Hold High Your Goblets of Haterade

MUSIC REVIEW: Hilary Duff, The Yale Herald

2010-01-07T10:24:00.001-08:00

“What are you, on your period or something?” This is what a teenage boy might ask Hilary Duff of her latest teenage angst filled release, Dignity. This title would usually be absurd, but given the recent antics of her panty-less, rehab-entering colleagues, (LiLo, Brit –I’m looking at you) Hilary seems to be doing a pretty good job of keeping her dignity in tact and keeping her underwear on. I’m still not sure if Dignity is the word to describe it, but with this electro-pop album, Hilary Duff certainly sheds her Lizzie McGuire image like a size AA Hanes-Her-Way training bra.

Hilary’s latest album is a perky “You go girl!” for the 12-16 year old bracket. Where she used to “let the rain fall down” and splash about in the puddles, Hilary now stomps angrily and lets her mascara smear. She sings of her breakup with Good Charlotte’s Joel Madden on “Stranger,” the deep-breathing types of her older male fan base on “Danger,” and of breakups again on the I’m-like-so-totally-over-you song, “Happy.” Joel, who could easily get in an eyeliner-off with both Duff sisters, seems to have left the young, nubile Hil in a state of rage, providing much fodder for her lyrics: they read like the emo poems from the Hello Kitty diary of a high school prom queen stood up by her date. We gotta cut Hil some slack: he did ditch her for a stick figure who once drove the wrong way on a freeway while stoned out of her gourd.

On this album, it seems like the princess of bubblegum seems to have lost some of her pop. The synth beats are of the bad 80s kind, especially on “Never Stop,” and the single, “With Love.” Both sound like demo’s you might find on a Casio keyboard at a garage sale. Hilary would have a hit on her hands had she stuck with the rock based belters that she’s known for. These radio hits usually let her hang out with the older kids, the post-sweet-16 crowd who aren’t ashamed to enjoy songs like her past hits “Come Clean” (better known by its chorus “let the rain fall down”) and “So Yesterday.” Dignity doesn’t contain a single song like this, save the title track. Hil should’ve given us a hit that we could sing in the shower. You know, the jump-around-your-room-in-your-underwear-singing-into-a-hairbrush kind of pop song.

Dignity is Hilary’s equivalent of the “Not a girl, not yet a woman” stage that Britney Spears went through not too long ago. The album is dressing up in the makeup and high heels of an older, sexier euro-pop album: everything is two sizes too big and slightly ridiculous sounding. Albums like this only seem to work when highly sexual songstresses are at the helm (see: Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor and any Kylie Minogue). For once, Hilary Duff’s status as the reigning virginal, pre-pubescent teen queen plays against her. It’s hard to imagine this being played in a club. It’s easy to imagine it bumping out of a plastic Mattel jukebox.

- Celeste Ballard

Yale Class History 2008

2008-07-13T21:58:00.000-07:00

written by yours truly, Jessica Poter, and Doug Lieblich for Class Day 2008

The Yale Record, Machine Issue - List

2008-07-12T00:52:00.001-07:00

The Yale Herald Column 4/25/08

2008-07-12T00:37:00.001-07:00

Barbies, M.A.S.H. and the new residential colleges

BY CELESTE BALLARD

When I was growing up, my sister would force me to play Barbies with her. I would often watch as her well-groomed, smudge-free leading lady reigned over the ragged cast of Barbie wannabes that I kept in my monogrammed pink case: Cinderella Barbie, whose shorn locks complimented her sharpie eyeliner; Little Mermaid Barbie, who had suffered through a long, nauseating car ride from the Disney store that ended in vomit; and an array of Skippers, Dollys, Stacys, and other tweens from Barbie’s entourage. Her Barbies were fashionistas and working moms, while mine were fashion victims and the hostages of my younger brother’s Army men. She was always much better at Barbie realism, and I was always excited to participate and look on as she acted out scenes of domestic bliss. Luckily for us, we soon became the proud owners of the most exalted of Barbie’s bourgeois luxuries, the trademarked Malibu Dreamhouse, and this paragon of childhood “Material Girl” idealism prompted us to generate floor plans of our own.

