MATH

One of the most irritating things about being a mathematician in the United States is the tendency of the American educational system to leave its students convinced they hate mathematics, when they haven't actually seen mathematics. The "math" curriculum, up through high school, and all too often through the first years of college (when it is not practical to choose freely among courses), consists largely of rote unexplained drill: first through the four arithmetical operations, and then through a sort of higher arithmetic, ending up with calculus.The worst part of this is that the rules are never explained--or at least the explanations do not get through to the students. Teachers present rules like "Don't divide by zero" as if they were shibboleths instead of communicating their logic: dividing by zero doesn't work, because it reaches conclusions which are so far from being necessary that they are actually false. For example, 1 x 0 = 2 x 0, since both equal 0, but we still can't divide through by zero; 1 is not equal to 2. (This can only happen with 0. If 1a = 2a, then 0 = 2a -1a = (2-1) a = a; or in short, a = 0.)

There are reasons, good and bad, that we do this; I'll get back to them. But let it first be said that this is not mathematics. In the words of Benjamin Peirce, "Mathematics is the science that draws necessary conclusions". Any particular sudoku puzzle is a piece of mathematics: Given the requirements that no number be repeated, and the given digits, there's anecessary solution. Every sudoku is an isolated piece of mathematics, and the methods used are not particularly graceful.

But many people enjoy sudoku, although they never hear it called math. Indeed, it has nothing to do with arithmetic: one could use A through G, or the nine former planets (Poor Pluto, no longer inexorable!), just as well as numbers, for the nine symbols. But it is mathematics: a special case of the theory of Latin squares. More general questions about sudoku (How many sudoku puzzles there can be? What is the fewest number of digits one can posit and have a unique solution?) are quite challenging and many of them remain unsolved.

For more conventional mathematics, we have the proof that there is an infinite number of primes:

Suppose there were a finite number of primes, and no more: [2, 3, 5,...,769,...,P]. We could then multiply them all together, and add one, getting N = [2*3*5...*769*...*P] + 1. N is a very large, but finite, number; like all numbers greater than 1, it has a prime factor. But N is odd, since N-1 is divisible by 2. Likewise, N has a remainder of 1 when divided by 3, since N-1 is divisible by 3. So the prime factor is not 2 or 3, or by the same logic, 5 or 769 or P. So there must be another prime, contrary to the hypothesis.

Again, if there are six people at a party, either there are three of them who all know each other, or there are three of them who all don't know each other:

Suppose I'm at a party that is an exception to the rule. There are five other people. There are two cases; either I'm among friends, and know at least 3 people, A and B and C, or I'm not. If A and B know each other, then I, A, and B are all mutually acquainted; likewise if A and C or B and C know each other. But if none of them know each other, then A, B and C are three mutual non-acquaintances, and again the rule is satisfied.

But if I know less than three people, there are D, E, and F, all of whom I don't know. The same logic works in reverse: If D and E don't know each other, then I, D, and E are all mutually unacquainted; likewise if D and F, or E and F, don't know each other. But, on the other hand, if all of them know each other, then D, E and F are three mutual acquaintances, and still the rule is satisfied.

I find these things both persuasive and beautiful, and the few tries I've made to explain them seem to have been understood. Understanding mathematics is a great pleasure, the mind's pleasure in its consciousness of its own power; being dragged through a bit of drill and hoping your guesses at the answers are right, though, is one of the worst parts of schooling. We do much more of the latter than the former, and it is the latter that happens in compulsory education.

Heraclitus would find this natural; every beast is driven to pasture with blows, and we must make the drill compulsory, or no one would do it. But we don't, any more, teach history by reciting meaningless dates, or reading by driving kids through boring exercises; we try to mingle power with pleasure.

So what has happened; what goes wrong? Part of the problem, of course, is bad teachers, bad students, inadequate resources. But, as usual, the road to here was paved with good intentions. Society teaches arithmetic because it values citizens who can balance their checkbooks; it teaches the further branches of high-school "mathematics" because it values citizens who do surveying and calculate the volume of barrels. All this is rote learning, and efforts to explain interfere with it. I know, because I've been a Teaching Assistant myself.

If you're driving a class of thirty through any drill, it will go easier if the class understands it. But doing more than a cursory explanation has risks: you may get through to one or two students, who don't really need the drill anyway and the other twenty-eight or -nine may understand no more than they did before. This is the worst option--the class still doesn't understand, and the time spent on the explanation hasn't been used for drill either.

The inherent problem of teaching mathematics is that there are various levels of explanation. "Division by zero is forbidden" is a level-zero explanation, in the sense of Ring Lardner: Shut up, he explained. The explanations that introduced this piece may perhaps count as a level-one explanation. Above that there are higher-level explanations, using language of greater generality, or tools of greater power. The assertions used in the level-one explanation are all summed up in a level-two convenience: the numbers are a division-ring which has inverses, is distributive, has no zero divisors... If you know the language, this is as much further clarification as the level-one explanation can offer beyond "Just because". There are higher levels yet, if you want them, up to the giddying heights of category theory.

Once you know the language. That's the problem; it is always tempting to take the class to a level-two explanation, because it seems so much clearer than a level-one. So it is--to the teacher, but not to the students. Furthermore, the level-two explanation requires that the teacher spend even more time defining the terms: what distributivity, associativity, and so forth, mean. This is worth it if you're going to do what a college algebra course does: study systems that have different combinations of these properties (are distributive, but not associative, for example), and see what various combinations of properties imply. But not for a middle-school math class, which is not going to deal with any system more recondite than fractions.

This mistake was actually made. After Sputnik, there was a revision of textbooks, in the interests of a new, "more eddicated and scientific" citizenry, which could keep up with the pesky Commies. The mathematical part of this was the New Math, which included a lot of these second-level explanations; not only were these clearer sub specie aeternitatis, several of the professors who designed the thing felt that if students had this modern formalization available to them when they got to college, much time could be saved not having to explain it to them once they got there.

This might have been the effect if it had worked. I went through the New Math; I had associativity explained to me in fourth grade and in seventh grade, when I didn't care; it stuck when it was explained to me as a Princeton junior, and I was also taught why it mattered. (Making matters worse, this sort of formalization of arithmetic was, in the long history of mathematics, relatively new: a handful of mathematicians, including Peirce, had worked out the language a century or so before. It had been widely known among mathematicians for fifty years, but it had taken longer to work its way down to teacher's colleges. Many teachers had never seen it before and many who had seen it had done so in a brief flutter through chapter one of the books they had learned from, with no more real idea of its importance than I had in fourth grade.)

