Day 1
The Ramones: “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)”
Why is it that family feuds seem to go hand-in-winter-mitten with Christmas? Too much booze + resentments galore + a disappointing gift + the loudmouth boor that won’t shut up + noisy brats going bonkers + the selfish prick who wants to control everything = a ticking time bomb. Well, here are the Ramones, those punk rock pioneers from Forest Hills, Queens, to remind us all that Christmas ain’t the time for breaking each others’ hearts. This video features vocalist Joey (Jeffrey Hyman, a nice Jewish boy who knew a thing or two about family feuds), lead guitarist Johnny (John Cummings), drummer Marky (Mark Bell), and bass player C.J. (Chris Ward). Original bassist Dee Dee (Doug Colvin, whose memoir is fittingly called “Lobotomy”) played on the studio version of this song, which was released as the B side of the single “I Wanna Live” in 1987. (Factoid: The Ramones have written at least eight songs with the words wanna or want to in the title.)
Day 2
The Futureheads: “Christmas Was Better in the 80s”
I think almost everybody has an era they’d like to revisit…a time that evokes bittersweet memories of people and places we miss…the days when we had better hair and hips. But you know darn well those “good old days” weren’t really THAT great while we were actually living them. Just like now, we were bitching about one thing or another, looking back at so-called happier times, and dreaming of better days ahead. Now here’s a British post-punk band called The Futureheads, reminiscing about a favorite time: Christmas in the 1980s. Ah, the MTV years! Kids woke up to find Sony Walkmans, Cabbage Patch dolls and Nintendos under the tree, while adults entertained themselves with porno tapes on the newfangled videocassette player — and cocaine! For me, the best thing about the ‘80s was…hmmm… well, let’s see…Men Without Hats, maybe? (Actually, my favorite holiday was Christmas of 1967, when I received my all-time favorite gift: my Aurora HO-scale slot-car racing set; it still works and I still play with it.) Now, check out this delightful video from The Futureheads. I hear shades of Devo and XTC here!
Day 3
James Brown: “Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto”
There have been plenty of great soul-stirring Christmas songs by black R&B artists through the years, but leave it to James Brown to keep White Christmas from becoming too White Bread. His “Santa Claus, Go Straight to The Ghetto” is a delicately jazzy stocking-stuffer of a tune, wrapped with ribbons of social commentary. Hey, Johnny, Mary, Donnie and Gary: say it loud, be black and proud…and then thank James Brown for telling Santa to get on the good foot and drag his butt to the inner-city. The Godfather of Soul did his part to help advance civil rights in the 1960s — from appearing on stage at the 1966 March Against Fear Rally, to performing a live TV concert in Boston to help quell potential rioting the day after Martin Luther King’s assassination. This little Christmas treat is often overlooked, but its message packs a tender wallop. Never thought I’d realize I’d be singing a song with water in my eyes.
Day 4
R.E.M.: “Christmas Griping”
I’m so sick of hearing about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer that I’m ready to throw myself under a speeding sleigh. I need something new in the dark humor category, don’t you? Take a minute to listen to Michael Stipe and his R.E.M. bandmates conjure up some even stranger scenarios:
I’ll tell you what: if I hear ‘Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer’ one more time I’m gonna go up on a tower with a high powered rifle…
Wouldn’t you just love to throttle the person that invented fruit cake?…
Take a white marshmallow, put it on a coat hanger, put it on the fire, get some chocolate bars and some bread crackers, and then you slush it, and then you eat a hundred of them and vomit…
I’m still having nightmares about Burl Ives…
Aren’t they merely saying what we’re all really thinking by now? Okay, so this isn’t much of a song, but it was the one R.E.M. chose to release as the 1991 Christmas single for their fan club (a tradition started by The Beatles, by the way). This little nonsense tune is really growing on me. It’s got a great beat and I can bounce up and down to it while I act all bah humbug and shit. Boom shaka laka laka, ho ho ho.
Day 5
The Knife: “Christmas Reindeer”
This quirky little song about a Scandinavian reindeer is the true oddity of this bunch. I wanted to present one tune from another country (besides the U.K.), and this is my favorite. Too bad it wasn’t sung in Swedish. It would have enhanced the hypnotic mood of the song. But at least with English lyrics you can better appreciate the somewhat poetic words: and you move like shadows / in the dark / and you glitter and you glimmer / and you bark. Now, here’s Karin Dreijer Andersson and Olof Dreijer – a brother/sister duo called The Knife – with their electro-pop “Christmas Reindeer” song. I don’t think Rudolph has anything to worry about.
