Atlanta's most-feared a cappella band
NICE TO MEET US
Atlanta A Cappella Awesomeness
Best to Burn is Atlanta's most-feared a cappella band, described by critics as “amazing,” “incredibly talented,” and, “where’s dat sound comin’ from? Oh, I think it’s comin’ from their mowfs” (that particular critic was three years old and very astute for his age).
These talented vocalists, of preposterously varying heights, have been wowing Atlanta audiences since 2013, performing to packed houses at Smith's Olde Bar, Eddie's Attic, Red Light Cafe, and Kelly's daughter's 9-year-old birthday party, performing originals and alt/pop/rock cover songs with, yes, just their mowfs.
Best to Burn knows what you did last summer.
Best to Burn ate the last brownie. Sorry about that.
Best to Burn is a vocal band in Atlanta.
Best to Burn is ready to stuff some awesome in your ear.
WHO ARE YOU AGAIN?
Meet the Band
Six voices + whiskey. That's it.
From humble beginnings as a twenty-seven-piece accordion ensemble specializing in EDM interpretations of fifteenth-century madrigals, Best To Burn has absorbed trends and integrated conflicting hair and musical styles over its thirteen-year existence, running through baritones like Spinal Tap runs through drummers (without the whole choking-on-vomit thing), eventually evolving into the six-voice a cappella force we see before us today.
Christy Fennessy
Lead & Backing Vocals, Strength and Conditioning Coach
Christy stared at her reflection in the dirt-streaked mirror and took inventory: zip-front bustier, zebra-print stretch-pants, spangly blue scarf, fingerless gloves, faux-fur boots, teased hair, bottle of Jack Daniel's.
How did she end up here, in this disgusting bathroom, after growing up in suburban New Jersey, singing preciously pretty arias in church, playing the lash-batting ingenue in school musicals, quick-sticking on the lacrosse team, and providing a delicate descant to her college a cappella group Vocal Point at the University of Rochester?
Maybe that concussion she got during a college field hockey game had taken its toll. How else to explain why a Britney Spears-chasing magazine journalist and perky fitness instructor would be at a dive-bar dressed like David Lee Roth for a gig with the world's first all-female Van Halen tribute band?
The bathroom door creaked open. "We're on in five minutes," the drummer said. "You need more eyeliner."
Is this what Christy's life had come to?
Hell yes.
The gig with She-Ruption came and went. The guitarist left the band to pursue a life of stardom and forgery in Vermont. Christy had two kids. And she continued reporting on the bond market and parkour and old ladies who write erotica. She put her sparkly costumes in the basement in a box, tucking away her rock-star dreams, and silently wished there would come a day to live them again.
That day has come.
Christy Fennessy
Lead & Backing Vocals, Strength and Conditioning Coach
Christy stared at her reflection in the dirt-streaked mirror and took inventory: zip-front bustier, zebra-print stretch-pants, spangly blue scarf, fingerless gloves, faux-fur boots, teased hair, bottle of Jack Daniel's.
How did she end up here, in this disgusting bathroom, after growing up in suburban New Jersey, singing preciously pretty arias in church, playing the lash-batting ingenue in school musicals, quick-sticking on the lacrosse team, and providing a delicate descant to her college a cappella group Vocal Point at the University of Rochester?
Maybe that concussion she got during a college field hockey game had taken its toll. How else to explain why a Britney Spears-chasing magazine journalist and perky fitness instructor would be at a dive-bar dressed like David Lee Roth for a gig with the world's first all-female Van Halen tribute band?
The bathroom door creaked open. "We're on in five minutes," the drummer said. "You need more eyeliner."
Is this what Christy's life had come to?
Hell yes.
The gig with She-Ruption came and went. The guitarist left the band to pursue a life of stardom and forgery in Vermont. Christy had two kids. And she continued reporting on the bond market and parkour and old ladies who write erotica. She put her sparkly costumes in the basement in a box, tucking away her rock-star dreams, and silently wished there would come a day to live them again.