Some parts of mathematics are also genuinely tough to explain. Unfortunately, the parts of mathematics that people take just before they are permitted to drop out of it are geometry and calculus, which are among the most difficult to really explain. It took two centuries for some of the brightest minds in Europe to work out how to draw necessary conclusions in calculus without the risk of "proving" such things as the equivalence of infinity and negative one.

There still is a course, Mathematics 104, which is calculus done right. But the Math Department still discourages you from taking it unless you've been through calculus done wrong first. --Paul M. Anderson '79
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Wig Out

Imagine a world of high fashion and glamour, fast talk and colloquialism, coyness and confidence and as much bravura as one can shove into a few hours of theater. Wig Out is that world.
But such descriptions don’t even do this off-Broadway play justice, nor do they reveal the thoughtfulness behind the play’s outer façade. Aptly named for the transference of the metaphorical wig from character to character throughout the production, Wig Out dramatizes the lifestyle of the House of Light, a community of gay and cross-dressing men who view themselves as a family. (For those who have yet to be inducted into the drag queen world, a helpful glossary is provided in the handbill.)

Wig Out features a wide array of character types, though no one protagonist takes center stage. Aside from the individuals of Light are the Fates — three “real” women who both narrate and take part in the story — and the House of Di’Abolique, which fittingly refers to the family of antagonistic characters. Director Tina Landau creates a fascinating contrast between this strange, unfamiliar world and our own. Wig Out’s universe is different to say the least, and to be part of it for the duration of the play is both alluring and difficult.

Eric, the character who best personifies the audience’s feelings, is a “normal” gay man who, upon a meet-cute with transvestite Wilson/Nina on a train, is dragged into this sensuous and bold society. He is as confused as we are when he struggles to make sense of the hierarchy in this alternate universe. Nevertheless, it seems as though Nina will successfully seduce him into accepting her family’s customs.

But while certain grand allusions to Shakespeare’s time-old Romeo and Juliet can be picked out of the play’s script, simply caricaturing the work of a long-dead playwright is not the goal of this performance. They are the outcasts of polite society who have finally found a haven. Diving headfirst into their idea of home and raw sensuality, we feel somewhat shy —the banter is both witty and profane and the actors are so close that we feel uncomfortable intruding on this society that we do not understand. The audience seats are placed directly in front and to the sides of the stage’s makeshift runway, which only further heightens the intimacy.

The climax of the production comes from the “Cinderella ball” in which the Houses challenge each other to frenzied runway shows in order to establish dominance.

Actors saunter across the walkway to the pulse of the White Stripes, Rihanna, and Destiny’s Child, lip-synching to the music and incorporating their own dance choreography to the beat. However, it does not matter which House wins the ball in the end — the resolutions of the twisted relationships in this play consume all other thought. Refusing to pander to simplistic happiness, Wig Out is defined by the troubles that plague the characters and indeed, plague us all. Secret desires exist in everyone; here, they are accentuated and explored. Just as we are beginning to get the feel for this rhythm, the tone changes yet again to illuminate another facet of the bizarre, and perhaps lets us understand it just a bit more. High-minded society beware: this is not a play for the faint of heart, or those who are not willing to abandon a little normalcy for the sake of insight. - Sophia Jih

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Bar Room at the Modern

Foodies compare good cooking to an art form. The Bar Room at the Modern, adjoining the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, unsurprisingly achieves this standard of cuisine. Rightly so, everything down to the sleek flatware and Riedel stem-less glasses are high style.

You might worry that when chefs strive to find a new creative concoction, they often come up with bizarre combinations—think the types of dishes spouted by waiters during the opening of American Psycho, such as swordfish meatloaf.

Alsatian Chef Gabriel Kreuther’s creations, however, are elegant and simple. He performs a minimal twist on traditional foods that separates his cooking from other restaurants. The Crispy Atlantic Cod with celery and granny smith apple salad, sauce gribiche and American caviar ($28) is essentially glorified fish & chips, but much more delicious and delicate.

Keeping with the artistic setting, the presentation of food is flawless. The Wild Salmon with horseradish crust, cabbage and Riesling ($17) floats slightly off center in a sea of light, frothy foam. The minimalist presentation, like minimalist art, is hard to describe; it entices the stomach through the eyes by letting the food stand on its own.

Though pricey, the food is good value for what it is and is significantly less expensive than Danny Meyer’s other restaurants, such as Eleven Madison Park or the Modern’s formal dining room, located on the other side of a frosted panel in the Bar Room.

There is also a wide range of prices on the menu—dishes range from $12-$29. The menu is divided into categories 1, 2, and 3, from which it is recommended that you choose any two dishes. Pages 1 and 2 are generally tapas size; page 3 are half-size entrees. Although this setup offers a wide variety of prices, the Bar Room is a place to go on a special occasion or for a celebration. You can’t help but feel classy in this center of Modern intelligentsia and creativity.

Though the portions are somewhat small, the food is extremely satisfying. Since each bite tantalizes your taste buds, you leave full. If dinner doesn’t leave you satiated, try the beignets with maple ice cream, caramel, and mango marmalade dipping sauces ($10). This dessert is so big you’ll probably want to share it.

My one complaint with the Bar Room is that the menu rarely changes. Luckily, the menu’s organization offers many possible combinations of meals.

Favorite dishes are the Upside Down Tuna Tarte ($18) and the Roasted Long Island Duck Breast with pepper-corn crusted apples and a toasted pistachio-truffle dipping sauce ($17).

If you’re not hungry but want to check out the décor, the Bar Room also offers a great cocktail list. The MoDERN MaRTINI is made with their own cilantro-infused Tanqueray and fresh lime juice ($14). A personal favorite is Coming Up Roses made with Bacardi Razz, rose petals, rosewater and champagne ($12). -Ava McAlpin [P]

Bar Room at the Modern, 9 West 53rd Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues, New York; the Bar Room takes walk-ins, but reservation recommended
- Ava McAlpin

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Obama E-Mail List

I have been on Obama’s email list since last August. As a result, I have donated more money than I can afford, acquired an impressive collection of memorabilia that will one day sell for a lot on eBay, and kept up to date with every McCain attack, campaign ad, and voting deadline. By the time this goes to print, the polls will be closed, but I would neverthless like to voice a few complaints with the campaign’s communication tactics. While the barrage of emails and text messages have been one of the much-heralded pillars of the biggest campaign in history, they are also a mixed-bag for us constituents. On the one hand, it is tremendously (if unjustifiably) validating to receive an email from Joe Biden at the start of the day urging you, yes you, to donate, or call a fellow American in Ohio, even if you are one of thousands of recipients. On the other hand, despite their massive reach, e-mails and texts are innately very personal, going as they do alongside messages from your parents, friends, and professors straight to your computer or phone, whether you are in lecture or in bed.