I recently found one such schematic that made it clear I was never destined to be an architecture or interior design student. If any of those students got a hold of my drawing, they would cringe at my refusal to use a ruler or other straight edge. For a drafting pen, I used a bright pink Gelly Roll to label my boxes in perfect Denelian script. My plan began with a small foyer, a room I knew belonged at the entrance of any good Dream Mansion, but a room I did not, evidently, know how to spell. Aware of the basic structural necessities, I added a small bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub adjacent to said foyer. A stranger or psychoanalyst might describe the rest of the floor plan as a combination of wishful thinking and appetite. A veritable pantheon of fast food deities included, but was not limited to, McDonalds, Jamba Juice, Noah’s Bagels, and the Chinese food place down the street. Little Celeste then included a roller rink, an ice skating rink, a bowling alley, a moon bounce room, and a ball pit. I also managed to squeeze in acres and acres of theme parks, including not only Disneyland, but also the more adventurous Magic Mountain (even though I was not yet “This tall to ride”).

Needless to say, the rooms I’ve inhabited during my time at Yale would never be attached to the word “dream.” Moving off campus definitely increased the square footage I could devote to strewing my clothes all over the place. But, as any amateur real estate enthusiast might tell you, location is everything, and Howe Street is smack in the heart of Gun Wavin’ New Haven. My prospects for next year, however, make my current abode look like what might be considered a Mansion in a game of M.A.S.H. For those who haven’t played M.A.S.H., at the end of this game of imagined futures you end up with one of the letters in the titular acronym to determine your future housing. It’s like room draw. Freshman year, my room was the H: a house. Sophomore year, the A: Apartment. This year, I landed on the M for Mansion. My younger self never imagined I’d ever be settling for the S—S, of course, is for Shack. I want to live on the great island nation of Manhattan next year; unfortunately, a shack is where I’ll be living.

In any case, if there’s one thing a schematic for a Dream House might inform, it’s the way the Yale campus will be changing thanks to the addition of two new residential colleges. I would like to propose a quick plan for my Dream Residential College. The two new colleges, which I have named Mariah Carey and Vanderslice, would be built as two eco-friendly biodomes. Because both are so close to the graveyard, and because the portentous sign “The Dead Shall Be Raised” is certain to become a self-fulfilling prophecy by the year 2018, both Carey and Vanderslice will have reinforced Zombie moats filled with corpse eating manatees. Instead of the alienating entryway system, the colleges will have hallways, all of which connect via a series of chutes and ladders for efficiency, joy, and the sake of nostalgia.

The colleges will feature an ice skating rink (because some dreams never die), a Swedish massage centry, and a McFlurry kiosk. The courtyard will be host to annual reenactments of Woodstock ’99. Finally, my dream colleges will have the coolest master and dean combinations since Master T and Dean Loge left Yale to form a championship winning tango team on Dancing with the Former University Professors. For Vanderslice, students would introduce their parents to Master Diddy and Dean Harriet the Spy. At Carey, Dean Splinter would offset the kooky antics of Master Philip Seymour Hoffman. Until these colleges are built, I’ll wait with bated breath, mostly because I’ll be holed up without much ventilation and certainly without AC. In a one-bedroom converted into a four-bedroom. It may not be a McWorld, but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream.

Scenic Views Column YDN: Grad List 2/1/08

2008-07-12T00:28:00.000-07:00

I saw a movie starring Jack Nicholson recently. In it, he plays an ornery author with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He becomes unlikely friends with his gay neighbor and a waitress, played by Greg Kinnear and Helen Hunt, respectively. If you still don’t know what movie I’m talking about, let me narrow it down further. At one point he enters the waiting room of his psychiatrist’s office, and asks those waiting, “What if this is as good as it gets?”

Do you recognize what movie I’m talking about now?

It’s called “The Bucket List.”

So let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m the star of a summer blockbuster rom-com tearjerker action movie. Morgan Freeman plays the role of my best friend. We decide that before he dies and before I graduate, we’re going to make a list of all the things we’re going to do before these respective deadlines. Five minutes into the film, Morgan Freeman dies when zombies erupt out of a small volcano the size of a toilet. They stab him in the eye with a birthday party hat (the pointy ended kind, usually covered in Sponge Bob Squarepants or My Little Ponies) and blood shoots out of the circle end of the hat. No offense, Morgan Freeman, but this is my fantasy, and what I imagine goes! It’s nothing against you — I just want the gravitas of having a friend who just passed away to haunt my character throughout the movie, so later in the fantasy, when I’m nominated for an Oscar, I can win. Anyhoo, Morgan Freeman dies, I cross off all the things on my list, one of which, incidentally, is to stave off a Zombie apocalypse, and I’m nominated for and win an Oscar for Best Human Actress in a Movie Mostly Starring Cyborgs.

