singer

“Well, I guess it’s a brother thing.”

The Black Crowes singer Chris Robinson is reflecting on his rollercoaster relationship with his younger sibling, guitarist Rich.

Their explosive chemistry once earned the outfit a fitting accolade — “The Most Rock ’n’ Roll Rock ’n’ Roll Band in the World”.

Chris is first to admit they’ve had their ups and downs since forming in 1984 under their original name, Mr Crowe’s Garden, as schoolkids in Atlanta, Georgia.

“Rich and I, for better or worse, were stubborn and arrogant but always strong believers in the art,” he admits.

“This has always been our path and, no matter what, we have to do it like this.

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“In rock ’n’ roll, there are plenty of show dogs, pure bred and beautiful. We’re f***ing feral.”

Following in the footsteps of other warring brothers — Ray and Dave Davies or Noel and Liam Gallagher — the Robinsons weren’t on speaking terms for five years after their so-called “contractual obligations” tour ended in 2014.

“Sometimes, you have to take your lumps,” continues Chris, employing that very American phrase for suffering setbacks. “But, right now, we’re in the zone. The chemistry is 100 per cent there.

“The way we feel goes right back to when we started — it’s f*** it, just play it — even if we are more well-mannered.”

The Black Crowes’ big reunion began in late 2019 with warm-up shows for a planned 30th anniversary tour of their debut album, the seminal Shake Your Money Maker, the following year.

But the pandemic slammed on the brakes before the dates finally happened across the US in 2021, uncorking the band’s celebrated freewheeling energy.

Back to the live arena came Jealous Again, Hard To Handle, She Talks To Angels and Twice As Hard, songs that somehow bottled up the band’s influences — Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones and Little Feat among them — but still refreshingly their own.

In 2024, with their creative juices flowing, The Black Crowes released their first album of original material in 15 years, Happiness Bastards.

Now the Robinsons are back again — with a bang.

The follow-up, A Pound Of Feathers, comes tearing out of the blocks with the rocket-fuelled, riff-driven Profane Prophecy, setting the tone for another of The Black Crowes’ “love letters to rock and roll”.

The album arrives with some sound advice — “This isn’t a record you play on Sunday morning, this is a f***ing Saturday night burner!”

In a world where smoothly produced pop dominates the airwaves, The Black Crowes are unashamedly sticking two fingers up at it.

“None of what’s going on in that world is relevant to me,” decides Chris, “and rock ’n’ roll is still huge for millions and millions of people.”

He is talking to me via video call from Aspen, Colorado, the premier ski resort in the States, playground of the rich and famous.

“My wife is an avid skier. She’s the Franz Klammer of the family,” he reports with a reference to the Austrian downhill legend.

“I get to do the cooking, the reading and the hanging out.” (And talking to people like me about The Black Crowes). Brother Rich is at home in Nashville and begins his call by apologising for being under the weather.

“I’m going to be coughing randomly,” he says. “I’m in the middle of flu that’s going around.”

After clearing his throat, Rich, the less flamboyant one who lets his guitar wizardry do most of his talking, gamely picks up on Chris’s theme.

“When we got back together, we both agreed we needed to do it properly,” he affirms.

“We knew that bringing back a toxic dynamic wouldn’t be healthy for anyone.

“We couldn’t have the overarching idea that when Chris and Rich get together, it’s a bad thing.

“We’ve always written all the songs, we own the name so coming back with a more mature approach has been very helpful.”

Rich acknowledges that the music landscape for the older, wiser Black Crowes is vastly different from when they started out. “There’s a bunch of people in the industry who like to think rock ’n’ roll is dead,” he says.

“But then there’s a bunch of people trying to keep it alive. Guns N’ Roses, the Rolling Stones, Metallica and Def Leppard are still selling out stadiums.

“Tens of millions of people still want to see bands like them. Rock ’n’ roll is one thing that no one could tame.

“And it’s still like that for us. We can go into a studio with almost nothing and, in a week, make a record.

“There’s a human, organic quality to rock ’n’ roll. We don’t have auto-tune and we don’t have to set our s**t to a grid.”

Looking back at their unfettered past, Chris exclaims: “I have to say I’m so f***ing proud of The Black Crowes, man!

“Rich and I started this band when we were teenagers in Mom and Dad’s house, as a vehicle to write songs.

“And we found our way to being musicians and performers.”

Yet the creation of A Pound Of Feathers has still blown Chris away, most notably because of the stellar contributions from Rich.

The album was made in double-quick time, carried along by the brothers’ spontaneous fusion of riffs and lyrics.

Chris says: “I’ve been on stage and sat in studios my whole life with my brother playing amazing guitar.

“But, with this album, I sat there with my mouth hanging open.

“Granted I’m very close to the flame but everything he did, I was like, ‘Wow, this guy’s taking it to a new place.’”

During the sessions, The Black Crowes were visited by Chris’s friend, Todd Snider, the singer/songwriter who died last November from pneumonia aged just 59.

Chris cherished the chance to hang out with Todd — and to get some memorable feedback from him.

“He was a storyteller, a real poet, and he and I had a great friendship. He also really liked The Black Crowes.