Yet, reading these e-mails, it seems the Obama team is making an effort to inject the barrage of emails with personality, as if a friend or even family-member werein fact emailing you with an urgent request or heartfelt message And although these must be at least somewhat ghost-written, they are surprisingly accurate as to the tones of the person who “penned” them -- or what one might think those tones should be. For example, David Plouffe (Obama’s campaign manager) is among the most prolific, and comes across as a bit technical when he give us the latest numbers, but also conveys a sense that he knows and genuinely respects the Obamas.

Barack Obama and Joe Biden sound somewhat like I imagine they would in ‘real’ life. Their emails are always straight to the point and filled with a sense of urgency, almost as though they are on the campaign trail and then suddenly remembered us. Obama generally writes about more personal things. During the conventions, he asked us if we saw Michelle speak, who he called “electrifying” and “inspiring.” A month later, he called on us to donate to the Red Cross to help the Gulf Coast residents in the wake of Hurricane Gustav. His emails are perhaps the most inspiring but also the most obviously written by someone else. It is not very hard to imitate Barack’s style, and this shows. For example, after the first debate, Barack commented on McCain’s performance saying that he never mentioned the middle class once and that he, Barack, will never forget the middle class. This sounded contrived, because how could he immediately after the debate pick up on what McCain left out?

Joe Biden, a late addition to the team, did not wait to get in the email arena. He serves as a reinforcement to the ideals delivered by Barack, and never gets caught in his personal merit or achievements. As a matter of fact, the only “personal” he has ever sent was a half-endorsement of his wife, Jill Biden, who is little-known, and is shown in a video linked through the email as a volunteer of the campaign in every sense. He talks about how she is dedicated to education. It is a little awkward though because the line between loving her job and refusing to participate in life in DC is pretty fine, and the email almost makes her sound like she would rather be in a classroom than on the trail with her husband. Nevertheless, though his emails are generally spark-free, this email really gave us a glimpse into the vice-presidential couple which was very much needed.

Michelle Obama is also a periodic contributor. She never refers to Barack as her husband and echoes her admiring, yet never worshipful tone on the trail. What’s more, she leaves her pen-pals thinking: If Michelle Obama, as tough and intelligent as she seems, can fall in love with this man, maybe I can?

In all, these emails may be a little annoying when my phone buzzes in class to tell me to donate more money, but the slight discomfort is a very small price to pay for what is really being offered by the Democratic candidate. I can also take comfort in knowing that I was part of this movement, and I have letters, emails and text messages to show for it, as kind of treasure box of those days when we were making a difference. But I do wonder, what happens after November 4th? Because a daily email from barack@whitehouse.gov would be amazing and –dare I say it—change. -Melissa Bukuru

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Tattoos

According to a Pew Center survey, over a third of Americans ages 18-25 have at least one tattoo, and the number is rising. Meanwhile, a Point poll indicated that only about 3% of Princetonians (some 150 students) are sporting ink. You’ve almost certainly never seen this many tattoos around campus, though, because a third of that tiny population admits their tattoo is only visible when the wearer is naked.
Indeed, one of the key attributes of Princeton’s small tattooed community is that they tend to be secretive about their tats’ existence. In my own wholly unscientific survey of a dozen students with tattoos, over half of them preferred that the general student body not know about their modifications.

The reasons behind such secrecy are probably the same ones that prevent most students from getting inked in the first place – cultural taboos and smutty associations. The trend was aptly summed up by proud tattoo-wearer Sonya Bishop ’10 (house-key outline, left forearm): “I think that a lot of people here are afraid to get a tattoo that could jeopardize their future as a corporate mule... Hopefully with the current state of the economy people will finally get that Weezer tattoo that they’ve always wanted on their knuckles.”

But as one of the few tattooed Princetonians (journalistic objectivity be damned), I wonder if we really are just afraid. Dreams of corporate indentured servitude certainly play a role in keeping tattoos rare and hidden under Princeton sweatshirts. However, when Princetonians do brave the needle, the results tend to share a few surprising qualities.

For example, my tattoo is a one inch, monochrome outline of a cicada (left hip). I got it the summer I turned 18, along with four of my childhood friends to remember the youthful bliss of our teenage summers. Simple, a bit weird, but also deeply personal, my tattoo isn’t for anyone but me. And I’m not alone. From one senior male’s re-creation of his late grandfather’s lucky coin (left thigh) to another’s Lion of St. Mark representing his family’s religious background (left wrist), tattoos at Princeton are almost always small and symbolic.

Princeton’s tattoos can get too serious, though. San Francisco’s Tattoo Museum notwithstanding, the tattoo will never be a form of high art. The historic associations of tattoos and the plethora of “Eat Steel, Motherfucker” armbands across the country will always make the art a campy (though permanent) medium. Strive for something too serious – say, a tiger ripping its way out of your shoulderblade – and you’ll end up a laughing-stock. Thus, while still deeply personal and symbolic, the best tattoos also exhibit an awareness of their often trashy associations. Consider the full-color Dr. Seuss goldfish on senior James Marvel’s shoulder blade, an icon he hopes he won’t tire of by age 40. Laugh if you want, but that’s a sign of a good tattoo. If you can’t laugh at your tattoo, or stand others laughing at it, then you probably shouldn’t have gotten it in the first place.

Tattoos will never catch on at Princeton. However, for those with something worth remembering, and a willingness to laugh a little at themselves, a tattoo might be just the thing. - James Burgess

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Rock, Paper, Scissors

Smack-dab in the middle of midterms Princeton Intramurals held a Rock, Paper, Scissors tournament in Dillon Gym: benign academic competition between students materializes into actual hand-to-hand combat! Jessica Ward, the energetic leader of Intramurals, informally explained to participants that she wants to increase recreational opportunities for students who don't want to play sports, and hence, the first annual RPS tournament was born.