That day has come.
Christy Fennessy
Lead & Backing Vocals, Strength and Conditioning Coach
Christy stared at her reflection in the dirt-streaked mirror and took inventory: zip-front bustier, zebra-print stretch-pants, spangly blue scarf, fingerless gloves, faux-fur boots, teased hair, bottle of Jack Daniel's.
How did she end up here, in this disgusting bathroom, after growing up in suburban New Jersey, singing preciously pretty arias in church, playing the lash-batting ingenue in school musicals, quick-sticking on the lacrosse team, and providing a delicate descant to her college a cappella group Vocal Point at the University of Rochester?
Maybe that concussion she got during a college field hockey game had taken its toll. How else to explain why a Britney Spears-chasing magazine journalist and perky fitness instructor would be at a dive-bar dressed like David Lee Roth for a gig with the world's first all-female Van Halen tribute band?
The bathroom door creaked open. "We're on in five minutes," the drummer said. "You need more eyeliner."
Is this what Christy's life had come to?
Hell yes.
The gig with She-Ruption came and went. The guitarist left the band to pursue a life of stardom and forgery in Vermont. Christy had two kids. And she continued reporting on the bond market and parkour and old ladies who write erotica. She put her sparkly costumes in the basement in a box, tucking away her rock-star dreams, and silently wished there would come a day to live them again.
That day has come.
Kelly Howard
Lead & Backing Vocals, Pharmaceutical Peddler
Diplo looked out into the undulating mass of electronic music fans, all anxiously awaiting the drop in his song, "Revolution," and he sighed. He might be a Grammy Award-winning songwriter, producer, and DJ who was performing on stage in front of thousands of people, but something was missing.
And then he saw her.
Doing the "cry-baby" dance in the middle of the crowd was Kelly Howard. He knew her as Kelly Jones, though, from when she was a cheerleader at their high school in Hendersonville, Tennessee. He took a sip of water and cursed his luck, wishing he — instead of their classmate Beau, a tall skateboarder — had been the one to suggest they not worry about ruining their friendship and start to date.
Diplo knew, from repeated peeks at her Facebook profile, that Kelly had gone on to attend Vanderbilt University and sing in the women’s a cappella group, the Swingin' Dores. She was now a compound therapist who was married to Beau with three children. Together the Howards would go on hikes, watch Braves games, and play made-up quiz games like "Gifted, Not Gifted."
All the gold records and all the Diplo-branded Crocs in the world couldn’t fill the Kelly-sized hole in his heart.
He’d tried reaching out with a music opportunity, suggesting she add her amazing alto belt to a new track with Justin Bieber. She had — in what felt like a punch to Diplo’s gut — said no. The reason? She'd just joined a vocal band called Best to Burn, and they were going to take over the world.
She was probably right, Diplo thought, as he gave a perfunctory fist-pump to the crowd. And then a single tear rolled down his cheek.
Kelly Howard
Lead & Backing Vocals, Pharmaceutical Peddler
Diplo looked out into the undulating mass of electronic music fans, all anxiously awaiting the drop in his song, "Revolution," and he sighed. He might be a Grammy Award-winning songwriter, producer, and DJ who was performing on stage in front of thousands of people, but something was missing.
And then he saw her.
Doing the "cry-baby" dance in the middle of the crowd was Kelly Howard. He knew her as Kelly Jones, though, from when she was a cheerleader at their high school in Hendersonville, Tennessee. He took a sip of water and cursed his luck, wishing he — instead of their classmate Beau, a tall skateboarder — had been the one to suggest they not worry about ruining their friendship and start to date.
Diplo knew, from repeated peeks at her Facebook profile, that Kelly had gone on to attend Vanderbilt University and sing in the women’s a cappella group, the Swingin' Dores. She was now a compound therapist who was married to Beau with three children. Together the Howards would go on hikes, watch Braves games, and play made-up quiz games like "Gifted, Not Gifted."