Day 6
Hurts: “All I Want for Christmas is New Year’s Day”
Did you ever have a year so bad you couldn’t wait for it to end? I know it’s silly to think that the simple act of turning a calendar page will wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh new start, but we all wish for it, don’t we? Here are singer Theo Hutchcraft and synthesist Adam Anderson – two guys from Manchester who call themselves Hurts – singing about the hope that the new year holds. All of the bells ringing out for Christmas / I’m saying goodbye to the year before / I know that the next one will be different / so much more. The song’s original video features stylishly solemn mourners at a grave site. As they bury the old dead year, a lovely tree of hope emerges and lifts their spirits. This is haunting, dreamy, and beautifully melancholy – three of my favorite states of being.
Day 7
Poly Styrene: “Black Christmas”
Don’t be fooled by this tune’s lively reggae beat. It’s a big slice of devil’s food realism, not angel food faith. But I’m including it because it represents how an artist was personally affected by news of a horrendous event. Punk rock pioneer Poly Styrene (Marianne Joan Elliott-Said) was inspired to write this song following news of a Los Angeles man, Bruce Jeffrey Pardo, who went on a killing spree dressed as Santa Claus in 2008.
Ms. Styrene, the daughter of a Scotch-Irish legal secretary and a dispossessed Somali aristocrat, fronted an early U.K. punk rock group called X-Ray Spex. The band’s 1977 anthem “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” is considered a seminal song of the era. Poly described it as “a call for liberation,” adding, “Bondage—forget it! I’m not going to be bound by the laws of consumerism or bound by my own senses.” She stood out from the crowd with her dental braces, DayGlo clothes and combat helmets. Billboard once described her as the “archetype for the modern-day feminist punk…one of the least conventional front-persons in rock history, male or female.” Her daughter Celeste co-wrote “Black Christmas” and appears in the video with her. Poly died of breast cancer at age 53 a few months after this video’s release. So, check it out, and remember that many people may well be echoing the song’s lyrics at this time of the year: All alone, drowning in my sorrows / Christmas time always brings my sadness home / oh no, I’m not merry, no.
Day 8
Low: “Just Like Christmas”
This gorgeous song by a 3-member indie band from Duluth, Minnesota, has cut me deep. I only recently discovered it, and yet I feel like this sound has been buried somewhere in my heart all my life. It’s a weeping willow of a tune, with a shuffling beat, sleigh bell sounds, and distant thundering drums — sung by a woman named Mimi Parker. She and her bandmates Alan Sparhawk and Steve Garrington appear to have found a fan in singer Robert Plant. In 2010 he recorded two of Low’s songs for his “Band of Joy” LP. That same year he praised their album “The Great Destroyer” during an interview with Chris Talbott of the Associated Press, saying, ”It’s great music; it’s always been in the house playing away beside Jerry Lee Lewis and Howlin’ Wolf…” Click here to learn more about Low.
But first, take a listen to “Just Like Christmas.” Sometimes the tiniest ornament is the shiniest.
Day 9
Gordon Lightfoot: “Circle of Steel”
‘Cause from the lips of some old singer we can share the troubles we already know,” sang Elton John in his 1984 release “Sad Songs (Say So Much).” So, here’s one from a now-old singer — the legendary Gordon Lightfoot — the man Bob Dylan once called his favorite. “Circle of Steel” tells the story of a family drearily decking the halls of a hollyless, jollyless neighborhood. Can you relate? Maybe. Maybe not. But this mournful melody can’t help but slither into your brain (and mine is a dangerous neighborhood to begin with) and make you feel a bit of sympathy for the less fortunate. Christmas can be sad, no matter where you dwell. Come on, admit it.
I guess you could think of this song as a Yuletide version of Elvis’s “In the Ghetto.” But this one has a more beautifully forlorn melody.
“Circle of Steel” is from Gordon’s 1975 LP “Sundown.” It was one of the albums I requested for my 15th birthday. Click here to read more about “Sundown,” from the Hip Quotient vault.
Day 10
The Pogues: “Fairytale of New York”
This song by Celtic punk/folk band The Pogues is said to be the most popular Christmas carol in Ireland (do people stroll from house to house singing it?). Well, it’s one of my personal favorites as well – at any time of the year. On the surface, it’s about despair and disillusionment: the dreams of dysfunctional immigrant lovers fly away with the sidewalk soot of the big city. They fight and they curse, in high Irish style:
He: You´re a bum, you’re a punk / You´re an old slut on junk.
She: You scumbag, you maggot / You cheap lousy faggot.
But the melody is lovely, with lyrical references to two beloved Irish tunes, “Galway Bay” and “The Rare Auld Mountain Dew” (I turned my face away / and dreamed about you). You may think I’m nuts, but I sense an aura of hope tucked away in this song. The closing words convince me that these two alley cats are going to stay together for a long time. It’s them against the world, after all.
I’ve got a feeling this year’s for me and you.
So happy Christmas — I love you baby.
I can see a better time where all our dreams come true.