About twenty students showed up - at least three of whom were writing about the non-event for various publications – and kicked our feet, laughing at each other, while waiting for more people to walk straight into Dillon instead of turning downstairs for the Fitness Center. After a sizeable group grew up around the folding table in the middle of the basketball court, Jessica informed us that we would each play ten games and record the game result and the other player's number on our oversized yellow index cards. A shapeless mass to the left of the table emerged as we randomly looked one another in the eye and commenced a game: "You want to call it?" "Okay, rock, paper, scissors, shoot." For nearly an hour, the participants (writers included) fought each other to the death in a game of total chance before heading home – the winner of the Swiss style tournament with an iPod nano, second place with a Princeton hoodie, and lucky raffle winners with what appeared like a dog bowl and a blanket.

"Two papers in a row - I totally fell for it!" cried a hooded competitor in the crowd. With this, I realized that someone else had my exact same strategy for playing the game. I always assume I'll win at rock paper scissors – the rock, rock strategy for some reason always baffles people. My theory is that no one expects you to pump rock a second time – and, that most people are scissors people, ready to get crushed. Guess my strategy isn't so unique though.

This is really a game of luck: do we really think our chances our better than anyone else’s? As expected, I’ve overheard many RPM players boast of their psychological prowess, as if they could read me as a "rock, rock" from the beginning. Intriguingly though, none of the 10 players I faced off with showed any such swagger: twice we both forgot the outcome of our match, and once, my diffident opponent was shocked to find he had won his very first game.

Shapeless mass breeds shapeless experience, or perhaps the other way around. Yet – and this was the really interesting thing -- everyone who showed up was really cool. Everyone was laughing, and some even brought style, rather than concentrated, cerebral stratagems, to the game. For instance, one guy shook his hand like he was about to rap instead of the orthodox fist in palm action. Who knew you could meet excellent people at a rock paper scissors tournament, and who knows why we were all there? Self-deprecating humor lingered in the air, not conceited, awkward, or plain strange vibes. Maybe we were all just normal people, drawn to the beautiful one-in-twentysomething chance of winning an ipod nano. I came to the event expecting to be annoyed with people unwilling to acquire a real skill, and left feeling that we were all just a little lost. - Laura Robertson
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NYT Weddings Section

"They caught each other's gaze across a vegetable field." "The bride's sister read a passage by Laura Ingalls Wilder." "A leader of the Ethical Culture Society led the couple in vowing to nurture each other 'in sickness and health, upstate and down.'" In the September 19th "Vows" column, Devan Sipher of The New York Times reports that, in spite of their diametrically opposed stances on animal-slaughter, Gabrielle Langholtz and Craig Haney – she a vegetarian food writer, he an animal husbandry specialist – found love in their shared passion for the world of Little House on the Prairie. A real-life farmer's fairytale! How charmingly unlikely.

Ah, but of course. The stories in the "Weddings and Celebrations" section of the Sunday New York Times are carefully crafted for popular consumption. Writing these babies is a formulaic process that resembles a kind of selective trash-compressor: 1) Reporter amasses multi-dimensional junk pile of related artifacts that make up a couple's experience together. 2) Reporter selects from the pile whichever kitschy doodads catch the most light (eg. "[at the wedding] she was four months pregnant — timed so the delivery would coincide with Mr. Haney's low season"). 3) Reporter draws choice doodads out from the pile and places them into a neat, one-dimensional row of heart-warming anecdotes. The end product? Readers' hungry, order-loving eyes are free to hop from scrap to scrap and perceive a cute, linear story about the realization of a young girl's dream to find her very own Pa Ingalls.

Why has this reality-flattening assembly line gone heretofore unnoticed by critics? Because they're too busy deriding who it is that The Times deems suitable for a ride on the conveyor belt. Usually, "he" graduated from Harvard with a degree in something quirky, "she," from Princeton with a degree in something hip which proves women totally go for penetrating that (increasingly brittle!) glass ceiling -- and that the column is totally not an archaic tradition! Doctorates, masters, and Wall Street (until recently) abound, as the lucky couple of the day promises to love and to cherish, in richness and in wealth, until the Monday paper lands on America's doorstep.

But my question is, why do we, no matter our alma mater or annual income, have the impulse to put our love lives through the fictionalize-ing machine, only to have them spit out as guilty-pleasure reading? Couples willingly re-enact "the way they met" in the "Vow Videos" section online. Lovebirds agree to meet the requirement listed on the "Applying for Announcements" page, which reads "Couples posing for pictures should arrange themselves with their eyebrows on exactly the same level." Only, shouldn't love mean never having to apologize for asymmetry?

Reality is apparently a small price to pay for due recognition; to have one's love "selected" and lauded as unique is an undeniable personal victory. But it is also a pyrrhic one. The "specialness" between two people is erased the moment their private connection is publicly defined as "special" in soily black print.

I'm sure the animal husband and the organic foody, or the 27 year-old JP Morgan executive and the venture-capitalist-by-day-first-tenor-performing-Verdi's "Falstagg"-by-night truly share something glorious. Yet unfortunately, the one-dimensional narrative that The Times squeezes out for public consumption cheapens the magic between these twosomes. I think any reader would admit this, but we're nevertheless entranced -- still gathered here today, to witness Sunday morning's prairie-land fantasies. - Katy Pinke
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HBO staple Bill Maher makes his big screen debut as writer and lead actor with Religulous, a documentary film that takes Maher across the globe in an attempt to answer a simple question: why, given the prevalence of scientific evidence to the contrary, do people continue to believe in faith-based notions? Or put more simply, why, in an age where reason and rationality are prized, does God still exist?
To be sure, Maher's approach is that of the comic turned prophet. In a series of interviews that range from a group of over-weight (and sadly, undereducated and unwashed) truckers at 'the Truckers Chapel' in Midwest America to the steps of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome – the seat of Roman Catholic power – Maher pokes fun at what he considers to be the glaring inconsistencies inherent to religious thought. His polemics certainly color each of these interviews and make both his jokes and the message he wishes to convey through them possible. For instance, one of the most striking interviews is with a gay-turned-straight pastor who firmly believes that people can 'pray away the gay.' We are asked of course, if we hadn’t figured it out already, to consider this take on homosexuality as an example of the absurd. As a result, we can not only chuckle at the pastor who appears to be playing the role of the fool, but we can catch a glimpse of one of Maher's prime critiques of religious thinking: that holding onto archaic notions about the world because they are sanctioned by a religious code can have serious consequences both for individuals and the global community.