All the gold records and all the Diplo-branded Crocs in the world couldn’t fill the Kelly-sized hole in his heart.
He’d tried reaching out with a music opportunity, suggesting she add her amazing alto belt to a new track with Justin Bieber. She had — in what felt like a punch to Diplo’s gut — said no. The reason? She'd just joined a vocal band called Best to Burn, and they were going to take over the world.
She was probably right, Diplo thought, as he gave a perfunctory fist-pump to the crowd. And then a single tear rolled down his cheek.
Kelly Howard
Lead & Backing Vocals, Pharmaceutical Peddler
Diplo looked out into the undulating mass of electronic music fans, all anxiously awaiting the drop in his song, "Revolution," and he sighed. He might be a Grammy Award-winning songwriter, producer, and DJ who was performing on stage in front of thousands of people, but something was missing.
And then he saw her.
Doing the "cry-baby" dance in the middle of the crowd was Kelly Howard. He knew her as Kelly Jones, though, from when she was a cheerleader at their high school in Hendersonville, Tennessee. He took a sip of water and cursed his luck, wishing he — instead of their classmate Beau, a tall skateboarder — had been the one to suggest they not worry about ruining their friendship and start to date.
Diplo knew, from repeated peeks at her Facebook profile, that Kelly had gone on to attend Vanderbilt University and sing in the women’s a cappella group, the Swingin' Dores. She was now a compound therapist who was married to Beau with three children. Together the Howards would go on hikes, watch Braves games, and play made-up quiz games like "Gifted, Not Gifted."
All the gold records and all the Diplo-branded Crocs in the world couldn’t fill the Kelly-sized hole in his heart.
He’d tried reaching out with a music opportunity, suggesting she add her amazing alto belt to a new track with Justin Bieber. She had — in what felt like a punch to Diplo’s gut — said no. The reason? She'd just joined a vocal band called Best to Burn, and they were going to take over the world.
She was probably right, Diplo thought, as he gave a perfunctory fist-pump to the crowd. And then a single tear rolled down his cheek.
John Hendrix
Lead & Backing Vocals & Sometimes Guitar Sounds
The old woman, her hair a white puff and her posture curved like a question mark, shuffled toward John and tapped his shoulder with a wrinkled and quavering hand.
John looked up from his "Thor" comic book.
"Here, little boy," she said. "Have a lollipop."
He opened his mouth to protest, then saw that it was cherry. A man had to pick his battles.
"Thanks," he said between slurps, then extended the handle on his rolling bag and made his way toward his gate.
Another city, another airport, another old lady thinking he was eight years old. He never had the time or energy to explain that he had left those innocent years behind long ago, that he had hefted a baritone sax for countless hours of marching band practice, that he had nearly failed an online phys-ed course, that he'd jumped out of a friggin' airplane. It didn't even help when he covered his wild nimbus of curls with the Irish flat cap he got at the Jameson Distillery in Dublin — they still thought he was a kid.
There was no way these elderly ladies could know that he was an electrical and computer engineering graduate from Georgia Tech who performed hydraulic analyses of control valves and eliminated cavitation and excessive vibration in the country's most important oil pipelines with his bare hands.
He nearly wanted to yell across the terminal to the old woman, "Do you realize that when I sing ‘You Give Love a Bad Name' at a karaoke bar, middle-aged suburban women in their mom jeans literally fall to the floor in ecstasy?"
But he didn't. He kept the lollipop in his mouth and wondered, will I ever get to show people who I really am?
Opportunity's knocking, Johnny. Answer the door.
John Hendrix
Lead & Backing Vocals & Sometimes Guitar Sounds
The old woman, her hair a white puff and her posture curved like a question mark, shuffled toward John and tapped his shoulder with a wrinkled and quavering hand.
John looked up from his "Thor" comic book.
