Oops...She Did it Again

Many musical artists make comebacks: from Madonna to Eminem, and most recently Duran Duran. But, after the debut of her newest album, Femme Fatale, one can easily say that Britney Spears is the unofficial queen of reinventing her musical image. She has transformed over the years from innocent baby-fat crooner, teenage tease, flawless sex symbol, tabloid troublemaker, to a confident and iconic pop artist. Brit’s image is not the most drastic change that has been made; her music has taken on a new edge as well, leading to its rampant popularity in the U.S. and as far as New Zealand. The CD’s success can hardly be surprising, being that it was produced by Max Martin and Dr. Luke, the same hit-makers responsible for famous American boy bands such as the Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC, as well as female solo artists including Kelly Clarkston, Katy Perry, and Pink.

Like the production duo’s work on Ke$ha’s hit single, “Tik Tok”, Britney’s two biggest hits on this album (“Hold it Against Me” and “Till the World Ends”) are heavily laden with bass wobble suggestive of the current dub-step craze. Breathy purrs of suggestive lyrics such as “You feel like paradise/ and I need a vacation tonight” (from “Hold it Against Me”) heighten the listeners’ realization that we are being sung to by a seasoned and mature temptress, not a seventeen-year-old virgin. This album has a grittier feel than Spears’ last; Circus, with many industrial beats and fewer up-beat sing-along style choruses. The instruments that can be easily picked up on the tracks include synthesizers, electronic beats, piano and even flute. The pop princess’s voice has been auto-tuned, but I’m pretty sure we all know by now that Brit’s voice has never been lacking; the augmentation is less about correction and more about altering the sound to evoke a more futuristic vibe.

Although she is generally considered a one-woman show, this comeback kid isn’t the only voice who can be heard on the album. The second single, “Til the World Ends,” was written in part by Ke$ha, which is no surprise considering the tune’s eerie similarity to her latest, “Blow”. It may not literally display the artist’s voice, but it clearly seeps through in the song’s theme (a never-ending dance party), bass-wobbling breakdown and thirty-second interlude of “wo-o-o-o-ah”s. The song, “Big Fat Bass,” was written by and features banter from the Black Eyed Peas’ Will.I.Am. It definitely connotes a more playful tone than both singles and one could easily imagine Fergie’s voice instead, but hearing Brit’s voice with Will’s is a much more refreshing combo. This only further solidifies that Femme Fatale has proven to show a new facet of Britney.

The new release’s lyrics are generally just as shallow and hormonal as the last few albums’, but hey, bubblegum is popular for a reason; it’s easily palatable. No one wants to step up and argue that “I wanna go/ back downtown where my posse’s at/ because I got/ nine lives like a kitty cat” (from “How I Roll”) has some kind of deep and philosophical meaning, but there are plenty of tweens to twenty-somethings that are going to shake their booties off to it – including yours truly.

Your BEATsTooBig

F or anyone who has never been to the Subterranean in Wicker Park, it’s a dark flight of stairs up from street level, where one will find they’re inside what seems to be a two-level dive bar that could easily be transformed into a rustic brothel. There’s a slight Victorian feel to the décor; wood paneling and filigreed wallpaper line the interior. Dim lamps light the cavernous room and a giant chandelier that looms over the black and white checked dance-floor. The stage was ringed in red light as the ambient synth-pop headliner, YourFeetsTooBig, began to set up.

The band’s duo; Avery Ju and Kevin Benisheck popped onto the stage seeming to be everyone in the room’s pal. Their image was cohesive; Avery and Kevin were both clad in plain, loose t-shirts and jeans but as they set up the buzzing crowd silenced to the loud bang of a keyboard toppling over. Minutes later, a keyboard, symbol and cowbell faced a synthesizer and MacBook Pro head on and Kevin announced to the crowd that their keyboard had broken in the fall. Still, they soldiered on.