This is all well and good, and up until the last five minutes of the film, even the most ardent of the faithful could appreciate Religulous as the brain-child of an unbeliever who does raise some challenging questions about when religion, or perhaps, the religious, go too far. But it is in the final scenes that Maher, like many a social scientist, errs in trying to locate a causal relationship between various themes and variables to provide his work with some over-arching message. For Maher, this message is simply that religion as a factor in human history is an all-together negative force. What is most troubling about his observations here is the strong implication that there is little distance to cover between fervent religious belief and acts of extreme violence – or as we would call it, terror. For anyone who has studied the causes, variables and determinants of terror, asserting a clear link between religion and terror without controlling for economic, social, political or cultural variables is simply irresponsible. At its face, and perhaps for most audiences, Maher's claim would be thought-provoking and convincing. For most believers, this sort of thinking is both insulting and offensive. Thus, at the end of the day, what we have is a trend towards greater ideological entrenchment as well as distance between believer and agnostic/atheist.

A funny movie to be sure, but one that even the most marginally informed student of public policy will find deeply troubling.

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Movie Preview- Bedtime Stories/Waltz with Bashir

Halfway through the trailer for Disney’s game-changing, genre-bending, high-concept comedy, Bedtime Stories, a title card appears against the backdrop of a mystical harp arpeggio, posing a timeless question that has kept me awake on more occasions than I'd like to remember and doubtless continues to boggle even the greatest minds: “What if you told a story…and the next day it came to life?”


Well, Skeeter - Adam Sandler - is about to find out when he baby-sits his sister's children: your typical all-American kids, mildly endearing with a healthy dose of naiveté and comic enthusiasm, lisp sold separately. He begins to tell them a bedtime story and is shocked the next day when part of the story begins to come true: it starts raining real-live gumballs. But then there’s a twist that nobody could have seen coming – I know I sure didn't: the only parts of the story that come true are… the ones added by the kids! Talk about a scenario rife with comic potential. As you can imagine, Skeeter gets himself into some pretty hilarious situations, like when the kids propose that an angry dwarf kicks him, and then the next day, it happens!

In short, this is a pretty terrible piece of work. Not only is the concept mundane and poorly executed, but the trailer's tactics are downright insulting. First, they try to hook you with a quick comic subplot – the kids have a guinea pig with huge eyes popping out of its head. Let me just say that it's going to take a little bit more than that to convince me to sit through two more minutes of garbage. Needless to say, the guinea pig is completely dropped from the plot of the trailer, prostituted for a quick laugh. Then, they start to bombard the viewer with scene after over-the-top scene of Skeeter's stories, as if they could shock you into forgetting the actual asinine concept of the film.

At least the trailer ends on an exciting note when the narrator leaves us with a thought-provoking proposition: “This Christmas… every day… is a new adventure.” Not only does that seem just wildly unsupported by the trailer itself, but the more I think about that sentence, the more I realize that it actually makes zero sense.

Waltz with Bashir
The preview begins with some atmospheric percussion over a black screen: it sounds like the Blue Man Group going through a period of teenage-angst. Then comes the title card, a quote from the Chicago Tribune: “One man's personal experience with the 1982 invasion of Lebanon becomes a stimulating and provocative meditation on responsibility and morality. It's an animated drama whose visual style feels just right.”

The preview itself delivers on the film’s early promise. The animation is pseudo-realistic, like those American Express ads, and it completely works, allowing for some compelling cinematic sequences. The first scene shows an enraged, seemingly rabid dog racing towards the viewer against an eerie yellow sky. The story revolves around an Israeli man who fought in the first Lebanon War and is now haunted by nightmares. “After the 1982 invasion of Lebanon,” he explains, “I lost my memory. Now, in order to remember, I'm looking for those who can never forget.”

Shocking images of war are depicted in animated hues against a remixed version of PIL’s “This is Not a Love Song.” The surreal visual style complements the intense subject matter. In fact, the animated nature of this trailer is probably necessary to provide a little bit of detachment from the powerfully graphic subject matter.

The Waltz With Bashir trailer packs a surprising amount of power into such a short medium, a result of its skillful editing and pacing. Through the second half of the trailer, the cuts get shorter and shorter, building the intensity and anticipation. Then the pattern breaks. The soundtrack cuts out as we flash back to the initial dream imagery of the snarling dog running against the yellow sky, bringing the trailer full-circle. The next cut is accompanied by a gunshot; a subtitle reveals the narration: “And then the horrific silence of death.” The trailer concludes with a conventional move – a tightly edited sequence of unrelated action clips ending with a longer clip with some kind of dramatic dialogue summarizing the movie’s main sentiment. However, the beauty of this trailer is not in its originality of form, but in its masterful execution.- Andrew Gross
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W

Oliver Stone’s W paints a vivid picture of a complex and vulnerable man who, through nothing short of a miracle, came to be the “leader of the free world.” By screenwriter Stanley Weiser, W employs flashbacks through a narrative of Bush’s years in the oval office to directly assault Bush and his administration, portraying the entire cabinet as nothing more than an incompetent and vindictive clusterfuck of egos.

Opening with a surprisingly casual cabinet meeting in which the catchy “axis of evil” tagline is conceived, Stone immediately goes for the jugular. The tremendous conviction with which the Bush cronies speak only highlights their ineptitude and delusion. As in several of his previous films, Stone uses flashbacks and dream sequences to illuminate Bush’s life, from unrealistically pretentious hazing events at Yale to sobering images of Iraq. These scenes account for George’s formative years, be it the humor of squatting in a bathtub full of ice with frat boys aggressively funneling Jack Daniels down his throat or the drama of quitting one of the many mundane jobs that his father forces him into. We come away with a conception of the young Bush as nothing more than an inarticulate and over-privileged boy with a chip on his shoulder. He remains equally incoherent even as his political career takes off: I winced during a scene in which Bush - now in office - offers his father sage advice on the Gulf War, stuttering, “Don’t think about it too much cause it screws ya up.” By emphasizing anecdotes that reflect Bush’s utter stupidity, Stone captures the character’s transition from small time troublemaker to “high functioning moron” responsible for the sad state of America today.

Josh Brolin bears an uncanny resemblance to Bush and has the ability to convincingly portray Bush as a coarse and masculine figure, full of bravado and a host of underlying insecurities. Elizabeth Banks does a superb job as Laura Bush, the sole source of stability for the embattled protagonist. The most revealing relationship Stone investigates is between the resilient but reluctant Bush Sr., played by a powerful James Cromwell, and Junior. Through emotionally charged scenes, including several where Brolin’s character is tormented by his lack of fatherly approval – “You disappoint me Junior, you disappoint me deeply,” echoing in his head – Stone furthers a notion of Bush’s internal conflicts.