"Here, little boy," she said. "Have a lollipop."
He opened his mouth to protest, then saw that it was cherry. A man had to pick his battles.
"Thanks," he said between slurps, then extended the handle on his rolling bag and made his way toward his gate.
Another city, another airport, another old lady thinking he was eight years old. He never had the time or energy to explain that he had left those innocent years behind long ago, that he had hefted a baritone sax for countless hours of marching band practice, that he had nearly failed an online phys-ed course, that he'd jumped out of a friggin' airplane. It didn't even help when he covered his wild nimbus of curls with the Irish flat cap he got at the Jameson Distillery in Dublin — they still thought he was a kid.
There was no way these elderly ladies could know that he was an electrical and computer engineering graduate from Georgia Tech who performed hydraulic analyses of control valves and eliminated cavitation and excessive vibration in the country's most important oil pipelines with his bare hands.
He nearly wanted to yell across the terminal to the old woman, "Do you realize that when I sing ‘You Give Love a Bad Name' at a karaoke bar, middle-aged suburban women in their mom jeans literally fall to the floor in ecstasy?"
But he didn't. He kept the lollipop in his mouth and wondered, will I ever get to show people who I really am?
Opportunity's knocking, Johnny. Answer the door.
John Hendrix
Lead & Backing Vocals & Sometimes Guitar Sounds
The old woman, her hair a white puff and her posture curved like a question mark, shuffled toward John and tapped his shoulder with a wrinkled and quavering hand.
John looked up from his "Thor" comic book.
"Here, little boy," she said. "Have a lollipop."
He opened his mouth to protest, then saw that it was cherry. A man had to pick his battles.
"Thanks," he said between slurps, then extended the handle on his rolling bag and made his way toward his gate.
Another city, another airport, another old lady thinking he was eight years old. He never had the time or energy to explain that he had left those innocent years behind long ago, that he had hefted a baritone sax for countless hours of marching band practice, that he had nearly failed an online phys-ed course, that he'd jumped out of a friggin' airplane. It didn't even help when he covered his wild nimbus of curls with the Irish flat cap he got at the Jameson Distillery in Dublin — they still thought he was a kid.
There was no way these elderly ladies could know that he was an electrical and computer engineering graduate from Georgia Tech who performed hydraulic analyses of control valves and eliminated cavitation and excessive vibration in the country's most important oil pipelines with his bare hands.
He nearly wanted to yell across the terminal to the old woman, "Do you realize that when I sing ‘You Give Love a Bad Name' at a karaoke bar, middle-aged suburban women in their mom jeans literally fall to the floor in ecstasy?"
But he didn't. He kept the lollipop in his mouth and wondered, will I ever get to show people who I really am?
Opportunity's knocking, Johnny. Answer the door.
Will Webb
Lead & Backing Vocals, New Guy™
The entirety of the stadium hushed, a sea of red shirts struck silent by the tall man at the microphone.
He had just finished singing Liverpool F.C.’s anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” a song the musicals-loving man knew was originally sung by Nettie to Julie after Billy stabbed himself in the second act of the 1945 Rodgers and Hammerstein production Carousel.
“Thank you,” the man, named Will, boomed into the microphone. And the crowd exploded into cheers, chants, and applause.
A single tear ran down Will’s cheek. And then he felt a rapid tapping on his shoulder. He tried to brush it away—who would ruin this perfect moment for him with the soccer team he loved so dearly?—but now the hand was pulling on his sleeve. He looked down and suddenly realized he was wearing a crop top, a look he typically reserved for bedtime at home.
“Will, wake up,” came a groan from his wife. “You’re having that dream again, and it is loud.”
Will opened his eyes to face reality. He wasn’t in Ohio with his extended family, or at Wright State, where he went to college. He wasn’t co-hosting a soccer podcast or teaching ballroom dancing classes or selling flooring options. He was at home in Atlanta, in bed, where he was indeed wearing a cropped t-shirt.
