, 'What's sweet?'' But if you're doing something with the strawberries, like macerating them for strawberry shortcake or making a syrup, jam or dessert sauce, she says, 'You can always make them sweeter. You can't add more strawberry flavor.' I grew up in San Diego County, and whenever I'm there, I make a stop at Chino Ranch, also famous for its strawberries. Like Harry's Berries, Chino Ranch also grows Mara des Bois and Gaviotas, as well as both red and white Alpine strawberries, which are about the size of a thumbnail and come with the greens and a little stem attached. What all of these berries have in common is that when you bite into one of these little gems, they're red all the way through. They have a delicious floral aroma. And the flavor! You instantly become aware that the rest are strawberry impostors: They might be wearing that perfect little strawberry costume, but they have none of the characteristics of an authentic strawberry-flavored strawberry. But, grown for flavor, not shelf-life, these strawberries are also delicate. They bruise easily. And by the time you put them on your counter, they're already sliding down the back side of their lives. Who among us has not come home with a pint or several of not-cheap, gorgeous candy-apple-colored strawberries only to open the fridge the next day to see them looking withered, wilted, bruised, darkened and generally just sad. The trick to stretching their lifespan, explains McKenna, is to take them out of their basket and put them, not touching one another, on a baking sheet lined with paper towels, and then refrigerate. Or just start your strawberry daydreaming on your way home from the market. Strawberry shortcake is, obvi, the classic, but don't let your imagination stop there. If you're a tennis fan, you've likely seen fans at Wimbledon eating strawberries and cream, a tradition celebrating England's short, sweet strawberry season and a good way to go when you basically want to do nothing and let the flavor of the strawberries do all the work. When your strawberries are verging on overripe, the best solution is to get them in a saucepan as quickly as possible. Cook them down with sugar and lemon juice into a dessert sauce or jam or the jammy layer to this ethereal, chocolaty Strawberry Forest Pie. Or make a batch of Spring Negronis and call it a party. Another option when your strawberries are heading toward the compost bin is to save them for another day. Spread them out, not touching one another, on a baking sheet and put them in the freezer. When they're frozen solid, transfer them to a Ziploc bag or covered container and toss a few into smoothies, milkshakes, Strawberry Jamaica Agua Fresca or a mixed berry pie. For all the appreciation I have for strawberries, they may be one fruit that I don't love in savory preparations, such as salad. And I'm just not sure how to feel about Strawberry-Ancho Salsa or this Strawberry-Avocado Salsa. If you're up for it, I applaud your adventurousness. I'll stick with the sweet stuff! Eating out this week? Sign up for Tasting Notes to get our restaurant experts' insights and off-the-cuff takes on where they're dining right now. You can't go wrong with strawberry shortcake. I say that, and yet all strawberry shortcakes went wrong when I was growing up. I would get so excited to see the little round sponge cakes packed in plastic sold next to the strawberries in the summertime. I'd throw them, along with some flavorless berries and a can of whipped cream, into our grocery cart with so much hope and possibility. But when I got home and put them together, I was never not underwhelmed. I'm sure I'll change my mind with this version that includes macerated farmers market strawberries on just-baked cream biscuits, topped with clouds of freshly whipped the recipe. Cooking time: 40 minutes, plus 2 to 4 hours hands-off time to macerate the berries. Serves 4. Full disclosure: I co-authored barman Christiaan Rollich's book, 'Bar Chef,' from which this recipe originates. Of all the recipes in that book that I tested, this is the one that became part of my repertoire. I make a big batch, put it in a glass, flip top bottle and set it out for guests to serve themselves. It's always a hit. And as we Angelenos know, it's not just for springtime!Get the recipe. Cooking time: 2 hours 30 minutes. Makes 9 cocktails. You don't see strawberries in baked goods as much as you do other fruits. This scone recipe, from Sqirl, is flexible – use strawberries, or whatever fruit you have on hand. It does require a sourdough starter (but also provides a recipe). If you don't want to go that far, ask a baking enthusiastic friend or neighbor, and return the favor with the recipe. Cooking time: 1 hour 30 minutes. Makes 8 scones.
New York Post
an hour ago
- New York Post
‘Tone deaf' influencer ripped over mistakenly buying $13K shoes: ‘So many people starving'
A Sydney woman has caused a divide by sharing how she accidentally spent $13,000 on shoes during a cost-of-living crisis. Elle Salagaras, 29, lives in Sydney and runs the popular TikTok account Eastern Suburbs Mum, which has racked up over 2 million likes. While many influencers, particularly mums, build their audience on being relatable, Ms Salagaras instead shares her affluent life with followers. Instead of going with the warts and all social media overshare approach, the 29-year-old is likelier to share content about her Birkin bag. Naturally, she took to social media to share the moment she spent far more than she bargained for at the luxury store Hermes. 3 A Sydney woman has caused a divide by sharing how she accidentally spent $13,000 on shoes during a cost-of-living crisis. TikTok/@elle_easternsuburbsmum Salagaras explained that she decided to purchase a pair of the brand's iconic Chypre Sandals. The starting price for this design is just over $1700, but the cost goes up depending on the material used. The young mum picked up a particularly expensive pair, worth $13,155, made from crocodile and sheep skin. 3 Salagaras explained that she decided to purchase a pair of Hermes' iconic Chypre Sandals. Instagram/@elle_easternsuburbsmum The slides look casual and cosy, not unlike Birkenstocks, but the pair Salagaras purchased cost more than what some people spend on their cars. Salagaras then made a TikTok showing off her new shoes and calling them 'gorg,' but she admitted that she didn't expect to spend that much. After waving the shoes around in front of the camera, she explained that she'd never intended to outlay so much. 3 'We are committing to the shoe. I should have known Hermes,' she said. TikTok/@elle_easternsuburbsmum 'I definitely got very confused about the price, which is my fault. I had heard one number … so embarrassing,' she said. Salagaras said she already had them on her feet when she went to the checkout because she planned to wear them out of the store. When she heard the price, she was thrown, but she just said, 'It's fine,' and bought them anyway. 'We are committing to the shoe. I should have known Hermes,' she said. Salagaras didn't mention how much they cost, but people looked them up and quickly expressed their shock. 'The price. I'm dead,' one wrote. 'The price! Oh my god,' another said. It wasn't just people freaking out over the price, people were also sharing how much they loved the shoes. One praised them as 'so pretty,' and another called them 'stunning,' but others just couldn't get over how much she spent on the sandals. Someone called it 'ridiculous' to spend that much, another called her sharing her expensive shoes 'embarrassing,' and others just claimed the shoes were 'ugly' and certainly not worth the price tag. 'What utter nonsense,' one complained. 'No footwear is worth that amount of money,' someone else argued. 'So many people starving in Australia and she goes and buys these (because) she makes heaps of money from her 52,000 followers. Disgusting,' another complained. Someone else said it was 'tone-deaf' for her to post about spending that much on shoes, and another claimed she was 'showing off,' which they found offensive. Meanwhile, Salagaras wasn't letting the negative feedback get her down. She posted a TikTok of herself dancing with her $13,000 sandals to the tune of Britney Spears.
