Harvard’s New Regulations for The Game 2006
The tailgate space allowed each group will be limited to correspond to the space taken up when all students in the group bunch together with their feet touching. All students under 21 must wear identifying neon wristbands and matching iron breastplates with their Name, Residential College, and Year engraved on the front. Students who are 21 and over must show proper identification. The only form of identification accepted is a visual match with one of the players from the game Guess Who? Student groups who wish to apply for a spot at the tailgate must submit 298 letters of recommendations from 298 people who can be considered “father figures” to the head of the group. Each group must also write an aria in old Gaelic Italian iambic pentameter and sign it in the blood of the first born lamb of the winter’s solstice. The only beverages allowed in the tailgate are tang and tang-like substances. Hot beer will be served on tap, but everything fifth keg will be replaced with a vat of hot urine to keep you guessing. Only students who balanced 10 poodles on their left pinky finger will be served. Poodles not provided. No smiling. Definitely no running. Actually now that we’re on the subject no moving. Why don’t you just sit still? Right here. Ok now I’m going to strap you in. And put this duct tape over your mouth. Attendance at the game is mandatory, punishable by expulsion (Harvard students only). There will be a sobriety test at the entrance to the tailgate. This test will consist of your AP US History DBQ, a 10-mile obstacle course in the sky like the jetpack round in Pilot Wings, and a severe, relentless beating. The following are forbidden inside the tailgate: absurdity, buffoonery, celebration, cheer, clowning, distraction, diversion, enjoyment, entertainment, escapade, festivity, foolery, frolic, gaiety, gambol, grins, high jinks, horseplay, jesting, jocularity, joking, jollity, joy, laughter, merriment, merrymaking, nonsense, play, playfulness, pleasure, recreation, rejoicing, relaxation, riot, romp, romping, solace, sport, tomfoolery. As a final note of caution, the one thing that is absolutely not allowed under any circumstance while you are on the Harvard campus is fun. Luckily for them, the Harvard students are already used to that.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Opiate of the Masses Issue, The Record, 04/06
A Letter to the Virgin Mary
Mary, Baby,
Look, I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I’ve got to put My foot down and stop this behavior of yours. Don’t get Me wrong – it was funny at first. I was all, “Haha, Mary has shown up in the bark of the tree of knowledge again.” And “Oh shit, now she’s in My cheese fries!” But it’s not funny anymore. I think it’s creepy. And I created creepy! Just yesterday the lines of My palm transformed into a red, chapped image of your face.
I went to Miss Shaka down the street so she could deign to interpret my fate and when I showed her My palm, all she did was cry, “Oly voodoo, eetza miracle!” and repeat 10,000 Hail Marys. When your face appears on the hood of My Caddy as I roll down the street sippin’on gin and juice and the blood of Christ, I do not consider that as adding to the overall pimpitude of my ride. I had to write “Mary is my homegirl” under it to cover for Myself. As you can see, this gotta stop. I’m done game-hatin’ and now I gotta hate the playa, and Mary, you da playa. In the past 24 hours alone, I have seen you in the mirror as I pop My God- zits, on the shower door glass when I shave My God-bits, in My holy water AND holy OJ, in My Divine-o’s, and in the face of 17 different blind children. Oh wait, scratch that bit about Divine-o’s. I guess all of our faces appear there in the little-chewy marshmallow form. Those guys at General Mills didn’t get Jesus right at all. Too big in the hips. I mean, I’m just sayin’: those aren’t My hips! Maybe if you stopped appearing all over the place and clocked in more time train- ing with the Holy Spirit Crunch Time video set I got you, people wouldn’t think Our Son has big-booty hips...I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean that. What was I saying?
Look. I understand why you find it necessary to remind me of your exis- tence everywhere I look. I’m late with my alimony payments; but I told you baby, once my miracle spring water infomercials take off the ground, I’m gold! I know I haven’t called you in a while, but my Cingular has been cutting out for periods of more than four hours! As for these allegations that I raped you, maybe emotionally, I’ll admit it, but that’s the whole thing with Immaculate Conception! Gabriel said you were chill with it.You signed the contract. It was a done deal. Besides, I didn’t even get near your nether-regions, ok Miss Virgin with a capital V! When I met you, you were still hanging out with that loser Joseph and his Hasbro tool set. I took you and made you a star! Without me, you’d probably be stuck in a manger and asleep on the hay not because of our amazingly conceived publicity stunt (“conceived” Haha. I still got it. Bam!), but because that’d be your bed! Didn’t God make sure to hook you up in heaven? Weren’t you on the last episode of Cribs, MTV Heaven edition? So quit complaining and, more importantly, get out of my life. For once, Mary, I’d like to take a walk and not find your image on the tongue of my vintage Nike Dunks. So give it a rest. The joke is old.
Peace out,
God
Mary, Baby,
Look, I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I’ve got to put My foot down and stop this behavior of yours. Don’t get Me wrong – it was funny at first. I was all, “Haha, Mary has shown up in the bark of the tree of knowledge again.” And “Oh shit, now she’s in My cheese fries!” But it’s not funny anymore. I think it’s creepy. And I created creepy! Just yesterday the lines of My palm transformed into a red, chapped image of your face.
I went to Miss Shaka down the street so she could deign to interpret my fate and when I showed her My palm, all she did was cry, “Oly voodoo, eetza miracle!” and repeat 10,000 Hail Marys. When your face appears on the hood of My Caddy as I roll down the street sippin’on gin and juice and the blood of Christ, I do not consider that as adding to the overall pimpitude of my ride. I had to write “Mary is my homegirl” under it to cover for Myself. As you can see, this gotta stop. I’m done game-hatin’ and now I gotta hate the playa, and Mary, you da playa. In the past 24 hours alone, I have seen you in the mirror as I pop My God- zits, on the shower door glass when I shave My God-bits, in My holy water AND holy OJ, in My Divine-o’s, and in the face of 17 different blind children. Oh wait, scratch that bit about Divine-o’s. I guess all of our faces appear there in the little-chewy marshmallow form. Those guys at General Mills didn’t get Jesus right at all. Too big in the hips. I mean, I’m just sayin’: those aren’t My hips! Maybe if you stopped appearing all over the place and clocked in more time train- ing with the Holy Spirit Crunch Time video set I got you, people wouldn’t think Our Son has big-booty hips...I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean that. What was I saying?
Look. I understand why you find it necessary to remind me of your exis- tence everywhere I look. I’m late with my alimony payments; but I told you baby, once my miracle spring water infomercials take off the ground, I’m gold! I know I haven’t called you in a while, but my Cingular has been cutting out for periods of more than four hours! As for these allegations that I raped you, maybe emotionally, I’ll admit it, but that’s the whole thing with Immaculate Conception! Gabriel said you were chill with it.You signed the contract. It was a done deal. Besides, I didn’t even get near your nether-regions, ok Miss Virgin with a capital V! When I met you, you were still hanging out with that loser Joseph and his Hasbro tool set. I took you and made you a star! Without me, you’d probably be stuck in a manger and asleep on the hay not because of our amazingly conceived publicity stunt (“conceived” Haha. I still got it. Bam!), but because that’d be your bed! Didn’t God make sure to hook you up in heaven? Weren’t you on the last episode of Cribs, MTV Heaven edition? So quit complaining and, more importantly, get out of my life. For once, Mary, I’d like to take a walk and not find your image on the tongue of my vintage Nike Dunks. So give it a rest. The joke is old.