He looked at his beautiful and patient wife and whispered, “sorry, boo,” then quietly padded into the bathroom.
Will leaned on the sink to look in the mirror, and to take stock. He’d performed in nearly every musical ever produced in the suburbs of Atlanta. He was an excellent dancer. He was known on the karaoke circuit.
But he’d never body-slammed, dropkicked, or camel-clutched an opponent while wearing a spangled Speedo in the wrestling ring. He’d never won any contests for his creative costumes at DragonCon. And he’d never sung at a real Liverpool soccer game.
He’d never had the opportunity to experience such thrills.
But now, with Best to Burn, Will has his chance—to feel that good, to hold his head up high, to never be afraid of the dark, and to never walk alone.
Will Webb
Lead & Backing Vocals, New Guy™
The entirety of the stadium hushed, a sea of red shirts struck silent by the tall man at the microphone.
He had just finished singing Liverpool F.C.’s anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” a song the musicals-loving man knew was originally sung by Nettie to Julie after Billy stabbed himself in the second act of the 1945 Rodgers and Hammerstein production Carousel.
“Thank you,” the man, named Will, boomed into the microphone. And the crowd exploded into cheers, chants, and applause.
A single tear ran down Will’s cheek. And then he felt a rapid tapping on his shoulder. He tried to brush it away—who would ruin this perfect moment for him with the soccer team he loved so dearly?—but now the hand was pulling on his sleeve. He looked down and suddenly realized he was wearing a crop top, a look he typically reserved for bedtime at home.
“Will, wake up,” came a groan from his wife. “You’re having that dream again, and it is loud.”
Will opened his eyes to face reality. He wasn’t in Ohio with his extended family, or at Wright State, where he went to college. He wasn’t co-hosting a soccer podcast or teaching ballroom dancing classes or selling flooring options. He was at home in Atlanta, in bed, where he was indeed wearing a cropped t-shirt.
He looked at his beautiful and patient wife and whispered, “sorry, boo,” then quietly padded into the bathroom.
Will leaned on the sink to look in the mirror, and to take stock. He’d performed in nearly every musical ever produced in the suburbs of Atlanta. He was an excellent dancer. He was known on the karaoke circuit.
But he’d never body-slammed, dropkicked, or camel-clutched an opponent while wearing a spangled Speedo in the wrestling ring. He’d never won any contests for his creative costumes at DragonCon. And he’d never sung at a real Liverpool soccer game.
He’d never had the opportunity to experience such thrills.
But now, with Best to Burn, Will has his chance—to feel that good, to hold his head up high, to never be afraid of the dark, and to never walk alone.
Will Webb
Lead & Backing Vocals, New Guy™
The entirety of the stadium hushed, a sea of red shirts struck silent by the tall man at the microphone.
He had just finished singing Liverpool F.C.’s anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” a song the musicals-loving man knew was originally sung by Nettie to Julie after Billy stabbed himself in the second act of the 1945 Rodgers and Hammerstein production Carousel.
“Thank you,” the man, named Will, boomed into the microphone. And the crowd exploded into cheers, chants, and applause.
A single tear ran down Will’s cheek. And then he felt a rapid tapping on his shoulder. He tried to brush it away—who would ruin this perfect moment for him with the soccer team he loved so dearly?—but now the hand was pulling on his sleeve. He looked down and suddenly realized he was wearing a crop top, a look he typically reserved for bedtime at home.
“Will, wake up,” came a groan from his wife. “You’re having that dream again, and it is loud.”
Will opened his eyes to face reality. He wasn’t in Ohio with his extended family, or at Wright State, where he went to college. He wasn’t co-hosting a soccer podcast or teaching ballroom dancing classes or selling flooring options. He was at home in Atlanta, in bed, where he was indeed wearing a cropped t-shirt.
