I’m sure the opening comment of the Britney album has been played to death critically, but it’s taken on a really funky performative quality in my real-life social groups. We’ll now say hello to each other by saying, “It’s Britney, bitch,” like as an introduction.
While selling far less units, she’s maintaining a respectable Billboard
presence sheerly on the rubbernecking factor of her disastrous personal life. For curious tabloid readers, picking up Britney’s latest is like collecting another document in the case being compiled against her sanity and better judgment.
This is her breakdown record, like Judy at Carnegie Hall, like Lou Reed with Berlin, like Bowie during Low . . . the only problem with the analogy is that this one is so dissociative, while they
were hyper-aware—her voice is lost perilously in noise, production effects, and chaos. There is
a too-easy metaphor there, and when you reach for it, your heart breaks with the brittleness of it.
Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta, CANADA
All of us who endured Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky just want to say that we hope Dan Fogelberg will rest in peace. All is forgiven.
Weehawken, New Jersey
In 10 years, when I curl up to my projection-screen laptop in my hovering bungalow on the South Coast of Jupiter’s third moon to Mega-Google “2007 Pazz & Jop” and “Fennessey,” and discover Rich Boy’s eponymous debut at
#6 on the list, will I feel like more or less of a sucker than I do right now? Rap: Lowering my expectations for years and still keeping me rapt!
Do you think all those rappers working with R. Kelly realize that he’s, like, 41 years old? I mean, at what age does “I’m a flirt” turn into “I’m a dirty old man?”
Yonkers, New York
Sure, I’d like to live on a “Sex Planet.” Who wouldn’t?
Brooklyn, New York
No Saigon this year? Reason enough to keep waking up into 2008.
I hate Akon. I hate Akon. I hate Akon. I hate Akon.
Dimitry Elias Léger
Re: Memory Almost Full, Paul isn’t dead, and there was a time when I thought that was kind of sad, to have to serve out a life knowing you’d peaked early. But there’s no romance in dying young, in joining what Kurt Cobain’s mom called “that stupid club.” I don’t blame McCartney for this. I admire him for trying, for staying alive. It’s not him, it’s me—it’s not his fault that the Beatles flung him into orbit, nor is it his fault that he was never able to escape their gravitational pull. No one could have. We’d never let them.
Little Rock, Arkansas
Kanye West handily beat 50 Cent into redundancy on 9/11. Hell, even Bruce Springsteen outsold Fiddy on Amazon that fateful day with advance orders for Magic, an album that wouldn’t be available for another month. That’s like a guy coming back from the future to kick your ass.
Its official: Kelly Clarkson is Lili Taylor’s character Corey from Say Anything: You know, the one who wrote 63 painful songs about her ex, “Joe.” Come on, tell me that Clarkson’s venom-spitting salvo “Never Again” ain’t some kinda kin to Corey’s classic “That’ll Never Be Me” or “Joe Lies (When He Cries).”
“Given that black folks make art and market it within white supremacist capitalist patriarchy, none of us can ignore the reality that any black person who wants to create a product with mass crossover appeal must do some serious soul-searching”