Peace out,
God
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Air Mail, The Yale Herald, 11/16/06
A semester in Paris: Putting the study in study abroad
Air Mail
Answering your cell phone in the middle of class is a skill. During my time at the University of Paris III Sorbonne-Nouvelle, I have witnessed two variations on this art form. One involves lowering your head very slowly, wedging the phone between ear and desk and whispering, “Oui?” The other involves answering it as if you were on the street, using a modified indoor voice, hoping the professor doesn’t notice you whispering into your palm. While answering your phone in class is a big no-no in America, in the Parisian university system, there is seemingly no set of rules—unspoken or otherwise—when it comes to how the students conduct themselves in class. I’ve sat next to girls conversing loudly for all two hours of class, people blatantly sleeping on their desks, and countless students furiously texting. Students always sigh a raspy breath of relief half way through class when they finally get their cigarette break and rush to the door, cigarettes and lighters at the ready.
The main reason behind the behavior of the students is that the French education system is nationalized, making it a free-for-all in more ways than one. The college application process, the bane of our senior year, is virtually non-existent for our French peers. Only those applying to the grandes écoles, universities for engineers, and other special schools have a competitive application process. For the rest, all that is required is a Baccalaureat degree and a small tuition fee. The government covers the remainder of their tuition. The system is meant to be egalitarian and allow a higher education for all, but the reality is that life at the universities becomes much more chaotic. It’s also no surprise that the dropout rate is sky-high. The Economist’s recent survey of France placed the dropout rate of a university in Toulouse near 46 percent [“Lessons from the campus,” 10/28/2006]. It’s no wonder that students aren’t paying attention in class. Unlike Yale students, they don’t have to fight to be there.
But even this situation doesn’t fully explain the professor-student relationship. In America, we were all told when we went to college that there would be no hand-holding. We’d be forced to take our educations in our own hands, to seek out help when we need it. The difference into Paris is that there seems to be hardly anywhere to go to seek help. Students and professors are almost never on a first-name basis. Some of my professors are utterly shocked when I come up to them and ask them questions at the end of class. During the orientation for my study abroad program, we had to take courses on methodology for literature, art history, and history. Each assignment, whether it’s a dissertation, commentaire composé, or exposé, has a strict format in both visual presentation and content, and students are expected to approach the assignment in the same way. I am still shocked at how much of what we learn here has to do with regurgitating the lecture and at how little creativity is involved. It takes some getting used to, but in the end, it seems much easier than anything I’ve had to do at Yale.
Another huge difference is the way courses and lectures are organized. The French approach to education is cemented in a strict structure wherein the method of teaching is standardized by discipline. When my professor steps into the classroom he begins lecture right away, and when he is finished speaking, he packs up his briefcase and is on his way. At the first class meeting, the professor hands out a very rough syllabus, and what is known as a bibliography. Unlike at Yale, where readings are outlined by week and assignment number, French students are given a list of books that apply to the course. In theory, they are meant to choose books that are relevant to their work for the semester from this list and use them to complete assignments, and the essays and work they have to complete over the semester may or may not have a listed due date. This whole process has given new meaning to the phrase laissez-faire. French students are used to this, especially since they have to choose their major right out of high school, and can’t take classes in other disciplines. The things I have had trouble adjusting to are old-hat for Parisian students.
One thing I am grateful for is that once I got past all the confusing elements of my classes at Paris III, I found that the content of the courses I’m taking is very good. I can’t say great, because all of my courses are for first year students, so they tend to be surveys. I chose first-year classes because I have to take them in French, so it’s easier on my listening comprehension skills (which I’m proud to say, have improved dramatically after two months of total immersion). Although the system can be very frustrating, it’s definitely a worthwhile experience—I’m forced to self-motivate in a way I’ve never had to before. But if there’s one thing my time here has made me realize, it’s how eternally grateful I am for the American education system. I can’t wait to get back to Yale, where I can e-mail my teachers, know exactly how much work I have, and enjoy a passion and enthusiasm for learning that only a few French students I’ve encountered have exhibited.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Air Mail
Answering your cell phone in the middle of class is a skill. During my time at the University of Paris III Sorbonne-Nouvelle, I have witnessed two variations on this art form. One involves lowering your head very slowly, wedging the phone between ear and desk and whispering, “Oui?” The other involves answering it as if you were on the street, using a modified indoor voice, hoping the professor doesn’t notice you whispering into your palm. While answering your phone in class is a big no-no in America, in the Parisian university system, there is seemingly no set of rules—unspoken or otherwise—when it comes to how the students conduct themselves in class. I’ve sat next to girls conversing loudly for all two hours of class, people blatantly sleeping on their desks, and countless students furiously texting. Students always sigh a raspy breath of relief half way through class when they finally get their cigarette break and rush to the door, cigarettes and lighters at the ready.
The main reason behind the behavior of the students is that the French education system is nationalized, making it a free-for-all in more ways than one. The college application process, the bane of our senior year, is virtually non-existent for our French peers. Only those applying to the grandes écoles, universities for engineers, and other special schools have a competitive application process. For the rest, all that is required is a Baccalaureat degree and a small tuition fee. The government covers the remainder of their tuition. The system is meant to be egalitarian and allow a higher education for all, but the reality is that life at the universities becomes much more chaotic. It’s also no surprise that the dropout rate is sky-high. The Economist’s recent survey of France placed the dropout rate of a university in Toulouse near 46 percent [“Lessons from the campus,” 10/28/2006]. It’s no wonder that students aren’t paying attention in class. Unlike Yale students, they don’t have to fight to be there.
But even this situation doesn’t fully explain the professor-student relationship. In America, we were all told when we went to college that there would be no hand-holding. We’d be forced to take our educations in our own hands, to seek out help when we need it. The difference into Paris is that there seems to be hardly anywhere to go to seek help. Students and professors are almost never on a first-name basis. Some of my professors are utterly shocked when I come up to them and ask them questions at the end of class. During the orientation for my study abroad program, we had to take courses on methodology for literature, art history, and history. Each assignment, whether it’s a dissertation, commentaire composé, or exposé, has a strict format in both visual presentation and content, and students are expected to approach the assignment in the same way. I am still shocked at how much of what we learn here has to do with regurgitating the lecture and at how little creativity is involved. It takes some getting used to, but in the end, it seems much easier than anything I’ve had to do at Yale.
