“Ten Christmas Songs I Wouldn’t Miss, If They Went Away Forever”

By Peter Rodman

No one--and I mean no one--loves Christmas music more

than I do.  But there are two obvious problems with it:
1. The same twelve records get played to death every year, and even the best of our classics (whether Crosby’s “White Christmas” or Presley’s “Blue Christmas”) suffer from severe burn-out, in short order.  
2. Fact is, certain holiday faves have become ridiculously commercialized on TV--whether selling dish soap, cars or laxatives. Their melodies will haunt you, from early October all the way up 'til the Rose Bowl.

So now that the Christmas season is winding down, here's a handy (not-too-serious) list of  Ten Christmas Songs I Wouldn’t Miss, If They Went Away Forever:


10. ‘The Nutcracker Suite’ (that tinkly intro)
This is the most widely used Christmas theme out there.  Seemingly every Christmas commercial has used it at one time or another, and I'm guessing that's because Tchaikovsky's copyright has expired.  Good thing Pyotr isn't around to see his Nutcracker workin' the erectile dysfunction market.

Another reason I don't like hearing this suspiciously 'tinkly' music so often?  If you really think about it, it sounds like horror film music!  Over the years I’ve come to picture not so much wooden soldiers, but Chucky...sneakin’ around my 

bedroom joyously in the night, laying in wait to give me a heart attack. 

Here's a little experiment for ya:  Play the music below, and then tell me it wouldn't be the perfect soundtrack for this little guy in the closet...

 If that doesn't send a shiver up your spine, nothing will.


 9. “Santa Baby” 

This was already creepy when Eartha Kitt did it, but nowadays it’s a rite of passage for every aging wannabe ‘sex kitten,’ from Kylie Minigogohue (never could get her name right) to Madonna, whose coquette act has turned to creosote, over time.
And I don't even wanna know what Eartha did 'Under the Bridges of Paris.'

8. “In The Bleak Mid-Winter”  
Well, here’s a party song! Especially if you need to calm down after a raucous evening of Leonard Cohen ballads.  

Not since “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” has the NPR crowd found a more universally beloved dirge.  In keeping with my desire to be thorough here, I’ve listened to every single available version of this thing. 
I can now officially report the results of my extensive research: 
They’re all bleak.  
And just when I was beginning to think this was the Christmas equivalent of Sarah McLachlan's “I Will Remember You”…Lo, and Behold:
It’s actually the new theme song for those 'abused animal' PSAs. 
This is why people giggle at funerals. 
On the plus side, it's is great background music for decorating the tree--if you happen to be hanging Gillette single-edge razor blades.

7. “The Little Drummer Boy”  
I don’t usually pick on ye oldest-of-olde Christmas carols, especially the ones with a holy back story to them.  I remember closing out my annual radio Christmas Special one Sunday night, and the station's  Program Director stopped by to offer season's greetings.  At some point the subject came up (on the air): What were our least favorite Christmas songs?  Since he asked, I said this was the first one that came to my mind.  Just the intro gives me a headache.

Chucky's got nothin' on this guy.

Well!  Huff, huff! 
Turned out this was the dude’s favorite Christmas song ever.
Of course. 
Thinking on my feet as always, I said, “That’s okay!  Different strokes, right?” 
No luck there. My listeners got to hear him recite the whole back-story (centuries-long... and that was just his explanation) to “Drummer Boy,” if I may call it that.  I’m not sure if I blacked out or what…but as I recall, the song may have something to do with Kenney Jones replacing Keith Moon, in The Who.

6. ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas”  
Even my favorite version of this (by Peter, Paul, and Mary) is, at its core, irredeemable.  Remember when you were kids, and everybody taunted each other with Planet Earth’s universal taunt?  “Na, na, na-naaah nah!” 

"I'll wave, Honey...you go call 9-1-1!"

It’s kinda like that.  Wikipedia says this one goes all the way back to the 16th century.  (That’s pre-Spotify.)  
But never fear, the songwriters for this little winner were way ahead of their time: They never got a dime, either! 
In fact, nobody today even knows who they were at all.  