The following is the list I made in that fantasy. I think most of it applies to my senior year, so I’m publishing it here. That way I’ll be forced to follow through with my cap and gown list.

1. Watch the sun rise over East Rock.

2. Do all of the reading assignments for one class in their entirety.

3. Scale Harkness Tower and perch on top of it like a brooding superhero.

4. Successfully recognize one song that the Carilloneurs play.

5. Befriend the entire class of 2011 on the facebook.com, poke all of them, and send them messages with no subjects that consist of a sleazy wink emoticon.

6. Go to Louis’s Lunch and ask for a slice of pizza.

7. Boycott a random concert at Toad’s, let’s say one of the Billie Joel cover bands.

8. Enjoy an entire lineup for Spring Fling.

9. Eat at the Pantry.

10. Throw a dance party in the Philosophy Reading Room in the stacks of SML.

11. See what’s up this “science hill” I hear people complain about so frequently.

12. Successfully remove myself from the Old Campus Risk panlist.

13. Crowd-surf at a Saturday Night Dance Party at Toad’s.

14. Win an Oscar in an unusual category.

15. Prevent a Zombie Apocalypse from destroying humanity using only a spork and a can of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-Os.

As a senior, I do hope to accomplish some of these things. But let’s be real — some of these things are just ludicrous, insane and completely impossible. I think I need to adjust my expectations so that the list is a series of “realistic challenges.” In that vein, I’m going to cross “Enjoy an entire lineup for Spring Fling” off my list, because when bands like Nickelback are in the running, there’s just no chance of that ever happening. I’m keeping the rest of the list intact. Wish me luck!

Please remove Celeste Ballard from this list.

Scenic Views Column: Malls 11/9/07

2007-11-20T00:17:00.000-08:00

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.

REVIEW: Britney Spears - Blackout

2007-11-20T00:12:00.001-08:00

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.