So, here then is the lovely duet by razor-toothed, whisky-wracked Shane MacGowan and the late Kirsty MacColl. Pogues producer Steve Lillywhite said of “Fairytale:” “It’s for the underdog.” I guess that’s why I love it so much. (The group’s original name, Pogue Mahone, is an Anglicized version of the Gaelic expression póg mo thóin, meaning kiss my arse.)
Day 11
The Everly Brothers: “Christmas Eve Can Kill You
Christmas Eve was always a special night when I was a kid. In keeping with the Italian “Feast of the Seven Fishes” tradition, my grandmother would cook up an assortment of frutto del mare (vermicelli in anchovy sauce and fried smelts were my favorites), and we’d open all our presents afterwards. Daddy would tell salty stories and play practical jokes — lovingly tormenting his favorite victim, my cousin Louie (that’s them in the photo). I’d laugh wickedly as Daddy chased Mommy and her sisters around the room with his Bell & Howell. But they could never escape his lens. Mom would shake her head and say, “Okay, Freddie, that’s enough,” but she liked that his antics would ensure at least one memorable Christmas moment that year.
Nannie, in a halo of mist from the oil of fried baccala, would wait till everyone else had eaten, and finally sit down at the table to sample each of her dishes (“I think the smelts were bigger last year,” she’d always say.) I’d take lots of pictures and start slicing open the covers of my new LPs with my thumbnail, eager to play them afterwards on the old Sears Silvertone.
One year aunt Babe tried her hand at making martinis. We were more of a Seagram’s and Schmidt’s family, but we all took a sip of her concoction. Aunt Dolly and cousin Rhonda would go toe-to-toe with Daddy in the risqué -language competition. And then we’d drive home — cautiously — hoping that Daddy didn’t get pulled over and fail a breathalyzer test. That was Christmas Eve with the Heads of the Five Families: Scalise, Diana, Spiardi, Bellman, and Strong. The next day was anti-climactic in comparison.
Those days are long gone….everybody’s gone….and no matter what I do or where I go, I’ll always be sad on the 11th day of Christmas. I guess that’s why I relate so much to this obscure little gem from the Everly Brothers. It’s about a guy stranded on the road, cold and weary: Christmas Eve can kill you, when you’re trying to hitch a ride to anywhere. Well, that’s the literal interpretation, anyway. For me, it symbolizes the dream of thumbing a ride back to simpler times — in small, crowded kitchens, tables topped with vinyl covers and laden with fish and minestra, beer cans and ashtrays. Yes, Christmas Eve can kill you, when you can’t stop hitchhiking to the past.
The winter’s flaking snow is brushing through the pinewood trees
I stuck my hands down deep inside my coat.
I think of years ago and half remembered Christmas trees
And faces that still warm me with their glow.
Day 12
The Allegheny Goatscape Choir sings (Un)Silent Night
I know I had promised no novelty songs on this list, but after subjecting you all to a lot of melancholy tunes during the past 11 days, I thought you could use a laugh. Merry Christmas, loyal Hip Quotient followers! I’m hoping your new year is G.O.A.T. — the Greatest Of All Time.
© Dana Spiardi, Dec 25, 2020
]]>Groupie Accidentally Sleeps with Bass Player
LOUISVILLE, KY – The day after The Academy concert, Victoria Jorgensen, 22, was terrified to realize that she had accidentally slept with the band’s bass player – mistaking him for someone important in the band.
“I can’t believe how stupid I was,” said Jorgensen. “I mean, I went up to the guy and was like ‘are you in the band’ and he was all like, ‘yeah, I’m in the band’ so I did him. Then this morning I was telling my friends and I realized he was just the bass player. This happens to me all the time.”
Jorgensen plans to do more research before sleeping with another band member. “This won’t happen again,” said Jorgensen. “If I’m going to sleep with someone, they’d better be important. I mean, I could find someone here in town as important as a bass player.” Adam Siska, The Academy bass player, was unavailable for comment.
Bass players are the Rodney Dangerfields of the rock world, it seems. I tell ya, they just don’t get no respect. And no wonder! On the day after God created rock stars (sometime around 4 am on a gin-soaked Saturday night in Memphis), he created groupies. And he commanded them: “Thou shalt honor thy singer and thy lead guitarist and have no false rock Gods before thee.”
Meaning, pants-on-fire frontmen and swaggering lead guitarists with cigarettes dangling from their lips get their pick of the chicks. Drummers may not get a lion’s share of booty, but most people can at least name one or two of rock’s most famous beat-keepers.
But who really knows or cares about the lowly bassist, standing stone-faced and static in the shadows? Heck, there are over a dozen websites devoted to bass player putdowns. (Q: What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians? A: A bass player.) There’s even a Facebook page called “Bass Player Jokes.” (Go ahead, it’s okay to LIKE it.) Are bass players really just one rung up the ladder from roadies when it comes to getting laid?
