Natalie Merchant's mouth is music's gaping armpit with teeth.
Why would I say such a thing? Because whenever she opens her mouth to sing her soft pop/rock pap about eating for two or talking about the weather, I get a violent urge to strangle whatever baby I'm holding and smash the radio with my foot.
The accompanying music is pretty vanilla-beige khaki bad, but it's Merchant's voice which really sends any song of hers into the stratosphere (dong!) of horrificly unlistenable. The way she pronounces every vowel as if it were an "A:" The word "natural" is turned into "nataral," and "misinformation" is "masanfarmatian." Anfariatang.
I remember being fooled in the early eighties when I saw the cassette tapes with "10,000 MANIACS" in Camelot Music. "Cool!" I thought, "Maniacs are awesome. This music should be kickass!" Only to pop a tape in the boom box and hear the equivalent of musical Pepto Bismol placenta cockhorse oozing out of my speakers.
Natalie Merchant, if you are reading this, I despise your music and I've never liked your bouncy bob haircut. Give Joel a break and eat my dick yourself.
(pictured above, Dean bosses around Melissa Grein for the last fucking time)
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