In the era of so many (scripted) reality shows, cell phone camcorders and paparazzi videos, privacy is virtually a thing of the past. So I was proud of Christina Aguilera when she refused to admit that she’s pregnant. It doesn’t involve her music, so she never had to comment about it. Granted, it was a bit pointless when she was toting around a huge, round belly. (I can’t imagine the pressure she was facing trying to finish a world tour in her first trimester.) The other part of me—that’s been a fan of the Diva for years—knew that she was waiting to do a huge magazine cover spread-eagle on a leopard print rug, showing off her big ole belly, because Mrs. Bratman loves an exclusive as much as Jenny from the Block.
So I definitely wasn’t surprised when I saw the January cover of Marie Claire magazine with Aggie on the cover in all her expectant glory. I just wasn’t all that thrilled with it. I will always respect Christina’s need to challenge the male-dominated business and be as comfortable with her sexuality and nudity, which can be two seperate things. And I don’t see anything wrong with posing nude while pregnant (or nude in general), but I’m not 100% behind the picture of her with child. And I’m not sure why. I know that part of me was dreading the inevitable Britney comparisons. But it’s not 1999 anymore, and it’s quite obvious that Britney is…in a league all her own right now, keeping company with Danny Bonaduce and Amy Winehouse.
I don’t believe that pregnant women need to shuffle about in moo-moos and housecoats, nesting and knitting. However, in a time where breakdowns and sextapes can launch a career, I have to wonder what drives her to share her (pregnant) body in all its airbrushed glory with the world when there is no movie, album, clothingline or fragrance to promote. (One could argue that Xtina is promoting her tour DVD and fragrance) I guess I just can’t wrap my mind around how that would feel. Maybe it's a good thing to want to share the birth of your child with the entire world. Congrats, Christina.
I haven’t read the article yet, and I look forward to doing so and seeing the rest of the pictures. I actually do love the cover, and I love the Divine Mrs. B, so I’m glad to get another shot of my favorite celebrity before she vanishes into the black hole of 3 A.M feedings and dirty diapers.
Source: http://i150.photobucket.com/albums/s83/lilacrose82/marieclaire.jpg
Here is a link to the picture in question.
Update: I read it, and it was a wonderful insight on a very happy woman who is about to become a mother. All is good.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Not *NSYNC with the literary thang...
If anyone actually frequents this blog, they know that I was and am an *NSYNC fan. No matter how much I try to deny it to friends and family members, I can’t stay closeted for long. When I heard that Lance Bass, the now openly gay star of the group, was writing a memoir about his life in and out of *NSYNC, I was thrilled. As a fan, I patiently awaited the gossip about the pop scene I loved so much. (JC Chasez, Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera are still some of my favorite musicians). As a writer fighting to see my manuscript in hardback, I’m bitter that Lance could pretty much get a deal without trying or ever typing a word. In promotion for his book, he mentioned using a ghostwriter, and then complained that “writing” a book is “time-consuming.” Comments such as these smothered my excitement for juicy behind-the-curtains dirt. Comments such as 20/20’s “Justin Timberlake strung us along” made my eye twitch, but the man has quite a story to tell.
After watching Lance on The View, Good Morning America, and Tyra, (where she had the balls to ask if he ever had sex with women and if he enjoyed it.) I was both curious about the book, but irritated by Lance’s need to toss out tidbits, like tabloid chum about Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears, in order to create and sustain a media frenzy. But that is all part of the game.
Yesterday, I popped into the nearest Barnes and Noble and devoured Out of Sync. The book is a quick read with an interesting and amazing story which gave me more admiration and respect for Bass, more abhorrence for Lou Pearlman, and dredged up the sadness about the extremely mishandled disbandment of the band that provided a soundtrack and solace during my adolescence and early adulthood.
