Friday, January 9, 2009

A Cautionary Tale

In every soldier's life there comes a time to make a choice between good and evil, between right and wrong. Down one path lies eternal light and fulfillment, down the other... self-loathing and despair. Come with me, then, and listen as I spin a tale of deepest horror.
The place: Somewheresville, CT.
Our subject: A young Meredith DiMenna
Her destiny: To defile the ear canals of our nation's best and brightest.

A young girl sits alone in a school stairwell, eyes still stinging from the taunts and jeers of her cruel classmates. She hears a door open and moves to leave but is stopped short, looking up into the welcoming eyes of a stranger.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but notice that you were crying...
in C# minor." (WINK!)

And so it began. Friendships were founded as scales were solfeged. Ties were tacked, costumes were co- ordinated, and recitals were rehearsed. Above all, alliterations were abused.
A dark cloud had decended upon young DiMenna. What was once called glee club, barbershop, doo wop - a bonafide, Boone-ified way for youngsters to get their music fix - we now know by its Latin name...

a cappella.

Fun Fact: New York's Binghamtonics host the annual
For-The-Longest-Time-A-Thon, responsible for nearly
half of Binghamton's student suicides.

Whee-oo-oooh-huuuh-the longest...

After long years of harmonizing and martinizing*, Dimenna honed her powers of vocal prowess, to the point where A over high C is no longer a challenge, but a weapon. Her powers are now used for evil rather than the other, better, if perhaps a little boring, super-good. I give you exhibit A:


If you haven't heard the original, then rush over to Amazon and plunk your buck down. It's worth it. This poor song, once tall, was brought to its knees by the sheer power of sibilant cymbals, fricative flams, and plosive percussion. DIY-indie-punk will never be the same. And now that liberal-arts college students have gotten their hooks in it, (Their catchy, catchy hooks,) soon we may not be able to tell the difference between Fugazi show and Phish Phestival.

So I implore you. If, in spite of the evidence, you're still inspired to wear a constrictive uniform, shout on command, and stand stock-still for hours... why, have you considered the Army, son?!

*you think the seams in those chorus shirts are gonna pop all by themselves?!

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