Okay, bassists Paul McCartney (understandably) and KISS reptile Gene Simmons (inconceivably) were highly desired by the types of rock nymphs who haunted hotel hallways and paid roadies in blowjobs for the chance to be smuggled into backstage dressing rooms. But there is one bass player whose sexual adventures far outnumbered Paul’s, Gene’s, and nearly everyone else’s back in the trailblazing days of cocksure rock gods. Yes, one man whose insatiable appetite for women shatters all myths of the ain’t gettin’ any bassist. And that man is Bill Wyman, the dark, diminutive musician who played with the Rolling Stones from 1962 through 1993.
In 2006, Maxim estimated that Wyman bedded 1,000 woman during his career, placing him at number 10 on the magazine’s list of Sex Legends. Only two other rock stars made the list: Motorhead frontman Lemmy Kilmister, at number 8 with 1,200 women, and Simmons, at number 3 with 4,600 conquests. (As a historical footnote, a Venetian hotel porter named Umberto Billo tops the list with 8,000, giving room service a whole new meaning.) And Elvis is, of course, in a class by himself.
Many suggest that Maxim greatly underestimated Bill Wyman’s prowess. It’s actually rumored that he had sex with more than 2,000 women during his tenure with the Stones, sometimes partaking of two or three fans per night over a 31-year period.
In his 1990 memoir, Stone Alone, the poker-faced Wyman presents the following scenario from the Stones’ touring days: “Brian [Jones] and I liked to share [hotel rooms] because we were on the prowl all day long and every night, chatting up girls in shops, girls backstage, reporters interviewing us, fan-club secretaries. In 1965 we sat down one evening in a hotel and worked out that since the band had started two years earlier, I’d had 278 girls, Brian 130, Mick about 30, Keith 6 and Charlie none. People always assume that Mick, particularly, was very active sexually, but that wasn’t so in the sixties.” (Keith Richards has frequently joked about Bill’s accountant-like obsession with tallying tail.)
By Wyman’s own accounts, he started his womanizing ways shortly after marrying his first wife and fathering a son, feeling no sense of guilt because the marriage was “a failure.”
In a 2006 interview with Simon Hattenstone of The Guardian, Wyman describes a favorite pick-up process: “Me and Brian used to look out of the windows, cos we shared a suite, and we would ask the night porter to go out and get the one in the striped thing and the one in the shorts next to her, and they’d come up, and you’d spend a couple of hours with them and say bye and give ’em a kiss, and then about half an hour later you’d say, ‘That one in the red dress.'”
The shameless shagaholic goes on: “They [the girls] helped get over the boring times. And it became habitual…It was better than drugs because you couldn’t OD on it. If you’d had enough your body didn’t work any more, and it was as simple as that. So I thought it was quite healthy.”
But despite the old in-and-out routine, Bill Wyman did attempt to settle down — with a girl he started dating when she was 13 and he was 47. In 1989 he married Mandy Smith, with her mother’s consent, when she hit the ripe old age of 18. They were divorced 2 years later. At about the same time, Bill’s son Stephen was having a fling with Mandy’s mother! Oh, the one-night stands are so much less complicated.
So, there you have it. One bass player has scored with enough women to make up for the thousands who are ridiculed as nothing more than sexless pieces of rhythm machinery. Bill Wyman is an inspiration. He’s a legend. He’s alive and kicking at 79. And we’re grateful he had access to good antibiotics.
Here’s an interesting clip of Bill on a British TV show. Check out his Mick imitation:
By Dana Spiardi, October 24, 2012
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Yes, Paul was dead. And his bandmates covered up his disappearance by replacing him with a double — because they loved him. And, more importantly, because they loved the record-buying fans who loved him. The story of faux Paul (let’s call him Faul ) was so full of cryptic elements, how could a girl like me who savored all things dark and mysterious NOT believe it! In fact, 47 years later, I still wonder if it may be true. L.O.L., so to speak.
The granddaddy of all rock myths goes like this: On November 9, 1966, Paul storms out of Abbey Road studios in a huff, and on his way home stops to pick up a female hitchhiker named Rita. Upon realizing the identity of the driver, the girl throws her arms around him, causing him to swerve and wreck his Aston-Martin on a rain-soaked street. Both die in the fiery crash. Paul is decapitated.
The original rumor may have stemmed from an incident on January 7, 1967. That night, Paul and assorted members of the Rolling Stones were traveling in Mick Jagger’s car, headed to a party at the home of Keith Richards. A Moroccan art gallery assistant named Mohammed Hadjij was also en route to the party, driving Paul’s black Mini Cooper, which was rumored to be full of drugs. He crashed the car on the M1 motorway outside of London and was hospitalized for minor injuries. Because the Mini was highly customized to include arm chairs, a wet bar and smoke-tinted glass, those on the scene recognized it as Paul’s car, and word began to spread that the Beatle may have been killed.