He looked at his beautiful and patient wife and whispered, “sorry, boo,” then quietly padded into the bathroom.
Will leaned on the sink to look in the mirror, and to take stock. He’d performed in nearly every musical ever produced in the suburbs of Atlanta. He was an excellent dancer. He was known on the karaoke circuit.
But he’d never body-slammed, dropkicked, or camel-clutched an opponent while wearing a spangled Speedo in the wrestling ring. He’d never won any contests for his creative costumes at DragonCon. And he’d never sung at a real Liverpool soccer game.
He’d never had the opportunity to experience such thrills.
But now, with Best to Burn, Will has his chance—to feel that good, to hold his head up high, to never be afraid of the dark, and to never walk alone.
Carl Christie
Lead & Backing & Bass Vocals
The heat in the soundbooth — a tiny box, really, lit by a single bare bulb — was almost unbearable. Carl rolled up his sleeves like a T-Bird from "Grease" and settled in front of the pop screen, waiting to read the disclaimers for his latest radio spot.
"Could we open the door for a minute, maybe?" he pleaded into the microphone. The unseen producer didn't respond.
Carl sighed, then muttered, "To write with a broken pencil is pointless. See, because when a pencil breaks, the tip is gone and it's not sharp anymore, so —"
"Let's take it from the top," the invisible sound guy barked.
This was no way to treat the one and only Carlos Fantastico, the man who played Christopher Columbus at the 1992 World's Fair in Seville, Spain. The guy who, just by speaking, sold dozens of Hardee's Thickburgers. The voice-over artist who helped cure your jock itch by recommending a medicated powder. He was the original PA announcer for the Atlanta Thrashers NHL franchise, fercryinoutloud.
Did this producer have any idea how hard it was to learn all those Czech, Kyrgyzstani and Finnish names before announcing the roster at a Thrashers game? "Per Svartvadet" doesn't pronounce itself, you know...
Carl's basso profondo had anchored nearly every a cappella singing group that ever passed through Atlanta. He was a photographer, a DJ, a mobile massage pro and the Grand Marshal of Cinco de Marcho. But here, in this sweltering soundbooth, he was nothing but a workhorse in a puddle of sweat.
He sang to himself his favorite lyric from "The Little Mermaid" — "What would I give, if I could live out of these waters?" — and fantasized about a world where his talents would get the recognition they so richly deserved.
Fantasize no more, Fantastico. Your dream has come true.
Carl Christie
Lead & Backing & Bass Vocals
The heat in the soundbooth — a tiny box, really, lit by a single bare bulb — was almost unbearable. Carl rolled up his sleeves like a T-Bird from "Grease" and settled in front of the pop screen, waiting to read the disclaimers for his latest radio spot.
"Could we open the door for a minute, maybe?" he pleaded into the microphone. The unseen producer didn't respond.
Carl sighed, then muttered, "To write with a broken pencil is pointless. See, because when a pencil breaks, the tip is gone and it's not sharp anymore, so —"
"Let's take it from the top," the invisible sound guy barked.
This was no way to treat the one and only Carlos Fantastico, the man who played Christopher Columbus at the 1992 World's Fair in Seville, Spain. The guy who, just by speaking, sold dozens of Hardee's Thickburgers. The voice-over artist who helped cure your jock itch by recommending a medicated powder. He was the original PA announcer for the Atlanta Thrashers NHL franchise, fercryinoutloud.
Did this producer have any idea how hard it was to learn all those Czech, Kyrgyzstani and Finnish names before announcing the roster at a Thrashers game? "Per Svartvadet" doesn't pronounce itself, you know...
Carl's basso profondo had anchored nearly every a cappella singing group that ever passed through Atlanta. He was a photographer, a DJ, a mobile massage pro and the Grand Marshal of Cinco de Marcho. But here, in this sweltering soundbooth, he was nothing but a workhorse in a puddle of sweat.
