Miming

Don’t tell me that you don’t use backing,
You’re out of breath but your voice ain’t cracking
You’re throat is rough but you still sing higher
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !
I know, I know, you don’t havta stand stock still
To still be making a sound,
But the more you move, the more you end up shrill
From all that jumping around.
Is that the reason op’ras are static ?
No-one wants their divas asthmatic
As half their notes are drowned.

It used to be so easy to mock you
Without a single mic on a stand –
These days they’re tiny, it’s harder to knock you
Phoning it in – but soon we’ll clock you.
The more you rock like a tick-tock band,
The more you rely on a helping hand,
With your live feed cut and your vocals canned.

You can wave your arms,
You can shake your butt,
You can flash your charms,
You can jiggle and strut,
But if you wanna be clear and pure
Then keep one foot firm on the floor. 
And don’t pretend to be a flyer –
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !

Now I agree that the single’s better,
And sometimes live you lose the odd letter,
But don’t pretend you’re a multitrack choir –
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !
I know, I know, you’re not on the radio now,
You need to put on a show –
But the more you move, the more you moo like a cow,
The more you croak like a crow.
Is that the reason Broadway has dancers ?
So the singers aren’t breathless prancers
Swallowing their mi re do.

It used to be so easy to bust you,
With none of your guitars plugged-in.
These days, you’re wireless – we have to trust you,
That what we hear is you, and just you.
Dance if you must, and thrust and spin,
But don’t pretend with an innocent grin
That you don’t commit the original sin.

You can do the bop,
You can do the bump,
But not the hop,
The skip, or jump,
If you wanna be belting-out that solo,
Then don’t be bouncing around like a yoyo.
And don’t pretend that you never tire –
You don’t fool me, you’re a liar liar !

Every time this poem is read aloud, I want the speaker to also be performing a complex dance routine.

I also wrote an extra section below for the twelve-inch version:

Lip Sinking

Are you ready to answer back ?
Let’s jump on the spot till our voices crack.
Don’t ask your techs to mute your mic,
Just pant along as much as you like.

And one and two and three and four
Not with a whimper but a roar !
And five and six and seven eight,
Don’t swallow them, articulate !

You got the lungs to go agen ?
You ready to sculpt some oxygen ?
I can’t hear you, let me guess,
I’ll take your wheezing as a “yes”.

And one and two and three and four
Sing for your supper, then sing some more.
And five and six and seven eight,
Sing it loud and sing it straight.

You’re puffing and blowing from all your jerking,
There’s no shame showing how hard you’re working.
Don’t deny your throat’s on fire
As you stretch those vocal chords to the wire !

And one and two and three and four,
Let’s drop things down to the basement floor,
And five and six and seven eight,
Let’s hit the heights to the Pearly Gate.

Underproduced

Stripped-down and unplugged,
Going back-to-basics –
These are words that fill my ears with dread.
Guitars strummed and harps tugged,
Waxed and polished double basses,
Drummers told to stay at home instead.

I don’t want your simple sound,
I want music complicated
I want synths that growl and pound,
Electrified, not automated.
Full of intricate design,
Not simply autotuned and gated –
I want music of its time,
Not scared of being dated.

Hashed out and doped up,
Family-friendly faceless,
Perfect songs for sending off the dead.
Slowed-down and moped-up,
Going back to basics –
These are words this fill my soul with lead.

Tinny Tonic

When songs go on too long,
When six minutes should be three –
Well, that’s when they change key.
Your skeleton-solution,
Revolution-by-indentikit –
It doesn’t pick the lock, but bludgeon it.
Nothing says you’ve run out of ideas
Like modulation,
Crunch-changing gears by slurring-up the speed –
Won’t you spare my tears
From your pinched-throat oration,
Your goodness-me vibration to make my ears bleed ?
I wish it were an octave that you’d shifted,
Or used harmonies,
And not just drifted-up a third
For yet one more reprise.
And please, don’t start ad-libbing
Like a gibbering MC –
There’s a reason why they call this bullshit ‘scat’.
Your climax won’t excite me
By just singing out of key –
The sparkle in your tonic has gone flat.

Unclip the Capo

We discovered her
As she busked beneath an underpass –
Homeless, I believe,
But her singing was pure class –
Just the sweetest voice of waifdom
And a simply strummed guitar
And we saw a mutual benefit
In crafting her a star.

We set a mic before of her
And we let her sing her soul,
And marvelled at her innocence
Undimmed by cold and dole.
And as she left us weeping,
So she turned and said with half a grin
“I’d like to try all that again,
But this time plug me in.”

She blagged a beat-up Fender
And she risked a power chord,
And suddenly her eyes were bright
As if she’d seen the Lord.
She spidered up the neck and slid back down
With whammy and sustain,
And asked the box crank her up
With tremolo and gain.

So by the time of bass and drums,
We couldn’t well refuse.
But oh, where was our angel
In this devil with the blues ?
“It’s always sounded this way in my head”
She said, “That’s how it swings,
But I’ve only had two hands before,
And only had six strings.”