Another huge difference is the way courses and lectures are organized. The French approach to education is cemented in a strict structure wherein the method of teaching is standardized by discipline. When my professor steps into the classroom he begins lecture right away, and when he is finished speaking, he packs up his briefcase and is on his way. At the first class meeting, the professor hands out a very rough syllabus, and what is known as a bibliography. Unlike at Yale, where readings are outlined by week and assignment number, French students are given a list of books that apply to the course. In theory, they are meant to choose books that are relevant to their work for the semester from this list and use them to complete assignments, and the essays and work they have to complete over the semester may or may not have a listed due date. This whole process has given new meaning to the phrase laissez-faire. French students are used to this, especially since they have to choose their major right out of high school, and can’t take classes in other disciplines. The things I have had trouble adjusting to are old-hat for Parisian students.
One thing I am grateful for is that once I got past all the confusing elements of my classes at Paris III, I found that the content of the courses I’m taking is very good. I can’t say great, because all of my courses are for first year students, so they tend to be surveys. I chose first-year classes because I have to take them in French, so it’s easier on my listening comprehension skills (which I’m proud to say, have improved dramatically after two months of total immersion). Although the system can be very frustrating, it’s definitely a worthwhile experience—I’m forced to self-motivate in a way I’ve never had to before. But if there’s one thing my time here has made me realize, it’s how eternally grateful I am for the American education system. I can’t wait to get back to Yale, where I can e-mail my teachers, know exactly how much work I have, and enjoy a passion and enthusiasm for learning that only a few French students I’ve encountered have exhibited.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
REVIEW: Marie Antoinette, The Yale Herald, 11/3/06
I wrote a response to this review published in the Herald. This is the unedited version, because the edited one is not online for some reason.
In last week’s issue of The Herald, Espinosa wrote, “If you don’t like Marie Antoinette, you’re probably missing the point.” I am writing this response because I disagree so vehemently that it makes my blood boil. I originally intended to write this review for the Herald myself, but since I am in Paris, time flies and I forgot to do it. I would like to argue that you cannot only dislike, but you can loathe and deplore Marie Antoinette even if you get the point. Instead of just saying that Marie Antoinette is a “substance-less piece of shit,” let me respond point by point.
Espinosa understands exactly what Sophia Coppola is trying to do, which is catch the ennui and isolation of this young girl removed from her family and placed in the French court. The main problem is this is the only film the point makes, and by the end, you just don’t care how miserable or misunderstood her life is. After all, if this truly “screams Paris Hilton and co.” like Espinosa claims, ponder this: have you ever shed one tear, or felt an ounce of pity for that spoiled, worthless brat? The day I feel sorry for someone who is rich and can have everything in the world is the day I swallow the cyanide capsule I’ve been keeping in my molar for such an occasion. It’s just not enough to keep a viewer entertained because it is so repetitive, so drawn out, and so easily graspable within the first half hour. Yes the visuals are stunning and everything is impeccably arranged. Yes this is a reflection of celebrity culture. But the truth is I get enough of watching this sort of behavior by reading US Weekly and Pink is the New Blog (trent.blogspot.com). In Marie Antoinette, if you aren’t intrigued by this point, if you don’t feel an ounce of sympathy for the lead (who is in every scene and almost every shot), you are going to have one hell of a painfully boring two hours to sit through.
One of the other major downfalls is the integration of hipster culture into the film. It just does not fit. Instead of coming off as clever and interesting, it comes off as forced and overplayed. The best parts of the film are when Coppola sticks to history, and shows court life as it really is. The scenes where Dunst and Schwartzman eat dinner in the most formal and awkward manner possible is a great example of this. The use of converse next to traditional footwear doesn’t make it seem like Coppola is winking, but rather like she’s saying “look! I’m so young and hip! Isn’t this film young and hip? Only hipsters wear converse! Marie Antoinette is a hipster! Isn’t that cool? Can’t you relate?” No, Sophia, I can’t relate. Why don’t you try editing your scenes shorter so that every long take isn’t so painful it makes me want to tie my overpriced Red Vines into a noose and hang myself from projector in the back of the theater?
A few other things I could probably discuss at length if given the time or space, as it were: 1) A serious under use of Jason Schwartzman, who’s comic relief as Louis is much much needed. 2) Kirsten Dunst can’t act her way out of a bag in this film (see: the scene where she’s “crying” after hearing from her mom. 3) The scenes illustrating the awkwardness of their marriage are repeated way too many times. 4) This may have been an accurate portrayal of the queen, but if her life is really so one note, maybe Sophia should have focused on things other than how much money Marie Antoinette could spend, and how sometimes, she gets upset. 5) They stop the action right when it gets good! The only thing that would have saved this boring exercise in self-indulgence via nepotism would be Marie Antoinette’s head served on a plate. Now that’s something I could really sink my teeth into.
In last week’s issue of The Herald, Espinosa wrote, “If you don’t like Marie Antoinette, you’re probably missing the point.” I am writing this response because I disagree so vehemently that it makes my blood boil. I originally intended to write this review for the Herald myself, but since I am in Paris, time flies and I forgot to do it. I would like to argue that you cannot only dislike, but you can loathe and deplore Marie Antoinette even if you get the point. Instead of just saying that Marie Antoinette is a “substance-less piece of shit,” let me respond point by point.
Espinosa understands exactly what Sophia Coppola is trying to do, which is catch the ennui and isolation of this young girl removed from her family and placed in the French court. The main problem is this is the only film the point makes, and by the end, you just don’t care how miserable or misunderstood her life is. After all, if this truly “screams Paris Hilton and co.” like Espinosa claims, ponder this: have you ever shed one tear, or felt an ounce of pity for that spoiled, worthless brat? The day I feel sorry for someone who is rich and can have everything in the world is the day I swallow the cyanide capsule I’ve been keeping in my molar for such an occasion. It’s just not enough to keep a viewer entertained because it is so repetitive, so drawn out, and so easily graspable within the first half hour. Yes the visuals are stunning and everything is impeccably arranged. Yes this is a reflection of celebrity culture. But the truth is I get enough of watching this sort of behavior by reading US Weekly and Pink is the New Blog (trent.blogspot.com). In Marie Antoinette, if you aren’t intrigued by this point, if you don’t feel an ounce of sympathy for the lead (who is in every scene and almost every shot), you are going to have one hell of a painfully boring two hours to sit through.
One of the other major downfalls is the integration of hipster culture into the film. It just does not fit. Instead of coming off as clever and interesting, it comes off as forced and overplayed. The best parts of the film are when Coppola sticks to history, and shows court life as it really is. The scenes where Dunst and Schwartzman eat dinner in the most formal and awkward manner possible is a great example of this. The use of converse next to traditional footwear doesn’t make it seem like Coppola is winking, but rather like she’s saying “look! I’m so young and hip! Isn’t this film young and hip? Only hipsters wear converse! Marie Antoinette is a hipster! Isn’t that cool? Can’t you relate?” No, Sophia, I can’t relate. Why don’t you try editing your scenes shorter so that every long take isn’t so painful it makes me want to tie my overpriced Red Vines into a noose and hang myself from projector in the back of the theater?