Review: Radiohead - In Rainbows

2007-10-18T22:34:00.000-07:00

Between September 30, 2007 and October 10, 2007, I spent 240 hours quaking in anticipation for the new Radiohead album In Rainbows to reach my inbox. As I’ve been an h-core Radiohead fan since my sister first played me The Bends, I had come to associate their album releases as significant events in my life. Leaving aside the revolutionary means of distribution, what was most fascinating for me about In Rainbows is that releasing the album this way ensured what may be the first collective musical experience in my lifetime. On October 10, 2007, people from all walks of life turned to their computers to have their minds collectively blown.
Aside from the cryptic messages left on their blog, Dead Air Space, the last we heard from Radiohead as a band was just over four years ago with the release of Hail to the Thief, a decent album, which nonetheless sounded a little bit tired. In the period between albums, Radiohead refrained from signing with a record label, took time off and took to the road, previewing all ten tracks that would eventually end up on In Rainbows. The album contains all the elements of Radiohead we’ve come to know and love over the more experimental stages of their career: Thom Yorke’s haunting crooning, reverberating electronic blips and hums, white noise distortion…and wait a minute… was that a guitar? And a drum? And an ORCHESTRA!?! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! For the first time in years, my favorite band sounds like a band.
The album opens with the lyrics, “How come I end up where I started? How come I end up where I belong?” The line seems to subconsciously refer at once to Radiohead’s return to their sonic roots and the evolution their music has made over the last decade. In Rainbows rocks and rolls in exhilarating and unexpected ways, the perfect amalgamation of Radiohead’s lost days of straightforward rock with their less-accessible forays into the music weaned from technology.
The album is replete with moments that invert expectations, as the songs build and deconstruct themselves from inside out. The opening electronic scratch and drum sequence in “15 Step” teases us into thinking Yorke and company are going the way of Kid A and Amnesiac, but soon the scratch dissipates, giving way to Jonny Greenwood’s soulful guitar line. “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi,” crescendos monumentally into a modern symphony as the arpeggios weave in and out of the intricate drumming and transcendent harmonies.” It sounds like it could belong on Ok Computer. Listen to “Let Down” and then “Weird Fishes” back to back to understand the progress they’ve made as a band. In spite of the dissenters, Radiohead had to make Amnesiac and Hail to the Thief in order to be able to write the songs on In Rainbows.
Perhaps the most remarkable accomplishment of the album is the return to pure, unadulterated melody. Rarely is Yorke’s voice filtered beyond recognition. A personal favorite, “All I Need” centers itself on the sincere refrain of what may be Yorke’s most uncomplicated lyrics to date, “You’re all I need / You’re all I need.” The oldest track on the record, appearing sometime in the 1990s, “Nude,” begins as a Bjork-circa-Medulla mermaid song, but the doubled voices soon drop away, leaving Yorke doing his doleful, inspired version of r&b, singing about woes of alienation with the lines, “And now that you’ve found it – it’s gone / and now that you’ve felt it – you don’t.” “Reckoner,” indulges Radiohead’s ability to create cinematic atmospheric pieces à la “How to Disappear Completely,” and “Exit Music (for a Film),” yet doesn’t take itself as seriously, reveling instead in its own inner harmonies. This album is definitely the sexiest Thom Yorke and crew have ever sounded.
In Rainbows is also the best of all of Radiohead’s beautifully messed up worlds. One of the reasons many listeners and fans may have been turned off in recent years is that all of the blipping, buzzing, and whirring can come off as noise pollution. Instead, here Radiohead extracts moments of their electronic experimentation to use as accents instead of overwhelming the songs. Songs like “Bodysnatchers” and “House of Cards” recall the more sonically distant moments of Amnesiac, but the band remains grounded.
Finally, the album closer, “Videotape,” finds Yorke singing, “This is my way of saying goodbye / Because I can’t do it face to face.” As I reluctantly retreat into the post-album silence, I realize that Radiohead has come full circle, not back to where they started, but to a new and exciting vantage point over the full range of their talent and experimentation. The repetitive piano and continuously collapsing drumbeat of “Videotape” provide an appropriate and steady march away from the tremendously moving masterpiece that is In Rainbows.

Scenic Views Column: Dance 9/28/07

2007-10-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

Published: Friday, September 28, 2007

Dance Dance Yalies! A not-so-subtle call for revolution

Celeste Ballard

Let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m walking down the streets of Soho, kick-ball-changing, shuffle-ball-stepping to the totally chasé-able chorus of ABBA’s “Voulez Vous” I have bumping from my iPod headphones. Just as I bend down to pick up a fully-loaded iTunes gift certificate, Leigh Lezark from the MisShapes, Zooey Deschanel and Chloe Sevigny (three ladies I think look cool all the time) stop me on the street and invite me to what they refer to as THE dance party.

“But she can’t go wearing that!” shrieks Zooey, whipping out a grab bag filled to the brim with hot numbers from Marc Jacobs, 3.1lim and other lines that H&M likes to knock off. “Wait! You forgot the finishing touch!” Chloe says, whimsically pulling a pair of ruby-encrusted Nike Terminators off the backs of two equally ruby encrusted land dolphins who have just swam through the air to the corner of Prince and Elizabeth. I slip them on my feet, gasping, “They’re just my size!” Just as Zooey starts to respond, “Of course they are! This is your fantasy and you’re writing this right—” Leigh interrupts her, shouting, “Quick! To the teleporter!” We step into the frozen goods aisle of the nearest bodega, pull open the door with the Lean Cuisines inside, and everything goes black.

When I open my eyes, I’m inside a set of gates that read Emerald Cit-tay in neon, standing in the middle of a room complete with luminescent green ceilings, walls and floors like some Ian Schrager hotel gone wild. Suddenly, a voice booms over the microphone, “Are you ready to dance?” An invisible DJ scratches his record not once, not twice, but three times, letting the opening moments of “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough” by Michael Jackson do the talking.

As the song begins to play, the craziest corps-de-ballet I’ve ever seen enters, dancing with wild abandon and wearing crazy carnivale masks. It’s the most reckless dancing of my life, so naturally I don’t notice when the clock strikes five in the morning. The scene disintegrates, and I wake up on my Tempur-Pedic, the beats of Timbaland, old school Puff Daddy and the Family, and various Euro fare refraining in my ears. But wait! I’m clutching a pair of red sparkley shoes! It wasn’t a dream after all!