Wikipedia goes on to say that wealthy people “gave figgy puddings to the carolers” of this one.  My guess is that the folks who wrote this little ditty offered up one too

many verses at the wrong house one night, and ended up getting fiddy punches instead. 
It is said they now lie beneath the cobblestones of Hoffastraus...near the Meadowlands in New Jersey.  
Or…
Maybe the guy in that last house opened the door and said, “Do you MIND?  I’m trying to watch It’s a Wonderful Life!”  Anyway, the creators of this song were never found.  
Score one for the tauntees.

5. “Back Door Santa”  
I hate to disparage any sacred songs, especially in a Christmas song list--but this Clarence Carter classic is so wrong, on so many levels, I’m amazed it isn’t the #1 Hipster Holiday Hit of All Time!  

In a brilliant moment of redundancy,
Atlantic stamped it, "PLUG SIDE."

Gotta believe they haven’t all discovered it yet. 
Oh, well…I’ll leave it there. At the back door.  
You know, the door Santa’s gonna come in, when your husband’s not home.  Yeah.  That door.  
Yup, you got it. The back door…


4.  “Here Comes Santa Claus”  
This would rank higher on my list if Bob Dylan hadn’t given us a reason to laugh at it.  It certainly has that “taunting” quality I spoke of earlier.  Here's a test:
1. Go ahead, start singing it.  
2. Now, have your kid sing it to his younger brother, enthusiastically--over and over.

3. Wait a few seconds. 
I guarantee a punch-out. 
Actually, I used to live near Santa Claus Lane (it’s a real place!) in Santa Barbara.  

Didn’t help this bomb a single bit.  
Bad songs are funny that way.

3.  “Do They Know It’s Christmas”  
Let me start out by saying I’m American, for all my friends in England. Trust me, this song was no big deal here. 
Insofar as it inspired Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie to write “We Are The World,” I don’t know whether to thank the Mother Country or send all my tea back.  
Beyond all that, it’s a crummy song.

Original Band-Aid

 
A bunch of rich, '80s new wave rock stars singing “Feed the World” doesn’t get the job done-- although it did save Bob Geldof from the Boomtown Rats, which is encouraging, and which led to ‘Live Aid,’ which led to 'Live 8'...

Band-Aid 2014

an event precisely nobody understood, including Bono. Their slogan was "No Excuses"--which kinda brings me back to this song. Oh, and guess what?  They just re-made it, with another whole group of 'stars' nobody's ever heard of in America.   Do They Know Nobody Knows This Song?


2.  “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town”  
Actually, I like this song. It's just the Jackson 5 version that merits this esteemed place of honor on my 'Ten Worst' list.
As a little boy back in the ‘50s, this song carried all the mystery of Santa’s list for me--and once I found out that had to do with my presents, I was determined to land on that “nice” list!  In fact, I checked with my parents twice a day, just to make sure.  
Then a funny thing happened: 
Frankie Valli & the 4 Seasons covered it, reaching #23 in December of 1962.  I only know this because by then, I was an 11 year old radio geek, meticulously documenting  Murray the K's “surveys” for future use.  (I can happily report that this constitutes the first 'future use' I have ever found for that useless factoid.)  
Anyway, the 4 Seasons' version of this song might just be the main reason my parents let me take over the basement wood shop and open an imaginary “radio station,” safely out of earshot. 
Anything, not to hear Frankie’s musical vasectomized vocals , wrecking their fond memories of the Great Depression.
What is wrong with parents, I wondered?  
They don’t like freakin' FRANKIE VALLI??
Well.  
God, whose holiday incidentally Christmas is supposed to be, is famous for his cruel ‘paybacks.’ (For instance, hell.) 

In which Frankie implores God
to wait, before allowing Michael
Jackson to cover this song.

  
But not even I could have anticipated that He would stoop to letting Michael Jackson screech this title over and over on record--using Frankie's arrangement!  
Only God could have set up this level of revenge toward me. 
Even Santaactually decided, upon hearing it, he wasn't coming to town. 

