Fuck Andrew Lloyd Webber

Andrew Lloyd Webber is a terrorist. 

He’s preternaturally gifted at composing shameless ear-worms that terrorize my crania millennia after walking out of the theater, when all I want is to escape and erase the memory of his grating concoctions.

Case in point, here’s a day-by-day breakdown of my week since seeing his Cinderella:

Me, immediately after the show: “Well, that fucking sucked! The end of time will be too soon to hear that rancid score again.”

Me, the next day: “Why are these shitty melodies still stuck in my head?”

The next: “And why can’t I stop humming them?”

24 hours later: “……….maybe if I revisit the songs, then they’ll get unstuck…………?”

24 hours after that: “This album is such trash…just one more spin and I should be free of its cognitive tyranny.”

My companion, yesterday: “Why do you keep playing this trite if you actually loathe it as much as you claim?”


If you clicked on that hyperlink, then apologies for ruining your foreseeable future.

So, yeah. Andrew Lloyd Webber is a menace to theatrical society.

But as long as we idiots keep buying his tickets sight unseen, then I guess he’s a necessary (d)evil for the industry’s financial well-being.

But what about the well-being of my sanity, Andrew?

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