There is something perverse and wonderful about opening a record by holding a funeral for the band that made it. “Okkervil River R.I.P.” is the first track on Away (ATO, 2016), and Will Sheff spends its seven minutes burying the project whose name is on the sleeve — gently, unhurriedly, and with the strange lightness that arrives only once you have stopped pretending a thing can be saved.

Ice Cube’s “It Was a Good Day” is one of those rare songs that turns the ordinary into something quietly miraculous. Released in 1992 on The Predator, it trades the confrontational fury Cube had built his name on for a single, almost tender daydream: a day in South Central where nothing goes wrong.

“Highwayman” gathers four of country music’s most unmistakable voices — Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings, and Johnny Cash — and lets each one take a turn as the same restless soul reborn across the centuries. Released in 1985, it gave the supergroup its name and a number one single, with Cash closing the song as a starship pilot still wandering, still unfinished.

Released in 1977, Refavela is the album Gilberto Gil made after returning from FESTAC '77 in Lagos. The middle panel of his Refazenda–Refavela–Realce trilogy, it trades the agrarian openness of the first record for the dense, syncretic life of the Brazilian periphery, refracted through a freshly encountered West Africa.

There are songs that belong to rooms, and there are songs that belong to the road. America's "Ventura Highway" is of the latter kind — a song that seems to have been written not at a desk but behind the wheel, somewhere between the last town and the next horizon. Released in 1972 on their album Homecoming, the track is a sun-drenched reverie, all fingerpicked guitars and unhurried harmonies, drifting along like the very breeze it describes.

Going out on your own terms takes a particular kind of grace, and A Tribe Called Quest managed exactly that with The Love Movement in 1998. Their fifth and final studio album arrived quietly, without the fanfare their earlier records had demanded — and "Find a Way," featuring Raphael Saadiq, is perhaps its most tender statement.

The way David Byrne delivers "Heaven" in Stop Making Sense is quietly devastating. Stripped of the nervous energy that defines so much of Talking Heads' catalog, the song arrives like a pause in the middle of a storm — unhurried, almost hymn-like, and deeply aware of its own irony.

Léo Ferré was many things — anarchist, composer, poet, provocateur — but above all, he was a man who wielded words like weapons and caresses in equal measure. "Poète... vos papiers !" takes its title from the bureaucratic demand for identification papers, turned here into a defiant rallying cry: who dares ask a poet to justify their existence? The phrase alone captures Ferré's lifelong tension between the deeply lyrical and the fiercely political, a duality that made him one of the most singular voices in the French chanson tradition.

Martin Scorsese’s portrait of the New York mob is built on proximity and privilege, and nowhere is that clearer than in the Copacabana walk, where a single, fluid take turns back corridors, kitchens, and small gestures into a demonstration of power, confidence, and belonging. Cinema doing exactly what it does best.

Marcel Proust saw this in The Hague and wrote to a friend that he had seen the most beautiful painting in the world. When it came to Paris in 1921 he went again, ailing, and then put the visit in his novel: the writer Bergotte collapses and dies in front of it, eyes fixed on a little patch of yellow wall, repeating to himself that this is how he should have written.