He sang to himself his favorite lyric from "The Little Mermaid" — "What would I give, if I could live out of these waters?" — and fantasized about a world where his talents would get the recognition they so richly deserved.
Fantasize no more, Fantastico. Your dream has come true.
Carl Christie
Lead & Backing & Bass Vocals
The heat in the soundbooth — a tiny box, really, lit by a single bare bulb — was almost unbearable. Carl rolled up his sleeves like a T-Bird from "Grease" and settled in front of the pop screen, waiting to read the disclaimers for his latest radio spot.
"Could we open the door for a minute, maybe?" he pleaded into the microphone. The unseen producer didn't respond.
Carl sighed, then muttered, "To write with a broken pencil is pointless. See, because when a pencil breaks, the tip is gone and it's not sharp anymore, so —"
"Let's take it from the top," the invisible sound guy barked.
This was no way to treat the one and only Carlos Fantastico, the man who played Christopher Columbus at the 1992 World's Fair in Seville, Spain. The guy who, just by speaking, sold dozens of Hardee's Thickburgers. The voice-over artist who helped cure your jock itch by recommending a medicated powder. He was the original PA announcer for the Atlanta Thrashers NHL franchise, fercryinoutloud.
Did this producer have any idea how hard it was to learn all those Czech, Kyrgyzstani and Finnish names before announcing the roster at a Thrashers game? "Per Svartvadet" doesn't pronounce itself, you know...
Carl's basso profondo had anchored nearly every a cappella singing group that ever passed through Atlanta. He was a photographer, a DJ, a mobile massage pro and the Grand Marshal of Cinco de Marcho. But here, in this sweltering soundbooth, he was nothing but a workhorse in a puddle of sweat.
He sang to himself his favorite lyric from "The Little Mermaid" — "What would I give, if I could live out of these waters?" — and fantasized about a world where his talents would get the recognition they so richly deserved.
Fantasize no more, Fantastico. Your dream has come true.
Benjy Rose
Drum Vocals and occasionally Lead & Backing Vocals
The gold and blue trophy — topped by a tarnished bumblebee with a taunting smile — sat on Benjy's shelf, daring him to do something greater. Sure, he'd won the 1988 Long Island Sectional Spelling Bee, but in this topsy-turvy, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world, he needed more.
So he tried. He wrote his college application essay in Dr. Seuss's trochaic pentameter. He went SCUBA diving with sharks at the Great Barrier Reef. He played Bach's Tocatta and Fugue on a booming pipe organ at Brown University. He wore suspenders and blessed the rains while singing the solo from Toto's "Africa" with the Bear Necessities.
But the sense of accomplishment he experienced as a spelling champ continued to elude him.
Even when Benjy and his former a cappella band LiveWire won both the inaugural Southeast Subregional Harmony Sweepstakes in 1999 and the Boston Regional Harmony Sweepstakes in 2000. Even when he wrote and performed jingles about a morning radio show, UPC codes, and a wireless company moving office locations. Even when he hawked warm Diet Crystal Pepsi during weekend overnight shifts on New England alternative radio.
Nothing could erase the image of a young Benjy dressed in an acid-washed denim jacket with pegged sweatpants – lifted just a touch, so you could see a sliver of ankle – and the blue, pink and yellow baseball hat he wore tipped back on his head. Nothing could drown out the cheers that echoed in his mind: "Ben! Jee! Can! Spell!"
Nothing could top the euphoria of that win.
Until now...
Benjy Rose
Drum Vocals and occasionally Lead & Backing Vocals
The gold and blue trophy — topped by a tarnished bumblebee with a taunting smile — sat on Benjy's shelf, daring him to do something greater. Sure, he'd won the 1988 Long Island Sectional Spelling Bee, but in this topsy-turvy, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world, he needed more.
So he tried. He wrote his college application essay in Dr. Seuss's trochaic pentameter. He went SCUBA diving with sharks at the Great Barrier Reef. He played Bach's Tocatta and Fugue on a booming pipe organ at Brown University. He wore suspenders and blessed the rains while singing the solo from Toto's "Africa" with the Bear Necessities.