The music began with a simple electronic beat that emoted the exhilaration of a summer night as rhythm and melody rose and fell. I could not help but wonder if ‘80’s movie dancehall montages or Daft Punk’s work on the Tron: Legacy soundtrack influenced them because the listener has instantly entered into digital world full of adrenaline and elation. The band puts a whole new spin on “playing” music in that they were getting down to their own music on stage with passion; it was their own private dance party. The aura of the performers and the music’s Friday-night beats create a show that could easily be the illicit lovechild of Passion Pit and J.U.S.T.I.C.E. One can easily picture a studio apartment filled to the brim with flannel-wearing, gold chain-laden, seemingly sight-impaired hipsters fist-pumping the night away to this music. To top it off, even though each song was spaced out by minor technical difficulties due to the busted keyboard, the set, their songs and the booze flowed with ease.

I found myself waiting for a chorus a few times during the night, but to no avail. YourFeetsTooBig‘s few indecipherable vocals slip in and out of audibility but the tunes remain catchy nonetheless. By the second to last song all of The Subterranean, abuzz with three-dollar Sapporo drafts, was clapping to the beat of Avery’s cowbell and getting down in a jam-packed, pulsating whirr. The crowd screamed ‘encore’, I with them and all broken keyboards aside, YourFeetsTooBig put on an invigorating show at The Subterranean that left not one attendee in low spirits. The musicians kept our attention with their erratic bursts of dancing as well as their hipster style head-bobbing sound. Their performance left me saying one thing… In the spirit of Christopher Walken, the crowd’s got a fever and the only prescription is more cowbell.

Spartacus: Gods of the Nausea

Having seen multiple films reminiscent of the same era, such as Gladiator (2000) and 300 (2006), I dove into Spartacus: Gods of the Arena. Little did I know that I’d be witnessing a program with a mixture of heightened sexuality and grotesque so depraved it that rivals that of the internet-phenomenon; Two Girls, One Cup …Yet, in that same strain, I couldn’t look away.

This story is said to map the rise of the House of Batiatus (a nobleman’s estate whence he trains gladiators to compete in the arenas of Capua) as the meat-headed, sex-fiend anti-hero, Gannicus (played by Dustin Clare), climbs the ranks of triumphing warriors. There are many other sub-plots woven in, such as the rise of the underdog Gaul, Crixus, as well as the harrowing situations faced by other slaves of the Batiatus household. The saga features a cast of many actors one recognizes at first glance, such as Lucy Lawless (Xena: Warrior Princess), John Hannah (lovably clumsy brother in The Mummy) and Peter Mensah (300). Through the many confusing love triangles, social hierarchies and rampant bloodshed, it is hard to pick out a definite plot line, let alone who the audience is meant to be rooting for (if anyone).

If the confusion of the plot itself isn’t enough to be irksome, this loosely “historical portrayal of ancient Roman society” begins abruptly without mention that even though it is the second season of Spartacus aired on Starz, it acts as a prequel to the first, Spartacus: Blood and Sand. Any viewer who began watching in 2010 would be lost as to where some of the characters are or why certain relationships function differently… And by relationship, I refer to the many painfully hollow, community theatre attempts at conveying to the audience that any kind of emotion is felt between individuals other than lust or hate. On the other hand, one without prior experience with the program can correctly speculate that not much (save the loss of blood-wash scene transitions reminiscent of Tales from the Crypt) has improved with the new season.

Spartacus intrigues Starz-watchers, reeling them in using the series’ shameless resemblance to Zack Snyder’s 300 (2006). The film’s casting directors even went so far as to hire Peter Mensah on as a main character, knowing well that the audience would recognize him as the messenger who perishes at the foot of Gerard Butler after delivering his famous “ This is Sparta!” The cast isn’t all that links these two works; Spartacus also incorporates sepia filters and highly altered contrast to emphasize items, almost the exact method as the cinematographers who toiled on Snyder’s film. Once one has witnessed both cinematic productions, they remain inseparable in the mind regardless of how inferior one lies in comparison of plot, dialogue and acting talent.