“He asked if he could come and check out the recording. I went, ‘Dude, yeah fine, but you’re going to be the only one here’. So he sat there taking in me and Rich putting music together.

“At the end of the day, he said, ‘Are you f***ing warlocks? Is this some kind of ESP or is it a parlour trick? You don’t say anything yet, 30 minutes later, there’s this massive song blasting out of the speakers’.”

For Rich, the studio is his happy place. “I’ve always loved being in a studio,” he says.

“It’s where you bring to ­fruition all the things you have in your head.

“With this record, we came in without any concrete ideas. By allowing ourselves just to play in the sandbox, it became fun and exciting.”

Rich gives a shoutout to producer Jay Joyce, who also helmed Happiness Bastards.

He says: “Nine and a half times out of ten, he agrees with us when we’re excited about something.

“He’s there with us, not bogging us down by trying to insert himself when its unnecessary.”

So what of the songs? There’s the aforementioned opener Profane Prophecy which captures the unvarnished sound of The Black Crowes’ live mayhem, yet recorded in the calmer confines of a studio.

You hear Chris nodding to past rock ’n’ roll excesses by hollering, tongue firmly in cheek, “My pedigree in debauchery is my claim to fame.”

He smiles, “Of course I have to embrace that life. That’s why I sing, ‘I eat casino breakfast off the kitchen floor’.”

But he maintains that while giving “a vision of a debauched rock ’n’ roller”, he’s also “confusing fact with fiction”.

The four-minute shindig concludes with the ensemble chant of the phrase that yielded the album title, “a pound of feathers or a pound of lead”.

Chris got the line from In Here The World Begins, a song by long-defunct British electro-pop band Broadcast.

“I loved the phrase and what it could mean because a pound is a pound,” he says. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s lead or feathers. There’s some weird wisdom to it.”

We turn our attention to Cruel Streak, pounding rock underpinned by funky rhythm.

“I’m adjacent to funk at all times,” says Chris. “Growing up in Atlanta, there was this multi­racial band called Mother’s Finest who played heavy funk with ‘Baby Jean’ Kennedy as lead singer.

“There’s a lot of Mother’s Finest in The Black Crowes.”

On the R&B-flavoured It’s Like That, which comes with heavy basslines and a hint of reggae, the brothers employed an amphibian guest, which, as Chris explains, fits with their anything goes attitude.

“I was staying in Nashville, and the doors were open. I heard this frog, so I recorded him. That’s my Nashville rasta frog on the solo.”

Rich says: “There are tree frogs all over the South. They were blaring one night and Chris said, ‘Man, I want to use that sound’.

“So he took his phone and pressed record. We found the right space for it on the song.” On the loose, laidback country-tinged Pharmacy Chronicles, recalling the vibe of the Rolling Stones’ Exile On Main St., Chris sings “let the demons find you” because, he insists, we mustn’t think everything is “sugar-coated, glossy and gorgeous”.

“Especially something as messy as a 40-year career in rock ’n’ roll,” he adds. “I can’t believe some of the s**t I was doing. Get some surgical gloves and get to it!”

But Chris is not one to dwell on the past, with all its euphoric highs and crashing lows. “I am devoid of nostalgia,” he says.

“I like to think I interact with the world as a poet. I’m always writing — it could be because I overheard a conversation at an airport check-in.

“I’m no Bruce Springsteen,” he confesses. “But I connect with the world through whatever inspires me.”

And, as he puts it, “a lot of the darkness that is the United States right now” informs A Pound Of Feathers.

It explains why final track Doomsday Doggerel with its line “a front row seat to the end of times” is in stark contrast to the closing song on Happiness Bastards.

“On that last record, Kindred Friend was a beautiful pastoral thing with harmonica, about me and Rich, the band and our audience,” says Chris.

“Doomsday Doggerel is much darker. We haven’t remembered lessons from our past and the f***ing racism means we’re operating at a very low frequency.

“I just hope that someone can play this record on a Saturday night, keep out the low frequency and get a better hum going.”

As Pharmacy Chronicles ebbs to a close, you hear a defiant chorus of “the good times never end”.

As far as Chris and Rich and the rest of The Black Crowes family are concerned, rock ’n’ roll is the perfect antidote to personal and universal turmoil.

“We’re loud, we can be sloppy but we are like an old cartoon of two people fighting on a train,” says Chris.

“The train goes round a bend, leaning all the way over a cliff, but then it comes back up. That’s us.”

THE BLACK CROWES

A Pound Of Feathers

★★★★☆

For the third year in a row, De Los, the Latino-centric vertical of the Los Angeles Times, will be returning to South by Southwest in Austin, Texas, and things are a little different this time around. While the music portion of the festival has typically been given its own weekend to shine, in 2026, it’ll be “folded into” a week-long event alongside film, TV and interactive programming.

But despite these changes, one thing is clear: After a banner year for Latin music at SXSW in 2025, it seems like everyone’s doubled down in 2026, with the festival welcoming a historic number of Latin artists to Austin. That includes the De Los showcase.

