Sarianna

Location:
HAT CITY, Connecticut, US
Type:
Artist / Band / Musician
Genre:
Rock / Indie / Pop
Site(s):
Label:
Briarose Records, Screwtapes Ltd.
Type:
Indie
"These kids have been listening to 'real music' and you're gonna wish you had been too. Swaying, Sarianna's voice drips with ironic disdain. The stark cabaret, the lazy waltz, the pointed pop spectacle of confession. Sean Spada's classic keys add an elegant air. Resigned youth getting screwed." --Ilya Malinsky, rock critic & guitarist for Jeremy Jay



"Ah'm waging a one-woman war on musical monotony w/ MUSICAL MONOTONY AS MY SECRET WEAPON." --Sarianna Sabbarese



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As a young boy back east in preparatory school my life was a simple thing. All I required of the future was that it find me young, hip, elite, white and free. My income was guaranteed, my ambitions were modest. My aspirations were negligible, my independence financial. My trends ran at least one step ahead of John Q. Public's trends. I reveled in my smugness with Carley and Marlon. Me and Andy. Bianca and me. My mantle boasted valentines from more than one princess. My party invite cards were negotiable bonds at the offices of Interview magazine. Where some kids had yo-yos I had the world on a string. I talked the whole setup over with one of my younger classmates. As alumni we would be heirs to the economy.



"John-John," I said, "everything is ours."

"I'm hip," he said.

"I'm hip," I said.



We were strolling the campus grounds at the time, arm in arm with ourselves and the autumn breeze, admiring each other's sweaters and loafers when we stopped stricken in our freshly laundered tracks. Our topic of conversation dropped dead. The balmy breeze went chill. It was as if the wrath of God had blotted out the sun, our sun.



"Pray tell," quoth John-John betraying apparent discomfort, "from whence doth emanate such infernal racket?" John-John looked bad and fading fast. "It, it's abominable." He gasped on his knees. "That sound, it's too disoriented-making."



He was absolutely right. The entire commons was a shambles. Across the way young Rockefeller stumbled over his own Guccis. The duPont twins grappled at one another trying to stay on their feet. One of the Shriver chumps walked directly into them and all three tumbled to the ground, a knotted tangle of designer-clad arms and legs. Mr. Capote, on campus for a series of lectures on The Refinement of Narcissism, ran in a circle screaming, clawing at his ears with both hands. He howled. "The sky is falling!" The air beat with the sound of calamity. Clouds shuddered. I thought I saw the sound pulsating. Mr. Capote screeched like a banshee. "Turn off that music!"



I was shocked. The sound actually was music. I had thought it was a new type of disaster siren. But it was music, undeniably. It had beats and tempos and a singer mixed in with the din. The singer's voice was raw sex, too real and sultry to be withstood.

"John-John," I said, "get up. The bomb's not falling."

"Prove it," he said.

"Wipe yourself and come with me."



The noise cascaded from a window of the campus cathedral, the Eyesore we called it. I steadied myself under the barrage of sound and strode toward the reverberating Eyesore. John-John followed sheerly out of fear. He didn't want to be left alone. The commons was under the music's spell. Things were getting nasty out there. That Vanderbilt boy shed his clothes and chased the Dylan kid up a tree. As we reached the Eyesore's door I glanced back and saw one of the young Colgates join Vanderbilt barking at the foot of the tree. Dylan was howling. Pontiac lurched by, lifting his leg at the tree and Chrysler slunk forth to sniff at his pee. I shoved John-John through the door. He dragged me in after him.



The cathedral was rocking. The floors were quaking. The walls whipped back and forth and the ceilings shook. The joint was jumping.

"This place is possessed," I said unawares.

"I'm hip," said John-John.

"I'm hip," said I. We both turned whiter. We forged ahead. We started at the bottom of the belltower stairs. I didn't think we'd make it. It was a new feeling for me.

"You look destitute," said John-John.

"I'm hip," I said, trying to shout over the music's blare. We worked our way up the pounding stairs. All around us the onslaught wailed. Each step was a lifetime of what they call manual labor.

"Why do we go on?" said John-John.

"To get to the beat. We got to get to the origin of the beat." We pressed onward. At the brink of exhaustion the beat got to us. We succumbed to hysteria. We looked at each other with manic eyes. I lunged for his throat, he stabbed at my eyes. We each lost our footing and fell. We rolled down stair after stair helpless to curb our head over heel descent. We took three flights of bumps and landed with a thud in the cellar. The cellar was teeming, alive with sound. It beat us to our feet. The din was incredible. Through it we heard actual words.



"ALL MY IDOLS ARE ENORMOUS." the voice boomed and slunk off slabs of cement wall, rocking us on our heels.

"COME FOR THE WEEK. YOU CAN SLEEP IN MY BED."

John-John clutched his side, pierced and deflating. He was orgasming over and over again. Soon he would start ejaculating blood.

"It's only a record," I said, spying a tiny stereo in a corner. The stereo was tended by the school malcontent, a young man of suspect origin whose name no one had ever bothered to catch. We'd assumed he was a Fonda and promptly disregarded him as such. His taste in music proved we'd underestimated him.

"UGLY OR UNGLUED SMATTERINGS OF RECOLLECTION. IF THEY'RE SILENCED, STAY SUBDUED."

I stormed the stereo.

"SOMETIMES GRUDGES HOLD THEMSELVES."

I dived and tackled the stereo. I ripped at its cord and strangled the thing into silence. Time stood stupified for a while. John-John was sweating, his blood and semen collecting in a pool at the bottom of his pants-leg. Now slowing to a drip-drip-drip. It gave me the chills. The school malcontent picked up his recording and walked out leaving questions and doubt in our minds.



"What was that noise all about?" asked John-John.

"We're not hip," I said.



--R. Allan Macarel Esq.



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