The above 'Jackson 5ive' record probably helped flush out Noriega, which is why this song lands such a high position here--safely above any glassware it might potentially shatter.  Oh, well...apparently Berry Gordy liked it. 
Then again, look what happened to Detroit.   I blame this record.

1. “All I Want For Christmas is 
No More Melisma You”  

Speaking of pain…
I do appreciate Mariah Carey’s efforts, really I do. Stuffing yourself into a sequined gown three sizes too small is no mean feat...and I speak from experience. 

But good heavens...
Must this be the Quintessential Holiday Song of the Great Kardashian Era of Personkind?  I get that the same hussies from Halloween like to dress up and try this one, but even ‘Back Door Santa’ won’t come near your chimney if he hears this rattling mess. Alvin and the Chipmunks seem like Handel, by comparison.  

Bruce Jenner, dreaming of Christmas gowns to come...

My theory is this:  The crowd at Rockefeller Center is way too busy taking cell phone videos to even notice the music anymore...so who cares how bad the song is? 
I do.
I care.
And I know humbug when I hear it.  
"Bah!  HUMBUG!!!"      


...forgive me, Jesus.


__________________________________________________
This opinion column Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.
All Rights Reserved. No portion herein may be reproduced
without express written permission. 

"Is there any such thing as a Hipster?"

By Peter Rodman
 

A friend writes, "Is there any such thing as a hipster? Are there any hipsters out there willing to admit that they are hipsters? If not, do you (hipsters) think that hipsters exist, and would you please point one out for me?"
He continues, "Do you know any self confessed hipsters? If not, ask them if they think hipsters exist, and to point one out. The subject of the hipster has me fascinated."

Okay, I got this one.

Dear Friend,

Look at my hair. I've essentially had the same (non) haircut since 1973... and believe it or not, I was never in Wings.

At some point during the '90s, the hipsters in LA began calling it a "mullet"--something that was never even a TERM until they began selling "mullet dolls" at Z Gallerie in Westwood. So...IS it a mullet?

PR, circa '77
You'd think that people would
have had enough of silly haircuts.

Well, in the eyes of those who just couldn't deal with the "business in the front/party in the back" look (and wanted to bring us down a notch)...I guess so. Yep. (Today, mine might still be called "a modified mullet.")

Did I like suddenly having a derogatory name applied to my groovy-lookin' hair? Nope.
(What the hell's wrong with pretending I'm a 63 year old Beatle?) 　

Likewise, I'll confess that some of us wore those acid-washed Mom jeans and white Reeboks a few years longer than we should have. 

Do you get where I'm goin' here?

In my opinion, the premise is moot.

I get it: You don't like the term hipster, because it unfairly 'bags' you, as we used to say in the '60s. 
Therefore you want it to go away, or for people to stop using it...unless they're willing to include themselves in the category.

"Do hipsters exist?" you ask rhetorically, hoping you can disprove the stereotype...but you can't.

It's out there--just like the "layered" haircut I've had for 40 years that younger hipsters (rightly fed up with us Boomers dominating the cool for decades) finally tagged the "mullet."

(You'll note here that part of my definition for 'hipster' is age-based.)  
It's all about generalizations--unfair or not.
Yes, ALL short hipster guys wear horn-rimmed glasses...and 50% of them work in the remaining 10 record stores in America.  So there. (I don't exactly know why it's true, but it is.)

From OUTSIDE the profile, the hipsters' "uniform" is as clear as day--be it the tattooed girl behind the counter selling incense with a tiny 'starter' ring in her nose; the over-tattooed skinhead taking tickets at your local rock club; or the cluster of left-college-but-haven't-landed-anywhere-yet 'grown kids' gathered around "gourmet pizza" and some beat up cellphones in whatever the local bistro is called, where you live. 
Where I live, it's 'Fido.'
"Here, Boy!"
The reason nobody likes to be called a "hipster" is because, alas...it's a derogatory term.

One time in Germany (or was it Japan...or both?), I saw an interview on TV. It was in a language I completely did not understand, and the interview subject was the Springsteen-like "legend," in that country.

Japan Rock legend

How did I know this?