If our 2024 event was more of an intimate kickback, 2025 was an all-out party. Thanks to energetic sets from acts like trap corrido pioneers Arsenal Efectivo and the clashing cumbia punk stylings of Sultanes del Yonke, the crowd was up on their feet dancing, twirling and even forming a mosh pit at one point — all into the early hours of the morning. We hope to bring those same vibes back to SXSW this year.

If you’re in Austin for the festival, join us at Mala Fama, located at 422 E. 6th St., Austin, on Sunday, March 15 starting at 8 p.m. As always, the festival is a great opportunity to discover new artists and exciting new sounds, so whether or not you’ll be joining us in Texas, we hope this lineup might inspire you to find a new favorite artist, song or band.

Here’s who’s playing at the 2026 De Los showcase.

Hermanos Espinoza

With their South Texas upbringing (Puro 956!), it shouldn’t come as a surprise that this duo’s Norteño sound has plenty of Tejano flair too. Hailing from Edinburg, brothers Joel and Leonel Espinoza broke out not long after making their debut in 2022, when their song “Prueba de Fuego” hit more than 100 million streams. Their lively, accordion-rich music feels classic enough to be right at home on the playlist for your next carne asada.

Noteworthy track: “Dios por Delante”

Vanita Leo

Music is in Vanita Leo’s DNA. Born and raised in San Antonio, the singer’s father and aunt are both Tejano musicians who inspired Leo to take up the family mantle and put her own spin on the genre. With a love for the old-school sound of the 1990s, Leo manages to weave together her flirty, unserious humor with vintage romance, writing songs that’ll either validate your heartbreak over a bad ex or have you ready to dance it off and forget they ever existed.

Noteworthy track: “Caballito”

Tropa Magica

The second sibling duo on our lineup, Tropa Magica is the brainchild of brothers David and Rene Pacheco. Their signature sound, much like the East L.A. neighborhood they grew up in, is a melting pot of influences, combining old-school cumbias, ’90s grunge, and psychedelic rock into something completely unique to them. Since coming onto the scene in 2018, the band has gotten the stamp of approval from established acts like Bomba Estéreo, Los Tigres Del Norte and Chicano Batman.

Noteworthy track: “Ojos de Lágrimas”

Eddy

This is set to be Eddy’s year. Born Eduardo Hernández Payán, Eddy first made waves when he was discovered by corridos singer-songwriter Diego Millán (Calle 24) and signed to his Ondeados Mafia label. Last year, he built up a reputation for being an artist to watch in the Regional Mexican space thanks to collaborations with Gabito Ballesteros and Ed Maverick. Now, Eddy is prepping for the release of his debut album, “Náufrago,” later this month.

Noteworthy track: “Ultimo Cigarro”

Nezza

Many of you might know Nezza from her viral moment last summer, when she went viral for singing the national anthem in Spanish at Dodger Stadium — her form of protest against the immigration raids that had been taking place all over L.A. But just take a listen to the Dominican-Colombian singer’s original music, and you’ll see that she’s much more than a viral moment. With her Spanglish lyrics, soulful vocals and glittery production, Nezza has her sights set on international pop stardom.

Noteworthy track: “Tasty”

Tommy DeCarlo, a longtime fan of Boston who became the classic rock band’s lead singer in the late 2000s, has died. He was 60.

DeCarlo died Monday following a battle with brain cancer, his family announced on Facebook.

“[H]e fought with incredible strength and courage right up until the very end,” the family’s statement said. “During this difficult time, we kindly ask that friends and fans respect our family’s privacy as we grieve and support one another.”

Born April 23, 1965, in Utica, N.Y., DeCarlo said he first started listening to Boston — the 1970s rock band known for its instrumental overtures and hits including “More Than a Feeling,” “Don’t Look Back” and “Peace of Mind” — as a young teenager, according to the group’s website. The vocalist credited his love for Boston’s original frontman Brad Delp and his desire to sing along with him on the radio for helping to develop his own singing voice.

After Delp’s death in 2007, DeCarlo, then a manager at a Home Depot, sent a link to his MySpace page filled with Boston covers as well as an original song in tribute to Delp to the Boston camp, hoping for a chance to participate in a tribute show for the singer. They kindly turned down his offer.

But eventually, Boston founder and lead songwriter Tom Scholz heard DeCarlo’s cover of “Don’t Look Back” and invited the singer to perform a few songs with the band at the tribute. That tribute show would be DeCarlo’s first time ever performing with any band in front of a crowd, but it wouldn’t be his last. He continued to perform with the band at live shows for years, and even joined them on some tracks for their 2013 album, “Life, Love & Hope.”

DeCarlo also formed the band Decarlo with his son, guitarist Tommy DeCarlo Jr. In October, the singer announced he was stepping away from performing due to “unexpected health issues.”

“[P]erforming and sharing music with all of you around the world has been one of the greatest joys of my life,” DeCarlo wrote in his Facebook post. “I can’t thank you all enough for the incredible love, support, and understanding you’ve shown me and my family during this time. It truly means the world to us.”

SINGER Adriana Araujo has died of a brain aneurysm just six years after finding fame for her inspiring performances during Covid lockdown.