Not only because the film was rushed into production with hopes of influencing the upcoming election, but also because Bush remains in office, the movie feels eerily incomplete and premature. The soundtrack features dramatic songs played at ironic times: instances of country twang disrupt moments of reflection and rock allegories like Bob Dylan’s “Good on Our Side” loom over the ending credits. With these intended oddities, Stone succeeds in dissecting our severely flawed president and providing insight into the mind, or lack thereof, of such a conflicted and controversial figure. Disregarding speculation over the film’s accuracy and fabrication, Wcomes with both tragic and comedic flare, making its point convincingly with distinct style and humor. [AHLA]
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The Endarkenment

“Endarkenment” is one of those strange words that doesn’t really seem to mean anything. Taken literally, it’s the opposite of enlightenment, but as Jeffrey McDaniel demonstrates in the epigraph to his new collection of poems, even that definition can be stretched to include a few different things.

It can be a way of looking at the world illogically, or a particularly miserable state of being. It’s a word that can mean entirely different things to different people, and as a result, it starts to mean very little.

McDaniel, a Philadelphia slam poet, is used to dealing with this kind of lexical ambiguity. Most of the time, he manipulates it to his own advantage. In his older work, he often stretches words and metaphors to extremes, sometimes to humorous effect but mostly as a way to point out the strangeness of human thoughts and relationships. He’s still doing that, but now he’s more interested in the flexibility—and sometimes fallibility—of the words themselves.

The poems that comprise The Endarkenment, like McDaniel’s previous work, are packed with clever wordplay, metaphors, and similes. They work best, though, when McDaniel is conscious of what he’s doing. In “Good,” for instance, he finds fifteen ways to use the title word, each with a subtly different meaning. It’s funny, and awe-inspiring in a way, but mostly it’s a reminder of how much meaning can be packed into a single word, and how much we can misinterpret or miss entirely when we’re not paying close attention.

This isn’t to say that McDaniel is interested in figurative language for its own sake. Instead, he uses poetry as a means for retelling simple, elegant stories. “Summer of Stationary Road Trips” is one of these. McDaniel captures the dizziness of young love by placing it in the context of idle drug use. “You lean over,” he explains, “snort one of her limbs into your head, where it shreds into confetti.” In “morning walk, 43 hours without sleep,” he describes his surroundings with a similar blend of literal and figurative terms, and in doing so, paints the world as a more complex, more interesting place.

At the heart of this collection is McDaniel’s need to explain not just where he’s come from, but where he is now. “And now I’m thirty-five,” he says in “The Quicksand Hourglass,” “can see the life that’s ahead of me, the life behind me.” He uses his poetry to touch on a history of family drug abuse and dysfunction, and his fears for the future. All of this is captured in the briefly brilliant title poem, where he tackles his frustration with words and family and his own weirdness, and comes up with the book’s best line: “I know the glass is half full, but it’s a shot glass, and there are four of us, and we’re all very thirsty.” It is appropriately dark and self-pitying, but also deeply penetrating.

McDaniel’s poetry seems unremarkable at first, but his sharp, hidden insights compensate for the lack of fireworks that fans of other slam poets might expect. It’s a clever reversal of the problem set up in his title—here, what at first seems insignificant begins to mean something to everyone—and, ultimately, makes for a good read. -Aku Ammah Tagoe
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Love Letters of Great Men

John C. Kirkland, author/compiler of Love Letters of Great Men, is a talented man. Unfortunately, his talent lies in making money, not in writing. Kirkland successfully capitalizes on the popularity of Sex in the City, in which character Carrie Bradshaw reads from a fictitious book of the same name. Recognizing the demand for an actual book, Kirkland compiled and self-published his own version.

While self-publishing may have its own benefits, it is clear that Love Letters of Great Menwould never have reached publishing house standards. The book is riddled with typos, ungrammatical sentences, shoddy research, and has a table of contents with incorrect page numbers.

Though the book is a compilation of real letters, Kirkland makes his presence felt through a foreword, afterword, and brief biographies of each letter writer. His style is turgid, with overly long sentences consisting mostly of platitudes and similes. His forward is in homage to the “poet warrior,” a label which apparently belongs to any male who combines passion with something more manly. Kirkland defines the poet warrior through the haphazard strings of adjectives endemic to his style. He writes, “Like a first growth Bordeaux he is deep and complex, rich and balanced, dedicated to both the intellect and the corpus, the field of study and the field of battle.” Last I checked fine wines do not study much.

Such glaring mistakes make it seem impossible that anyone proofread Love Letters of Great Men. A particularly absurd passage involves a description of the tasks Gaelic men performed in order to become members of “fianna” warrior groups (not that they wrote love letters). Kirkland writes, “One who demonstrated sufficient skill with words… or singing of odes of leitmotiv and mediation, may be invited to face the trials...” The idea that Gaelic warriors “sang odes of leitmotiv” is nonsensical and anachronistic. “Leitmotiv” is a word of Germanic and French origin defined as a recurring melodic passage related to a specific element. Not only is leitmotiv a term inappropriate for the historical context of the fianna, it is not even a plausible subject for an ode. It is unclear whether Kirkland is more to be faulted for questionable research practices or bad English. At the very least, the text gives the impression of someone hastily jotting down every “big” word he remembers.

The love letters themselves do little to transcend their shoddy presentation. Many of them are simply unromantic. A few “dearests” does not hide when a letter is mostly about finances, or, in the case of Henry VIII, thinly veiled threats. However, even the passionate letters are insipid. “Great men of history” apparently also find it difficult to escape the cliché when writing sentimentally. It is especially difficult to surrender to the “romance” when most of the letters are accompanied by blurbs detailing the failure of the relationship. Despite the chick-flick premise, the flawed construction of Love Letters of Great Men prevents it from being even a guilty pleasure. - Manon Gray
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One Fifth Avenue.

Every society has its critics, and the modern equivalent to Jane Austen or E.M. Forster may well be Candace Bushnell for her saturation of society with Sex and the City. Like those writers before her, Bushnell examines high society not for voyeuristic interest but to make a point about the universality of emotion.

Not only does her new book One Fifth Avenue actually feature some well-developed male characters, important for readers like me, but it manages to aim meaningful and insightful criticism at the Manhattan elite.