Unfortunately, the salacious tidbits of gossip were rare, usually hidden between a plethora of “um, duh…” confessions such as Joey Fatone's love of porn or that his release from the Russian Space Program hurt him deeply, but Lance let his smile be his umbrella, which cushioned his fall back to earth. (Although I did learn fun facts like *NSYNC recorded their demo in Shaq’s house and Chris Kirkpatrick was almost a Backstreet Boy!) Also, the overall voice of the novel was little more than a 7th grade narrative assignment filled with fortune-cookie logic than the coming-of-age retelling of Lance’s most personal and complex sentiments during his famed life. Either Lance hired an inexperienced ghostwriter or encouraged him to write a watered-down, squeaky-clean, parent-friendly version of his story for the typical 14-year-old *NSYNC fan. Uh, Bass, it’s been five years and most of your fans are well over drinking age, bring the heat!
The realizations about fame, being a closeted, gay man from the Bible Belt and his botched attempt at reaching the final frontier as a Cosmonaut ring hollow and incomplete, because Bass only skimmed the surface of what it probably felt like when the planets aligned and your dreams came true…and how much it hurt when they didn't. (It also doesn’t help that a some factual information was incorrect.) I spent most of the time tightening the prose in my head and wishing he’d explained his emotions on a deeper level than being riveted by the power of his story. I wish Marc Eliot, who wrote the introduction, had written the entire book.
It is, however, surprising and refreshing that Lance still seems to have that genuine, laid-back happiness as a teenager from rural Mississippi, the first *NSYNCer I’d ever laid eyes on in 2003, and now a 28 year-old gay man finally free to be himself. He stubbornly treats challenges and criticisms as unimportant distractions, always keeping those pale green eyes on the prize. He left home at sixteen, became apart of the biggest (boy)band in the world, became a certified Cosmonaut (a process which included a sedation-less colonoscopy and a risky, elective cardiac procedure) and settled into his life after *NSYNC with a positive, 7th Heaven-ish attitude which I simultaneously envy and admire. While Lance might not add bestseller to his list of careers, the memoir of his time in *NSYNC is a pleasant Saturday read and only solidifies my admiration for the southern boy turned accomplished businessman and musician. It was a true pleasure for this fangirl to revisit those memories. With that said, I do think that a memoir written by the fearless and hilarious Chris Kirkpatrick or the eccentric songwriting genius of JC Chasez would be a more entertaining read.
After watching Lance on The View, Good Morning America, and Tyra, (where she had the balls to ask if he ever had sex with women and if he enjoyed it.) I was both curious about the book, but irritated by Lance’s need to toss out tidbits, like tabloid chum about Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears, in order to create and sustain a media frenzy. But that is all part of the game.
Yesterday, I popped into the nearest Barnes and Noble and devoured Out of Sync. The book is a quick read with an interesting and amazing story which gave me more admiration and respect for Bass, more abhorrence for Lou Pearlman, and dredged up the sadness about the extremely mishandled disbandment of the band that provided a soundtrack and solace during my adolescence and early adulthood.
Unfortunately, the salacious tidbits of gossip were rare, usually hidden between a plethora of “um, duh…” confessions such as Joey Fatone's love of porn or that his release from the Russian Space Program hurt him deeply, but Lance let his smile be his umbrella, which cushioned his fall back to earth. (Although I did learn fun facts like *NSYNC recorded their demo in Shaq’s house and Chris Kirkpatrick was almost a Backstreet Boy!) Also, the overall voice of the novel was little more than a 7th grade narrative assignment filled with fortune-cookie logic than the coming-of-age retelling of Lance’s most personal and complex sentiments during his famed life. Either Lance hired an inexperienced ghostwriter or encouraged him to write a watered-down, squeaky-clean, parent-friendly version of his story for the typical 14-year-old *NSYNC fan. Uh, Bass, it’s been five years and most of your fans are well over drinking age, bring the heat!
The realizations about fame, being a closeted, gay man from the Bible Belt and his botched attempt at reaching the final frontier as a Cosmonaut ring hollow and incomplete, because Bass only skimmed the surface of what it probably felt like when the planets aligned and your dreams came true…and how much it hurt when they didn't. (It also doesn’t help that a some factual information was incorrect.) I spent most of the time tightening the prose in my head and wishing he’d explained his emotions on a deeper level than being riveted by the power of his story. I wish Marc Eliot, who wrote the introduction, had written the entire book.
