As music migrated online, record labels became unnecessary, CD sales became meaningless and with the sloppy, stilted release of “The Life of Pablo,” Kanye West pioneered a new change—the in-progress album that gets finished in public.

Over Spring Break, I took off all my clothes in public. See, I date a woman who is a bit more adventurous than I am. And she wanted to go to Bonny Doon, a nude beach in Santa Cruz

Rap has entered its Punk age. The once-groundbreaking genre has been codified after nearly three decades.

"We need to understand why people think what they do, then respond to them without force, malice or guilt-tripping. Amens from the choir feel good, but they’re empty if non-believers don’t convert."

In front of a sold-out-in-fifteen-minutes Madison Square Garden, Earth’s most vocal, caustic genius showcased his third fashion line and seventh solo album, “The Life of Pablo.”

The contorting gymnasts have been a troupe for 30 years, but their art dates back before Christ’s birth. During the Han Dynasty, these folk Chinese amusements supplanted stuffy formal court entertainment.

The 2016 election boils down to the group Americans find more dangerous: poor, brown people or rich, white people. Trump has built a case for the latter. That clementine-colored windbag whips up racist fury with half-baked, blistering attacks on immigrants, refugees and Muslims who haven’t really done anything.

Humans domesticated dogs 15,000 years ago. The pseudo-wolves found nuzzling and cuddling for scraps of meat easier than the hassle of hunting. Humans have since monkeyed with the genetics of a bunch of beasts for a bunch of purposes, but have boosted the diversity of canines with a special fervor.

Before “The Big One,” San Francisco’s New Year’s Eve concert, I was drinking White Russians when my favorite black American, Kanye West, released a new song, “Facts.”

Drake poured a dumptruck of cement around the foundations of his stardom with “Hotline Bling.” In the delightfully self-indulgent music video, Drake executes alone-in-your-bedroom dance moves, shimmies in glowing interdimensional gaps and nestles into the convexities and concavities of cartoonishly thick women.

Bieber became enviable as Youtube’s first bonafide star, flipping some pre-pubescent covers into a spot under Usher’s cologned, leather wing. His seven-song debut EP, “My World” went platinum. All seven songs charted. No other musician has done that on their first try.

Dia de Los Muertos and metal music both celebrate death. So Metalachi, “The World’s First and Only Heavy Metal Mariachi Band,” made an appropriate headliner last Friday at the Ritz in Downtown San Jose. The band pumps out suave, yet worshipful mushings of the two genres.

Nerds kill the fun of space flicks. They cross-reference the physics of every interstellar explosion or derring-do flight maneuver, and howl with fury when they find an error. They demand accuracy, and film directors risk mockery if they don’t deliver. This might be for the best.

Last Saturday at the Ritz in downtown San Jose, the 78-year-old renal cancer survivor and surf rock pioneer unleashed a torrent of unparalleled prowess.