Time cannot tarnish the mall of my mind
Celeste Ballard
Published Friday, November 9, 2007
Let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m at my local mall, the Sherman Oaks Fashion Square, shopping with my mother circa 1997. We’re back in an era before the Westfield Shopping Center Empire took over suburbia, transforming every surface into an advertisement for Hannah Montana, High School Musical and other ABC Family fare.
As I browse the racks at Friends, rifling through their bell-bottomed polyester pants and frilly shirts, I secretly long for the days when I will be able to shop at Contempo Casual, Wet Seal or Rampage. I imagine myself with pierced ears and halter dresses, glitter jean pockets and tube tops. Until then, I’m stuck wearing my new Technicolor, dangling clip-on earrings from Claire’s, shuffling around the store in my Gap khakis and purple clogs.
From across the room I spot them: a pair of baby blue platform sneakers with white butterflies embroidered on either side. “They’ll be a perfect alternate to my black and white platform saddle shoes!” I claim, giving my mother my best puppy-dog, don’t-I-deserve-them eyes to mask my case of the gimme-gimmes. I like the shoes because the Spice Girls are really big on the scene; my best friend and I have just made up our own choreo for “Spice Up Your Life” the previous weekend at a sleepover (she’s Sporty, I’m Posh). My mother shifts the Gap Kids bags on her arms, causing the 11-year-old with the silver-banded braces and the overgrown frizzy bangs to squeal out a few more “please, please, pleaaaaase”s for good measure. “All right, since you got an Outstanding on your book report about ‘Where the Red Fern Grows,’˛” she says, much to my delight. Later that day, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, really really really wanting to zigazig ahhh in my new platform kicks.
When I was growing up, my family would head to our local mall almost every Saturday without fail. My brother and dad always came directly from hockey practice, and I usually headed over with my mom and my sister after ballet class. We’d meet in the food court around noon and usually all end up in line at Panda Express. For years I ordered the same thing: half chow mein, half steamed rice, chicken and mushrooms, and orange chicken. Sometimes I’d pocket the change from the $20-bill my dad gave me. After finally nabbing a table from another San Fernando Valley nuclear family, we’d sit and discuss seeing a movie at the local Cineplex that afternoon. Usually the womenfolk would head over to Bloomingdale’s for a perusal of the sale rack, and my brother and dad would go to Tower Records or run some other errand.
Going to the mall on Saturdays was a family ritual, just like my Dad making Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes on Sundays. Later in high school, having quit ballet, I’d roll out of bed and drive myself to meet my earlier-to-rise family at the food court. Sometimes we’d all be coming from four different locations and would bring four different cars. We knew that the best parking is always at the bottom of the escalator bay on the second floor. Even now, when I go home for holidays, we usually end up at the recently Westfield-ified mall at least once. I usually opt for a California Crisp salad instead of the sauce-drenched Chinese food, but other than that not much else has changed with our family habits.
I still love going to the mall. When I’m nostalgic for home, I think of these Saturday mornings. It probably has something to do with being raised in Los Angeles and thereby being exposed to people who value the material and superficial over most other things. I certainly don’t mean to give off the impression that we went to the mall out of cultural deprivation — far from it. We go to the mall because it gives us the comfort of consistency.
I’ve been reflecting on how strange it is that my family loves the mall so much, but it makes sense considering how habit makes us feel grounded. Just like people make daily trips to Starbucks or the gym, my family makes weekly trips to the mall. Panda Express is certainly not the most delicious Chinese food in the world, but when I crave it, I’m craving time spent with my family on Saturday afternoons, the day of the week when everyone can finally relax, take a moment to breathe and take advantage of the sale racks at Macy’s.