A few other things I could probably discuss at length if given the time or space, as it were: 1) A serious under use of Jason Schwartzman, who’s comic relief as Louis is much much needed. 2) Kirsten Dunst can’t act her way out of a bag in this film (see: the scene where she’s “crying” after hearing from her mom. 3) The scenes illustrating the awkwardness of their marriage are repeated way too many times. 4) This may have been an accurate portrayal of the queen, but if her life is really so one note, maybe Sophia should have focused on things other than how much money Marie Antoinette could spend, and how sometimes, she gets upset. 5) They stop the action right when it gets good! The only thing that would have saved this boring exercise in self-indulgence via nepotism would be Marie Antoinette’s head served on a plate. Now that’s something I could really sink my teeth into.
Summer Singles, The Yale Herald, 09/02/05
I'm posting the unedited version because the published article had to be padded.
If there’s one thing to say about pop music this summer, it’s that 2006 was the summer of the pop comeback album. Let’s check out this all-star lineup: Justin Timberlake, who’s single-handedly bringing back something that never really left, Nelly Furtado, recipient of a Jewel post-Spirit marketability makeover, Christina Aguilera, the voice, Jessica Simpson (did you hear she’s single? Oh you did? Ok. Nevermind.) and the newcomers, Paris Hilton and Fergie. And nothing, I mean nothing, matters more than the first single. The real question is: is J-Tim really bringing sexy back? Or had it already been broughten? Read on for the answer.
The smartest move Xtina ever made was getting rid of that X and all that we came to associate with it. She’s no longer attempting to be overtly-edgy or dirty (more like disgusting) and has become a classy chanteuse. “Ain’t No Other Man” proves that Christina Aguilera really has amazing pipes and is probably the most soulful and talented of the pop vixens. The song allows her to flaunt her versatility and belting power as it has real substance and clever melodies, a feat considering what usually passes for a hit song these days. Her forthcoming album is a two-disc set, one a tribute to classic jazz / R&B, and the other a traditional pop-hop venture. “Ain’t No Other Man” seems to be a perfect fusion of this new Christina with elements of both thrown in.
“Promiscuous Girl” is just baaaarely a Nelly Furtado song. Her vocal tracks could easily be replaced by the Rihanna’s and Ciara’s of the world, or more fittingly, by Missy Elliot. The genius behind this track is that it is so wholly and distinctly a Timbaland creation with the kick-ass production and deep bass beat we have come to expect of him. The summer of 2006 has really come to love this melding of pop and hip-hop and this is probably the most successful combination to appear in the mix. I have come to believe that almost everything Timbaland touches turns to Top 40 gold, and Nelly Furtado should thank her lucky stars that she has this collaboration in her pocket to help her shed her “I’m like a bird” image. Without him, she might not have been able to pull it off.
Ugh. Don’t even get me started on Stacy Ferguson of Kid’s Incorporated’s duo Stacy and Renee. Fergie my ass. First, she makes a comeback and ruins the Black-Eyed Peas (or makes them a super-group, one of the two). Second, she dubs herself “The Duchess” and makes the cash money millions off a song, “London Bridge,” that makes no sense whatsoever. Sure, maybe it’s clever that she chose the M.I.A. and “Holla Back Girl” approach to song writing. Yeah, maybe the chorus is catchy. But what the hell is she even talking about? “How come every time you come around, my London London Bridge wanna go down.” It sounds like her penis is on upside-down if you ask me.
How is Jessica Simpson so radically behind the times? Almost no one is making pop music that sounds like “A Public Affair” anymore. It’s so cutesy and inconsequential it’s hard to listen to the whole song. Maybe some pop-fluff is what appeases the pre-teenagers around the world, but Jessica will never be able to compete in the big-leagues without a hip-hop influenced single. I know she’s very successful, and some might even say talented, but she owes her success less to her talent and more to Us Weekly and MTV. Get with the times, Jess.
Justin Timberlake has come a long long way. With Justified, it became clear that J-Tim’s future success would rely on his hip-hop chops and sweet R&B voice. “Sexy Back” is the perfect summer single. The beat isn’t as groovy and sexy as on “Promiscuous Girl,” but Timbaland still manages to bring on the funk. This beat is tailor-made for Justin, keeping in mind that he’s a white boy who comes from a boy band background. It’s not so radically different as to completely change how we see Justin, but instead is the logical next step in his musical progression.
“Stars Are Blind” by Paris Hilton: Too bad they’re not deaf. The only thing worse than this song is Kevin Federline’s bastard child of a song, “Popo Zao.”
The one popstar you’ll notice absent from this list is Britney Spears Federline. Summer 2006 would have been an amazing time for her to make a killer comeback with ex-boyfriends and rivals doing the same. (By the way, Is it just me, or doesn’t it seem like Justin is deliberately referencing “Slave 4 U” with lyrics like “Dirty baby / you see these shackles / baby I’m your slave?”) Maybe J-Tim can help Brit get her sexy back, but perhaps she has wandered too deep into the land of the fugly to ever return to the top of the pops again. Judging by this summer’s list of comeback albums and singles, she’s going to have her work cut out for her.
original article here
If there’s one thing to say about pop music this summer, it’s that 2006 was the summer of the pop comeback album. Let’s check out this all-star lineup: Justin Timberlake, who’s single-handedly bringing back something that never really left, Nelly Furtado, recipient of a Jewel post-Spirit marketability makeover, Christina Aguilera, the voice, Jessica Simpson (did you hear she’s single? Oh you did? Ok. Nevermind.) and the newcomers, Paris Hilton and Fergie. And nothing, I mean nothing, matters more than the first single. The real question is: is J-Tim really bringing sexy back? Or had it already been broughten? Read on for the answer.
The smartest move Xtina ever made was getting rid of that X and all that we came to associate with it. She’s no longer attempting to be overtly-edgy or dirty (more like disgusting) and has become a classy chanteuse. “Ain’t No Other Man” proves that Christina Aguilera really has amazing pipes and is probably the most soulful and talented of the pop vixens. The song allows her to flaunt her versatility and belting power as it has real substance and clever melodies, a feat considering what usually passes for a hit song these days. Her forthcoming album is a two-disc set, one a tribute to classic jazz / R&B, and the other a traditional pop-hop venture. “Ain’t No Other Man” seems to be a perfect fusion of this new Christina with elements of both thrown in.
“Promiscuous Girl” is just baaaarely a Nelly Furtado song. Her vocal tracks could easily be replaced by the Rihanna’s and Ciara’s of the world, or more fittingly, by Missy Elliot. The genius behind this track is that it is so wholly and distinctly a Timbaland creation with the kick-ass production and deep bass beat we have come to expect of him. The summer of 2006 has really come to love this melding of pop and hip-hop and this is probably the most successful combination to appear in the mix. I have come to believe that almost everything Timbaland touches turns to Top 40 gold, and Nelly Furtado should thank her lucky stars that she has this collaboration in her pocket to help her shed her “I’m like a bird” image. Without him, she might not have been able to pull it off.