It is, however, surprising and refreshing that Lance still seems to have that genuine, laid-back happiness as a teenager from rural Mississippi, the first *NSYNCer I’d ever laid eyes on in 2003, and now a 28 year-old gay man finally free to be himself. He stubbornly treats challenges and criticisms as unimportant distractions, always keeping those pale green eyes on the prize. He left home at sixteen, became apart of the biggest (boy)band in the world, became a certified Cosmonaut (a process which included a sedation-less colonoscopy and a risky, elective cardiac procedure) and settled into his life after *NSYNC with a positive, 7th Heaven-ish attitude which I simultaneously envy and admire. While Lance might not add bestseller to his list of careers, the memoir of his time in *NSYNC is a pleasant Saturday read and only solidifies my admiration for the southern boy turned accomplished businessman and musician. It was a true pleasure for this fangirl to revisit those memories. With that said, I do think that a memoir written by the fearless and hilarious Chris Kirkpatrick or the eccentric songwriting genius of JC Chasez would be a more entertaining read.
Friday, October 19, 2007
I'm Over Patrick Dempsey aka McDreamy
I made out myself as a total TV nerd when I confess that I’ve seen just about every episode of Grey’s Anatomy on the day it originally aired. I’ve been a fan since the beginning—when it was marketed as a mid-season space-filler on Sunday nights.
Like a good little Greymate, I fell into the romantic and angst-infested relationship of Mer and Der. Der was sweet and sensitive, but still a rockstar in the OR and in the budoire. Then his wife showed up, and he, for the sake of television and sexual tension, decided to stay with his cheating shrew of a wife. And that seemed honorable in a fall-on-your-scalpel sort of way. McDreamy lived up to his name even outside of the fictional Seattle Grace. He fathered not one, but two baby boys and drives racecars.
Fastforward to his 2006 Golden Globe nomination, and cue my *tires screeching to a halt* WHAT? reaction. The nomination came during the whole tragic and beautiful Izzie-Denny-LVAD arc, and the lukewarm Mer and Der plotlines were washed away from viewer’s tears from Denny’s Shiva. That’s when I realized that out of all the outlandish, “dark and twisty” Grey’s characters, Der was probably the weakest actor and/or was the flattest character. He spineless warbles between the “I’m a NEUROSURGEON” sternness and the sappy-sensitive whisper he does when Meredith is being mean to him.
Four episodes into this season, I’m tired of the sappy-whisper, which is all Der has done thus far. Alex, who has testosterone to spare, needs to pull Der aside. and show him the finer things about being a man: the screaming, the unprompted asshole-ness, the sleeping with other women to make Mer jealous, the sleeping with George’s skanky Syph-Nurse. It makes those rare moments of sensitivity all the more special. Mer is not the type to melt in a fit of giggles at Der boasting he wants to marry her and “die in her arms at 110”. She’s a tough almost-surgeon who needs to get over her daddy issues, one of which is a living breathing younger sister.
Patrick Dempsey was on the cover of my Entertainment Weekly, the Photo Issue. And the Greymate in me was excited, hoping he’d drop Grey’s tidbits, but the rest of me yawned, because McDreamy just makes me McSleepy. They could have picked Milo Ventimiglia and his Heroic new torso or Denzel Washington or even the real-life tranny on Dirty Sexy Money, because even she seems to be more of a man right now.
Like a good little Greymate, I fell into the romantic and angst-infested relationship of Mer and Der. Der was sweet and sensitive, but still a rockstar in the OR and in the budoire. Then his wife showed up, and he, for the sake of television and sexual tension, decided to stay with his cheating shrew of a wife. And that seemed honorable in a fall-on-your-scalpel sort of way. McDreamy lived up to his name even outside of the fictional Seattle Grace. He fathered not one, but two baby boys and drives racecars.