Adriana tragically collapsed at home on Saturday night and was rushed to hospital in a “very serious and irreversible” condition.

The chanteuse remained in a coma from an aneurysm which caused “extensive bleeding” to the brain.

Sadly, she passed away at the Odilon Behrens Metropolitan Hospital in Belo Horizonte, Brazil, on Monday.

She was just 49.

Adriana, who had over 70,000 Instagram followers, was considered one of the leading stars of Brazil’s samba scene.

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She was raised in the favela of Pedreira Prado Lopes in Belo Horizonte, taking part in Afro dance and theatre workshops in the community.

Adriana launched her solo career in 2020 during the Covid-19 pandemic.

She performed concerts for the local community from her rooftop and livestreamed them to her growing online audience.

Her lockdown shows helped to raise funds for poor families in the Primeiro de Maio and São Marcos neighbourhoods.

In 2021, the samba star released her album Minha Verdade (My Truth), bringing together her own compositions and collaborations.

The album addressed themes such as Black pride, ancestry, love, and motherhood.

Following her death, the singer’s team said in a statement: “Today we say goodbye to our beloved Adriana Araújo.

“Adriana was much more than a great voice of samba, she had a warm embrace, an easy smile, a generous heart, and a joy for life that illuminated everyone around her.

“Samba will deeply feel her absence.”

She leaves behind her husband Evaldo and son Daniel.

Four siblings who were part of Michael Jackson’s secret “second family” have filed a lawsuit revealing the depths of the alleged sexual abuse they suffered as children, including claims that the singer molested one of the boys at the homes of Elton John and Elizabeth Taylor.

The lawsuit, filed against Jackson’s estate in California’s Central District Court on Friday, accuses the late singer of grooming, drugging, raping and sexually assaulting four of the Cascio children — Edward, Dominic, Marie-Nicole and Aldo — over the course of more than a decade, beginning when some of them were as young as 7. A fifth sibling, Frank Cascio, is not a plaintiff in the lawsuit.

The pop icon used code phrases such as “Can I have a meeting,” “Yogi Tea,” “Neverland,” and “Go to Disneyland” to encourage the children to engage in “extreme sex acts” with him, the suit alleges. He plied them with wine — “Jesus Juice” — and hard liquor — “Disney Juice “ — and used drugs to make them more compliant, according to the lawsuit.

The “Thriller” singer’s connection to the Cascio family began in the 1980s when he met their father, Dominic Cascio Sr., at a luxury hotel in New York where the father worked.

The lawsuit accuses Jackson of “insinuating himself” into the Cascio family by using “obsessive attention, lavish gifts, access to his celebrity lifestyle, and declarations that he loved and needed each of them.” He invited them to travel around the world with him and celebrated Thanksgiving, Christmas and his own birthday with them. He often spent long periods of time at their New Jersey home, where he also brought his own children, according to the complaint.

The chart-topping artist is accused of raping and molesting Edward “Eddie” Cascio at Elizabeth Taylor’s house in Switzerland as well as at Elton John’s home in the United Kingdom. Representatives for Jackson’s estate, Taylor’s estate and John did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

The complaint alleges that the late singer abused the four siblings at international and national tour stops as well as at his Santa Barbara County estate, Neverland Ranch. That property became a central focus of the 2019 documentary “Leaving Neverland,” in which two of Jackson’s accusers, Wade Robson and James Safechuck, detail the abuse they suffered as children.

The complaint states that Jackson’s staff would help conceal and normalize his abuse of the Cascios; employees would deliberately book the parents hotel rooms away from their children, the suit says, so they could not tell how much time Jackson was spending with them.

The entertainer showed the siblings pornography and photos of naked children to desensitize them, the complaint alleges. He told them that his life, their lives and that of their family members would be destroyed if people knew what was going on.

“He told them to stay away from therapists and to avoid women, who he told them were ‘evil,’ ‘sneaky,’ ‘liars,’ and could ‘smell’ if something sexual had happened,” the complaint states.

For decades after the initial 1993 sexual assault claim against Jackson surfaced, the Cascio family did not speak up against the singer.

The performer convinced the parents to withdraw Aldo Cascio and Marie-Nicole Cascio from school on two occasions to “prevent disclosure of the abuse and gain more access to them,” the complaint alleges. The second time was shortly after authorities raided Neverland Ranch in 2003.

The Cascios’ longtime relationship with the superstar became known to the public when they appeared on Oprah in 2010.

During the appearance, they were billed as Jackson’s secret “second family” and said that they were reluctant to come forward but wanted to “show the world who Michael really was.” At the time, the family said that the siblings were never abused and that they didn’t believe the accusations against Jackson.

As the four siblings aged and exposés such as “Leaving Neverland” came out, their statements about their childhood relationship with the pop star shifted. In 2019, several members of the Cascio family entered a confidential settlement agreement with Jackson’s estate agreeing to remain silent about their relationship to the singer.

That agreement provided for Jackson’s estate to pay each sibling five annual payments of about $690,000 as compensation “for the many years that Jackson abused each of them and that the Jackson Organization enabled and covered up the abuse,” according to the complaint. The Cascios say that this amount is “wholly inadequate,” noting that the singer reportedly paid $25 million in 1994 to settle the abuse allegations made against him in 1993.