Ugh. Don’t even get me started on Stacy Ferguson of Kid’s Incorporated’s duo Stacy and Renee. Fergie my ass. First, she makes a comeback and ruins the Black-Eyed Peas (or makes them a super-group, one of the two). Second, she dubs herself “The Duchess” and makes the cash money millions off a song, “London Bridge,” that makes no sense whatsoever. Sure, maybe it’s clever that she chose the M.I.A. and “Holla Back Girl” approach to song writing. Yeah, maybe the chorus is catchy. But what the hell is she even talking about? “How come every time you come around, my London London Bridge wanna go down.” It sounds like her penis is on upside-down if you ask me.
How is Jessica Simpson so radically behind the times? Almost no one is making pop music that sounds like “A Public Affair” anymore. It’s so cutesy and inconsequential it’s hard to listen to the whole song. Maybe some pop-fluff is what appeases the pre-teenagers around the world, but Jessica will never be able to compete in the big-leagues without a hip-hop influenced single. I know she’s very successful, and some might even say talented, but she owes her success less to her talent and more to Us Weekly and MTV. Get with the times, Jess.
Justin Timberlake has come a long long way. With Justified, it became clear that J-Tim’s future success would rely on his hip-hop chops and sweet R&B voice. “Sexy Back” is the perfect summer single. The beat isn’t as groovy and sexy as on “Promiscuous Girl,” but Timbaland still manages to bring on the funk. This beat is tailor-made for Justin, keeping in mind that he’s a white boy who comes from a boy band background. It’s not so radically different as to completely change how we see Justin, but instead is the logical next step in his musical progression.
“Stars Are Blind” by Paris Hilton: Too bad they’re not deaf. The only thing worse than this song is Kevin Federline’s bastard child of a song, “Popo Zao.”
The one popstar you’ll notice absent from this list is Britney Spears Federline. Summer 2006 would have been an amazing time for her to make a killer comeback with ex-boyfriends and rivals doing the same. (By the way, Is it just me, or doesn’t it seem like Justin is deliberately referencing “Slave 4 U” with lyrics like “Dirty baby / you see these shackles / baby I’m your slave?”) Maybe J-Tim can help Brit get her sexy back, but perhaps she has wandered too deep into the land of the fugly to ever return to the top of the pops again. Judging by this summer’s list of comeback albums and singles, she’s going to have her work cut out for her.
original article here
Future Predictions, The Yale Herald, 4/21/06
Excerpt from a Herald A&E Staff piece.
I’m going to assume that it’s not a coincidence that, when I was asked to write this, I had already watched two episodes of a My Super Sweet Sixteenmarathon. So here are the things that MTV would have me believe would make the future better (according to the episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen that I happened to watch):
1.Bright pink poodles with nails to match.
2.Elaborate costume changes every half hour.
3.An appearance by Kanye West (or Diddy) (or both!)
4.A horse-drawn Cinderella carriage.
5.The constant presence of back-up dancers.
6.An ugly best friend who is clearly using me for my money. I guess a hot friend would work, too. As long as they’re using me for my money.
7.Parents who don’t really love me and think they can make up for it in presents.
8.One car for the weekdays, one for the weekends (top down, chrome spinnin’).
9.An ingrate for a daughter.
If this wouldn’t make the future better, I don’t know what would. Except maybe for more products and services from Google, or a time machine, if it still counts as the future, so I could go back and re-plan my Sweet Sixteen accordingly.
I’m going to assume that it’s not a coincidence that, when I was asked to write this, I had already watched two episodes of a My Super Sweet Sixteenmarathon. So here are the things that MTV would have me believe would make the future better (according to the episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen that I happened to watch):
1.Bright pink poodles with nails to match.
2.Elaborate costume changes every half hour.
3.An appearance by Kanye West (or Diddy) (or both!)
4.A horse-drawn Cinderella carriage.
5.The constant presence of back-up dancers.
6.An ugly best friend who is clearly using me for my money. I guess a hot friend would work, too. As long as they’re using me for my money.
7.Parents who don’t really love me and think they can make up for it in presents.
8.One car for the weekdays, one for the weekends (top down, chrome spinnin’).
9.An ingrate for a daughter.
If this wouldn’t make the future better, I don’t know what would. Except maybe for more products and services from Google, or a time machine, if it still counts as the future, so I could go back and re-plan my Sweet Sixteen accordingly.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Top 11 Love Anthems, The Herald, 2/11/05
Excerpt from a Herald A&E staff piece.
Chris Isaak, "Wicked Game"
After hours searching for the perfect love song, I knew after the first two notes that I'd end up writing about this one. The opening of Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" makes me feel nostalgic, sleazy, and in the mood to roll on a beach with a gorgeous hunk of man—all at the same time! "Wicked Game" is the quintessential love song because no matter how much I'm tempted to hate it, I just can't. The lyrics perfectly encapsulate what it's like to fall for someone against your will: "What a wicked thing to do/To make me dream of you/And I don't wanna fall in love." I have an obligation to mention the song's perfect counterpart: a video in which Helena Christensen wears lingerie and bites her lip. Sed-uc-tive-ly. The rhythm and guitar are almost as hot as Chris Isaak in nothing but a wife beater. Rolling on the beach and getting sand in inconvenient places never looked so sexy. What a wicked game, Chris Isaak, to make me fall in love with this song.
Chris Isaak, "Wicked Game"
After hours searching for the perfect love song, I knew after the first two notes that I'd end up writing about this one. The opening of Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" makes me feel nostalgic, sleazy, and in the mood to roll on a beach with a gorgeous hunk of man—all at the same time! "Wicked Game" is the quintessential love song because no matter how much I'm tempted to hate it, I just can't. The lyrics perfectly encapsulate what it's like to fall for someone against your will: "What a wicked thing to do/To make me dream of you/And I don't wanna fall in love." I have an obligation to mention the song's perfect counterpart: a video in which Helena Christensen wears lingerie and bites her lip. Sed-uc-tive-ly. The rhythm and guitar are almost as hot as Chris Isaak in nothing but a wife beater. Rolling on the beach and getting sand in inconvenient places never looked so sexy. What a wicked game, Chris Isaak, to make me fall in love with this song.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
REVIEW: Destiny's Child, The Yale Herald, 11/19/05
Music Reviews
Destiny's Child: Desiny Fulfilled
BY CELESTE
Theyyyy're baaack! Destiny's Child returns to bring you Destiny Fulfilled, their sixth and—cross your fingers—final album. Unfortunately, the group that once helped you "drop it like it's hot" offers only a luke-warm and tired album. But perhaps their history will help us rekindle our love.
Remember LaToya and LaTavia and Farrah? Me neither. Michelle and Kelly have essentially joined the ranks of discarded Destiny's Children. There are almost enough to make a pack of trading cards with only one card worth keeping in mint condition: the obvious star, the hottest and most bootylicious one, Beyoncé Knowles. Destiny's Child fulfilled their destiny when Beyoncé went solo. A word to Beyoncé: Better get crack-a-lackin' on that next solo album—-you'll need it after this.