The title of the book is also the center of its action. The characters all have some connection to one Soho apartment building, the epicenter of Manhattan’s chic. The conceit allows Bushnell to focus on the landed nature of wealthy society. Living there is of supreme importance, and more than one character claims that she would be nothing if she moved out of Manhattan or even One Fifth. But location isn’t everything, and Bushnell devotes all her considerable satirical powers to casting off the veils of wealth and prestige in order to examine the upper class with a critical eye. One Fifth Avenue will certainly please old fans with lines like, “Perhaps too much money was like too much sex. It crossed the line and became pornographic.” This ability to produce catchy but meaningful quips about modern life is Bushnell’s forte and still serves her well.

Comparisons to her masterpiece Sex and the City may seem inevitable, but shouldn’t be. New York is ten years older and much less innocent; all that remains is Bushnell’s character-based storytelling approach. For me, Carrie’s book deals and Samantha’s flings were completely tangential to the show’s focus, the four protagonists. The same is true of this book: the story is quite thin. (A new family moves into a 3-floor apartment at One Fifth; everyone else tries variously to find meaning and make money.) But the characters are marvelously detailed. Most of them are past 40, married, and already millionaires, leaving them to make something of their lives amid careers that slow and are revived. Their existential crises are believable and moving, not comically overwrought. Clearly Bushnell has done her “research,” especially as this is her society: she is the established author character whose vanity and fame she mocks. Authors are better represented here than actors or bankers, another sign that the composition of Manhattan’s elite is changing: “books are like movies now,” as one character opines, and often the wealthiest have earned rather than inherited their money, leaving them smarter, more practical, and more cynical.

For all this, the book’s one shortcoming is its lack of creativity in the story. The actors, while laudably complex, are still predictable in their actions, in their hookups, their desires and flaws. Like Carrie’s formulaic columns, this book isn’t quite creative, at least not in the artistic sense; but insightful, worth reading for its incisive commentary which sweeps past the glitter and fashion to find the substance, or lack of it, underneath. -Jonathan Giuffrida
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Keane's Perfect Symmetry

If Coldplay are the dumbed-down Radiohead, then Keane are the dumbed-down Coldplay. Even Chris Martin’s blandest, soggiest moments sound like abrasive post-rock compared to Keane’s music, which is largely defined by “sweeping” choruses, “heartrending” lyrics and “beautiful” melodies – I write in quotations because that’s what these jolly lads from England think they’re doing. They’re not.

Instead of creating the new Joshua Tree – seemingly the goal of every commercially successful alt-rock band since U2 – Keane have done little of the sort, releasing two blockbusting albums so calculatedly soppy that they should have been sold with a box of Kleenex.

So when I say the band’s third album “Perfect Symmetry” is their best, you’ve got to take the statement in context: this is no masterpiece. But it is surprisingly fun, silly, and loose, and conclusive proof that miracles can still happen in contemporary pop: “Perfect Symmetry” is an artistic makeover from a band that brought new meaning to the words “unadventurous” and “monotonous.” Instead of trying to write another sequel to “A Rush of Blood to the Head,” Keane turned their sights on eighties pop, trading in their pianos for synths in an attempt to recapture the glitzy, shameless flamboyance of Duran Duran, A-Ha, and George Michael in their heydays.

It all sounds fun in theory, and you can imagine the headlines: “Coldplay-wannabes reinvent themselves as chic, slick disco poppers!” But does it work? Surprisingly enough, quite a bit of it does. Opener “Spiralling,” easily the album’s best moment, is an utter delight, channelling classic Duran Duran into a sublimely silly slice of bass-popping disco-funk. The bouncy “Better Than This” is also a delightfully infectious little number, filled with judiciously placed hand-claps and piano loops; and the same goes for the preposterous bubblegum pop of “Pretend that You’re Alone,” an apt name for a track that consciously seems to aim for “guilty pleasure” status. Sample lyric: “Forget about fashion, forget about fame…” But if we’re really going around giving points to every song for how well they recreate eighties pop, then the gold medal’s got to go to the title track, which imitates A-Ha’s sound so perfectly – chilly falsetto, stately melody, pompous lyrics and all – I had my fingers crossed for a remake of “Take On Me” somewhere on the second half of the album.

Sadly, that doesn’t happen. Where the first half of “Perfect Symmetry” is tasteless and irreverent in the very best way, the second half sees Keane return to auto-pilot, inundating listeners in an endless, solemn parade of dreary ballads. “Again & Again” is as monotonous as its title would suggest; “Black Burning Heart,” despite its rather melodramatic name, is about as emotionally raw as Celine Dion; and the only good thing about the synthetic drudgery of “Love is the End” is that it really is the end. And so an album that began with a bang of artistic endeavour flimsily peters out at its close, tripping up over itself in a mess of lovey-dovey clichés and self-conscious moping.

Last lyric of the album? “Don’t save us / don’t save us.” So it looks like Keane’s surprisingly successful attempt at recapturing the shameless, tasteless glam of decades past was nothing more than a diversion – a brief foray into the silly – and now the band’s back to recreating Coldplay, full-time. Don’t try to save ’em. -Adam Tanaka

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Matisyahu's Shattered

For two years, fans have anxiously awaited Matisyahu’s return. After his Grammy nomination in 2006 for his first nationally distributed album, Youth, people were hungry for more. It was a world entrenched in musical sin and Matisyahu was the answer to our prayers. Who could forget the disappointment of Outkast’s highly anticipated Idlewild? But listening to Matisyahu, swaying to the beats of this reggae-loving, rap-spitting Hassidic Jew, we knew salvation was near. Yes, we could even see the light (you knew it was coming).

So it’s hard to believe that, after such success with a distinct sound and devoted fan base, Matisyahu would stray from all that with the release of Shattered, a four-song EP. It’s meant to be a taste of what’s to come in his full-length album, due out in 2009, and it’s clear that Matisyahu wants us to know he’s coming back a changed man.

He opens the album with “Smash Lies,” a song with an inescapable electronic thud that, sadly, reminds me of a track off of N’Sync’s No String Attached. As the song progresses, it takes on a true hip-hop vibe, but because of the reggae beat, it feels more like Sean Paul than Matisyahu. Perhaps the most unsettling aspect is that I could actually see myself dancing to this song, and I’ve never been able to do that with Matisyahu.



In “So High So Low,” he achieves a more alternative sound. His voice changes so much that you could actually swear you were listening to Citizen Cope. It seems Matisyahu has gone back to his roots here, reminding listeners that most of his inspiration in the early stages of his career was drawn from the sounds of Phish.