Because he had the 'uniform' on, of course! Jean jacket, tussled hair, heavy black work boots, and mumbled answers. It was quite clear this was not a banker, a politician, or the president of the local knitting circle.

German Rock Legend

It was their "Bruce Springsteen"--getting all the deference and respect Bruce would get here, which is how I knew it was some musician of stature.

A better question might be, "Does Bruce himself ever REALLY wear any of that uncomfortable shit at home in upper class New Jersey, or is it as much a uniform as any

American Rock Legend

West Point cadet wears, only with more medals? " But I'll leave that for another day. Fact is, he never, ever deviates from the 'working man' uniform, at least in public. It's been as much a prerequisite for him as Jennifer Lopez showing a lotta leg is, for her. Period.

Speaking of music...

Aren't you the same friend who often vehemently puts down 'today's music' as a talent-free endeavor?  Sometimes I think you may be right on that score...but then, at 63, I'm well ensconced in the "Get off my lawn" years, so my opinions shouldn't count for much in today's world.

All of which goes to the very heart of my point:

We all make judgements, but bristle when others come

too close to judging our own stereotype. 

Something about the word "hipster" touches a nerve with you. 
I see that, and it's a pity--because it's actually a pretty easily definable category, which by definition makes it  a VALID stereotype--even if it ruffles the feathers of the immaculately tussled.

Likewise I'm sure, for my "mullet." 
Likewise for "talentless non-musicians," etc.

They're all judgements. 

I'm as guilty as the next person of being judgemental, but I try to avoid being serious about it. 
In short, I love taking the piss out of hipsters because it's fun!

During the '70s, we called them "the tragically hip."  (There's actually a popular band named that, now.)

The shallowness beneath any identifiable veneer is an easy target.  It pretends to dismiss whole groups of people, but at its best, only strips bare some obvious pretensions.
The pretense of "individuality" among teenagers is a rite of passage--but you'll never notice their hilarious conformity in that effort, until you're well out of that demographic.  

How many of us still double over in laughter, watching the SNL bit with Joe Piscopo's schlocky Sinatra telling Sinead O'Connor, "Pipe down, Cueball!" or saying this, to Sting:

Mockery needn't be cruel...but it can be funny.  

As for me, I like to joke that I need a 'special visa,' to cross over the Cumberland River into East Nashville, which is universally regarded as Hipster Heaven around here.  
The truth is, it's such a vivid and colorful experience, I can barely digest two visits a year.  That 'Tomato Festival' of yours?  Much as I enjoy it--and I do--it pretty much answers your initial question, in one single, fabulous day:

Virginia's original
letter wasn't
about hipsters; it was
about another
dude in a (red) uniform.

Yes, Virginia...
There IS a such a thing as "hipsters."  

          'London Kids' by Peter Rodman

In fact, there's literally a whole world of 'em out there, from China to Argentina to Holland to Athens (Greece or Georgia) and back again.  I've seen 'em myself, in all those places.
Truth be told?
 
The term "hipster" itself probably came from someone my age--trying to get y'all back, for finally naming the mullet.  

Cheers,

Mullet Man 

_______________________________________________
This opinion column Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved, Man.

Dawn Sears ~ Something Truly Beautiful

By Peter Rodman

 
You may walk by it a hundred times, before you notice a wildflower in the sidewalk. 
But that’s okay--it’s not there for any other reason than to offer something of beauty, where you least expect it.  Recognition isn’t the point.

Dawn Sears at left, watching fellow 'Time Jumpers' Larry
Franklin, Joe Spivey, Kenny Sears (her husband) and Vince Gill.
Photograph Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.

Even before she got sick, Dawn Sears always sat humbly at stage-right, flanked by 8 or 10 men whose shining moments came during their various solos, invariably rewarded with rousing ovations, as The Time Jumpers held court on yet another Monday night.
Lord knows, they’d rounded up some world class pickers:  Paul Franklin on steel; Larry Franklin, Kenny Sears, and Joe Spivey on fiddles; ‘Ranger Doug’ providing the cartoon effect; Jeff Taylor’s accordion; Andy Reiss on lead guitar; Vince Gill, now a permanent member (and the ‘main draw,’ for out-of-towners); and all the rest. 
And then...there’d be Dawn. 
Surrounded by testosterone, she could easily have overdressed, taken center stage, and belted out everything she sang…you know, “Let ’em know who’s boss!”…but that was never her style.