The two best songs are the first two tracks on the album. The first, "Lose My Breath," nails a drum-line beat no booty will resist. It's this year's "Crazy In Love," ahem, "Survivor." Whatever. "Soldier," the second single, is slower, with appearances by rappers T.I. and Lil' Wayne. This song most embodies me. Turns out we have the same standards in guys: "If his status ain't hood I ain't checking for him/better be street if he looking at me I need a soldier." Word, Destiny's Child, word.
The rest of the songs are lame R&B ballads following the pattern of having Beyoncé, then Kelly, then Michelle singing each verse, as if we needed help clarifying the distribution of talent. "Cater 2 U" is the album's nadir. U, Because that's so much more legit than you (see Usher). Their priorities, you ask? Manicures, foot rubs, fixing dinner, fixin' his doo-rag, the usual, I answer. Ho-hum.
In brief, I recommend downloading "Lose My Breath" (legally of course), and skipping the rest. I also suggest re-naming Destiny's Child to Destiny's Second Cousins Twice Removed. Beyoncé is the power, soul, and vocal talent. So, give us more of what everyone wants: Beyoncé, Beyoncé, Beyoncé.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Destiny's Child: Desiny Fulfilled
BY CELESTE
Theyyyy're baaack! Destiny's Child returns to bring you Destiny Fulfilled, their sixth and—cross your fingers—final album. Unfortunately, the group that once helped you "drop it like it's hot" offers only a luke-warm and tired album. But perhaps their history will help us rekindle our love.
Remember LaToya and LaTavia and Farrah? Me neither. Michelle and Kelly have essentially joined the ranks of discarded Destiny's Children. There are almost enough to make a pack of trading cards with only one card worth keeping in mint condition: the obvious star, the hottest and most bootylicious one, Beyoncé Knowles. Destiny's Child fulfilled their destiny when Beyoncé went solo. A word to Beyoncé: Better get crack-a-lackin' on that next solo album—-you'll need it after this.
The two best songs are the first two tracks on the album. The first, "Lose My Breath," nails a drum-line beat no booty will resist. It's this year's "Crazy In Love," ahem, "Survivor." Whatever. "Soldier," the second single, is slower, with appearances by rappers T.I. and Lil' Wayne. This song most embodies me. Turns out we have the same standards in guys: "If his status ain't hood I ain't checking for him/better be street if he looking at me I need a soldier." Word, Destiny's Child, word.
The rest of the songs are lame R&B ballads following the pattern of having Beyoncé, then Kelly, then Michelle singing each verse, as if we needed help clarifying the distribution of talent. "Cater 2 U" is the album's nadir. U, Because that's so much more legit than you (see Usher). Their priorities, you ask? Manicures, foot rubs, fixing dinner, fixin' his doo-rag, the usual, I answer. Ho-hum.
In brief, I recommend downloading "Lose My Breath" (legally of course), and skipping the rest. I also suggest re-naming Destiny's Child to Destiny's Second Cousins Twice Removed. Beyoncé is the power, soul, and vocal talent. So, give us more of what everyone wants: Beyoncé, Beyoncé, Beyoncé.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Voyeurism, The Yale Herald, 09/2/05
Is anybody listening? Yes.
Remember the clever rhyme secrets secrets are no fun, secrets are for everyone? Do you remember the seething rage you felt when you retorted, "Nay! Secrets are NOT for everyone by the very definition of the word! If secrets were for everyone they would not be secrets but mere public confessions or conversati.onal snippets!" Admit you wanted to smack the nosy priss from elementary school who nah-nah-nah-nah-nah'd her way into your personal space by demanding you share your deepest secrets. Fortunately you had already crossed your heart and hope to die stick a needle in your eye and pinkie sweared that no one would find out about that time you drew a heart around Tommy's picture in the yearbook. Of course, there was always that one category of secret, the one you told all your closest friends knowing that one of them would let it slip into the public sphere. Everyone has had that one secret that was really a confession contained in a plastic wrapper of feigned secrecy. Everyone has a secret they want the world to know.
The desire to know other people's secrets is an addiction that, until now, was hard to satiate. This desire can often be channeled into people watching, eavesdropping, and the high art form of stalking. Lucky for people like me with extremely voyeuristic tendencies, the Internet has become a portal to a new level of people watching, and even a forum for random strangers' deepest, darkest, and most shameful secrets. A veritable Rear Window for the masses, if you will.
The first website I ever encountered that changed the direction of the wave of my web surfing was Postsecret.com. The concept is simple in design. Readers are asked to anonymously send in a 4 x 6 postcard with a secret that they have never confessed before to the listed address. The result is a mélange ranging from the harmless "I love getting my period... It gives me an excuse to be bitchy and irritable and to take naps" to the shocking and heartbreaking, "I think more than usual about killing myself after I have a really on good day." Although the posted secrets can't possibly be checked for reliability, there is no lack of readability as it's impossible to read just one. There's something about this small glimpse into another person's sense of guilt, dreams, regrets, despairs, confessions, and small pleasures that is completely absorbing. Voyeurism never felt so good.
Then of course, there are websites that fall into a grey area. Sites like overheardin-newyork.com and overheardintheoffice.com offer a chance for you to get involved in making another's comments part of the public domain. These fairly self-explanatory websites are an eavesdropper's wet dream, a place where their remarkable findings from both the office and "The City" can be shared with millions. I would say it's hard to believe that people actually say such things, but fact is it's not. Akin to the postcards, the overheard portions of these conversations are often hilarious, whether it's because of the incredible ignorance of the speaker, or, well, you'll just have to see for yourself. Check out one recent entry: "Hobo: Got any money, man? I'm hungry._ Guy: Hey, how are you? _Hobo: How am I? How the fuck do you think I am, 50 fuckin' people walked by and how much do I got? 10 fuckin cents, how the fuck am I. Shit, man. 'How the fuck are you?' What kind of question is that? I'm fuckin' homeless." I couldn't have said it better myself.
One of the most enticing things about this new medium of entertainment is the fact that you can come out of reading the worst confessions and still feel guilt free. After all, they're the one who chose to share it on the Internet. It's not like stalking right? You don't actually know the people who say or do these things and chances are you never will. The days of sticking binoculars through closed blinds are over. No more need for that commando helmet or those night-vision goggles you invested in.
No matter what type of voyeur you are, there is a website tailor-made to fit your people watching needs. If you're into reading the grossest most obscene and morally low things strangers have ever done, check out lowbrow.com. Some entries are less reprehensible than others, but there are a few that will make you look away from your screen in disgust. Keep in mind, there are no pictures on this site. As much as I hate to have to settle for reading livejournals, blogs, and Facebook profiles to spy on the Yale community, I'm sure it's only a matter of time before someone has a genius idea like say, oh, I don't know, overheardinthe-ivyleague.com. If that comes to fruition, I will be ruined.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Remember the clever rhyme secrets secrets are no fun, secrets are for everyone? Do you remember the seething rage you felt when you retorted, "Nay! Secrets are NOT for everyone by the very definition of the word! If secrets were for everyone they would not be secrets but mere public confessions or conversati.onal snippets!" Admit you wanted to smack the nosy priss from elementary school who nah-nah-nah-nah-nah'd her way into your personal space by demanding you share your deepest secrets. Fortunately you had already crossed your heart and hope to die stick a needle in your eye and pinkie sweared that no one would find out about that time you drew a heart around Tommy's picture in the yearbook. Of course, there was always that one category of secret, the one you told all your closest friends knowing that one of them would let it slip into the public sphere. Everyone has had that one secret that was really a confession contained in a plastic wrapper of feigned secrecy. Everyone has a secret they want the world to know.