Fastforward to his 2006 Golden Globe nomination, and cue my *tires screeching to a halt* WHAT? reaction. The nomination came during the whole tragic and beautiful Izzie-Denny-LVAD arc, and the lukewarm Mer and Der plotlines were washed away from viewer’s tears from Denny’s Shiva. That’s when I realized that out of all the outlandish, “dark and twisty” Grey’s characters, Der was probably the weakest actor and/or was the flattest character. He spineless warbles between the “I’m a NEUROSURGEON” sternness and the sappy-sensitive whisper he does when Meredith is being mean to him.
Four episodes into this season, I’m tired of the sappy-whisper, which is all Der has done thus far. Alex, who has testosterone to spare, needs to pull Der aside. and show him the finer things about being a man: the screaming, the unprompted asshole-ness, the sleeping with other women to make Mer jealous, the sleeping with George’s skanky Syph-Nurse. It makes those rare moments of sensitivity all the more special. Mer is not the type to melt in a fit of giggles at Der boasting he wants to marry her and “die in her arms at 110”. She’s a tough almost-surgeon who needs to get over her daddy issues, one of which is a living breathing younger sister.
Patrick Dempsey was on the cover of my Entertainment Weekly, the Photo Issue. And the Greymate in me was excited, hoping he’d drop Grey’s tidbits, but the rest of me yawned, because McDreamy just makes me McSleepy. They could have picked Milo Ventimiglia and his Heroic new torso or Denzel Washington or even the real-life tranny on Dirty Sexy Money, because even she seems to be more of a man right now.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Addicted to Intervention?
It's 2:40 a.m. And I'm watching intervention. I planned to bed hours ago, but I got sucked in by the tragedy, drama and intense love captured on the show.
I'm tired. But I need one more hit!
Randomness Alert:
I feel like CSI: Miami (aka the only CSI I watch) is like a cartoon for adult. It's a live action G.I. Joe. It's all bright colors, cheesy dialogue and gooey corpses. Good stuff. Horatio Cane will fuck your life up!
And I totally just told you that soI could see the beginning of Brian's intervention! Addicted, I tell you.
I'm tired. But I need one more hit!
Randomness Alert:
I feel like CSI: Miami (aka the only CSI I watch) is like a cartoon for adult. It's a live action G.I. Joe. It's all bright colors, cheesy dialogue and gooey corpses. Good stuff. Horatio Cane will fuck your life up!
And I totally just told you that soI could see the beginning of Brian's intervention! Addicted, I tell you.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Award Show Conspiracy
Since I’m no longer Queen Excel, I’ve been feeling quite naked without my crown of…spreadsheet cells and needless data. I’ve decided that I am the new Queen of Bitter, Queen B if you will. Like my new crown of broken dreams and crushed hope? As newly reigned Queen, I’ve decided that I hate awards shows. After the debacle that was the VMAs (and the subsequent controversy afterwards) and now the Tony Bennett-and-Sopranos Lovefest-slash-Randomest Winners Ever Awards Show aka The Emmys.
I’ve decided that awards shows are televised purely to make the viewing public feel like absolute shit about their own lives. I mean what exactly IS a show designed to honor already beautiful and rich people who get to do what they love everyday and live fabulous lives exactly supposed to do? Make us feel all warm and fuzzy? Inspire us to follow our dreams? No! They want you to feel depressed that you are Queen Excel or that you got your first rejection letter from a literary agency on the same day you blew the opportunity for a fantastic writing job. They want you to feel low and useless so you’ll all the more willing to retreat into a world of imagination and creativity, passion and drama, i.e, television? See how that works? It’s a strategy conjured up by advertisers and network executives!
The Emmys itself was boring, save for a few moments: I enjoyed Katherine HIGH-GUL’s win and her speech. She looked fabulous. America Ferrera always makes me cry when she wins awards. And I was thrilled for her! Mom-to-be Christina Aguilera’s performance was the only treat of the show. She looked adorable and sounded like an angel…as usual.
On the dark side, T.R. Knight was robbed. I feel like he’s the Djimon Honsou of the Emmys. He’s a fantastic comedic actor with dramatic chops you never saw coming. I’d assumed he’d be yet another victim of the “Sopranos” Mob, but he was bested by some random guy from “Lost” with a sparkly tie and pink shirt. OUCH! Vanessa Williams was also robbed by trailer trash! Jaime Pressley is funny and all, but she’s already southern, so technically, it’s not that much of a stretch now is it?