Bad coordination may render many things laughable, but let there be no mistake, this is an adult program, folks! When Starz labels something for a “mature audience” they’re really warning; don’t watch this unless you are in the mood for gratuitous sex, language and blood that closely borderlines that of a role-play skin flick. If the sight of enslaved maidens being forced into sex with flabby old men doesn’t turn your stomach, the unrealistically gruesome splicing of flesh and eruption-like spurts of blood will. But the audience can even be grossed out without even laying an eye on the screen; “fuck”, “cock” and “cunt” seem to take up two thirds of the dialogue along with disgusting sayings comparing characters’ speech to their production of fecal matter.

In the show’s defense, there are a few aspects that redeem it in this reviewer’s opinion. First of all, anything with Sam Raimi’s name on it (executive producer for two out of the six episodes that made up the season) tends to have a quality dark comedy in any sexual or violent situation. Secondly, though explicit, at least all sexual orientations seem to be represented; there’s something for all to enjoy (or smile nervously while being repulsed). Thirdly and finally, for those (many a 13-year-old boy) who do enjoy a nice, relaxing night of gratuitous sex and violence with a side of Lucy Lawless without a sword, this is the seat-riveter for you!

A Glimpse of South Africa

It was only once I was several feet away from the first photograph displayed at the Museum of Contemporary Photography of Columbia College Chicago in the series called Avenue Patrice Lumumba, did I realize the aesthetic appeal of the style and content of the artist. Though I’m not typically one to appreciate architecture to its full extent, I decided to examine the series in more depth, reading the placard at the front of the gallery. In her brief biography, Karen Irvine, Curator of the Museum of Contemporary Photography (MOCP), Columbia College Chicago, has stated, “In his project Avenue Patrice Lumumba (2007-08), South African artist, Guy Tillim (b. 1962) records the architecture and infrastructure of colonial and post-colonial Africa.” By no means, do I claim to be an expert on South Africa, architecture or photography, but having studied an ample amount of post-colonial societies, I dove in.

The distinct angles and geometric shapes that jump out from each photograph bring a less emotional, more matter-of-fact feel to the image. The scenes are of run-down apartment buildings with an almost post-apocalyptic feel to them due to the very few human subjects in them. Even so, the artist’s style did not seem sad or depressing, rather they felt almost proud or latently patriotic. The surreal contrast of the disheveled buildings and the clear blue skies also help to emote an up-beat perspective. The first photo, Apartment Building (Beira, Mozambique 2008), displays the scruffy side of an apartment building that still holds the aura of its glory days. It reminded me of prized show-dog, lost from its owner, with filthy, matted fur, but one can just tell that it could perform any of its old tricks if given the opportunity and love it once had. Like the canine, the image of the many-occupied dwelling is full of hope.

Another photo in the series that struck me was another apartment building, but not from the perspective of an outsider observing it, but one walking out of the structure onto a rooftop patio (Apartment Building, Avenue Bagamoyo, Beira, Mozambique 2008). As a viewer, I was instantly placed inside the structure, proceeding forward between two large rectangular pillars, beyond which the daylight opens up the entire level. Though the figures on the patio remain largely in the shadows, the opening and flood of light evoked a sense of freedom in me and I am eerily reminded of the rooftop scene in the film, Requiem for a Dream. It comes to mind that perhaps the artist is paralleling the goodness of nature to the perilous ever-“progressive” march of industrialism. These inorganic structures placed next to palm trees, blue skies and sand put me in a state of unease without fully discontenting me. The matter-of-factness I fore mentioned mutes any negative connotations I could harbor. The image sticks with me in curiosity rather than any negative or positive emotional reaction.

Court Records (Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of Congo 2007), though done in the same style as Guy Tillim’s other photographs, displays the infrastructure aspect that Karen Irvine addressed. It depicts a room packed to the brim with shelves of files as well as a desk covered in them. The angle of the lens and actual arrangement of the room show the same obviously planned vision on behalf of the photographer as well as the naturally disorganized nature of the room.

Considering my overall experience, you will enjoy this exhibit if you are interested in South Africa, Architecture, Post-Colonial studies or photography but I must admit that Guy Tillim’s Avenue Patrice Lumumba is also generally evokes a pleasure in its aesthetic quality that could entice any viewer.