The desire to know other people's secrets is an addiction that, until now, was hard to satiate. This desire can often be channeled into people watching, eavesdropping, and the high art form of stalking. Lucky for people like me with extremely voyeuristic tendencies, the Internet has become a portal to a new level of people watching, and even a forum for random strangers' deepest, darkest, and most shameful secrets. A veritable Rear Window for the masses, if you will.
The first website I ever encountered that changed the direction of the wave of my web surfing was Postsecret.com. The concept is simple in design. Readers are asked to anonymously send in a 4 x 6 postcard with a secret that they have never confessed before to the listed address. The result is a mélange ranging from the harmless "I love getting my period... It gives me an excuse to be bitchy and irritable and to take naps" to the shocking and heartbreaking, "I think more than usual about killing myself after I have a really on good day." Although the posted secrets can't possibly be checked for reliability, there is no lack of readability as it's impossible to read just one. There's something about this small glimpse into another person's sense of guilt, dreams, regrets, despairs, confessions, and small pleasures that is completely absorbing. Voyeurism never felt so good.
Then of course, there are websites that fall into a grey area. Sites like overheardin-newyork.com and overheardintheoffice.com offer a chance for you to get involved in making another's comments part of the public domain. These fairly self-explanatory websites are an eavesdropper's wet dream, a place where their remarkable findings from both the office and "The City" can be shared with millions. I would say it's hard to believe that people actually say such things, but fact is it's not. Akin to the postcards, the overheard portions of these conversations are often hilarious, whether it's because of the incredible ignorance of the speaker, or, well, you'll just have to see for yourself. Check out one recent entry: "Hobo: Got any money, man? I'm hungry._ Guy: Hey, how are you? _Hobo: How am I? How the fuck do you think I am, 50 fuckin' people walked by and how much do I got? 10 fuckin cents, how the fuck am I. Shit, man. 'How the fuck are you?' What kind of question is that? I'm fuckin' homeless." I couldn't have said it better myself.
One of the most enticing things about this new medium of entertainment is the fact that you can come out of reading the worst confessions and still feel guilt free. After all, they're the one who chose to share it on the Internet. It's not like stalking right? You don't actually know the people who say or do these things and chances are you never will. The days of sticking binoculars through closed blinds are over. No more need for that commando helmet or those night-vision goggles you invested in.
No matter what type of voyeur you are, there is a website tailor-made to fit your people watching needs. If you're into reading the grossest most obscene and morally low things strangers have ever done, check out lowbrow.com. Some entries are less reprehensible than others, but there are a few that will make you look away from your screen in disgust. Keep in mind, there are no pictures on this site. As much as I hate to have to settle for reading livejournals, blogs, and Facebook profiles to spy on the Yale community, I'm sure it's only a matter of time before someone has a genius idea like say, oh, I don't know, overheardinthe-ivyleague.com. If that comes to fruition, I will be ruined.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
REVIEW: Britney Spears, The Yale Herald, 12/3/04
Music Reviews
A farewell letter to Mrs. Federline
Britney Spears: Greatest Hits: My Prerogative
Dear Britney,
I've treated you horribly. I can't believe I joined the ranks of the US Weekly brigade thinking you were gone for good and marking the drop date of Lindsay Lohan's album on my calendar. I should've known your recent spiral into a steaming pile of white trash was your destiny. I mean you're in love! Now that JTim's got Cammy D., you've been able to find your real man. And he's a backup dancer! That must be so convenient. Tell Kevin Federline I say "Holla!" and send my love to the little ones, Shar Jackson's kids. Oh, and don't worry about what the magazines say about Shar. I don't have sympathy for her. I know she's just jealous of your mad skills.
That being said, I wanted to let you know I received a copy of your latest album, Greatest Hits: My Prerogative. You ask: "People can take everything away from you/But they can never take away your truth/But the question is... Can you handle mine?" I think you've proven once and for all you're the veritable Queen of Pop, and yes, we can. And to think I had shoved my copy of Oops! I Did it Again in between my Blaque and Willa Ford albums. How naïve I was! Your cover of "My Prerogative" is so hot that Bobby Brown will soon be snorting coke off of your platinum record. Some think it's too early for a greatest hits album. But let's be honest here. You're clearly stepping down from your throne and tossing both scepter and orb over your shoulder into the desperate hands (or perhaps, cleavage) of Ashlee, Hilary, and Lindsay. You're going out with a bang and making a few extra bucks to support your hubby. (And, of course, his kids! Brilliant.)
I only have one complaint. You put no effort into the two new songs! "(I've Just Begun) Having My Fun" lets us know the same thing you've been saying for years! We know you're rebellious, sexual, and like to have fun, if nothing else. We get it. "Do Somethin'" is only slightly better, but sounds like something picked out of Gwen Stefani's trash bin. The pseudo-rapping is really hilarious, though. I'd like to see more of that.
I can't help feeling nostalgic while listening to your Prerogative album. I've heard each of these songs a billion times, but when they're all strung together, the compilation is overpowering. I've come to realize that your hits have defined the teenage years of my generation. From "Baby One More Time" all the way to "Toxic," you kept us enraptured with consistently catchy beats and awesomely bad lyrics. It reminds me of the days when you still pretended to be a virgin, were dating Justin Timberlake before he was cool (you totally made him), and wore ridiculous belly-baring shirts and skin-tight cat suits.
I don't want to mislead you here: You've had a heinous track record this year. One 55-hour Vegas marriage, a canceled tour, affiliations with the devil (a.k.a. Fred Durst), and now "real" marriage? What's next? Kids? (Oh, wait, you're already a mom.) At least you got in shape for your latest video and album cover. When you really try, Brit, damn, girl looks fine! But, as reluctant as I am to admit the obvious, you're past your prime.
For the time being, we're still in mourning. But I can't say it wasn't fun while it lasted. And I'll still be anxiously waiting the end of your "break from music" to rock out with your comeback album.
Loyally yours (4-eva),
Celeste
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
A farewell letter to Mrs. Federline
Britney Spears: Greatest Hits: My Prerogative
Dear Britney,
I've treated you horribly. I can't believe I joined the ranks of the US Weekly brigade thinking you were gone for good and marking the drop date of Lindsay Lohan's album on my calendar. I should've known your recent spiral into a steaming pile of white trash was your destiny. I mean you're in love! Now that JTim's got Cammy D., you've been able to find your real man. And he's a backup dancer! That must be so convenient. Tell Kevin Federline I say "Holla!" and send my love to the little ones, Shar Jackson's kids. Oh, and don't worry about what the magazines say about Shar. I don't have sympathy for her. I know she's just jealous of your mad skills.