Finally, can the Emmys or any other important awards show refrain for being on FOX? They censored SALLY FIELD (totally rooting for Kyra Sedgwick, but whatcha gonna do?). I mean, seriously, what type of network censors people’s acceptance speeches? (According to EW.com, Field said “And let’s face it, if the mothers ruled the world, there would be no goddamn wars in the first place…” That’s it!) A cowardly one. I thought FOX was supposed to be edgy and racy. First, they want to make “Dick in the Box” family-friendly (read UNFUNNY) and now any anti-war sentiments aren’t allowed. Fuck edgy and racy, try oppressive and old. Fuck FOX. That’s right FCC, I said FUCK!
In summation, award shows are just a conspiracy to make us feel like shit. And I fall for it every year.
I’ve decided that awards shows are televised purely to make the viewing public feel like absolute shit about their own lives. I mean what exactly IS a show designed to honor already beautiful and rich people who get to do what they love everyday and live fabulous lives exactly supposed to do? Make us feel all warm and fuzzy? Inspire us to follow our dreams? No! They want you to feel depressed that you are Queen Excel or that you got your first rejection letter from a literary agency on the same day you blew the opportunity for a fantastic writing job. They want you to feel low and useless so you’ll all the more willing to retreat into a world of imagination and creativity, passion and drama, i.e, television? See how that works? It’s a strategy conjured up by advertisers and network executives!
The Emmys itself was boring, save for a few moments: I enjoyed Katherine HIGH-GUL’s win and her speech. She looked fabulous. America Ferrera always makes me cry when she wins awards. And I was thrilled for her! Mom-to-be Christina Aguilera’s performance was the only treat of the show. She looked adorable and sounded like an angel…as usual.
On the dark side, T.R. Knight was robbed. I feel like he’s the Djimon Honsou of the Emmys. He’s a fantastic comedic actor with dramatic chops you never saw coming. I’d assumed he’d be yet another victim of the “Sopranos” Mob, but he was bested by some random guy from “Lost” with a sparkly tie and pink shirt. OUCH! Vanessa Williams was also robbed by trailer trash! Jaime Pressley is funny and all, but she’s already southern, so technically, it’s not that much of a stretch now is it?
Finally, can the Emmys or any other important awards show refrain for being on FOX? They censored SALLY FIELD (totally rooting for Kyra Sedgwick, but whatcha gonna do?). I mean, seriously, what type of network censors people’s acceptance speeches? (According to EW.com, Field said “And let’s face it, if the mothers ruled the world, there would be no goddamn wars in the first place…” That’s it!) A cowardly one. I thought FOX was supposed to be edgy and racy. First, they want to make “Dick in the Box” family-friendly (read UNFUNNY) and now any anti-war sentiments aren’t allowed. Fuck edgy and racy, try oppressive and old. Fuck FOX. That’s right FCC, I said FUCK!
In summation, award shows are just a conspiracy to make us feel like shit. And I fall for it every year.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Don't "Gimme More"
You know your awards show is having major problems when you have coax major acts there by nominating them AND letting them party and drink during the show. That’s right folks. If the very celebrities nominated for the MTV's Video Music Awards don’t want to be there, why should I watch? Because the new “edgy” remake-slash-infomerical for Palms Hotel and Casino was destined from its conception to be THE trainwreck in of the year. And it opened with the blinged out caboose of Britney Spears performing in what looked like leftover of the Pussycat Dolls costumes. Mama Spears half-assed her way through a generic routine and a generic song sans the rumored theatrics of magician Criss Angel. The performance was boring. And love her or love to hate her, B-Fed has NEVER been boring. A disoriented Spears forgot to pretend to sing. She lazed and loafed through a performance as even other celebrities (her peers, no less) watched in underwhelmed horror. She looked more like Courtney Love Barbie than a girl trying to prove she still had it. It’s over, Britney. “Give Us More?” Don’t you fucking dare.
