Uptalk and Vocal Fry

MATT MCHUGH

"Oh my god, I'm, like, so over people's crap, you know!"

For the love of heaven, will you shut up, you whiny little twat! On the inside. Out loud, of course, I say, "Oh, I know exactly what you mean."

"People are just so selfish. I mean, Jenni was supposed to tell Sapphire about Lina's premiere, right? And then, like, the morning before Lina gets a call from her agent who's all like 'Hey, what's going on.'"

Good lord, that voice! The drawn-out vowels. 'Like' peppered in every other phrase with a froggy croak. And the ascension at the end of each sentence, as if everything were a question. A twenty-fouryear-old supermodel who talks like a toddler with a two-pack-a-day habit. Does she think it's sexy? Does she think of anything but the last post she read on her phone? All I know is we've been driving for nearly three hours and if this doesn't end soon I'm going to aim the Jaguar hood ornament at a telephone pole and floor it.

"And now Lina's getting all pissy and texting Mom. Like, leave Mom out of it, you know! Oh my god."

It started innocently enough. Crystal had to be in Las Vegas by sundown and—her beliefs to the contrary—she's not quite worth chartering a private jet. So, I volunteered. I've been a production assistant on Model Home for three years. Not the first time I've had to play chauffeur, but first crack I've had at Crystal's custom XJ. It is a magnificent beast, I must admit. Purrs like a kitten, roars like a lion, sprints like a cheetah. It's a bit surprising she bought it, being as she hates to drive, but it's a brilliant status symbol.

"I mean, seriously, if Sapphire can't be bothered then, like, why should anybody care about her stupid things, you know."

I nod and say 'Oh?' and 'Uh-huh' at the proper intervals—even toss in a 'No way!' I've picked up listening to Americans—but inside I'm screaming. On set, I don't have to interact with "the talent" very

much. I mostly just keep tally of crew and equipment, sign for the catering, and take notes for the script supervisor. Yes, there's a script supervisor on a reality show. Shocked, are you?

"It's not like I don't make sacrifices for her all the time. Last year I had to fly back from Miami on the red eye for that Santa Barbara cruise or whatever. And I friggin' hate boats! Never again, you know? It's like, oh my god, really."

There was a segment on some news magazine show about the degradation of speech in America. They cited two particular terms: "uptalk" — raising the pitch of the voice at the ends of phrases; and "vocal fry" — a kind of throaty growl used to trail off words. Together, they spread a plague of retrograde maturity among young women who demeaned themselves by talking like infants at school or on the job—and all because of the corrupting influence of Crystal Cashima. Oh, she wasn't blamed as Ground Zero for the disease, but she was declared its most notorious carrier.

I glance over and Crystal's lost in her phone, biting her lip. She's already gnawed holes in her sweatshirt cuffs and poked her thumbs through. She has her legs tucked up under her in the passenger seat. How does she even do that? Made of rubber, the girl is. Me, I can barely sit up, my whole body stiff from the long drive and the stress of Crystal's chatter.

"Sometimes I wish people would just, like, grow the fuck up, you know?"

Says the poster child for infantilization! "I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of catty bitches." Take arms against a sea of catty bitches, and by opposing, end them! "Oh my god, I just want to get away from these people trying to make me feel like shit."

In the show about uptalk and vocal fry, they had a clip of Crystal saying "Oh my god!" that they ran backward and forward, sped up and slowed down, to illustrate the point. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh. My. God. Ohhhh. Mmmyyyy. Gahhhdd. We passed that clip all around the crew. A few of them had it as a ringtone.

"You're, like, the only person who's, like, consistently nice to me." Scratch... "I'm sorry, what?" "I said you're the only person on the show who's decent to me." "Me?" "Yeah, it's like everyone's always mad, telling us what to do. But you're always, like, please and thank you—like, sweet all the time. And I love your voice, like, your accent. Where are you from again?" "I'm from England," I answer, starting to feel like a total cow. "A place called Gloucestershire."

"Gloss-tur-shear," she says carefully. "Is it nice there?" "It's lovely. You should visit next time you're in London." "Oh my god, you're going to totally hate me, but I've forgotten your name. It's Mary Ann?"

"Miriam," I answer. "But that's what most Americans call me." I exaggerate an accent, "Mairry Yan!"

Bless her heart, she giggles. A pretty ripple of sound. "You know Sonic Tommy?" she asks. "You mean the DJ who does the parties?" I picture the spotty kid with nose rings and ginger dreadlocks who's only skill seems to be turning up the volume.

"Uh-huh. We've been working on, like, some music. Can I play you something?"

I cringe. I grip the wheel as three hours of frayed nerves beg for silence. But, of course, I say, "Sure."

