My Ten Favourite Christmas Songs

Or it may not be.

For doesn’t the music you prefer to listen to so often reflect the mood that you are in at that moment in time?

And then there’s the thankless challenge of breaking down an initial list approaching thirty into ten. That said, after much soul searching, I’d like to think that the ten I have chosen – at least for today would be broadly similar to those I would have plumped for last year and will do next year, and in the years to come. The order may differ slightly but the contenders will remain the same. I make that assertion in the full expectation that the future is unlikely (sorry X Factor) to unearth some sensational new numbers that will threaten the current status quo (those old rockers are not in it by the way).

So I have tried to avoid these potential pitfalls and focus on those songs and performances that transcend current inclination or mood.

A word of warning first.

One type of “music” you will not find in this list are the excrutiating seventies pop confections of Slade, Wizzard, Mud, Shakin’ Stevens and many others that are heard everywhere – TV programmes, shopping malls, parties – and are the bane of my life at this time of year. So if they’re your favourites, I’d stop reading now. And don’t expect to see any of the annual serving of mush served up by Cliff Richard either.

I am also unmoved by those songs that may or may not have a Christmas theme and content, but are forever associated with the holiday period purely because that is the time of year when they first came to our attention, often for commercial reasons. This is why I don’t share the almost universal idolatry of Fairytale of New York, despite the fact that I love both Shane MacGowan and Kirsty MacColl. I don’t dislike Band Aid’s Do They Know It’s Christmas? and you cannot knock the tremendous work it has done in addressing famine in Africa. But these are false friends and do not, for me, carry that indefinable spirit and “feel” of Christmas.

I’m an unashamed traditionalist, even sentimentalist, when it comes to Christmas music, indeed Christmas per se. So the list is essentially nostalgic, redolent of past times, especially childhood. And yes, I’m prepared to concede that, on this occasion, age is a contributory factor to this outlook. Maybe it also derives from being surrounded by Dickens from a young age.

Am I saying then that, for a Christmas song to earn my respect or adulation, it must either serve a lengthy apprenticeship – at least half a century – or evoke a romanticised version of a bygone age?

Perhaps I am.

But enough of this – let’s get on with my selection. Cue immediate quizzical looks with number ten.

10. Must Be Santa - Bob Dylan 

Bob Dylan doing a Christmas song? You must be mad, or you’ve clearly had too much egg nog – or both, I hear you scream in disbelief. Well, maybe, but he produced a whole album of them back in 2009. And some of it is rather good. The grizzled near seventy year old voice, ravaged by red wine, cigarettes and constant touring, lends itself rather nicely to some of the old standards like Do You Hear What I Hear?, Winter Wonderland and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, though perhaps less so to the assortment of Christmas carols he tackles.

But this is my particular favourite – a rollicking, boisterous romp with some less than traditional lyrics.

So who’s had too much egg nog now?

9. Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow -  Dean Martin

Another standard sung in a more conventional manner. Recorded countless times but, for me, this is the best version. Deano’s lascivious, martini-soaked croon nails it for me.

8. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear – The Choir of Winchester Cathedral

Initially, this slot was filled by In the Bleak Midwinter, a lovely carol but perhaps just a little too familiar for inclusion here. I was then reminded, on hearing it for the first time this year, of this beautiful and too little heard melody. But, in truth, it could have been any number of other carols.

7. Here We Come A-Wassailing - Kate Rusby

The first of two – there could again have been more – offerings from the Barnsley Belle. It may only be number seven – at least for today – but it tends to be the first song I turn to each December to kick start the festive season with its atmosphere of celebration and community. A song ripe too for inclusion in an adaptation of any Thomas Hardy novel.

6. Angels From the Realms of Glory - King’s College, Cambridge

And glorious this indeed is. Truly thrilling. As a child, this would fill Rochester Cathedral at the school’s end of term concert more satisfyingly than any other carol, even if I and my school friends were more interested in our card and dice games beneath the pews. But we always found time to join in with our own version of the last line of each verse – something to do with a West London football team if I recall correctly.

5. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - Ella Fitzgerald

“The Voice” has to have a place on this list. Warm, vibrant, nostalgic – everything that makes Christmas special. Along with Al Jolson, the Andrews Sisters and Tennessee Ernie Ford, Ella dominated the soundtrack to my earliest years. She has subsequently survived Elvis, the Beatles, Dylan, psychedelia and country rock to hold a similarly central place in my affections.

