A nation’s uncertain future.

A trip to Kingston, Jamaica to track down Bunny Wailer, a reggae legend now living “in his own private Zion.”

Insane birthers and Glenn Beck-worshipping tea-partiers, proud racists and gun-toting antigovernment loons—they’re all here, and they’re all angry about something.

A visit to the Christian rock Cross-Over Festival in Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri.

The roots musician is inspired by the evolving legacy of the black string band.

“The palace doors flew open. It was him. It was Rick Owens, the American-born designer known to his fans as the Lord of Darkness.”

Glory, grief, and the race for the Triple Crown.

An essay about the weeks after the author’s brother nearly died.

The outsized legacy of the emo rapper who always said he would die young.

A journey to Disney World with kids and weed.

The revival of a landmark 1921 musical opens a door on the deep and twisted roots of black performance in America.

The liberation of the Williams sisters.

Memories of living with the writer Andrew Lytle late in his life.

On the origin of the essay.

A profile of the novelist, who is surprised to be alive.

On the trail of the phantom women who changed American music and vanished without a trace.

On Michael Jackson’s talent.

Investigating ska’s moment of conception.

Life after The Real World.

A non-erotic journey.

Listening to the Big Star songwriter, who left the group before dying in a solo car crash at 27.

His voice, on the recordings, is too sensitive. That's meant not as an aesthetic judgment. It wasn't too sensitive for the material, in other words. It was too sensitive for life. You listen to him sing, closely, and if you don't know another thing about what happened to him, you know that the guy with that voice is not going to last.

Life after a stint on The Real World.

An essay on heritage, history and literature.

When your house is the set of One Tree Hill:

On one shoot, I remember, I'd been confused about where they needed to set up (confession: hungover), and as a result neglected to clean the bedroom. Later, a crew guy—the same one who'd told me about Blue Velvet—said, "I'm not used to picking up other people's underwear." I felt like saying, Then don't go into their bedrooms at nine o'clock in the morning! Except… he was paying to be in my bedroom.