Flash forward to August 1968
: A singer, songwriter and producer named Terry Knight attends a Beatles recording session at Abbey Road studios, and sees the now-bickering band in action. Sensing Paul’s frustration, and viewing him as the injured party, he goes on to write a song called “Saint Paul.” One lyric — Sir Isaac Newton said it [an apple] had to fall — presumably referred to the eventual demise of Apple Records. The song fueled the growing “Paul is Dead” rumors, which had now spread to the U.S.
Articles theorizing Paul’s death begin appearing in college newspapers, first in Drake University’s Times-Delphic, and then in Northern Illinois University’s Northern Star. But the story really exploded when Eastern Michigan University student Tom Zarski phoned Russ Gibb of WKRN-FM in Detroit, and told the DJ to play the Beatles’ “Revolution 9” backwards. Listeners were shocked to hear the lyric turn me on dead man.
Within a few days of this broadcast, University of Michigan student Fred LaBour published a satirical article in The Michigan Daily student paper, titled “McCartney Dead; New Evidence Brought to Light.” He alleged that Paul was replaced by a Scottish orphan named William Campbell who had once won a McCartney lookalike contest. The mounting evidence of a cover-up inspired a two-hour Detroit radio program called “The Beatle Plot,” which aired in October 1969.
By now, major news outlets like the London Times, the New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times started to take notice. Satirical songs even began popping up: “The Ballad of Paul” by the Mystery Tour; “Brother Paul” by Billy Shears and the All Americans; and “So Long Paul” by Werbley Finster, a pseudonym for José Feliciano.
Rumors continued through the fall of 1969 and into 1970, with conspiracy theorists finding ever-increasing evidence of Paul’s death by scouring Beatle songs and album covers for hidden clues. Here are a few of the major ones:
On the back cover of the Sgt. Pepper album, Paul is wearing a badge with words that appear to be “OPD,” which is British police jargon for “Officially Pronounced Dead.” (The patch actually stands for Ontario Police Department; the squad gave the button to Paul when he toured Canada).
On the same album, the character standing behind Paul is raising his hand above the Beatle’s head. This is supposedly a symbol of death in some religions. And a tiny Aston Martin convertible (the car in which Paul was killed) appears on the lap of a doll in the right-hand side of the cover.
In the fade-out of “Strawberry Fields Forever,” John can be heard saying I buried Paul. He later claimed he was saying cranberry sauce.
On the cover of the “Magical Mystery Tour” album, we know that Paul is the walrus, because John confirmed it in his song “Glass Onion.” Conspiracists falsely proclaimed that the Greek word for corpse is “walrus.”
In fact, the title of “Glass Onion” supposedly sprang from British slang for the glass handles, known as glass onions, that were affixed to 19th century caskets. Thus, Paul is in the casket, looking through a glass onion.
The poster that accompanied the “White Album” features a photo of Paul soaking in a tub of water. It appears that his decapitated head is floating in blood.
In a clip from the “Magical Mystery Tour” film, all four Beatles are wearing red roses on the lapels of their white tuxedoes, except for Paul, who sports a black one.
The “Abbey Road” album is rife with clues. The cover photo of the four Beatles walking across the road is seen as a funeral procession. John, in white, is the priest; Ringo, in black, is the undertaker; and George, in jeans, is the gravedigger. And barefoot Paul, out of step with the others, is the corpse, because Italians supposedly bury their dead without shoes and socks. Paul is holding his final cigarette in his right hand. But we know the character on the album cover is a fake, because the original Paul was left-handed.
In the background of the “Abbey Road” cover photo we see a white Volkswagen with the license plate “28IF.” Paul would have been 28 at the time the photo was taken — IF he had lived. (That famous Volkswagen was sold at auction in 1986 for over $4,000).
In a 1969 issue of Life magazine, Paul was pressed to address the issue. He said: “It is all bloody stupid. I picked up that OPD badge in Canada. It was a police badge. Perhaps it means Ontario Police Department or something. I was wearing a black flower because they ran out of red ones. It is John, not me, dressed in black on the cover and inside of ‘Magical Mystery Tour.’ On ‘Abbey Road’ we were wearing our ordinary clothes. I was walking barefoot because it was a hot day. The Volkswagon just happened to be parked there…Perhaps the rumor started because I haven’t been much in the press lately. I have done enough press for a lifetime, and I don’t have anything to say these days.”
Eventually the Paul is Dead rumors faded, as new rock hoaxes emerged. Actually, McCartney got off easy compared to the rumor that haunted Rod Stewart for so many years (more on this in a future post).
Yet, now and again someone comes forth with a new take on the matter. The August 2009 Italian issue of Wired magazine reported that two forensic scientists – Francesco Gavazzeni and Carlesi Gabriella – conducted a biometrical analysis of Paul’s face, via photos taken before and after the alleged 1966 car accident. They had set out to prove once and for all that Paul’s death was a hoax. But after careful analysis of his skull, ears, palate, teeth, and curve of his jaw, they concluded that the Beatle really was replaced by lookalike.