At one point in the movie “Dazed and Confused,” the nerd played by Anthony Rapp asks the nerd played by Adam Golberg, “So you’re not gonna go to law school? What do you want to do then?” and in a moment of Linklaterian perfection, Golberg responds desperately and earnestly, “I wanna dance!”

I kept coming back to this line this summer, mostly because I watched every episode of “So You Think You Can Dance?” multiple times, but also because, well, when it comes down to it, the one thing I almost always want to do is dance. It doesn’t matter where I am or what time of day it is. During a particularly jubilatory Shaw’s run the other day, I found myself in the vitamins aisle dancing in front of the Gingko Biloba to the warbled R&B jams of Breezy-Nostalgia FM.

I’m not referring to easy dances like the Bunny Hop or The Hokey Pokey. Nor do I mean choreographed routines, like those you might find at a Danceworks show, packed with popping and locking, dropping it like it’s hot, and backing it up. And I certainly don’t mean the kind of dancing that happens when the ubiquitous Umbrella-ella-ella starts to play at Toad’s.

I don’t mean to suggest I frown upon or shun the sort of moves that elicit lines like, “Wanna come back to my room? My twin bed isn’t the only thing that’s extra long.” In fact, I think every doctor would do well to prescribe a low dose of that kind of social interaction. What I’m looking for is a more therapeutic release from the daily (weekendly?) bump and grind — an alternative to the Saturday night trek to Toads.

Where can I find the sweat-soaked hair and clothes kind of dancing, the kind of dancing that starts at your feet and radiates up through your whole body until you’re in a trance? It’s the kind of dancing that doesn’t leave you scanning the room self-consciously, but rather the kind that necessitates a full-body immersion that makes “freaking” impossible. It’s such an elusive experience, one that is difficult enough to find at all, let alone within the confines of the Ivy League. Only twice in my life have I ever experienced this kind of raucous movement: at a !!! (ChkChkChk) concert, and at a Daft Punk concert. I would suggest, however, that there’s more than just techno and dance rock that allows this kind of cathartic rocking out.

In high school, I did a bunch of improvised dance – yes, of the “you’re a beautiful tree! Now you’re trepidation!” variety — so of course my instinct is to dance like nobody’s watching, as the inspirational poster quote goes. I really think everyone has something to gain from this kind of moving. It’s like going to therapy, but instead of a doctor asking, “And how does that make you feel?” you can express it through motion. It’s a tremendous psychological and physical release.

But I’m not delusional – I know most people at Yale wouldn’t go for something so “hippie” or whatever the appropriate adjective might be. Yet I do think it can be achieved at dance parties. So is it really so much to ask that every once in a while we drop all inhibitions and just shake what our mothers gave us, no matter how silly it looks? Who wants to join me in starting a dance (dance) revolution?

Celeste Ballard wishes she could turn off the lights and turn the Daft Punk up to 11.

Scenic Views Column: Apatow 9/7/07

2007-10-17T10:49:00.000-07:00

Published: Friday, September 7, 2007

Apatow gets us super ‘Knocked Up’

Let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m sitting at home, lounging on my queen-sized Tempur-pedic in a burnt umber cashmere sweatsuit eating loads and loads of Now and Laters, JuJuBes and other impossible-to-chew candy. I’ve just finished a huge dinner of Chicken Tikka Masala and Naan with Mango Chutney, and I’m ready to spend some quality alone time.

Suddenly, the door bursts open, and in busts a slightly out-of-shape, nerdy-looking dude who is almost unbearably earnest when he asks if he can join me on my bed filled with piles of oversized plush Pound Puppies. He sits down and says he has brought something I’m sure to enjoy. As I gaze into his eyes and recall the lyrics of Bright Eyes and Death Cab for Cutie, he hands me a box wrapped in Rainbow Bright wrapping paper.

“I didn’t even know they made this sort of festive paper!” I exclaim. “It’s vintage,” he responds nervously. I unwrap the paper, careful not to tear it, because I’m going to save it later to collage onto my wall. Inside lies the first season of Adult Swim’s “Robot Chicken” on DVD. We watch four episodes in a row, stay up talking about the latest YouTube viral video, fall asleep lightly touching hands and become best friends.

