Like a rejuvenating punch to the face, the Cadillac croon of Andy Williams emerges from somewhere deep inside Earth’s frostbitten tundra; boys and girls run for your innocent lives, it’s Christmas time once again. Tis the season to have the yuletide cheer beaten into you by a runaway middle school marching band and army of violent sleigh bell ringers.
Okay, overstatement. But maybe not. I’ve just gotten off the highway and been once again treated to the all-Christmas, all-the-time playlists embraced by many of the radio stations on the local dial. Sitting here typing away, I’m in a stage of recovery: my hands nervously shake as the sounds of Pavarotti-chested snowmen, bellicose chimes, bombastic timpani hits, whip cracks, a couple imperial horns, and the din of a thousand shrieking children echo through my pounding head.
Now, the irony is that I love Christmas music. Nothing is more soothing to me after a year of earthly toil and a semester of work than to be lulled to a state of blissful numbness by the eggnog-soaked vocals of sweater king Perry Como. And, I think next to maybe steaks and an interstate, Mannheim Steamroller is the best thing to come out of Omaha. Ever.
Still, I wish Rudolph would mobilize the North Pole fleet this December 24 and candy-cane blitz-bomb every radio station dedicated to propping up this attention-deficit-disorder Christmas playlist. We can’t get a frozen breathe in without being chased down the street by a speaker blaring out Nat King Cole’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” In fact, the famous scene of George Bailey running down Bedford Falls’ boulevard shouting out “Merry Christmas” conjures up images of me sprinting through a shiny-floored mall, dodging and weaving through caffeinated shoppers to the tune of Jackson 5’s “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Is he? Soon? Now? Run!! Run for your freaking lives!!!!!
But as long as we’re on the subject, the old stuff, about white Christmases and mistletoe and jelly-bellied Santas and fireplaces is where it’s at. The new stuff (I heard a particularly breathy and mushy Kelly Clarkson lamenting world affairs in “My Grown Up Christmas List” on the way into work this morning) feels synthetic, emotionally disingenuous, and, for lack of a better word, commercial. Which is funny, because the old Bing Crosby stuff broke the mold on commodifying the holidays.
I don’t know why this is. Let’s take Andy Williams, for example. I know such an admission goes against every fiber in my meager musical mind, but I really enjoy the son of this Wall Lake, Iowa mail clerk (and his bros) when he sings. There is something zany and death-defying about Andy Williams, the way when “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” opens up and his voice soars and bounds over those waltzing crescendos like a blow-up Santa chucked from the back of a Semi traveling at 80 miles per hour down the interstate.
The new stuff lacks any of the cornball silliness of the old stuff. There appears to be an indirect correlation of earnestness on the input and output of Christmas music; you can sound sad in a Christmas song, or you can pander to sentimentality, but you better keep a mischievous twinkle in your eye. Most new songs like the aforementioned Kelly Clarkson song or any of the bunker-busters on Carrie Underwood’s Christmas special take themselves too seriously (with the sole exception of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You”).
So, this Christmas, let me give you a few tips: avoid Barry Manilow’s mash-up of “Jingle Bells” and “Carol of the Bells” on the iTunes Holiday Sampler (it will certainly frighten the children more than catching Santa Claus with a bottle of Jim Beam), steer clear of the eggnog at the holiday office party, and if you think you can trust yourself, it won’t hurt you too much to spend 15 minutes or so on the holiday radio station. It’ll at least drown out the screams as you ram your SUV through the Walmart walls looking for the latest Elmo toy.
Thanks to cousin Christopher for writing this column.
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