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Surprisingly, guitars are scrapped entirely in favor of heavy beats and the.

Be Somebody (feat.

Lupe Fiasco, Holly Brook and Tak) (Bonus) 18.

But when its just me and Adele very good Adele, catchy-as-hell Adele the triggers lock.

Vaudeville acts, for instance, had tunes for just about every major immigrant group: the Italian number, the Yiddish number, the Irish one, the Chinese.

Some were sung in a spirit of abuse; others were written or performed by members of those groups themselves.

And of course there were the minstrel shows, in which people with mocking, cork-painted faces sang what they pretended were the songs of Southern former slaves.

This was how we reckoned with our melting pot: crudely, obliviously, maybe with a nice tune and a beat you could dance to.

A nation that considered itself very space-age and worldly enjoyed quaint spins on sentimental Italian music (Thats Amore and its pizza pies) and Trinidadian calypso songs about hard, simple labor (Day-O and its bananas).

You had your Latin numbers, your Hawaiian ones, your Asian songs light ethnic pastiches laid out cheerily, like an international buffet that serves falafel one day and schnitzel the next, never too bothered about how accurate the recipes are.

Even when it was played in a condescending ethnic-joke burlesque of who those people actually were even when it was pretty aggressively racist the notion remained: Different styles sprang from different people.

Then all of this changed, and we decided to start thinking of pop music not as a folk tradition but as an art; we started to picture musicians as people who invented sounds and styles, making intellectual decisions about their work.

How else do you create a situation in which, after decades of hip-hops being the main engine of pop music, it can still be a little complicated when nonblack people rap That vexed thing we call identity leans its considerable weight on all kinds of questions: which sounds comfort us or excite us; where and how we listen to them; how we move our bodies as they play.

Watch a mere silhouette of a human being dancing to music, and you can immediately guess things about who they are and where they came from.

There may be times when this fact grates at us, when it feels as though there must be other dimensions of the world to attend to; surely, you moan, there are songs that speak to basic human emotions in ways that transcend the particulars of who we are But if you look through the essays in this magazine, you may notice two things.

One is that, unbidden and according to no plan, they find themselves continually reckoning with questions of identity.

The other is that theyre doing this because the musicians are, too.

Not the fine details of genre and style everyone, allegedly, listens to everything now but the networks of identity that float within them.

Maybe decades ago you could aim your songs at a mass market, but music does not really have one of those anymore.

Artists have to figure out whom theyre speaking to and where theyre speaking from.

When a chorus brings her voice to its cruising altitude, its like youre up there, flying with it.

Down here, on earth, where her third album, 25, made Adele the top-selling artist of 2015 and 2016, she has that realness we say we value in the people we elevate to stardom; last month, during the Grammys telecast, she cursed as she interrupted a laconic version of George Michaels Fastlove in order to get the tempo right.

At the Grammys, 25 won album of the year, and a poignant portion of her acceptance speech was a tribute to Beyonc, whose album Lemonade broke the cultural Richter scale and didnt win any of the big awards.

The moment was poignant because it was earnest: Adele stood just a few feet in front of the woman she called her idol and spoke of how Lemonade had empowered her and my black friends.

This was the sort of candor you usually have to wait for Kanye West to deliver, only with none of Wests biliousness, recrimination and, however myopic, sense of history.

Adele didnt have to acknowledge that history of a white industrys crowning preference for white artists.

Thats the future of music: recognizing, in the present, that youre permanently indentured to the past.