The show was not a night of unique musical collaborations and zany moments. It was a mishmash of technical difficulties, drunken riots, Kid Rock cold-cockin’ Tommy Lee, more drunken riots…but only a handful of awards were given out and only three acts actually sang on the main stage. It was probably the best thing for the actual celebrities, cutting out all that boring waiting and being sober and it got right to the parties and alcohol. For the viewer, it was nothing less than eye-garbage, lots o hype with no follow-through.MTV Producers had the genius idea to move the show from NYC to the Palms in Vegas and have celebrities (Justin Timberlake, Kayne West, Foo Fighters, etc) host their parties in the hotel’s many suites during the show. On the main stage, only several acts performed: Alicia Keys tore it up with a new single “No One” which morphed in George Michael’s “Freedom; Chris Brown once again tried to BE Michael Jackson with a very enthusiastic performance, parts of which were janked from the King of Pop himself; Justin Timberlake, BFF Timbaland and crew closed the show.
My personal highlight was a drunk Timberlake stumbling into the wall as he made his way to the main stage (he actually can mess up, even if he made it look cool), still put on one of the best performances of the night, and invite the audience up to his suite party on the 32nd floor! Apparently through the tequila-soaked blur of the night, awards were handed out, but I can’t remember for what or to whom. Justin Timberlake challenged MTV to play more videos and make less reality shows (in front of “The Hills” girls no less). I agree. I’ve even blogged about MTV’s lack of music-based programming. I think the show proved that music isn’t as bad a place as it may seem, but it’s the actual music channel that’s lost its way.
Random Note:*Sarah Silverman is not funny. MTV seems to think she’s zany and controversial, but calling anyone’s babies “mistakes” is a good way to get your ass kicked by a bodyguard. Shut up and sit down.
The show was not a night of unique musical collaborations and zany moments. It was a mishmash of technical difficulties, drunken riots, Kid Rock cold-cockin’ Tommy Lee, more drunken riots…but only a handful of awards were given out and only three acts actually sang on the main stage. It was probably the best thing for the actual celebrities, cutting out all that boring waiting and being sober and it got right to the parties and alcohol. For the viewer, it was nothing less than eye-garbage, lots o hype with no follow-through.MTV Producers had the genius idea to move the show from NYC to the Palms in Vegas and have celebrities (Justin Timberlake, Kayne West, Foo Fighters, etc) host their parties in the hotel’s many suites during the show. On the main stage, only several acts performed: Alicia Keys tore it up with a new single “No One” which morphed in George Michael’s “Freedom; Chris Brown once again tried to BE Michael Jackson with a very enthusiastic performance, parts of which were janked from the King of Pop himself; Justin Timberlake, BFF Timbaland and crew closed the show.
My personal highlight was a drunk Timberlake stumbling into the wall as he made his way to the main stage (he actually can mess up, even if he made it look cool), still put on one of the best performances of the night, and invite the audience up to his suite party on the 32nd floor! Apparently through the tequila-soaked blur of the night, awards were handed out, but I can’t remember for what or to whom. Justin Timberlake challenged MTV to play more videos and make less reality shows (in front of “The Hills” girls no less). I agree. I’ve even blogged about MTV’s lack of music-based programming. I think the show proved that music isn’t as bad a place as it may seem, but it’s the actual music channel that’s lost its way.
Random Note:*Sarah Silverman is not funny. MTV seems to think she’s zany and controversial, but calling anyone’s babies “mistakes” is a good way to get your ass kicked by a bodyguard. Shut up and sit down.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Free At Last
I must preface this blog with a personal statement: I am no longer Queen Excel. In a string of surprisingly upsetting and eventually liberating events, I have retired my crown made of cells and formulas, and I’m now enjoying complete unemployment for the first time in nearly nine years. I’m free, and it’s terrifying and kind of exciting and somewhat boring. There are so many things that I promised myself I would do if I ever had free time when I was trapped in my three-walled slat blue cubicle—travel, finish my series of children’s books, start running again, go to movies in the afternoon, learn to paint. The only thing I’ve really been able to afford to do is gain weight.
