ALVIN AND THE SHINING

My friend the witch doctor, he taught me what to say

My friend the witch doctor, he taught me what to do

I know that you'll be mine when I say this to you.

-Dave Seville

1

"STOP!" screamed Alvin.

Alvin's brothers, Simon and Theodore, stopped singing and shrank away from the microphone. The door to the studio swung open and Sylvia, the recording engineer, came rushing in.

"What's wrong, Alvin?" she asked. "That was a terrific take! Your harmonies…"

"The take was garbage," Alvin said. "This whole song is garbage." The young chipmunk hopped off his wooden stool and began pacing the studio. Unable to express his feelings, he took off his baseball cap and threw it at a plastic trash can.

"Alvin," sighed Simon, adjusting his glasses, "you wrote the song. I thought it was good, it reminded me of our last hit…"

"Of course it reminded you of our last hit, Simon. It's the same stuff. All about us being chipmunks, here to sing for you, blah blah blah."

"Personally," interjected Sylvia, "I think it's good to keep playing up the chipmunk thing. It's what sets you apart from the pack!"

Alvin closed his eyes and counted to ten. This again. People never wanted to ask him about his songwriting. They fixated on his adorable pink nose or his precious teeth.

True, the reviews of their debut album had been positive. "Fawning!" Sylvia had said, but Alvin didn't want to be fawned over. He wanted to be respected. The adjectives the media used – "original," "unique," "charming" – all seemed to be polite ways to say NOVELTY. After getting physically sick while hearing "We're the Chipmunks" on the radio for the nth time, Alvin vowed that he would return to the studio and record a masterpiece that would blow everyone's mind.

Except he couldn't. He had been recording for three weeks now, and everything he touched turned to plastic. His lyrics were derivative, his licks were uninspired, and his vision was nonexistent. If he didn't step up his game, Alvin and the Chipmunks were going to be a one-hit wonder.

Alvin realized that Sylvia had been speaking to him, something about the tracks just needing "a little more polish." He cut her off.

"The tracks don't need more polish, the tracks need to be scrapped. Dave! Come in here!"

A moment's pause, and then Chipmunks manager Dave Seville walked into the room. He was a thin, dark-haired man in his late thirties, dressed in a polo shirt and ketchup-stained shorts. Fame had been as bad to him as it had been to Alvin; he had dark bags under his eyes and a rough mess of stubble on his chin. "What is it, Alvin?"

Simon sighed. "Alvin's being a perfectionist, Dave. He's fixating on this platonic ideal of a perfect album, rather than embracing the music that we're actually making."

Alvin shot his lanky brother an angry look. "I'm not a perfectionist! But come on, Dave! You used to want to be a rock star! Are you happy about producing this cookie-cutter pop fluff?"

Dave got a faraway look in his eye. Dave, Alvin knew, used to play lead guitar in a hard rock group, The Scatmen. They had been on the verge of making it big, but around the release of their hit album, three chipmunk babies had shown up in a basket outside Dave's door. Suddenly a guardian of three low-on-the-food-chain animals, Dave found the life of a touring musician impossible to maintain. He left The Scatmen and turned his energy towards his wards.

Alvin knew that Dave had no real regrets – he consistently spoke of his pride that his rodent protégés had broken into the Billboard Top 100. But Alvin also knew that Dave believed in Rock and Roll, and that his fear of being perceived as a sell-out was as great as Alvin's.

"You know what you need," said Dave slowly. "You need to be away from the pressure that comes with being a star. Go old school; get an 8-track recorder, go out into the woods and just write in nature."

Alvin's face lit up. "Yeah! That's what I'm talking about! None of this "polish"...we're gonna record a real, honest album!"

"Out in the woods?" squeaked Theodore. He was the youngest and most sensitive of the chipmunks. His green eyes were wide. "Aren't there...w-w-wolves...in the woods?"

"I'm not talking about living in a tent, Theodore," Dave said. "We'd find a nice place...in fact, you know what? I have an old friend who's going to be caretaker at a Colorado hotel this winter. It'll be closed to guests, but I'm sure it would no problem if we would join him!"

"Actually, that does sound nice," said Simon. "I've had a hard time finding time to read since we became famous. A little solitude would be welcome."

"Colorado! Wow!" said Alvin. He could see himself now, skiing the Rocky Mountains in the day, returning in the evening to write, and staying up late in the night to

(!HIDE)

record.

Alvin blinked. Where had that thought come from? He looked over at Theodore's uncertain face and for just a second, his happy dreams were stirred by a touch of fear, as if he was swimming on a sunny lake and had just felt something cold graze his leg.

"Ok, it's settled," Dave was saying. "I'll give Jack a call."

He left the room. Sylvia followed him, protesting furiously. Simon went to Theodore's side, trying to reassure him. And Alvin was alone with his thoughts.

This is good, Alvin. Make your mark, and nobody will ever fawn over your "cute nose" ever again.

You're going to be a smash.