"It's, like, a song about my life and stuff. It's called 'Golden.'" Crystal fiddles with her phone and the Bluetooth touchscreen in the dashboard. Screechy thumpa-thumpa music blasts from the custom sound system. I can feel the roots of my teeth actually thudding with the bass. I'm just about to ask—politely—for her to turn it down when it cuts off. "Sorry, that's not it." She keeps scrolling. In the moment of blessed quiet I'm trying to think of some way to ask if we can listen later when a guitar riff begins to play. It's a gentle acoustic strum laced with deft fingerings, and it draws me instantly. "That's Tommy?" I ask. "Yeah. He's, like, really good." A voice comes in, a low breathy vocal: Hey little girl See you shine Can you smile All of the time That's it... now you look lovely

Hey mama Look at me I'm what you always Wanted to be So please... can you ever forgive me

"That's you?" After I say it, I realize how insulting my incredulous tone is.

Crystal just shrugs, gives a little smile. "You know how the Beatles don't, like, sing with their accents? It's kind of like that." People love the way you shimmer When you're wrapped Around Their Fingers

You'll never tarnish, you'll never fade Each time you're melted down and remade So long as they remember your name Then you're golden

I watch her from the corner of my eye as she listens. Her lips move in tiny fractions, silently rolling the lyrics. She rocks her head with the rhythm, eyes nearly closed. It's such a given that I hardly notice anymore, but, my God, the girl is stunning. An otherworldly beauty.

Hey boys Gather round I promise I won't Make a sound Tonight... you can do all the talking

Hey girls Raise your glass to me Get drunk on your Jealousy And then... you can laugh as I'm walking

Crystal stops the music. "Oh my god, it's, like, so embarrassing!" "You wrote that?" Again, my insulting incredulity. "Just the words." "That's amazing! I mean it, that's a wonderful song. You should release it."

"Yeah, right," she replies. "Hey, you hear about that dumb bitch model thinks she's a singer? Like I need that."

She wipes under her eye with a bunched-up sleeve. I don't know what to say. We sit in silence until, as if a gift from merciful heaven, the Las Vegas exit sign comes up.

"Oh my god, it's, like, about fucking time!" We get to the hotel at six-thirty, greeted by a gaggle of photographers and a panic of promoters. There's been a mistake. We thought she needed to be on site at seven for a nine o'clock show. Turns out, there are two shows: seven and nine.

We're ringed by guards built like refrigerators and bustled down into a basement dressing room. The whole time two predatory agents snarl at me about contract penalties. I call Crystal's manager and, literally, play telephone to relay their demands and negotiate a treaty. Not twenty feet away, a dozen pairs of hands strip Crystal down to her underwear then start strapping her into an outrageous metal bustier with chains and leather, a cheesy sci-fi dominatrix getup. They stuff her breasts into the frame and spray glittery make-up over her eyes. She's zipped into thigh-high boots and crowned with a shiny dome helmet. She looks ridiculous. No! I want to say. She can't go out like that! You can't do that to her! But, I say nothing. I'm just some peon assistant. Perhaps a spineless traitor.

I’m shoved out the door and someone hangs a VIP pass around my neck. I find my way to the auditorium and take a RESERVED seat near the stage, not caring who it was reserved for. The thumpathumpa music kicks on and skinny little girls start teetering down the runway. Coat-hangers, I've heard them called, and they seem to me all knees and elbows, draped with outfits designed to make them look as vulnerable as possible. Their faces are blank, save for a classic deerin-the-headlights void in the eyes.

"Crystal Cashima!" booms an announcer. She's the only one called by name.

And out she comes. She is not all knees and elbows. She is all boobs and hips, the dangly metal plates on her body ticking like a sexy metronome. Every step manages to hit the beat, one hand at her shoulder as the other swings, militarily precise. I've heard the term "fierce" tossed around— and it's always struck me as rather stupid—but I can think of no better as she stalks like a panther in heels I couldn't even stand in. She reaches the end of the runway and locks into a pose, the goddessqueen of the space Amazons. I get chills.

She looks down at me, our vision connecting. She rolls her eyes just a tiny bit. I hear her voice in my head: Oh my god, is this, like, so lame or what?

She pivots and is off, her bum swaying hypnotically in a chainmail miniskirt.

"Aren't her fifteen minutes up already?" I look behind me to see two elderly but impeccably manicured men in matching white suits lean together, raising their voices clearly above the music.

"Honey, the whole famous-for-being-famous thing really needs to run its course!"

To my left, two twenty-something girls are jabbering. "She's on TV, like, twenty-four hours a day, isn't that enough?" "Seriously, you can't go anywhere without being subjected to her, you know?"

"I can't stand her whole baby-talk thing. So annoying." "It's all part of the dumbing down of America." "Totally." "And what's with that get-up? Who's she trying to be? C3P-Ho?" "Oh my god!" They practically double over in laughter. According to the schedule, Crystal will be out again in four minutes and thirty-five seconds in a completely new outfit. Three more times in this show. Then everything again for the show at nine. Then back to L.A. tomorrow. This titanically beautiful woman who's been on television since she was seventeen will spend twelve hours in front of cameras recording her every word for a nation that loves to hate her voice—and hide the sad, sweet songs she'll never let anyone hear.

It's like a nightmare. Oh my God.

Matt McHugh was born in suburban Pennsylvania, attended LaSalle University in Philadelphia, and after a few years as a Manhattanite, currently calls New Jersey home. Website: mattmchugh.com.