Someone who can afford do be unemployed AND do whatever the fuck they want in the down time is JC Chasez, a very attractive 1/5th of *NSYNC. (And he is. He’s been in New York all week for Fashion Week…for the models AND the fashion). While he’s sitting on millions of *NSYNC dollars (about a grand of that is from my own pocket), he’s also nurturing a ridiculous amount of unappreciated, underrated musical talent.
I have gushed about his poorly promoted, thus poorly selling debut-album, “Schizophrenic”, in previous posts. (Backstory: He sang about masturbation to a beat…*snorts*…and tackled pretty much every genre on the album, making it hard to market to the masses dumbed down by mindless club tracks and rappers trying to sing, especially after the Superbowl debacle of his bandmate, which radio program directors turned into prudes. Chasez also hates the game of the music biz and refused to mention his relationship with Eva Longoria or talk shit about JT. Audiences love scandal!)
JC was supposed to release his second album earlier this year. Yes, nine months ago folks, but yet babies have conceived, carried and born and yet no album. No promotion. No videos. No explanations. His first single “You Ruined Me”—an emotionally wistful love song that demonstrated the Chasez’s range and songwriting chops—was released in May 2006, and even got some decent reviews, yet no further movies were made to gain even more exposure. JIVE shelved “Ruined”, and hemmed and hawed before dropping “Until Yesterday”—an addictive, operatic song with a Freddie Mercury vibe with Justin Timberlake as co-writer and producer—via AOL First Listen last September. The same thing happened again: the song built a good head of steam that fizzled out into the musical atmosphere due to inactivity.
A year later, EW.com reports that JC is FINALLY free from the record label who’s been holding him hostage for nearly four years, and he reportedly gets to take his songs with him. “Kate” will be released on a new label, and hopefully it will give him a fair shake to let the world hear that beautiful voice and genius songwriting.
If you’re curious and adventurous, download “Schizophrenic” or got to AOL and listen to those singles off “Kate”. He’s brilliant!
Source: http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20055434,00.html
Someone who can afford do be unemployed AND do whatever the fuck they want in the down time is JC Chasez, a very attractive 1/5th of *NSYNC. (And he is. He’s been in New York all week for Fashion Week…for the models AND the fashion). While he’s sitting on millions of *NSYNC dollars (about a grand of that is from my own pocket), he’s also nurturing a ridiculous amount of unappreciated, underrated musical talent.
I have gushed about his poorly promoted, thus poorly selling debut-album, “Schizophrenic”, in previous posts. (Backstory: He sang about masturbation to a beat…*snorts*…and tackled pretty much every genre on the album, making it hard to market to the masses dumbed down by mindless club tracks and rappers trying to sing, especially after the Superbowl debacle of his bandmate, which radio program directors turned into prudes. Chasez also hates the game of the music biz and refused to mention his relationship with Eva Longoria or talk shit about JT. Audiences love scandal!)
JC was supposed to release his second album earlier this year. Yes, nine months ago folks, but yet babies have conceived, carried and born and yet no album. No promotion. No videos. No explanations. His first single “You Ruined Me”—an emotionally wistful love song that demonstrated the Chasez’s range and songwriting chops—was released in May 2006, and even got some decent reviews, yet no further movies were made to gain even more exposure. JIVE shelved “Ruined”, and hemmed and hawed before dropping “Until Yesterday”—an addictive, operatic song with a Freddie Mercury vibe with Justin Timberlake as co-writer and producer—via AOL First Listen last September. The same thing happened again: the song built a good head of steam that fizzled out into the musical atmosphere due to inactivity.
A year later, EW.com reports that JC is FINALLY free from the record label who’s been holding him hostage for nearly four years, and he reportedly gets to take his songs with him. “Kate” will be released on a new label, and hopefully it will give him a fair shake to let the world hear that beautiful voice and genius songwriting.
If you’re curious and adventurous, download “Schizophrenic” or got to AOL and listen to those singles off “Kate”. He’s brilliant!
Source: http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20055434,00.html
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