4. See Amid the Winter’s Snow - King’s College Cambridge

The more discerning reader might have observed that my carol selections are not the most frequently heard, hence popular. I have not developed the measure of contempt that the more familiar carols such as Once in Royal David’s City, Silent Night, While Shepherds Watched, O little Town of Bethlehem, Good King Wenceslas, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, The First Nowell and O Come All Ye Faithful might be thought to have bred – far from it, but these and the achingly beautiful melodies of my other selections carry the day for me.

A passing nod too to the two carols that I most associate with my childhood – Rocking and Away in A Manger which we “sang”, sat cross-legged on the frozen wooden floor of Glencoe Road Primary School when, apparently, we’d never had it so good (well, for a six year old, perhaps we hadn’t).

See Amid the Winter’s Snow has added resonance too in that this was my father and eldest brothers’ party piece at the end of the annual freemasonry lodge Christmas dinner and dance. Fuelled by a cocktail of beer, wine, gin and tonic and Irish coffee (not all at once though), they would – so I’m told, I never witnessed the spectacle myself – bring the house down with their heartfelt duet.

3. The Holly and the Ivy - Kate Rusby

This should have been The First Tree in the Greenwood but I could not find a video of Kate’s performance. Instead, I returned to the song of which it and many others are variants. Again, I could have filled this list with Kate’s lovely renditions of traditional carols, supported by the mellow tones of the Grimethorpe Colliery Brass Band.  

2. Run Run Rudolph - Chuck Berry

The nearest thing to a “pop” song in this collection, even though it was recorded more than half a century ago. But what drive, energy, excitement and humour – classic Chuck, the godfather of rock ‘n’ roll. He may not have written it but he gave it its life.

1. For Unto Us A Child is Born from Handel’s Messiah – Sir Colin Davis & the London Symphony Orchestra

Probably heard – and certainly sung – more often as part of a carol concert, the opening bars of Handel’s sublime oratorio evoke Christmas for me more than any other piece of music, hence its pre-eminent position. A perfect accompaniment to a big breakfast and the exchanging of gifts.

But surely, you say, isn’t this one of those “false friends” you sneered about earlier in this article? After all, wasn’t Messiah first performed in the Great Music Hall, Fishamble Street, Dublin on 13th April 1742. It’s a Easter, not Christmas song goddamit!

Fair point, but I contend that not only does it fit my “spirit and feel” test, but it has become so inextricably associated with the Christmas season in the public consciousness that it is the most glorious expression of the life, and in this instance, birth of Christ.

I rest my case.

By the end of this journey through the last four centuries of western music you may be wondering if I have “got religion”, and specifically Christianity, so drenched in the christian tradition are my selections. It is an understandable question, to which I can only respond that, though the faith be long gone, the thrill of listening, and indeed reading, how gloriously others have expressed that faith, endures.

So you’ve heard mine. What are your favourites?

Please let me know either by commenting at the end of this post, or replying via Facebook or Twitter.

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Desolation Row Revisited

It is 10am on a bright, brisk market day morning in March in a town in the south of England.  I order a decaffeinated skinny latté from an eager young man in the one cafe that does not reek of grease, and take a seat outside.

On his way out to me the trainee barista trips over a discarded beer can and spills the coffee over the pavement.  He apologises and returns to mop it up, but fails to offer me another cup, and then is visibly irritated when, wholly unreasonably, I request a fresh one. That said, he brings a prompt replacement, seasoned with a further apology.

From the doubtful comfort of my three and a half legged plastic chair I scan the establishments around me – “Nails Palace – Professional Nail Care for Ladies and Gentlemen”, “Cash Generator – the Buy, Sell and Loan Store”, “Tanning Heaven”, “Tattoo xxxxxx Ltd”, “Cheques Cashed”, “We buy Gold – any Condition”, “Residential lettings”, “Betfred” bookmakers and the “Community Store”, run by the Salvation Army and offering “Heart to God, Hand to Man”.

“Eel Pie Island”, which specialises in  all day breakfasts, announces itself in large, yellow lettering to be a “Caf’e” (I doubt the apostrophe police saw that one coming). Upstairs is a dental surgery which, somehow, seems appropriate.

