Last night, we decorated our Christmas tree. I told Archie to find a music channel on DirecTV that featured holiday music. For a few songs, it was lovely. There was a tune sung by Karen Carpenter. Perfect -- such a gorgeous voice. Something by Harry Belafonte -- fine. And then Christmas was ruined forever. Forever!
There was a backbeat and some choir-y noodling. Then a lot of vocal gymnastics which served no purpose other than to prove that the singer had a range. Every phrase had some embellishment -- a trill, a growl, a run. It was a case of gilding the lily that so many female singers are guilty of nowadays. And then it hit me -- this was a version of my favorite Christmas hymn. This is a song I love more than any other for the season. And some crazy singer was messing it up! Hell, she wasn't even remotely following the melody.
I ran into the family room to read the little caption on the TV. You've already guessed it was Cristina Aguilera. The song she was desecrating was "Angels We Have Heard On High". I think there was an electric guitar in the mix. I was ranting loudly to poor Archie -- "What is wrong with people? Why do they insist on making up melodies for standard songs which have perfectly lovely melodies? Nobody wants you to show your artistic chops on a Christmas song -- we just want it to sound pretty so we can sing along! I wish I could poison that woman so she could never sing again. That skank is still singing and Julie Andrews can't sing anymore? Julie Andrews would never do this to my favorite Christmas song! She has taste and class. Cristina is horrible and no amount of makeup spackled on to make her look like Marilyn Monroe is hiding the fact that her skin bites and it only makes her look like a drag queen. Did you hear that? What is she doing to my favorite Christmas song? Why, God? Why? I think this is proof that there is true evil in the world."
Archie tried valiantly to console me by saying there are lots of other beautiful and non-offending versions of this song and Ms. Skanky's doesn't have to be the one I have stuck in my head. Which is true, to a point.
But I woke up screaming, in a cold sweat, from a dream where I was forced to listen to the offending version over and over and over, "Clockwork Orange"-style.
Does anyone have the number for the folks who poisoned that Russian spy?