But the sense of accomplishment he experienced as a spelling champ continued to elude him.
Even when Benjy and his former a cappella band LiveWire won both the inaugural Southeast Subregional Harmony Sweepstakes in 1999 and the Boston Regional Harmony Sweepstakes in 2000. Even when he wrote and performed jingles about a morning radio show, UPC codes, and a wireless company moving office locations. Even when he hawked warm Diet Crystal Pepsi during weekend overnight shifts on New England alternative radio.
Nothing could erase the image of a young Benjy dressed in an acid-washed denim jacket with pegged sweatpants – lifted just a touch, so you could see a sliver of ankle – and the blue, pink and yellow baseball hat he wore tipped back on his head. Nothing could drown out the cheers that echoed in his mind: "Ben! Jee! Can! Spell!"
Nothing could top the euphoria of that win.
Until now...
Benjy Rose
Drum Vocals and occasionally Lead & Backing Vocals
The gold and blue trophy — topped by a tarnished bumblebee with a taunting smile — sat on Benjy's shelf, daring him to do something greater. Sure, he'd won the 1988 Long Island Sectional Spelling Bee, but in this topsy-turvy, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world, he needed more.
So he tried. He wrote his college application essay in Dr. Seuss's trochaic pentameter. He went SCUBA diving with sharks at the Great Barrier Reef. He played Bach's Tocatta and Fugue on a booming pipe organ at Brown University. He wore suspenders and blessed the rains while singing the solo from Toto's "Africa" with the Bear Necessities.
But the sense of accomplishment he experienced as a spelling champ continued to elude him.
Even when Benjy and his former a cappella band LiveWire won both the inaugural Southeast Subregional Harmony Sweepstakes in 1999 and the Boston Regional Harmony Sweepstakes in 2000. Even when he wrote and performed jingles about a morning radio show, UPC codes, and a wireless company moving office locations. Even when he hawked warm Diet Crystal Pepsi during weekend overnight shifts on New England alternative radio.
Nothing could erase the image of a young Benjy dressed in an acid-washed denim jacket with pegged sweatpants – lifted just a touch, so you could see a sliver of ankle – and the blue, pink and yellow baseball hat he wore tipped back on his head. Nothing could drown out the cheers that echoed in his mind: "Ben! Jee! Can! Spell!"
Nothing could top the euphoria of that win.
Until now...
EAR/EYE CANDY
Listen/Watch
WHERE TO FIND US
Upcoming Shows
07
February
2026
Best To Burn for free? Yes, please! Come hang at GPCH and enjoy some legit Ethiopian food (yes, Ethiopian food at a coffee house. I mean, coffee was discovered in Ethiopia, so it makes sense...) and some amazing music. Adult beverages available, BYOB is A-OK, too. All ages.
06
June
2026
Ready for the second annual June 6th Best To Burn at Eddie's Attic show? We are. Join us at our favorite Decatur listening room for an evening of awesomeness.
CONTACT FORM
Book us, Dan-o.
We enjoy performing for throngs, both screaming and non-screaming. But we prefer the screaming. If the form doesn't work, send an email to booking@besttoburn.com
© Best To Burn. Thank you, Mr. Bacon.
About
Best to Burn is Atlanta's most-feared a cappella band, described by critics as “amazing,” “incredibly talented,” and, “where’s dat sound comin’ from? Oh, I think it’s comin’ from their mowfs” (that particular critic was three years old and very astute for his age). These talented vocalists, of preposterously varying heights, have been wowing Atlanta audiences since 2013, performing to packed houses at Smith's Olde Bar, Eddie's Attic, Red Light Cafe, and Kelly's daughter's 9-year-old birthday party, performing originals and alt/pop/rock cover songs with, yes, just their mowfs.