No, it’s not the most titillating fantasy in the world. Yet every show and movie I’ve really enjoyed in the last few years has told me that this is the guy for me. A guy who is not in the least bit threatening and who most likely bruises like a peach.

First there was Seth Cohen on “The O.C.” I’m referring, of course, only to the first two seasons, when he was actually witty and not dating the hottest chick at school (Anna was such a better match, duh). Then came Jim from the American version of “The Office.” How I swoon when he smirks at the camera and looks longingly at Pam! Last but not least, there’s Judd Apatow’s all-male neo-Brat Pack of sorts, all of whom happen to be pop-culture referencing, Comic-Con attending, funny dudes who like to hang out and improvise jokes. (Oh be still my beating heart when I think about Paul Rudd as every Paul Rudd character, because he’s a comedic goldmine!)

“The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” “Knocked Up” and “Superbad” celebrate the awkward, the lumbering, the earnest, and the misguided with the nerd-tastic triumvirate of Steve Carrell, Seth Rogan, and Michael Cera. Respectively, they are the childish-man, the man-child, and the child-child. And I love them all.

But I don’t want you to walk away from reading this just thinking that I’ve maybe shared a little too much information about my crushes with the entire Yale campus. I want you to realize that Apatow stands among the best of the best when it comes to comedies made for our generation, because he lets the dudes be dudes, and in doing so, captures what it’s actually like to be young and weird.

For the most part, I’ve really disliked the selection of high-school/young people comedies I’ve seen that were made for my generation. “Never Been Kissed,” “She’s All That,” “Varsity Blues” and generally any other movie starring the Freddie Prinz Juniors and Paul Walkers of the world are not the least bit insightful into what it’s like to be in high school.

“Cruel Intentions” was fun when we were pre-teens, were still really into The Counting Crows and had never seen two girls kiss before. “Empire Records” holds a special place because it taught us to “damn the man, save the empire.” In my book, the only certifiably hilarious and smart comedies that take place in a world actually like high school (sorry, Will Ferrell vehicles) are “Clueless,” “Dazed and Confused” and “Mean Girls.”

What Amy Heckerling did for the 80s and 90s, and what Richard Linklater did for the 70s, Judd Apatow does for the 90s. He gets us, ya’ll! “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” “Knocked Up” and “Superbad” are movies with a boner AND a heart!

Yes, the females in these movies are relegated to playing the role of either boring straight woman (Catherine Keener, Katherine Heigl, that other chick I can only assume is some iteration of the name Catherine) or crazy and/or slutty (Elizabeth Banks’ bath tub scene, Leslie Mann’s drunk driver, that girl in Superbad who does a pitch-perfect pre-pubescent strip routine). Yet even so, I can forgive him, because the appearance of Charlyne Yi and the always-stellar Mann gives me hope for the heroines of his future projects.

And when it comes down to it, these characters could exist! At Yale! Right now! Do you want to come over and play N64 and talk about “Flight of the Conchords”?

Things that would grow in a Kindergarten, were it translated into its English Equivalent Children Garden

2007-08-02T22:20:00.001-07:00

cabbage patch kids
thyme babies
brussels sprouts tykes
rhubarb offspring
yam infants
eggplant jeuveniles
tater tots

2007-06-05T02:48:00.000-07:00

Spring Break, The Yale Herald

2007-05-28T21:43:00.001-07:00

From a staff piece about our favorite Spring Break A&E related things:

If I had to make a mix tape, er, CD, er, iTunes playlist to reflect my spring break experience, it would consist of one song and one song only. Beyoncé, Beyoncé, Beyoncé. Oh wait—that’s not a song title. But it might as well be, because whenever I hear the name Beyoncé, I see cherubs holding banners of periwinkle and starshine, I hear the swelling of an orchestra, the joyous harmonies of song birds, and what I can only assume to be the voice of God crying out, “To the left! To the left!” I spent the first week of break on tour with The Yale Ex!t Players. We had many a late-night dance session to the song “Irreplaceable,” marveling that the woman who once sang “can you pay my automo-bills” could cause so much rapture. I’m convinced that this song unites people and causes such instantaneous joy that if it were to be played over loudspeakers around the world, in war-torn regions AK-47s would be dropped in order to signal to the left, to the left, and the mass bootyshaking would cause an earthquake bigger than Northridge ’94.

