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?”
Me, today: “I. AM. BAD. CINDERELLAAAAAAAAA!!!”
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?