That being said, I wanted to let you know I received a copy of your latest album, Greatest Hits: My Prerogative. You ask: "People can take everything away from you/But they can never take away your truth/But the question is... Can you handle mine?" I think you've proven once and for all you're the veritable Queen of Pop, and yes, we can. And to think I had shoved my copy of Oops! I Did it Again in between my Blaque and Willa Ford albums. How naïve I was! Your cover of "My Prerogative" is so hot that Bobby Brown will soon be snorting coke off of your platinum record. Some think it's too early for a greatest hits album. But let's be honest here. You're clearly stepping down from your throne and tossing both scepter and orb over your shoulder into the desperate hands (or perhaps, cleavage) of Ashlee, Hilary, and Lindsay. You're going out with a bang and making a few extra bucks to support your hubby. (And, of course, his kids! Brilliant.)
I only have one complaint. You put no effort into the two new songs! "(I've Just Begun) Having My Fun" lets us know the same thing you've been saying for years! We know you're rebellious, sexual, and like to have fun, if nothing else. We get it. "Do Somethin'" is only slightly better, but sounds like something picked out of Gwen Stefani's trash bin. The pseudo-rapping is really hilarious, though. I'd like to see more of that.
I can't help feeling nostalgic while listening to your Prerogative album. I've heard each of these songs a billion times, but when they're all strung together, the compilation is overpowering. I've come to realize that your hits have defined the teenage years of my generation. From "Baby One More Time" all the way to "Toxic," you kept us enraptured with consistently catchy beats and awesomely bad lyrics. It reminds me of the days when you still pretended to be a virgin, were dating Justin Timberlake before he was cool (you totally made him), and wore ridiculous belly-baring shirts and skin-tight cat suits.
I don't want to mislead you here: You've had a heinous track record this year. One 55-hour Vegas marriage, a canceled tour, affiliations with the devil (a.k.a. Fred Durst), and now "real" marriage? What's next? Kids? (Oh, wait, you're already a mom.) At least you got in shape for your latest video and album cover. When you really try, Brit, damn, girl looks fine! But, as reluctant as I am to admit the obvious, you're past your prime.
For the time being, we're still in mourning. But I can't say it wasn't fun while it lasted. And I'll still be anxiously waiting the end of your "break from music" to rock out with your comeback album.
Loyally yours (4-eva),
Celeste
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Monday, November 20, 2006
REVIEW: Bjork, The Yale Herald, 09/10/04
Music Review: Bjork
Shortly before the release of Björk's seventh album, she announced, "Instruments are so over." Coming from a musician, this seems like an absurd statement. Then again, it is Björk. Known for being eccentric (remember that Swan outfit complete with an egg for a purse?), Björk has constantly pushed the boundaries of her music. On Medulla, she has called on the help of the London Choir, the Icelandic Choir, Inuit singers, and beat-boxers such as Rahzel (from The Roots) and Dokaka from Japan. Björk uses this diverse lineup to create an almost entirely a cappella album that even the Whiffenpoofs would envy.
Medulla starts off with "Pleasure is All Mine." In many ways, this piece introduces the concept of the album, opening with sparse vocals that slowly layer and build. "Where is the Line?" is the song that most uniquely couples the hip-hop beat-box with a chanting choir. The jagged and complex beat is paired with interesting chord progressions from the choir.
"Who Is It?" and "Triumph of a Heart" distinguish themselves from the rest of the album by using heavily layered voices to create a full and pervasive sound driven by the addictive dance beat. Björk's voice soars above the complex elements to create a cohesive sound. "Triumph of a Heart" also showcases a "human trombone" to create a unique and fuller sound not seen on the other songs. These two songs are the most like the dance hits that Björk excels at writing.
Other songs like "Desired Constellation" are decidedly minimalist. You often feel like a million wailing Björks surround you. Occasionally these songs sound incomplete or like transitional pieces. Some listeners may also be turned off by the songs with no beat-boxing as Björk's echoing, wailing, and panting can be a bit much to take by themselves. The more successful songs are the ones that employ each element to create a multi-layered composition. Each song on Medulla leads into the next one seamlessly, and even after the occasional clear break, the songs ebb and flow in an order that leaves you wondering what's coming next.
Simply put, this album is all Björk. At times, you will hardly believe that the layers upon layers of voices are voices at all. Although she does stray from her usual love of electronic beats, in many ways this is an amalgamation of her previous albums: Some tracks are as ethereal as any on Vespertine, while others have an experimental sound just like Post and the heavier, grounded tones of Homogenic. Each song is so drastically different (though uniquely Björk) that everyone will find something they like on Medulla. If for no other reason, this album is worth listening to for the amazing manipulation and diverse sound of each voice. You will be astounded.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Shortly before the release of Björk's seventh album, she announced, "Instruments are so over." Coming from a musician, this seems like an absurd statement. Then again, it is Björk. Known for being eccentric (remember that Swan outfit complete with an egg for a purse?), Björk has constantly pushed the boundaries of her music. On Medulla, she has called on the help of the London Choir, the Icelandic Choir, Inuit singers, and beat-boxers such as Rahzel (from The Roots) and Dokaka from Japan. Björk uses this diverse lineup to create an almost entirely a cappella album that even the Whiffenpoofs would envy.
Medulla starts off with "Pleasure is All Mine." In many ways, this piece introduces the concept of the album, opening with sparse vocals that slowly layer and build. "Where is the Line?" is the song that most uniquely couples the hip-hop beat-box with a chanting choir. The jagged and complex beat is paired with interesting chord progressions from the choir.
"Who Is It?" and "Triumph of a Heart" distinguish themselves from the rest of the album by using heavily layered voices to create a full and pervasive sound driven by the addictive dance beat. Björk's voice soars above the complex elements to create a cohesive sound. "Triumph of a Heart" also showcases a "human trombone" to create a unique and fuller sound not seen on the other songs. These two songs are the most like the dance hits that Björk excels at writing.
Other songs like "Desired Constellation" are decidedly minimalist. You often feel like a million wailing Björks surround you. Occasionally these songs sound incomplete or like transitional pieces. Some listeners may also be turned off by the songs with no beat-boxing as Björk's echoing, wailing, and panting can be a bit much to take by themselves. The more successful songs are the ones that employ each element to create a multi-layered composition. Each song on Medulla leads into the next one seamlessly, and even after the occasional clear break, the songs ebb and flow in an order that leaves you wondering what's coming next.
Simply put, this album is all Björk. At times, you will hardly believe that the layers upon layers of voices are voices at all. Although she does stray from her usual love of electronic beats, in many ways this is an amalgamation of her previous albums: Some tracks are as ethereal as any on Vespertine, while others have an experimental sound just like Post and the heavier, grounded tones of Homogenic. Each song is so drastically different (though uniquely Björk) that everyone will find something they like on Medulla. If for no other reason, this album is worth listening to for the amazing manipulation and diverse sound of each voice. You will be astounded.
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
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