Avast, ye scurvy dogs and chart-watching landlubbers! Word has reached the Captain’s quarters that the mistress of the melodic gale, one Mistress Becky Hill, has grown weary of merely standing upon the poop deck and belting her lungs out to the horizon. No, it seems the siren’s life of luxury was not enough for this gold-certified privateer. Reports from the dry docks suggest she is currently undergoing a brutal regimen of acrobatic drills, training her core and her courage to soar through the clouds like a blood-drunk albatross. While most singers are content to clutch a goblet of grog and sway to the rhythm of the waves, Hill is preparing to risk life and limb by swinging from the very rigging of her upcoming tour.

‘Tis a madness that has gripped the music industry’s most profitable fleet! My own first mate, ‘Barnaby the Bilge-Rat,’ was seen weeping into his salted pork when he heard the news. ‘Captain,’ he cried, ‘if the singers start doing the work of the able-bodied seamen—climbing the masts and tumbling through the air—what’s to become of us honest riggers? Will I be expected to hit a high C while reefing the topsails in a hurricane?’ It is a valid concern, me hearties. If Becky Hill masters the art of the trapeze, the line between a pop concert and a high-seas boarding action will be thinner than the edge of a rusty cutlass. We’ve seen many a lass try to dance, but to defy gravity itself suggests she’s made a pact with Davy Jones for a more ‘upbeat’ soul.

Even the high lords of the Admiralty—or ‘The Label Executives’ as they’re known in their gilded counting houses—are shivering in their silk breeches. I cornered Lord Percival Vinyl of the East India Chart Company, who was seen clutching a bottle of premium rum in distress. ‘The insurance premiums alone are enough to sink a Spanish galleon!’ he barked, his wig askew. ‘It used to be that we just worried about her hitting the wrong note; now we have to worry about her hitting the front row at sixty miles per hour! If she falls into the orchestra pit, who’s going to pay for the broken harpsichords?’ Yet, despite the fear of financial ruin, the crowds are clamoring for this airborne spectacle. They want to see the Siren of the South spinning like a tropical cyclone while she delivers her hymns of heartbreak.

The consequences of this acrobatic ambition are already being felt across the Seven Seas. There is a sudden, desperate shortage of high-grade hempen rope, as every tavern singer from Tortuga to London tries to rig a swing in their basement. If this trend continues, we won't have enough line to hang a common mutineer, let alone anchor a brigantine! Furthermore, the local gymnasiums are being overrun by pop-stars-in-waiting, all attempting to build the ‘iron core’ necessary for such aerial shenanigans. It’s a dark day for the portly ballad-singers of old; if you can’t do a backflip while holding a melody, you might as well walk the plank and be done with it.

As Captain Iron Ink, I must warn Mistress Hill: the air is a fickle mistress, much like the sea. One slip of the silk, one loose knot in the harness, and you’ll find yourself in the locker before the second chorus. But should she succeed, she’ll be the most dangerous woman on the charts—a flying fury who can out-sing a mermaid and out-climb a monkey. We shall be watching from the crow’s nest with our spyglasses held tight, waiting to see if this voyage brings gold or merely a very melodic thud upon the deck. Prepare your ears, and your neck muscles, for the sky-high spectacle is nigh!