It's a Christmas trauma as old as the holiday itself. Sure,
the Holy Infant probably dug the frankincense, gold, myrrh
and all that--but wouldn't He have been happier with Windham
Hill's A Celtic Christmas? It's a long mule ride to
Egypt, after all, and you can't rock frankincense on a Discman.
The captains of music pitch the holly and bells hard. Have
an artist under contract whose last album didn't go too
far? Stick 'em in the studio in July, run 'em through "Deck
the Halls," bundle the resulting schmear in the smarmiest
cocoa-by-the-fireside packaging you can imagine. When Dec.
23 rolls around and the nation must find a present for its
collective dotty auntie, units will move.
The brilliant thing about holiday albums, of course, is
that almost all those Auld Favourites are public domain--no
songwriters to pay. That noted, though, MCA has discovered
an even thriftier way to mark the Yule: Put out long-forgotten
tracks by a dead guy! The hopefully titled Jimi Hendrix
disc Merry Christmas and Happy New Year dredges Band
of Gypsies practice demos for appropriately freaked-out
takes on "Little Drummer Boy," "Silent Night" and "Auld
Lang Syne." Hendrix, ever a genius of synthesis, mashes
the three seasonal chestnuts into a single sonic wander.
Nice as the first bite is, though, this disc is a label-contrived
potboiler if there ever was one. Two of the single's three
tracks are essentially the same, with an incongruous mess
called "Three Little Bears" sandwiched between alternate
versions of the holiday triptych.
The Hendrix money-changer glows with dignity, however,
next to Blowfly Does XXX-Mas (PanDisc), the work
of a chemically imbalanced pentagenarian pimp. Blowfly,
apparently, pioneered rap vocals in the early '60s, but
such historical significance fails to shine through on this
extended memo from Bedlam. To the backing of an ensemble
that sounds like a karaoke machine wired to a Casio keyboard,
Blowfly leers, "Frosty the Snowman/ Had a dick of snow."
And stuff. If you know anyone who's been off crucial medication
for awhile, this thing might convince them to jump back
on.
No pills, however, can ease the pain of Kenny G. The man
with the creepiest hair in the world gives his castrated
horn full range on Faith: A Holiday Album (Arista),
a brainless atrocity skewering all your Christmas favorites.
Suicide rates shoot up around the holidays, and now we know
why.
South Park hasn't been funny since about last Christmas,
so what better way to mark a year of increasing irrelevance
than with a horrid, dispirited holiday album? Mr. Hankey's
Christmas Classics (American) is sure to delight all
those fellas who spent hours trading Cartman impressions
back at the Kappa Kappa Kappa house, but it will have the
sane reaching stealthily for their pistols. One song's called
"Christmas Time in Hell," an apt summary of the whole disc;
in fact, this little offering is probably in heavy rotation
Down Below, along with the numbingly insipid Touched
By An Angel Christmas album (Epic), upon which Della
Reese, Donna Summer, Randy Travis and Keb' Mo' attain unfathomed
depths.
Speaking of the nether regions, the New Age pablum-pushers
at Windham Hill records have really outdone themselves on
A Celtic Christmas and A Jazz Noel. The latter
launches with the Braxton Brothers' stunning misreading
of everything that was ever cool about jazz or R&B and
descends in a slo-mo spiral from there; Etta James steps
in on the last track, but after Spyro Gyra's "Feliz Navidad,"
it's bloody hopeless. The Celtic spinner would sound better
in a distant, misty time, when bonnie wee leprechauns strode
ye green hills in a land of lore.
The infernal bleating of every store's twitterpated PA
from Thanksgiving through New Year's does much to sap the
generous spirit of even the most revelrous types. Three
cheers to Drive Golden Records, then, for trying to salvage
something with Christmas Songs That Tickle Your Funny
Bone. Sadly, this twinkly effort wears out its welcome
with its psychotic happiness. You have to commend the élan
of such tunes as "We Just Had a Party and Gee It Was Great"--but
my God.
So should we just cancel the stupid holiday? Hmm. As annoying
as some of these chintzy accretions are, they're not half
as noisome as those cooler-than-thou types who use them
as an excuse to reject the whole happy occasion. There is
something strong and warm at the gooey center of the season.
It's hard to get to through the holly haze, true, but its
restorative, pure draught of cheer is worth the struggle.
The above discs, clearly, are not the right soundtrack for
such an effort.
Try this: Hunt down Smithsonian Folkways' just-released
English Village Carols, a genuinely joyful slice
of life from the north of England. Recorded in pubs around
the iron-working center of Sheffield, the album captures
the roistering voices of pint-wielding celebrants. From
barside at places called the Black Bull, the Blue Ball and
Travellers Rest, these communal singers bark loudly and
happily into dark winter nights. The century-old carols
do something the fakery of Kenny G, Windham Hill et al cannot:
They deliver true tidings of comfort and joy.
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Willamette Week | originally
published December 15,
1999
|