Celeste Ballard is such a valley girl.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
REVIEW: Britney Spears - Blackout
Music Reviews
Britney Spears
Blackout
BY CELESTE BALLARD
Dear Britney,
When I popped your latest album Blackout into my compact disc drive, I braced myself against my Ikea FLURGINT desk, scrunched my eyelids shut, clenched my jaw, and bared my teeth, ready for the worst. The instant before the first beat dropped I saw my life—er, your career—flash before my eyes. We were back on the set of your “Baby, One More Time” video. A doe-eyed schoolgirl with a hot body ran down a hallway chased by a bald demon wielding an umbrella yelling, “Eat it! Lick it! Snort it!” Your new mantra, so it seems. Around the corner, a red-vinyl jump-suited lass was being forced to endure NSFW pictures of her future self while holding onto her dignity for dear life. (Btdubs, NSFW stands for Not Suitable For Work, for those of you who don’t subscribe to The Gospel according to TheSuperficial.com.) I was ready for Blackout to be the soundtrack to your horrific, oft-blogged about downward spiral. I was ready for you to fail.
Shockingly enough, you had me at, “It’s Britney, bitch.” With these sassy words, girl, you launch into an equally sassy, competent dance album. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not the stellar comeback album I was hoping for when I heard you broke up with the K-Fed. Blackout is no Britney, nor is it even as good as the spotty, In the Zone, a record whose single “Toxic” would undoubtedly beat “Gimme More” in a fight to the death (if songs could fight). Yet there’s something about the aggressively unapologetic tone of Blackout that keeps me from wanting to write you off entirely into the annals of heading-for-obscurity.
My favorite song is definitely “Gimme More,” with its gritty synths and guttural groans because you sound most like the old version of yourself. Your version of La Lohan’s “Rumors,” and most likely your next single, “Piece of Me” is not nearly as danceable. The lyrics “you want a piece of me” alternate between being a question and a threatening statement, never quite clarifying if your media image is how you actually are in real life. Admittedly, “Break the Ice” and “Get Naked (I Got a Plan)” are pretty good for knock-offs of Timbaland and Nelly Furtado collaborations. With lyrics such as, “Baby I can make you feel hot, hot, hot” I see you’re still pursuing the most intellectual inquiries life has to offer; topics from your never-expanding repertoire include: “How hot am I?” “Don’t you want me?” “Don’t I just love shaking my butt?” “Sex anyone? No, seriously you guys, sex anyone?”
As it turns out, your pseudo-rapping is as hilarious as ever—“Toy Soldier” is pretty fun, but you’re clearly trying a little too hard with the ’tude-infused whiny lyrics. The Pharrell-produced “Why Should I Be Sad” is a nice closing alternate to the schmaltzy, weepy numbers that usually fall mid-album for you. The rest of the album consists of standard dance fare, songs such as “Heaven on Earth” that lack the pop-tacular catchy hooks of your previous hits.
If I had to venture a guess, I’d say that when recording this album, you rolled out bed still wearing the cut-offs you fell asleep in after a night at the club, were handed a mocha frappacino by an assistant, sang the songs that were written for you without doing many takes, turned on the auto-tune, and called it a day. Sure, Blackout is competent, and given your recent history it’s tempting to call it a pretty amazing achievement. The high-fives, however, should be dealt out amongst your handlers, who knew the only way to save your career was by forcing you to work with a line-up of hot on-the-scene producers. Completely missing from this album are those “only Britney” moments. The choruses aren’t tailored to you or your notoriously mediocre croon. Any pop starlet with enough cash money millions could have made this dance album. Your voice was never known to be legitimately beautiful, but on Blackout your voice lacks any evidence of effort whatsoever, y’all!
Sure, as club albums go this one is pretty good, but I miss the good ol’ days where you were still teeny bopping even while being sexy. Will you never have another “Toxic” or “Slave 4 U?” I have the sinking feeling that the Britney Spears I have come to know and love over my years as a hardcore mainstream pop fan has been replaced by another dancehall drone. Why, Brit-Brit, why have you completely given up? Get it together, lady! I know you’re probably too far gone for that, but at least Blackout leaves a vestige of hope. I’m currently very thankful I still have my copy of your Greatest Hits album. I have a feeling my nostalgia will want to take it for a spin one of these days.
Love conditionally,
Celeste Ballard
© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.