Now, the four siblings are challenging the agreement as part of their recently filed lawsuit, alleging that they were coerced into signing it without understanding their rights.

“Buried within the Document’s legalese was a purported release of the Estate from liability for Jackson’s crimes, and language that prohibited Plaintiffs from reporting Jackson’s crimes to law enforcement or anyone saying anything negative about Jackson, or holding the Estate accountable in court for its and Jackson’s wrongdoing,” the complaint alleges.

Marty Singer, an attorney for Jackson’s estate, decried the lawsuit as “a desperate money grab” in a statement to People. A representative for Singer did not immediately respond to The Times’ request for comment.

“The family staunchly defended Michael Jackson for more than 25 years, attesting to his innocence of inappropriate conduct,” Singer told People. “This new court filing is a transparent forum-shopping tactic in their scheme to obtain hundreds of millions of dollars from Michael’s estate and companies.”

The four Cascio siblings are asking a jury to award them financial damages — including some potentially tripled damages because they were abused as children — over their allegations of sexual abuse and cover-up. They are also asking the court to throw out the 2019 agreement they say was used to silence them and are also seeking a ruling that the estate cannot force their claims into private arbitration.

D4vd is the “target” of a Los Angeles County criminal jury investigation into the death of a teenage girl. The singer’s star was on the rise, with a global tour in his future, before the discovery of the girl’s remains in the front trunk of his Tesla.

The singer, whose real name is David Burke, has been the subject of the probe since November, months after the dismembered body of 14-year-old Celeste Rivas Hernandez was found in the car after it was towed off a street in Hollywood.

According to a grand jury subpoena seeking to have Burke’s father, mother and brother testify in L.A., the musician is described as “Target David Burke,” who may have committed a criminal offense in California, “to wit: One count of Murder.”

The document was part of a legal challenge to the subpoenas filed by the singer’s family in Texas. The newly unsealed documents reveal that, when Los Angeles police opened up the Tesla trunk, they found “a black cadaver bag covered with insects and a strong odor of decay” inside. Investigators had been granted a search warrant to look in the vehicle Sept. 8 after a tow yard worker noticed a rotting smell emanating from the vehicle.

According to the document, detectives partially unzipped the bag and found “a decomposed head and torso.”

Criminalists and medical examiners then processed the body.

“Upon removing the cadaver bag from the front storage compartment, it was discovered the arms and legs had been severed from the body,” the subpoenas noted. “A second black bag was discovered underneath the cadaver bag. Upon opening the second bag, the dismembered body parts were discovered.”

Los Angeles County Deputy Dist. Atty. Beth Silverman issued the subpoenas on Jan. 15, with Superior Court judge Craig Richman approving them.

The First Court of Appeals in Texas on Feb. 9 denied petitions from the three Burke family members to ignore the subpoenas.

Months have passed since the gruesome discovery of the remains of Celeste Rivas Hernandez. Although the LAPD has publicly declined to characterize the girl’s death as a homicide, an LAPD detective referred to the case as a murder investigation in a court filing.

In November, prosecutors began presenting evidence to a grand jury, described at the time as an investigative grand jury, according to a source who spoke on the condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to discuss the case with the media.

Since then, numerous witnesses have been called in to testify, among those, one of the musician’s managers. A friend of D4vd, Neo Langston, was arrested in Montana after ignoring a subpoena and was recently forced to return to L.A. to testify.

In a Texas appeals court footnote, the court refers specifically to the singer’s true name. The court states that the “underlying case” is “The People of the State of California v. David Burke,” pending in the 506th District Court of Waller County, Texas, with Judge Gary W. Chaney presiding. There is no public case with that name, but grand jury proceedings are confidential.

The singer’s father, Dawud, mother, Colleen, and brother, Caleb, reside in Texas, according to court records. Lawyers for the trio could not be reached for comment.

Detectives have spent months investigating the circumstances surrounding the girl’s death, as well as her relationship with D4vd.

His Tesla sat abandoned on a street in the Hollywood Hills for several weeks — potentially months — before its removal.

Authorities uncovered Celeste’s body the day after her 15th birthday. Her family had previously reported her missing.

L.A. Police Capt. Scot Williams, who leads the Robbery-Homicide Division, said the girl had been “dead for at least several weeks.” Williams said the body had not been decapitated or frozen, as some news outlets have reported.

Detectives determined that the Tesla had been parked on Bluebird Avenue since late July — around the time D4vd began a national tour. The tour was canceled soon after the death investigation drew worldwide media attention.

Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis” is a grand mass for large orchestra, chorus and four vocal soloists that lasts around 80 minutes. It was written near the end of Beethoven’s life and is his most ambitious work musically and spiritually. “Coming from the heart, may it go to the heart,” he wrote on the first page of the score.

The Beethoven biographer Jan Swafford put it this way: “ ‘Missa Solemnis’ is Beethoven talking to God, man to man. And what they talked about is peace. Creation was for Beethoven’s the magnificence in the world which we inhabit; ‘Missa Solemnis’ is meant to keep it thus.”