Dawn Sears watches Vince Gill's moment,
as world renowned steel player Paul Franklin
works his own brand of magic with 'The Time Jumpers.'
Photograph Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.

Instead Dawn sat way down near the end on a little stool, the picture of grace and dignity, appreciatively listening to it all until it was her turn to sing.
It was almost as if ‘a regular housewife’ dropped by, to sit in on a few numbers.
Whatever inner peace she exuded was real. 
Before you ever even heard her, you were already glad she was there.
And then, she began to sing.
 
Suddenly the whole crowd, all hopped-up on speedy picks and fancy licks, began to mist over, under the spell of her maple syrup voice. They unconsciously swooned, almost as one, each realizing this might be the most special night of music they’d come to see in a very long time.

Dawn Sears at 'Station Inn'
Photograph Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.

Oprah Winfrey used to use “I’m Every Woman” as her theme song, but you always knew she wasn’t. 
Dawn Sears was every woman. Everything you loved about your Mom or your sister or your girlfriend was all right there onstage, sitting on that stool, waiting its turn to give back to this world something beautiful and unexpected, like a flower's gift. 
 
There’s an inner voice we all have, dying to get out.  We’d love to think it’s as perfectly nuanced as Dawn’s, too--especially since she always made it look so damn easy.  Inside our heart and soul's imagination, that voice never misses a note, and it expresses our every emotion--line, by line, by picture-perfect line.  You didn't just "relate" to her singing.
Watching her onstage, that little voice inside your heart seemed to find expression, as if a part of you became Dawn Sears, and vice versa.

The spell she cast was subtle enough that you didn’t really know what hit you, until it was all over.  NOT “every woman” can do that--and certainly not every singer.

'The Time Jumpers' at Station Inn
Photograph Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.

 By the time she’d get to her first bridge of the night, already tucked inside that voice of hers was a part of every beating heart inside the fabled box of stone and cement called ‘Station Inn.’ 
You could see it in each and every person’s eyes, as they locked onto the little lady on the stool, singing like it was nobody’s business...but yours.
For that one moment, the whole room ceased to have a crowd in it at all.
Instead, each soul had seemingly left, for another place altogether; a place which could only be found in the voice that took them there.  
Suddenly, every person in attendance had discovered that beautiful flower on the sidewalk, and forgetting everyone around them or where they had to be, they stopped.  They noticed.  They instantly loved it, to the exclusion of all other things, just for that one moment. 
They forgot about what they looked like, who they came with, when they were gonna go home, or even where they’d come from.  

Dawn Sears, Larry Franklin--onstage at 'The Station Inn'
Photograph Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.

All that mattered when Dawn Sears sang
was the gift of that moment...shared by one humble heart sitting on the little stool off to the side, her hands around a coffee cup or a water bottle,  communing with all the other hearts in the room, who'd completely forgotten where they were, transcending time and space and all of life's mundanities and indignities for a little, tiny moment of shared bliss.  
And when it was over, it actually took a moment to re-compose yourself, and drift back down to the here-and-now.  
At least, that’s how it felt for this particular heart.
I wouldn’t know how it was for you; I wasn’t paying attention.
There was a kind of magic in what Dawn Sears did.  
Hers was a humble beauty you didn't expect to find...until you found it. 
You might walk by it a hundred times, and never notice that wildflower in the sidewalk... but once you do, you’ve lived.
I never knew her personally, but like anyone else who witnessed her grace and immersed themselves in her wonderful voice, I sorta felt like I did.  Though not well known outside of Nashville, she'll never be forgotten by anyone who ever saw her perform.  Dawn Sears, one of the world's truly great singers, died at home last night in Gallatin, Tennessee, age 53.

Today seems like an unusually cold day.  
I might just go out looking for flowers, in unexpected places.

____________________________________
This column and all photographs herein are
Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman. 
All Rights Reserved.