David Boyle and Justin Park braved Sunday night's storm and the likely derision of their friends to attend the Ashlee Simpson concert at the Assembly Hall. David's verdict? Read on …

By David Boyle
Gargoyle co-editor-in-chief
Posted Wednesday, April 5, 2006, The OG, arts

Before Justin Park and I saw Ashlee Simpson live at the Assembly Hall on Sunday night, all that I knew of her was that she was a thicker version of Paris Hilton. Her song “Autobiography” is spoofed in a WPGU commercial, and she has long been scrutinized for lip-syncing during a nationally televised performance. Her music is considered to be in the festering cesspool of a genre that is pseudo-punk pop.

But I was about to find that all my smug preconcieved notions about the ditsy little blonde girl named Ashlee Simpson were going to be called into question.

When we arrived at the Assembly Hall right before showtime our situation looked bleak. We were two guys surrounded by several thousand high school-aged girls, which brought me to appreciate how girls feel at NFL games. The sheer embarrassment of being seen at such a place inspired us to think of elaborate excuses and falsehoods to justify our very presence at this event.

Simpson took the stage around 9 p.m. decked out in all black. Her hair was her natural blonde color, and before she began singing she very intelligently articulated the story of how she had cut her finger earlier that day. The first song she played was “I Am Me.” I deny having ever heard this song prior to the concert.

Ashlee graciously invited three crazed teen girls to lend backup vocals to her hit single “L-O-V-E.” Their performance was painful, and the screaming girls quickly lost their privileged position on stage.

She then began a scrupulous search through the rows in an attempt to find a boy to join her. While men were few and far between at this event, she failed to notice Justin and me back in the B section. The lucky fellow was a chubby high-schooler named Adam, who followed in the footsteps of celebs Ryan Cabrera and Aaron Carter and danced with Ms. Simpson.

The most intriguing piece that Ashlee played that night was called “Shadow.” While the lyrics bitch and moan about how hard her life has been growing up in the shadow of older sister Jessica Simpson, I enjoyed the melody and the catchy hook. The next day I rocked out to that song in my car harder than I had done since I heard “Walking in Memphis” on the radio this July. And, of course, she played the other classics, including “Pieces of Me” and “La La.”

If you're an artist like Ashlee Simpson, the key to producing a good concert is to keep it short by playing only your hits and singles so the fans don't realize how bad most of your music really is. Apparently Ashlee got the memo. She left the stage after a 90-minute performace and soon returned for a three-minute encore, playing the hit “(I Didn't Steal Your) Boyfriend.”

Music critics should really get off Ashlee Simpson and give that girl her props. She isn't particularly intelligent and isn't an incredible singer, but hey, she managed to squeeze out a couple of good songs. So yes, when I got home I downloaded a couple of the singles and hid them away in a deceptive playlist in my iPod titled “Young Jeezy” — I've got to preserve some semblance of masculinity.