The “Hot 4 U Pizza, Chicken and Kebab” shop is closed, victim of too much competition in the fast food field, proof that you can have too much of a good thing. Breakfast for those not crammed into McDonald’s consists of sausage and bacon rolls and fresh cream puffs. Obesity seems a badge of honour.

The traditional gentleman’s barber shop is missing his iconic red and white striped pole. Nothing for the weekend here.

The local pub is also boarded up. A ragged, handwritten paper sign flaps in the light breeze. Somebody has inserted an “i” between the words “to” and “let”.

The compensation culture is in full swing. The frontage of the “Claim Shop” is emblazoned with a huge sign proclaiming ”have you been involved in an ACCIDENT or suffered an INJURY through no fault of your own!!!”.

A council street cleaner fights a losing battle with bottles, cans, and food packaging, strewn over benches and pavement.  On the opposite side of the road a modern day Steptoe proceeds in stiff but stately fashion along the pedestrianised street, peering professionally in all directions for unwanted morsels.

The air reverberates in a veritable Babel. English is spoken, or rather shouted, liberally infused with swear words, but it is no more heard than is Polish, Russian, Arabic, Turkish or Punjabi.

Young gap-toothed men wearing baseball caps or hoods and gripping cans of super strength, but astonishingly cheap, lager, swagger past, trailed by tattooed teenage mothers already carrying their next child, barking at their toddlers who are committing the heinous crime of  being  ……………….. children.

As the weather is uncommonly mild, plain white vests, accompanied by sometimes matching sweat pants, appear to be the dress code of choice, at least for the men. Whilst this might be an attractive look on a young man with taut muscles in the right places, it does not sit well with balding, unshaven, middle aged men, stomachs bursting from a diet of gassy beer and burgers. Bare arms are bedecked with body art depicting snakes, eagles and pseudo-oriental slogans.

Their Staffordshire bull terriers, acquired for menace, encircle each other, doing nothing more threatening than sniffing at each other’s private parts.

And yet, I am observed quizzically, even suspiciously, by passers-by with my fancy coffee, book for reading and, especially, notebook and pen desperately trying to capture the vivid images around me.

The young mums congregate outside Gregg’s and Iceland to share a cigarette, compare frilly pram and buggy decorations and show off the clothes they have just bought for Bailey and Madison in Primark. As the conversation turns to X Factor and piercings, their progeny become increasingly testy, provoking screeching admonitions to “shut up…… now”.

Shoppers seek bargains in the many charity shops, notably Scope, Cancer Research, Oxfam, British Heart Foundation and Demelza (for children in hospice care), but the upstart 97p conv£nience store has recently closed, sent packing by the more established and cavernous 99p emporium.

In the bustling market the stalls selling inexpensive imitation leather jackets, shell suits and sweatshirts are doing a good trade.  Following close behind are those offering household goods and toys, jewelry, watches, mobile phones, rugs and carpets, curtains, handbags, purses and luggage – the selling point in every category being cheapness.

Country crooners from the fifties dominate the airwaves from the two stalls specialising in CDs and DVDs. A local driving school and the RAC try to rein in passers by, but most people here do not drive. Surrounded by fast food outlets, the centrally positioned greengrocer is still highly popular, as is the plant stall.

The meat wagon man is not so successful despite his saucy entreaties to ”come on girls, don’t be shy, give my lovely meat a try”. A further invitation to feel his pork loins goes similarly unheeded. Despite his impressive discounts, a middle aged couple try to barter with him to no avail – another sale lost.

An octogenarian sea dog (this is a naval town, after all), dressed in a tweed jacket and waistcoat that displays several medals, shuffles past pushing a shopping trolley. Woe betide anyone who gets in his way, for a wheezy verbal volley and a clip from his walking stick will befall them. He sports a flourishing white beard reminiscent of Uncle Albert’s in the TV sitcom, Only Fools and Horses.

A slowly warming sun glints through the trees as I drain my latté and head for The Works in the hope of picking up a bargain book to add to the already overstocked shelves at home.

Florence this is not. Nor is it Bath or Edinburgh. But it is a area of contrasts. Despite having some of the worst school exam results in the country it boasts four universities, and the local sports centre has been refurbished and rebranded as an Olympic training venue.

If the picture I have portrayed here only depicts one side of that, it is because that is what I see on this March Monday morning.