Of course, there are those who say Paul has been dead for decades – in terms of the inferior quality of his post-Beatles work. But let’s give him a break. To paraphrase Ringo: if it hadn’t been for Paul coaxing his sometimes sluggish mates into the studio, there wouldn’t have been nearly as many Beatle albums. Only Bona Fide Paul could have lit that spark.
Here’s the hilarious “The Ballad of Paul” – complete with clues – by The Mystery Tour:
© Dana Spiardi, April 1, 2013
]]>So, what then do we make of Jews for Baby Jesus? You know — those members of the Tribe of Judah who have written and recorded some of the world’s most beloved songs celebrating the season of Christ’s birth. Irving Berlin composed “White Christmas.” Jews Ray Evans and Jay Livingston (born Jacob Harold Levison) wrote “Silver Bells.” Christmas-crazy Jew Johnny Marks penned such classics as “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” “A Holly Jolly Christmas,” and “Run Rudolph Run.” Let’s face it, Jews write some pretty catchy tunes. If George and Ira Gershwin can realistically portray a slice of African American life by writing “Porgy and Bess,” then Mel Tormé (surprise! a Jew!) can give us that somewhat unrealistic Ozzie and Harriet image of happy Christians “roasting chestnuts on an open fire.”
And admit it — how many times have you thrown a yule log on the fire, cranked up the Hi-Fi, and noshed on lox and cream cheese while enjoying a Christmas record by Barbra Steisand, Neil Diamond, Herb Alpert, Bette Midler or Barry Manilow? Even America’s most revered punk rocker, the late Joey Ramone (a Jew born Jeffrey Ross Hyman) – famous for his little ditties about sniffing glue and beating on brats with baseball bats – revealed his gentler side when he composed “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight.)” Hey, Ho, Let’s Go – Ho, Ho, Ho!
But, in the words of Jewish vaudeville sensation Al Jolson, when it comes to Jews crooning carols, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!” The distinct nasal droning of rock’s premier poet, Bob (Zimmerman) Dylan, will be blowin’ in the Christmas wind when I crank up his 2009 album, “Christmas in the Heart.” Now I admit, I don’t listen to a single holiday song on any of my Apple devices, unless it’s one of those rare, reality-based gritty urban tunes like The Pogues’ “Fairytale of New York” (It was Christmas eve, babe / In the drunk tank / An old man said to me: won’t see another one…). I’ve even been known to cut short my visits to Macy’s shoe department when “sleigh bells jingling” start to ring-ting-tingle my brain.
But Bob Dylan singing Christmas carols? Lords a-leapin’ – that’s a whole ‘nother story! I mean, do you hear what I hear?
I think Jesus listens to Bob’s music all the time. Heck, their back pages are so similar. Bob, like Jesus, is a Jew. Like Jesus, he was considered by many to be the Messiah of their generation. They both spoke in mystical ways and were often misunderstood. Like Jesus, Bob toured the region and had groupies. Like Jesus, he was persecuted by his own people – in Bob’s case, by the folkies who felt he sold out by “going electric.” Of course, that’s where the similarities end. This is called satire, people. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I am NOT implying that Bob Dylan is Christ-like, or even that he’s bigger than Christ. We all know how that remark almost cost John Lennon his life at the hands of those hatin’, cross-burning Christian KKK guys.
Unlike other Jews who write and sing about Christmas, however, Bob had at least some actual experience with the New Testament. I guess you don’t have to be born a Christian to become “born again.” And that’s exactly what Mr. Dylan did in the late 1970s. A messy divorce, coupled with the ill effects of non-stop touring, notorious womanizing and excessive drinking led him to seek shelter from the storm. And he found it, in the form of Jesus. He once said, “There was a presence in the room that couldn’t have been anybody but Jesus. I truly had a born-again experience, if you want to call it that…. It was a physical thing. I felt it all over me. I felt my whole body tremble.”
His conversion to Christianity outraged many, but Bob was never one to cater to the expectations of fans or peers. He released two Christian albums – “Slow Train Coming” in 1979 and “Saved” in 1980. While recording the former LP, he tried to convert record producer Jerry Wexler to Christianity, to which Jerry replied, “Bob, you’re dealing with a sixty-two-year old Jewish atheist. Let’s just make an album.” But Bob was truly on a mission. During his 1979 tour, he preached to the audience: “I told you the answer was ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’ and it was! And I’m saying to you now, Jesus is coming back and he is! There is no other way to salvation…Jesus is coming back to set up his kingdom in Jerusalem for a thousand years.” Wow, was Bobby still dropping acid at that time?
Well, thankfully, Mr. Dylan eventually tired of all this proselytizing, and became….well, one of his myriad “old selves” again (he’s a Gemini, you know). After many years, he reconnected with his Jewish roots, even visiting the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem on the day of his son’s bar mitzvah in 1983. He’s long been a supporter of the Chabad Lubavitch movement and once appeared on a Chabad telethon.