Britney Spears
Blackout
BY CELESTE BALLARD
Dear Britney,
When I popped your latest album Blackout into my compact disc drive, I braced myself against my Ikea FLURGINT desk, scrunched my eyelids shut, clenched my jaw, and bared my teeth, ready for the worst. The instant before the first beat dropped I saw my life—er, your career—flash before my eyes. We were back on the set of your “Baby, One More Time” video. A doe-eyed schoolgirl with a hot body ran down a hallway chased by a bald demon wielding an umbrella yelling, “Eat it! Lick it! Snort it!” Your new mantra, so it seems. Around the corner, a red-vinyl jump-suited lass was being forced to endure NSFW pictures of her future self while holding onto her dignity for dear life. (Btdubs, NSFW stands for Not Suitable For Work, for those of you who don’t subscribe to The Gospel according to TheSuperficial.com.) I was ready for Blackout to be the soundtrack to your horrific, oft-blogged about downward spiral. I was ready for you to fail.
Shockingly enough, you had me at, “It’s Britney, bitch.” With these sassy words, girl, you launch into an equally sassy, competent dance album. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not the stellar comeback album I was hoping for when I heard you broke up with the K-Fed. Blackout is no Britney, nor is it even as good as the spotty, In the Zone, a record whose single “Toxic” would undoubtedly beat “Gimme More” in a fight to the death (if songs could fight). Yet there’s something about the aggressively unapologetic tone of Blackout that keeps me from wanting to write you off entirely into the annals of heading-for-obscurity.
My favorite song is definitely “Gimme More,” with its gritty synths and guttural groans because you sound most like the old version of yourself. Your version of La Lohan’s “Rumors,” and most likely your next single, “Piece of Me” is not nearly as danceable. The lyrics “you want a piece of me” alternate between being a question and a threatening statement, never quite clarifying if your media image is how you actually are in real life. Admittedly, “Break the Ice” and “Get Naked (I Got a Plan)” are pretty good for knock-offs of Timbaland and Nelly Furtado collaborations. With lyrics such as, “Baby I can make you feel hot, hot, hot” I see you’re still pursuing the most intellectual inquiries life has to offer; topics from your never-expanding repertoire include: “How hot am I?” “Don’t you want me?” “Don’t I just love shaking my butt?” “Sex anyone? No, seriously you guys, sex anyone?”
As it turns out, your pseudo-rapping is as hilarious as ever—“Toy Soldier” is pretty fun, but you’re clearly trying a little too hard with the ’tude-infused whiny lyrics. The Pharrell-produced “Why Should I Be Sad” is a nice closing alternate to the schmaltzy, weepy numbers that usually fall mid-album for you. The rest of the album consists of standard dance fare, songs such as “Heaven on Earth” that lack the pop-tacular catchy hooks of your previous hits.
If I had to venture a guess, I’d say that when recording this album, you rolled out bed still wearing the cut-offs you fell asleep in after a night at the club, were handed a mocha frappacino by an assistant, sang the songs that were written for you without doing many takes, turned on the auto-tune, and called it a day. Sure, Blackout is competent, and given your recent history it’s tempting to call it a pretty amazing achievement. The high-fives, however, should be dealt out amongst your handlers, who knew the only way to save your career was by forcing you to work with a line-up of hot on-the-scene producers. Completely missing from this album are those “only Britney” moments. The choruses aren’t tailored to you or your notoriously mediocre croon. Any pop starlet with enough cash money millions could have made this dance album. Your voice was never known to be legitimately beautiful, but on Blackout your voice lacks any evidence of effort whatsoever, y’all!
Sure, as club albums go this one is pretty good, but I miss the good ol’ days where you were still teeny bopping even while being sexy. Will you never have another “Toxic” or “Slave 4 U?” I have the sinking feeling that the Britney Spears I have come to know and love over my years as a hardcore mainstream pop fan has been replaced by another dancehall drone. Why, Brit-Brit, why have you completely given up? Get it together, lady! I know you’re probably too far gone for that, but at least Blackout leaves a vestige of hope. I’m currently very thankful I still have my copy of your Greatest Hits album. I have a feeling my nostalgia will want to take it for a spin one of these days.
Love conditionally,
Celeste Ballard
© 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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