Shattered’s third track is the most experimental on the EP. The electronic sound is back in a subtle way, and Matisyahu and another voice rap in Hebrew while a sitar plays throughout. Though it has a strong Middle Eastern undercurrent, “Two Child One Drop” also marks an unmistakable return to Matisyahu’s twist on a classic Marley.

The last track on the album gave me that Ben-Harper-concert sensation. It’s slower than the rest, and Matisyahu’s drops down to a whisper. The constant repetition of “Oh yo yo yo oh oh” reintroduces the religious nature found in most of his earlier music, but only heard on this track of the EP.

Matisyahu is certainly reaching out to a more varied audience with this EP, but will his original fan base be pleased? Some may say he’s wandering into overwhelmingly mainstream territory. It feels like every song is reminiscent of another artist’s sound. Others will still be able to recognize traces of the Jamaican beats that have marked his music from the start. The EP doesn’t have a unified sound, but rather exhibits Matisyahu’s on-going search for something he can wholly call his own. Hopefully the answer to his soul searching will come on the full length album, but until then, I’m sticking to the old stuff. -Tamara Weston
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Secret Machines' Secret Machines

A friend described The Secret Machines to me as psychedelic noise-rock, with epic songs that develop from primordial rumblings into a frenzy of crash cymbals and distorted feedback. I imagined Bitches Brew with guitar riffs and synthesizers, turned up to eleven. But as I queued up their third, eponymous album, I was caught unawares by the steady rock pulse that begins the album’s opening track, “Atomic Heels.”


The kick drum and power-chords impart a weighty feel to the upbeat tempo; heavy use of effects creates a spacey vibe, with lots of flange, echo, and reverb. I abandoned my earlier conception of The Secret Machines and arrived at a new one: a serious, sober, prog-rock band with a forceful, protean sound, extra-galactic tendencies, and a booming drummer.

Based in New York but with Texan origins, The Secret Machines are well-defined by the company they keep: Muse, Interpol, M83, and Kings of Leon have been among their touring companions. Their sound alternates between driving hard-rock riffs by newcomer guitarist Phil Karnats and the sparse, ethereal echoes of frontman Brandon Curtis on keys, but the trio’s self-described “space-rock” sound is grounded in the thunderous rhythms of drummer Josh Grouza. The next track, “Last Believer, Drop Dead,” continues in a prog-rock vein, but surprises with a bridge that grooves so hard it had me thinking of Led Zeppelin minus Robert Plant. The album then takes a dramatic shift into “Have I Run Out,” a long, brooding song, filled with theremins and other ambient noise, punctuated by descending minor scales. At eight minutes, it’s one of the album’s longer tracks, which is, in this case, unfortunate. The tension builds interminably as the song nears its climax, but after a perfunctory resolution to the relative major key, it trickles unremarkably to its end.

I’m not sure what it means for The Secret Machines that their strongest efforts on this album are also the songs most obviously influenced by other artists. In any case, the next two tracks immediately recapture the listener’s attention: the synth-heavy “Underneath the Concrete” reminds me of what was good about the 80’s, while the shoegazing “Now You’re Gone” sounds like what Interpol’s third album should have. Despite this, these tracks retain something unmistakably Secret Machines.

While the same is true about “The Walls Are Starting To Crack,” the title is more apt as a description of the end of the album. After some Pink Floyd-style meandering, and an uncharacteristic acoustic passage, the song descends into a “Revolution 9”–Dark Side of the Moon mash-up. The album ends with “The Fire is Waiting,” which breaks the eleven minute mark, clocking in at five minutes too long.

After the limited success of their earlier albums, The Secret Machines were hoping to the third time would be a charm. They certainly didn’t fail, but whether this solid album will be enough to make The Secret Machines as big as they sound remains to be seen. - James Magagna

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Ray LaMontagne's Gossip in the Grain

Ray LaMontagne is famous for being obscure. Clad with Jesus-beard, the singer/songwriter frequently declines interviews, refuses to make music videos, and still lives on a farm in Maine with his wife and two kids. The breathy acoustic guitar of his first two albums suggests that LaMontagne could have recorded Trouble and Till the Sun Turns Black at the farm with a few friends playing violin. Fans and reviewers alike draw quick comparisons to Bright Eyes, Damien Rice, and other one man/one guitar powerhouses.

With such roots, Gossip In the Grain can be considered an artistic elaboration for LaMontagne. Mixed by the acclaimed Ethan Johns (Kings of Leon, Ryan Adams), who has produced all three of LaMontagne’s albums, this third effort explores a more lighthearted facet of the artist. Notably including his road band in the recording studio, LaMontagne uses his new accompaniments (clarinet, banjo, trumpet, saxophone, and Mellotron, among others) to tap into countless genres, owning them all. At moments, LaMontagne seems reminiscent of Bob Dylan and Bob Marley simultaneously; he encompasses the best parts of John Mayer and often channels The Band. His raspy voice evokes the blues and has a similar resonance to Joss Stone. Gossip In the Grain is most simply characterized as folk, but its range of influences is staggering.


The opening track “You Are the Best Thing” sounds like a New Orleans anthem, immediately announcing the vivacious tone of the whole album. Up-tempo horns and female backup singers propel the song in a celebratory vein. On following tracks “Let It Be Me,” “Sarah,” and “I Still Care for You,” the lyrics evoke classic LaMontagne: laments about love. But they’re conveyed with such haunting authenticity that the guy seems genuine. The ability to juxtapose New Orleans horns and brooding acoustic guitar is a refreshing novelty for Ray LaMontagne.

The most memorable song on the album is “Meg White,” dedicated to the female half of the White Stripes, which begins with whistling from a spaghetti western showdown (think Kill Bill) and picks up with prominent drums reminiscent of Meg White herself. LaMontagne’s lyrics are tongue-in-cheek here: “Meg White, / You’re alright / In fact I think you’re pretty swell / Can’t you tell?” The comedic irony of his words will surprise listeners expecting the gloomy LaMontagne. It exhibits an emotional maturity that includes, for the first time, a sense of cool amusement.


Some folk fans have prematurely disparaged this album, hearing the many new instrumental tones as overproduction and interpreting Ray’s newfound lighter side as selling out. LaMontagne’s third album is in fact his boldest, most cohesive work yet, and the aspects of it that seem unfamiliar to his repertoire are in fact what make it such a sophisticated effort. Even if we see Ray Lamontagne finally break down and shoot a music video or the cover ofSpin, Gossip In the Grain will still be an expansive artistic success. -Mark Guiducci
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