Last night C made dinner at his apartment, and while he was cooking he played Christmas music recorded by an artist named Sufjan Stephens. It’s a toss-up whether you’ve heard of the guy or not. He’s young, alternative, and writes interesting songs with titles that sound like lines from Walt Whitman. His current project is a series of albums commemorating the fifty states, one at a time.
Sufjan's holiday songs were a mix of traditional and original, and when he launched into "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" I started thinking about how important the muscial aspect of Christmas has always been to me.
As with so much else, I get it from my parents. Our stereo was played year-round, but Christmas music (even secular stuff by Bing Crosby) was a specialty only available from December 1 to Epiphany. Having to wait for it made it that much sweeter.
To this day, I cannot bring myself to play an album of carols at any other time of year, and the sound of “Silver Bells” coming over department store muzak in early November makes me cringe.
(In her own blog, my sister wrote that
she broke the embargo early this year. I fear for her soul.)
I’ve written repeatedly what a weird child I was, and my taste in Christmas music was no exception. According to David Sedaris in “The Santaland Diaries,” most of the little kids who were asked to name a favorite Christmas song chose “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
Not me. I eagerly awaited Rudolph’s annual animated special on television, but I didn’t like the title song. Too folksy. It pandered to the peanut gallery.
In first grade, preparing for a school Christmas pageant, I got into trouble for refusing to sing it. The music teacher took me aside and admonished me for folding my arms and pursing my lips instead of shouting “Like a lightbulb!” with proper enthusiasm and correct hand gestures. I told her it made me feel silly. She told me it wouldn’t kill me to act like a normal boy for three minutes.
We finally compromised on shouting, with no hand gestures, but only after she threatened to report me to Santa Claus. Bitch.
When allowed to choose my own music, I gravitated to stuff that sent chills up my spine. This generally meant ancient carols, usually in minor keys, sung by choirs. “The Holly and the Ivy,” in other words, instead of “Frosty the Snowman.”
Half the time I didn’t even understand all the words of the songs, I just liked how they sounded, and felt in my mouth when I sang along. I loved lying on the living room rug, on my back, with my eyes closed, head under the Christmas tree, floating away on the music.
The first carol that I can remember listening to ad nauseam was the “Coventry Carol,” which we had in two versions: a choir whose name I don’t know, on one of those gigantic multi-LP collections one used to be able to buy; and John Denver on his Rocky Mountain Christmas album.
Lullay, thou little tiny child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Lullay, thou little tiny child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
O sisters, too, how may we do,
For to preserve this day,
This poor Youngling for whom we sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Nobody I knew in Tucson, Arizona in the early 70s used words like "youngling." Maybe that’s why I liked it. And I remember thinking it sounded like music you would really sing to a baby to put it to sleep, holding it in your arms and swinging it gently back and forth. I sang it to Raggedy Ann. I sang it to my baby sister. Both fell asleep.
I read the liner notes of the albums to try to find out more about it, but there was nothing but a title. I finally decided that it was so old that maybe Mary had actually sung it to Jesus in the stable when the mooing from the cows was keeping him awake.
When I finally realized the last verses were about Herod killing the innocent children, I decided she added that bit later, when they were living in Egypt.
I had no evidence that this was so, but the idea was pretty so for many years I chose to believe it. (And there, in one sentence, you have the story of my life.)
We also had a choral recording of “I saw three ships come sailing in,” which I loved for the melody, and for the lines that always sent chills up my spine:
And all the bells on earth shall ring,
On Christmas Day, On Christmas Day.
And all the bells on earth shall ring,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
You must remember that I was perhaps six years old, and living in mid-1970s America. Christmas, to me, was a universal phenomenon; so I took this line literally. In my own family, Christmastime was so wonderful that I assumed it must be so for everyone. I knew there was poverty, and suffering, and war, but I truly thought that on Christmas Day it all stopped for twenty-four hours. And I was certain that on the morning of that day, bell ringers would go into churches all over the world and ring the bells.
I liked that idea, of everybody being happy together for at least one day.
I still like it, actually. I’m just far less certain of it ever being achieved.
Then peal the bells more loud and deep,
God is not dead, nor does he sleep.
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, goodwill to men.
