What do you do when you’re obsessed about a sweet 17 year old pop star who has more talent and musicianship than anyone in perhaps about a generation?
Write an epic about him, of course!
David Archuleta is known to much of the world as “that guy who sang Imagine” on America’s cheese-fest of a reality show, “American Idol.” But a cursory look at some of his past work reveals a sensitive, deep artist. Always dismissed by disciples of his on-air nemesis as “just being good at ballads” (as if that were true, and as if that were a bad thing), David had a vast reservoir of talents that the Arch Angels (our messianic name for ourselves) knew would eventually take the globe by storm.
It was (and is) only a matter of time.
The Ballad of November Eleventh
September 30, 2008
Behold the tale of how a guy
With god-given talent teamed up with Jive
And with their market savvy unfurled
A psychological attack that conquered the world.
His name is David Archuleta,
And though his fans knew no one was betta,
He lost AI — but no need to mourn,
For on the eleventh of November, a star is born.
While Jive conducted its calculations
To assault an unsuspecting nation,
An army of Angels stood in formation,
Perfect victims for manipulation.
With Angels at their computer stations,
Ready to enlist in their machinations,
Jive built up their anticipation
With Project Archudomination:
The single debuts, Z100 supported,
Much earlier than was reported.
Fans flip out and spaz — it’s got a groove,
His voice is tender, and oh so smooth.
It launches on iTunes, and Angels go crazy,
Gifting their friends, their cousins and babies
To make Crush number 2 — but David denies it.
But nothing can beat all the Angels united!
And then one Sunday afternoon,
While Angels settle down to read cartoons,
The video leaks, we’re all rendered helpless,
And nothing but multiple viewings can save us.
Our eyes are glued, we forget the time,
Cause David’s looking mighty fine,
And though some claim not to think of that stuff,
December can’t come soon enough.
A portion of playful, a helping of “shy”
A dash of Archusexy beside,
And fans know to trust in Jive because
They simply let David be who he was.
But alas, the tour ends, a drought befalls fans,
Who fabricate dramas to fill the span:
Archie might die! His sickness may linger!
They obsess over chapstick and the ring on his finger.
And then a flurry of song speculation,
Suggestions of big-name collaborations,
Rumors of romance of fans’ own creation,
And Angels bewail the lack of information.
For what kind of album will it be?
Pop songs or ballads or R&B?
Fans search online, but all they see
Is that misery loves company.
For everyone’s filled with consternation.
Will he be another Disney creation?
Will he be a teeny bopper or simply croon?
And suddenly as if from the moon,
An album cover that makes us swoon,
Looks like Archie’s singing a different tune,
Even twentysomethings won’t be immune,
And a million desktops will be changing soon.
And dudes who wrung their hands and swore
They’d sneak a “girly” cover out the door
Are relieved by their homey, but now realize they bore
Unknown feelings they’ve never felt before.
‘Cause David is HAWT, which sells so they say,
So other pop stars: be afraid,
For what other artist can we say
That girls go gaga, guys go gay?
The cover fulfills a second function:
It shows that David has the gumption
To make art with his music, not just entertain.
He wants us to listen — not simply have fame.
Pic by Fsteven
And just when we can’t take it any longer,
Our ODD gets even stronger,
For Jive releases a photo shoot vid,
And the pressure cooker loses its lid.
Across the net, collective screams,
We’re accosted by images straight from our dreams,
And environmentalists are not very pleased
That the globe has warmed by two degrees.
The fans read daily airplay charts
To see if Crush has won more hearts,
And every dip looks like disaster.
Can eleventh of November come any faster?
Promotion peaks as the album drops,
Letterman, Oprah — straight to the top.
As prospects look bright, fans still ruffle their feathers,
As they fight over which version of Crush is better.
The night of the Tenth, a feeling of frenzy,
As fans hope to buy before racks are empty.
And there in the queues, in fans of all ages
Is ODD in its final stages:
Jumping at noises, scratching their trousers,
An impulsive urge to open their browsers,
Permanent grins, hearts all aflutter,
Dressed up as angels and large Nutter Butters.
They huddle round and gather together
And know that their friendships won’t last forever,
For everyone knows that supplies won’t last,
And soon come the morning all friendships are past.
Behold! Now what is this I see?
Arrived is the local football team
In uniforms, filled with anticipation,
Saying they’re only here for their girlfriends.
And lo, six women dressed in black
Leave the group and sneak to the back.
One takes a crowbar from her stroller
And breaks the lock in goodly order.
And at the sight of fellow Angels
Acting like they’re common criminals,
They surge for the door, the stroller is crushed.
It was what a rush, oh what a rush.
And at this moment the siren rings,
Which only heightened chaos brings.
The store is open! A caterwaul,
An all-out brawl outside the mall.
And once inside, they look around
To find that bold bright red and brown.
And high-heeled women, once the target is seen,
Outrun the local football team.
And teenage girls, stars round their eyes,
With ferocity far greater than their size,
Push aside the women in disguise
And without mercy grab their prize.
And a dude who would rather have died than be seen
With an album cover of a smiling teen,
Upon seeing a girl with a CD at the counter,
Spins her around and promptly clocks her.
Six-year-old girls running under their mothers,
Footballers rush for significant others,
And those who “imagined” a better world without question,
Now clutch their only good worldly possession.
David himself would only frown,
If he saw the gory scene going down,
And upon seeing the hair-pulling extravaganza,
Would thoughtfully write another stanza.
A Jive exec surveys the land
Of blood-soaked empty CD stands
And cackles, stroking his chin with his hand,
“Everything’s going according to plan.”
And after the madness, when gone are the throngs,
The media’s singing a new kind of song,
Praising his artistry (we’ve known along),
Never admitting they said anything wrong.
And that is how the legend began
Of how the boy on Idol became known as a man,
Inspired the world from Manila to Miami,
And embarked on a path of adoration and Grammys.
And who would’ve guessed that a humble kid,
With a simple desire to give all he could give,
Could move the world with one vocal chord
And by a grateful public be adored?
And we were the first — it’s hard to fathom,
That after AI and media pablum,
The long and winding road to stardom
Would be a road that winds behind him.
And those who hated, said he wasn’t cool
Will soon admit that they were fools.
Because how can you hate, after you know him
And see the great voice, and artistry, wit,
Humor, humility added to it,
Compassion and hawtness all going for him?
Like a precious gift wrapped in a bow
That we want the whole world to show.
Still we must wait till the Eleventh, and so it goes,
And we’re the only ones who know.