Yet among Beethoven’s major works, “Missa Solemnis” is, by far, the least performed, and not merely because of the need for large forces. Conductors struggle to get a handle on its mysteries and intricacies. Upon turning 70 last year, Simon Rattle contended “Missa Solemnis” remains beyond him. Upon his reaching 70, Michael Tilson Thomas made a momentous meal of “Missa Solemnis” 11 years ago with a staged performance with the Los Angeles Philharmonic at Walt Disney Concert Hall.

Gustavo Dudamel, who has been conducting Beethoven since he was a teen, waited until he passed his 45th birthday last month. His first “Missa Solemnis” performances over the weekend at Disney were the centerpiece of his month-long L.A. Phil focus on Beethoven.

That venture began a week earlier with a political statement. Beethoven’s incidental music to Goethe’s drama of liberation, “Egmont,” was updated with a new text that served as an urgent call for protest in our own era of authoritarianism and militarism. Here, Beethoven exerts a compulsion for triumphant glory.

The glory in “Missa Solemnis” is that of stupefaction. By this point in his life, Beethoven has had it with weapons, the drumbeat of soldiers, the addictive emotion of trumpet calls to action. His man-to-man with God is celestial diplomacy. There is no compromise. We either care, at all costs, for our magnificent world or nothing matters.

Dudamel clearly cares. He conducted the massive mass from memory. And costs be damned. He imported from Spain two spectacular choruses — Orfeó Català and Cor de Cambra del Palau de la Música Catalana — a total of some 130 singers who sounded like they had rehearsed for months under their impressive director, Xavier Puig. The four soloists — soprano Pretty Yende, mezzo-soprano Sarah Saturnino, tenor SeokJong Baek and bass Nicholas Brownlee — were needfully robust and powerful. They were placed mid-orchestra, behind the violas and bravely in front of the timpani.

“Missa Solemnis” follows the standard mass text but doesn’t necessarily follow the liturgical narrative. It is a work of theater, dramatizing feelings, as the earlier Disney staging attempted. Director Peter Sellars and conductor Teodor Currentzis have also been promising a major staged “Missa Solemnis” for many years.

The Kyrie opens with a strong D-major chord in the large orchestra that seems an obvious downbeat but turns out to be an upbeat. Down is up. Eighty or more minutes later at the end of the Agnus Dei, when the great plea for peace reaches its ultimate transcendence, up becomes, in one of the most profoundly unsettling moments in all music, down again. We never fully know where we stand in “Missa Solemnis.” Every expectation is thwarted. Beethovenian peace is a nearly superhuman endeavor.

Gustavo Dudamel conducts L.A. Phil, vocal soloists and Catalan choruses in Beethoven’s ‘Missa Solemnis’ at Walt Disney Concert Hall.

(David Butow / For The Times)

Dudamel‘s approach is to attempt the all-encompassing. He conducted without a baton but with his body. His arms were often open and wide as if embracing the musician masses on the stage, holding the whole world in his hands. Tidiness wasn’t necessarily the issue. Grandeur was. Molding sound was. And, of course, awe.

Throughout his career, Beethoven was the overwhelming master of awe. In “Missa Solemnis,” he out-glories the Gloria. His fugues are a draftsman’s rendering of heavenly splendor. Such awe asks for the superhuman from singers, especially in this ensemble from their ravishing high notes.

But Beethoven also questions every sentiment in the Mass. Grandeur can so suddenly turn solemn that it feels almost a ceremonial sleight of hand. In the Sanctus, a solo violin sails in from nowhere (“descending like a dove from heaven,” Hugh MacDonald nicely puts it in the program note), and suddenly we’re in a violin concerto with vocal soloists of transcendent allure.

The Agnus Dei begins in glum realization that there may be no compensation for humanity’s great sins when, again astonishingly without expectation, one of Beethoven’s uniquely wondrous melodies takes over. Saber-rattling trumpet and timpani intrude and are shushed away as worthless. Peace returns but just as it is about to climax it weakens. There is no grand Beethoven ending. “Missa Solemnis” just stops.

Dudamel’s approach was not, as his Beethoven has generally become, filled with fervent intensity in the moment. That may happen as he gains more experience with Beethoven’s most exigent score. The big moments were still huge, especially with the help of his fabulous chorus. The somber moments were well of the heart. There was eloquent solo playing in the orchestra, and extravagance from the solo singers.

Most unusual was the violin solo. The L.A. Phil is in a concertmaster search, and Alan Snow, the associate concertmaster of the Minnesota Symphony, sat in. He brought silken “descending dove” tone to his solo playing, but at low tone becoming more a voice from afar than soloist. Whether that is simply his sound or what Dudamel was after is, like so much in the “Missa Solemnis,” up to question. Still, its quiet exemplified the elusive essence of peace.

When Dudamel first walked on stage, he got, as he always does and especially in his last season as music director, a strong ovation. At the end of “Missa Solemnis,” the reaction was a respectful standing ovation, unlike the de rigueur rapturous reception he always earns with Beethoven.