REVIEW: Hilary Duff, The Yale Herald

2007-05-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

Music Reviews
Hilary Duff
Dignity

What are you, on your period or something?” This is what a teenage boy might ask Hilary Duff of her latest teen-angst-filled release, Dignity. This title would usually be absurd, but given the recent antics of her panty-less, rehab-frequenting colleagues (LiLo, Brit—I’m looking at you), Hilary seems to be doing a pretty good job of keeping her dignity intact and her underwear on. I’m still not sure if Dignity is the word to describe it, but with this electro-pop album, Hilary Duff certainly sheds her Lizzie McGuire image like a size AA Hanes-Her-Way training bra.

Hilary’s latest album is a perky “You go girl!” for the 12-to-16-year-old bracket. Where she used to “let the rain fall down” and splash about in the puddles, Hilary now stomps angrily and lets her mascara smear. She sings of her breakup with Good Charlotte’s Joel Madden on “Stranger,” the deep-breathing types of her older male fan base on “Danger,” and of breakups again on the I’m-like-so-totally-over-you song, “Happy.” Joel, who could easily get in an eyeliner-off with both Duff sisters, seems to have left the young, nubile Hil in a state of rage, providing much fodder for her lyrics: They read like the emo poems from the Hello Kitty diary of a high school prom queen stood up by her date. We gotta cut Hil some slack: He did ditch her for a pill-popping stick figure who once drove the wrong way on a freeway while stoned out of her gourd.

On this album, it seems like the princess of bubblegum seems to have lost some of her pop. The synth beats are of the bad ’80s kind, especially on “Never Stop,” and the single, “With Love.” Both sound like demos you might find on a Casio keyboard at a garage sale. Hilary would have a hit on her hands had she stuck with the rock-based belters that she’s known for. These radio hits usually let her hang out with the older kids, the post-sweet-16 crowd who aren’t ashamed to enjoy songs like her past hits “Come Clean” (better known by its chorus “let the rain fall down”) and “So Yesterday.” Dignity doesn’t contain a single song like this, save the title track. Hil should’ve given us a hit that we could sing in the shower. You know, the jump-around-your-room-in-your-underwear-singing-into-a-hairbrush kind of pop song.

Dignity is Hilary’s version of the “Not a girl, not yet a woman” stage that Britney Spears went through not too long ago. The album is dressing up in the makeup and high heels of an older, sexier euro-pop album: Everything is two sizes too big, two shades too gaudy, and slightly ridiculous-sounding. Albums like this only seem to work when highly sexual songstresses are at the helm (see: Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor and any Kylie Minogue). For once, Hilary Duff’s status as the reigning virginal, pre-pubescent teen queen plays against her. It’s hard to imagine this being played in a club. It’s easy to imagine it bumping out of a plastic Mattel jukebox.

The Game Parody (unpublished)

2006-12-06T13:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Opiate of the Masses Issue, The Record, 04/06

2006-11-30T15:41:00.000-08:00

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

Air Mail, The Yale Herald, 11/16/06

2006-11-28T15:08:00.000-08:00

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.

REVIEW: Marie Antoinette, The Yale Herald, 11/3/06

2006-11-28T15:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Summer Singles, The Yale Herald, 09/02/05

2006-11-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

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

Future Predictions, The Yale Herald, 4/21/06

2006-11-28T00:21:00.000-08:00

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.

Top 11 Love Anthems, The Herald, 2/11/05

2006-11-25T07:38:00.001-08:00

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.

REVIEW: Destiny's Child, The Yale Herald, 11/19/05

2006-11-22T07:46:00.000-08:00

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.

Voyeurism, The Yale Herald, 09/2/05

2006-11-22T06:00:00.000-08:00

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.

REVIEW: Britney Spears, The Yale Herald, 12/3/04

2006-11-21T14:58:00.000-08:00

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.

REVIEW: Bjork, The Yale Herald, 09/10/04

2006-11-20T00:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Hark! A new blog!

2006-11-20T00:17:00.000-08:00

This blog is for things I write, some of which are subsequently published.