But even though he’s no longer a full-time Christian, he believes that Christmas tunes are an integral part of America’s rich folk song tradition. When former Musician magazine editor Bill Flanagan told Dylan during a November 2009 interview that he delivered “O Little Town of Bethlehem” like “a true believer,” Bobby replied, “Well, I am a true believer.”
So, if you’re a fan of Bob Dylan – no matter what your faith or lack thereof – give his “Christmas in the Heart” album a go. The record received favorable reviews, with many critics praising the sincerity with which he performs the songs. Royalties from the sale of the CD benefit a number of charities: Feeding America in the USA, Crisis in the UK, and the World Food Programme.
I only wish he had written one original holiday tune for his album. But since he didn’t, I’ve taken the liberty of penning Christmasy lyrics to one of Bob’s most interesting and acerbic songs: “Ballad of a Thin Man,” from the 1965 album that changed my life, “Highway 61 Revisited.”
“Ballad of a Fat Man”
You crawl out of the chimney
With a toy sack in your hand,
You see somebody passed out
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand,
Just what went on
In this guy’s home.
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
You shake off the soot,
And you ask, “Why did you drink?”
And the guy points to his wife and says,
“Whaddya think?”
And she sits on the couch and says,
“I poured the rest down the sink.”
And you say, “Oh my God,
Another reveler stoned!”
But you know something is happening here
But you just don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
You hand out the presents,
And you sneer at the slob,
Who sobers up and realizes
You’re not there to rob.
And he says “How does it feel
To be such a blob?”
And you say, “Heathen!”
As you hand him some coal.
And something is happening here
But you just don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
You have many contacts
Among the North Pole hacks
To get you facts
When some non-believer attacks your reputation.
But some people have little respect.
Anyway they still expect you
To give gifts to those who run despicable organizations.
You’ve been with the Easter Bunny.
And he’s laughed at your looks.
With great cherubim and seraphim
You’ve discussed atheists and kooks.
You’ve been through all of Dr. Stillman’s diet books,
You’ve very well read,
It’s quite known.
But something is happening here,
But you just don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
Well, the reindeer, they come up to you
And they ask “How?”
They’ll haul your ass ’round the world
But you’re as big as a sow.
And you say, “Put these reins on,
or I’ll eat you as chow.”
And they say, “Drive that sleigh yourself,
We’re going home.”
And you know something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
Now, here’s a rollicking version of Bob’s “Must Be Santa” – Klezmer style. It’s one of the most wonderfully wacky videos I’ve ever seen. Unlike the original, he inserts the names of eight U.S. presidents when he reads off the reindeer names: “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen / Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon / Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen / Carter, Reagan, Bush and Clinton.” The young man who jumps out the window at the end is rumored to be Bob’s son.
By Dana Spiardi, Dec 19, 2013
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I watched with deep-green envy as those lucky girls stroked their soft, pink rabbit-hair rings with delicate fingers that had never touched dishwater. Once, during a particularly mind numbing film strip on the formation of Western Pennsylvania’s rich coal beds, Miss E.C. performed a sacred ritual rarely witnessed by those of us outside the secret society of pom-pom-and-baton sisters: she removed the worn, water-damaged fur from her ring – exposing its naked copper-plated body for all to see – and lovingly rewrapped it to full-fluff perfection! The process was done with such care and precision. Why, it was almost like watching a gifted surgeon graft skin.
Alas, I was to spend my middle school days with naked fingers, dreaming of the day my crush objects would know I existed. Dreaming of the day I’d be able to proudly scrawl D.S. + J.V. = Forever on the cover of my David Bowie notebook, instead of on the inside pages. I longed for the day when I, like the dating girls, would need to conceal my sucker-bites with Maybelline makeup.
Well, by my sophomore year, I decided that Dusty Springfield was right: You won’t get him, thinkin’ and a-prayin’, wishin’ and a-hopin. So, I decided to just give up. I vowed to heed the advice of the feminists – Eleanor Roosevelt, Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan – and live my life as an independent lady. “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” the Australian writer/activist Irina Dunn once said. And, by golly, that would be my new slogan. But, no sooner had I decided to live a life of total self-reliance, then something very unusual happened: I met a boy who liked me. And my new I Am Woman lifestyle would be put on hold – at least for a few months.
In January of 1975, I went with some friends to a basketball game at a rival high school. As I sat in the bleachers, wearing my widest-leg jeans and my cherished white leather jacket with blue stitching, a tall, handsome boy with ebony eyes, sleek dark hair and perfect posture began to talk to me. Dave knew absolutely nothing about my low popularity rating, my average socio-economic background, my shaky scholastic standing, my klutziness in gym class, or my non-involvement in extra-curricular activities like drinking and getting high. All of the make-or-break factors that mattered so much in my high school didn’t mean diddly to Dave. He liked me just as I was.