Dudamel earned something far more rewarding. It wasn’t a moment for cheering but reflection. True peace in “Missa Solemnis” comes not from winning but from ending conflict, be it between nations, nature or among ourselves. We have as yet too little to celebrate.

Willie Colón, a legendary trombonist and pioneer of salsa music, has died. He was 75.

His death on Saturday was confirmed in a Facebook post by his longtime manager, Pietro Carlos.

News of the singer’s condition circulated on the web in recent days. Yonkers Voice News reported Colón was admitted to NewYork-Presbyterian Westchester hospital in Bronxville, N.Y., on Tuesday with respiratory problems and he appeared fragile.

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Born William Anthony Colón Román on April 28, 1950, to Puerto Rican parents in New York City, Colón first picked up the trumpet in school. It seemed like a natural choice for the former bugle-playing Boy Scout, who attended the youth program at the suggestion of his grandmother.

“So I could learn how to be a good boy,” said Colón in a 1988 interview with Associated Press.

By age 13, Colón had started a band and played at some weddings and in the bustling nightclubs of New York City. At one point, he forged a cabaret card, a mandated ID for musicians and entertainers between 1940 and 1967 who worked in establishments serving alcohol, which required individuals to be 18 years and older.

The thrilling 1960s Latin music scene in New York consumed Colón, who was deeply inspired by Latin jazz pioneer and bandleader Eddie Palmieri, once part of a main act at the Palladium Ballroom who went on to form La Perfecta, a Cuban conjunto that revolutionized the New York Latin music scene with its inclusion of two trombones, played by Barry Rogers and Jose Rodriguez, instead of the costly four-set trumpets.

But Colón’s instrumental preference changed once he heard the bodied timbre of Mon Rivera’s all-trombone brass lineup marching to a bomba beat. “It would knock my socks off,” said Colón in a 1988 interview with Associated Press, leading the singer to teach himself how to play the instrument.

By age 15, Colón was signed to Fania Records. Two years later at age 17, he went on to release his debut album, “El Malo,” a record that defined the fierce sounds of New York’s salsa scene, which Colón later described as the Latin equivalent of rap.

According to his former label, the name of “El Malo” was bestowed upon Colón by older musicians who sought to mock his trombone range at the time, though the young bandleader would find a way to use the label to his advantage.

On the LP, Colón’s sound moved away from the polished mambo sounds of orchestral bands decades prior, in large part due to Puerto Rican singer Héctor Lavoe, whose vocals can be heard in tracks like the gritty “El Malo” that vows to knock out any wanna-be street phony.

The pair would go on to record a total of 14 albums through 1973, with Lavoe’s talents for improvisation complementing Colón’s raw, aggressive trombone.

“Salsa came from the same kind of situation that rap does,” Colon said in a 1992 interview with The Times. “It was kind of a hybrid of a bunch of different elements. Hector had just come from Puerto Rico and didn’t speak English. I didn’t speak much Spanish, I was a little New York kid. We got together and just started with the same kind of irreverent, rebellious attitude, writing songs about the baddest guy on the block, drugs and sex. Before that, the lyrics and whole attitude of Latin music was, ‘Look at me dance, listen to those drums, I’m cutting sugar cane.’ It was a rural, folkloric emphasis; we changed it to an inner-city kind of culture.”

Colón’s impact went beyond live music. The album cover of “El Malo,” which showed two serious profiles of Colón, depicted the singer as a sly bad boy, and ultimately gave rise to his gangster persona, which would be a throughline in future projects, including his sophomore 1968 album, “The Hustler” which featured the band with fitted suits, smoking cigars and placing bets in a pool hall. His 1970 album “Cosa Nuestra” featured Colón smoking a cigar while overlooking a dead body in broad daylight in Manhattan’s East River Bikeway. Most famously, his 1971 album, “La Gran Fuga,” depicted the singer on a fake FBI “Most Wanted” poster.

These mob-like depictions occurred long before cult-favorite films like Francis Ford Coppola’s 1972 “The Godfather” and Brian De Palma 1983’s “Scarface” became the prominent gangster storylines various male acts venerate in their music.

By 1973, Colón and Lavoe split — allegedly due to Lavoe’s drug addiction leading to many missed concert performances — although the two would remain frequent collaborators until the latter’s death in 1993 due to complications of AIDS.

The Nuyorican musician would introduce Blades as the new singer of his orchestra, whom he had met years prior while visiting Panama during carnivals. They collaborated briefly on Colón’s 1975 LP “The Good, the Bad, the Ugly,” cementing their partnership in the 1977 album “Metiendo Mano,” which delved into socio-political themes, notably in their track “Pablo Pueblo,” which shares the story of a working class man with broken dreams halted by toils of daily life. Other tracks like “Plantación Adentro,” detailed the story of Camilo Manrique, a fictionalized enslaved character who died at the hands of a Spanish colonizer in 1745.

Many considered this album Colón’s first foray into intellectual salsa — in large part because of Blades, who had a knack for storytelling and political interests (he unsuccessfully ran for president of Panama in 1994) — that addressed colonialism and class disparities. Together they released three albums, including their 1978 “Siembra,” one of the bestselling salsa albums at that time; from the start, their track “Plastico” fused the popular disco music of the moment while addressing superficial beauty standards and colorism in Latin America.

