Like the frilly-dilly angel perched at the point of the pine, Claire thinks Christmas affords not a-chevys a sugarplummy view, but by the time the needles not pins drop, it becomes a royal queen-me pain in the bustle in the hedgerow. Claire has never-no-never been one or two to get sneezy at things tacky or sweet-smacky, and since Christmas is John-Wilkes-both, you’d think the ho-ho-hoving of the Santa season would chipper my choppers, but in-bedstead, I find my Jakob Bob Marley head filled with dread.
Whither my dither? Whence my hypertense? Why the fa-la-la-la-blahs?
Christmas albums.
Every year, like sloshy slush slung out a snowplow, Christmas albums clog Claire’s city sidewalks, busy sidewalks. Call me toll-house-cookie-free a decrepit dyspeptic, but these yearly yuletide yodelings are the audio equivalent of fruitcake — an inexplickety-split tradition not to be taken aurally.
Nonetheless-is-more, because she knows it is her rooty-tooty duty, Claire has garland-girded her loins, ribboned-and-bowed her hot-toddy body, and like a dipsy diver doing a triple Greg Lou-gainer, plunged all a-twirl into the sing-a-ling swirl to sort the butter from the brickel.
Cue the sleigh bells! Slay the cue balls!
Fancy Dog’s Rockin’ Christmas — This one leaves me regretty, Betty, because Dan “Fancy Dog” Neale is nicey-nicey and lovely live, do do-si-do-go see him, but I wish like egg for nog the guitar notes on this album were as bent as the tabloidy liner notes. “White Christmas” is nice and shoop-shoopy, “Let it Snow” is no snow-blow, tumbly fills and loosey-goosey plucking on “Jingle Bells” is coolish, but sadly, Dadly, this album is generally good, not five-star generally good. Funky, not junky, but nothing ripped my wrapping paper.
Dwight Yoakam, Come On Christmas — Adjusting her headset to fit her mindset, Claire says, do not file under easy listening, file under telemarketing, because this is a phone job. The little bird that twitters twuth in Claire’s unpierced but regularly clip-on’d ear reckonnoiters that Dwight’s threecent output (live album, cover album, thismas album) is buying-on-credit, time, until Dwight sees if his acting career pans out Au-alright or P-U pyrite. Claire loves Dwight the singer, and Claire loves Dwight the actor, but Claire doesn’t love Dwight acting like a singer. Three redemptions: 1. The manifestation of instrumentation excitation (tubas, horns, a hippy-hippy squeezebox). 2. One of two like-a-trained-pig self-penned pieces, “Santa Can’t Stay”, best described as “I Saw Mommy Tossing Santa Claus”. 3. At least they didn’t call it Dwight Christmas. And oh-by-the-I-spy-way, our boy’s liner photo pants are so skin-Dwight, methinks I spotted Joe Camel.
Ilene Weiss, Weiss Christmas — Like syncopal syncopating drummer, offbeat, and just serrated-steak-knife-edgy enough to pin down my pinnae. A scrubby-cheeked hippie chick brave enough to spank the baby Jesus. Pet like a greasy rat peeve? Dizzy-making liner notes in frilly fonts. Claire is a dilly for frilly, but unreadable writing is silly. At least they didn’t call it Weiss Chris… Oopsie.
5 Chinese Brothers, A Window Shopper’s Christmas — Music about Christmas that doesn’t sound like Christmas music. Perfect.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, The Christmas Album — Crisp as a midnight clear. Claire still doesn’t like Christmas albums, and nothing here popped my pinata, but if you gotta…
Varicose artists, Country Cares For Kids — Claire is nobody’s — not even Marv Albert’s and I know you’ve wondered — fool tool, and she knows full aquifer, full standpipe, and full well, that a disparaging word, even a nary one, about this album will put her in a we-are-the-world-class grinch pinch. The names are big, the cause is just, the kids are a must, and the deed’s proceeds benefit St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Claire listened, her eyes glistened, and she visioned: Buy it, send it sealed to a girl or boy in need of joy — you give twice, and can sing your own song.
And per-like-a-kitten-haps that is the whole slightly-out-of key to the matter of my patter: If Claire had her way — and that would be a paisleyed, pitter-patter-polka-dotted way — in the future, all Christmas song cover versions would be left, right, to amateurs only. Through-out and through-up this review, I’ve done more knocking than a naughty boy’s knees on Christmas Eve; the results of the insults, no doubts, will be enough coal in my sheer silk stockings to fire the Genoa power plant right through New Year, dear, but anyone who knows Claire clear up to there, knows I try like a federal case to be more nice than naughty, and that I am not chapter-and-verse averse to trimmings and tinsel, and heaven Noels I still get a Kris Kringle tingle when Santa comes chooglin’ down my chimney by Jiminy and hello Dr. Freud. Nay, I neigh, my bucky mumbly-grumblies aren’t about the carols, they’re about the carolers. Why pay for a professional makeover artist when you know the words and enough of the tune to sing ’em like y’mean ’em? Or live by Claire’s vacuum tube corollary: Never purchase any Christmas music recorded after the invention of the transistor. Exceptions: “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, and “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.”
And so, placing my finger alongside my nose, I am reminded that I am due for the most discreet little bob and bid you a fondue adieu. May your season be sparkly, and remember, why cry in your beer when you can wail in your wassail?