Now, at the age of 15 – for the first time in my life – a boy was asking me for my phone number. And he put it to good use, calling me every night around 7 pm from the privacy of the phone booth on main street of his tiny one-traffic-light town. Each time the operator said, “please deposit another quarter,” I held my breath, wondering if Dave would be able to squeeze out another coin. And he always did. This was his cigarette money, mind you, but he managed to hold on to just enough chump change to make his nightly calls to me. Now, instead of quoting Dusty Springfield, I was quoting the Shangri-Las: When I say I’m in love, you best believe I’m in love, L.U.V.
My grandmother lived in the same town as my new beau, which made for one sweet deal. On Fridays after school I would board the blue and white bus (which I called The Magic Bus) for a 30 minute ride – across the steel-decked “singing” bridge that spanned the sulfur creek, past the identical gray shingled company houses of old coal towns with names like Josephine – arriving eventually in a quiet village named for a Greek poet. Dave and I would spend as much time together as we could, and at 9 pm he would escort me to my grandmother’s house.
We walked the wintry streets hand-in-hand, necked in the icy bleachers of the deserted “Home of the Wildcats” football field, and hung out in the big drugstore, where he showed me magazines with pictures of body builders he hoped to emulate. When I blanched at the vein-popping muscles of his heroes, he assured me that “they look just like normal guys when they’re wearing shirts.”
We had so much in common, Dave and I. When I told him I was taking French in school, he excitedly told me that he, too, was a French student. He said he was inspired to learn the language after seeing a nudie magazine titled Oui. Wow, brawn and brains!
In 1975, Valentine’s Day fell a Friday, which was, of course, Magic Bus day. As I stepped off the ‘ol blue-and-white, Dave quickly approached and handed me a flat brown paper bag. “I think you’ll like this,” he said with a smile. I peered inside the bag and pulled out a record album by a group I had never heard of: Jo Jo Gunne. “My buddy turned me on to this group,” he said. “They’re really different – not like Kiss and Grand Funk Railroad.” What an endorsement! I studied the monochromatic front cover – four long-haired guys sitting cross-legged and contemplative (or stoned) under a stylized neon-tube looking logo.
Just why did Dave buy me a record album as a Valentine’s Day gift? I never discussed my rock-n-roll mania with him; somehow it just didn’t seem feminine. Little did he know that records were my favorite gifts. So, the fact that he had taken the time to choose this rather obscure record just for me meant more than receiving any chintzy, soon-to-tarnish ring or pendant. He wanted to turn me on to a new sound! Now that’s what I call romantic.
The name of the album was “Bite Down Hard,” released in 1973 by a band that chose its name from the title of a 1958 Chuck Berry song: “Joe Joe Gun.” (Rockers are always stealing from Chuck.) Serious music fans will appreciate the fact that the two founding members of Jo Jo Gunne — singer, guitarist, keyboardist Jay Ferguson, and bassist Mark Andes — were once part of an interesting late ’60s band called Spirit. They’re best known for releasing “The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus,” a well-regarded LP that blended rock, jazz and psychedelia. The album’s single, “Mr. Skin,” is an FM radio staple.
Unfortunately, my new Jo Jo Gunne LP was not held in such high esteem by critics. One reviewer said “‘Bite Down Hard'” doesn’t.” But what did it matter? Beauty is in the ear of the listener, and to my ears it was magnificent. From the hard rock opening song, “Reddy Freddy,” to the prog-rock closer, “Rhoda,” I loved them all. And I still play them all.
In the end, of course, the vinyl outlived the relationship. Four months later, on June 4th, Dave decided he could no longer abide by my wishes to remain chaste, and wandered off to seek such services elsewhere. My heart was broken. Now, instead of singing Dusty Springfield or Shangi-La songs, I was singing Peggy Lee’s classic Leiber-Stoller tune: Is that all there is, is that all there is? If that’s all there is to love, then let’s keep dancing.
My first taste of teenage love and heartbreak taught me a valuable lesson: having a boyfriend wasn’t all it was cracked up to be (is anything, really?) I’d have to find other ways to feel a sense of self-worth. When I entered my junior year of high school – free from romantic distractions – I applied myself like never before. I was even chosen as editor of high school newspaper! And, for the first time ever, I took pride in my work. This fish didn’t need a bicycle. Sure, my heart would be broken a few more times. But I’d learned the value of self-reliance. And, as Peggy Lee advised, I kept on dancing – even when I had no partner.
Dave, if you’re out there somewhere reading this, I want you to know that I always give thanks to you on Valentine’s Day: for giving me my first kiss, for the cool album that no one else owns, and most of all, FOR DUMPING ME!!
Here’s a song from “Bite Down Hard,” titled “Take Me Down Easy.” Pretty prophetic, huh?
© Dana Spiardi, Feb 14, 2012
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