According to 1996 reporting by The Times, “Siembra” delivered pulsating salsa rhythms that “carried messages of freedom at a time when most of Latin America was oppressed by military dictatorships.”

By 1982, Blades and Colón parted ways, but they collaborated again on projects like their 2005 LP “Tras La Tormenta” — which led the bandleader to sing for the first time in his career, “I had to start from zero, and it took me many years to feel comfortable,” Colón said.

This newfound independence gave rise to some of Colón’s most famous songs, including his 1995 track “Talento de Televisión,” an upbeat song with his signature trombone wailing in the backdrop as he sang about an attractive woman with a lack of talent.

Many across Latin America might be familiar with his 1989 song “El Gran Varon” — which narrated the story of a trans woman who is rejected by her father and presumably dies of AIDS — a landmark salsa song that brought awareness to LGBTQ+ themes during the AIDS crisis. Colón would later serve as a member of the Latino Commission on AIDS. “El Gran Varon” is an anthem to this day.

Colón released more than 40 albums in all.

He also acted, taking roles in films including 1982’s “Vigilante,” the 1983 sports drama “The Last Fight,” as well as one-episode stints in TV shows like “Miami Vice” and “The Cosby Show.” He was even featured in Bad Bunny’s “Nuevayol” music video, cutting a slice of cake; the 31-year-old superstar pays homage to the singer in its lyrics: “Willie Colón, me dicen el malo, ey. Porque pasan los años y sigo dando palo”/ “Willie Colón, they say I’m bad, because the years come and I’m still hitting.”

In his later years, he became more involved in politics. In 1994, he unsuccessfully went up against U.S. Rep. Eliot Engel of the Bronx in the Democratic primary. He also ran as a Democrat for Public Advocate in 2001, focusing on community issues, education and AIDS awareness, but failed to gain the popular vote. In 2008, he endorsed Hillary Rodham Clinton over Barack Obama in the primary election.

On May 26, 2014, after graduating from Westchester County Police Academy, Colón was sworn in as a deputy sheriff for the Department of Public Safety, later becoming deputy lieutenant.

As President Trump took office in his first term, Colón’s politics shifted in support of the right-wing candidate, and he said he would be open to performing at his inauguration in 2017.

Billboard magazine named him one of the most influential Latino artists of all time in 2018.

Colón is survived by his wife, Julia Colón, and his four sons and grandsons.

Bed rest can go pound sand: Ray J gave his all on stage on Friday night, it seems, with fan videos showing his eyes appearing to bleed as he worked the crowd.

The singer also doffed the top of his orange jumpsuit to reveal some sort of medical port or device inserted on the upper left side of his chest.

The “Love & Hip-Hop: Hollywood” star, who is singer-actor Brandy’s brother, was performing in Shreveport, La.

In the first clip, red liquid — which many assumed was blood — ran down one of the R&B singer’s cheeks like tears as he handed out long-stemmed red roses to people in the audience. Another clip showed him singing into a mic while climbing down from the stage after shedding the top part of his jumpsuit.

“Hey, y’all, we perfectly fine. Ain’t nobody sick. Look at me, I’m fine,” he says in a later clip, which takes place off stage. The 45-year-old appears to be annoyed, saying that people have been laughing at him because he’s sick.

“He loves the camera. He loves the attention,” Tommy Nard II of Nard Multimedia Group, who was behind the scenes that night, told Shreveport news station KTAL separately. “It’s all theatrical … I seen him literally put on the fake blood and go out there.”

A concertgoer told KTAL that it was “very concerning to see blood, what appeared to be blood, coming from his eyes.”

Ray J told TMZ in late January that he was under doctor’s orders to stay on bed rest and avoid drugs and alcohol. He said he was on eight medications related to his heart, which he said had been damaged because of his excessive drug and alcohol use.

“I thought I could handle all the alcohol, I could handle all the Adderall,” he said in a video livestream in late January.

Doctors told Ray J — real name William Ray Norwood Jr. — that he should prepare for the chance that he might need a pacemaker or defibrillator soon, the singer told the celebrity site. He expected to get an update when he went back in two weeks for a checkup.

Two weeks was up over the weekend.

Ray J told followers in a video posted Jan. 25 that he wanted to “thank everyone for praying for me.”

“I was in the hospital,” he said. “My heart is only beating like 25%, but as long as I stay focused and stay on the right path, then everything will be all right.” In a video, he said the right side of his heart was “like, black. It’s like done.”

Ray J said elsewhere that his heart was beating at 60%. The number likely refers to his heart’s ejection fraction, which measures the volume of blood coming out of the heart’s left ventricle or being drawn into the right ventricle when the heart beats. Right-sided heart failure is far less common, according to WebMD.

A representative for Ray J did not respond immediately Tuesday to The Times’ request for comment.

However, in an Instagram story posted Monday, Ray J put up this quote: “‘If you want to know who your real friends & family are, lose your job, get sick, or go through hard times. You’ll see clearly.”