And, as someone infinitely more eloquent than I said “it’s alright ma – it’s life and life only”.

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Positively Fourth Class

With apologies and grateful thanks to the mighty Bob Dylan, I have revised the lyrics of probably his greatest put-down song in honour of the people running Kent County Cricket Club.

You got a lotta nerve to say you run my Kent, now that we’re down you just stand there grinning

You got a lotta nerve to say the money’s been well spent, so why have we a team that’s just not winning?

You say you’re in control, you know it’s not like that, if you’re in control, why then don’t you show it?

You say you’ve got a plan but that’s not where it’s at, you have no plan at all and you know it

You say there is no rush to rebuild our ailing team, why then does our captain think we should do?

Do you take me for such a fool to think we have a side that will compete with other counties like we could do?

You see me on the ground, you always smirk and chat, you say “How are you”, “Good luck”, thanks for your letter

When you know as well as me you’d rather ignore what I say than agree that I can help to make thing better

No, I do not feel that good when I see the mistakes you embrace, along with those two men in crime you’re in with

And now you know that I’m dissatisfied with your performance and your place, can you please find us a team to win with?

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes, and just for that one moment I could be you

Yes, I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes, all you’d see’s a suit, a grin and no clue.

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Heaven’s Door Still A Long Way Off

The occasion of Bob Dylan’s 70th birthday today has already spawned millions of words in the printed media and on the internet (“the whole world is filled with speculation”) about his place in the popular culture of the last half century. Many purport, as much Dylan literature does, to be serious, learned pieces about what status he has as a poet, what religion, if any, he adheres to, what really happened when he fell off his motorcycle in 1966 or even what his garbage tells us about his alleged drug use (the list goes on).

Well, this modest contribution to the cacophany has no more pretensions than to be an unashamedly heartfelt postcard – though not of any hanging – from a fan.

I know that there are many people who don’t “get” Dylan – they say that he can’t sing and he’s no longer relevant, having written nothing worth listening to for over 40 years and so on.  As far as the voice is concerned, I’ll grant them that it has always been an acquired taste, and even for many of his devotees, his current growl, the consequence of a lifetime of heavy smoking and punishing tour schedules, leaves them puzzled and dissatisfied.  Yet, even today, I believe that, in concert, the passion, intelligence and honesty in his phrasing are unrivalled.  But let’s agree to disagree on that one.  

These criticisms also tend to emanate from people whose acquaintance with Dylan’s work barely extends beyond a handful of “early” songs such as Blowin’ in the Wind, The Times They Are A Changin’, Mr Tambourine Man and Like A Rolling Stone, astonishing works of art though each of those are and enough alone of a legacy for any other artist. 

How many of them realise, for instance, that Make You Feel My Love, now a modern standard recorded by artists as varied as Bryan Ferry, Billy Joel, Adele and Garth Brooks, and regularly heard in popular TV shows like Holby City and Strictly Come Dancing, was written and first performed by Dylan in 1997? 

His continued relevance in the music world is incontrovertible, manifested in the stream of testimonies by modern day bands as to his influence upon them.  And anyone who has been to a recent Dylan concert will know that they are frequented by as many enthusiastic young fans as pony tailed baby boomers.  His gigs in Beijing and Shanghai last month drew crowds of mainly Chinese youth turning to him, as their American and European counterparts had done fifty years earlier, for inspiration in their quest for a more open and inclusive society.

In the past decade alone he has issued several critically acclaimed (and chart topping) albums (including a Christmas one with ALL the proceeds going to the World Food Programme and Crisis), published the first volume of his Chronicles, hosted one hundred episodes of his peerless Theme Time Radio Hour, showcasing his vast knowledge of his musical roots and hilarious patter, exhibited his paintings and continued to tour the world with his band.  Oh, and he played The Times They Are A Changin’ for President Obama in the White House. No longer relevant huh?

Some people who are kindly disposed towards his art still have difficulty with the man, citing his uncommunicative (sic) manner on stage and perceived instances of “selling out” in recent years   But those minor and arguable lapses apart, it is rather his integrity and refusal to compromise in order to curry popular favour, in the manner in which contemporaries such as Iggy Pop and Steve Tyler have, that make him all the more impressive. Like any genius, he is a flawed human being, but I for one am prepared to accept from him what he is prepared to give me, even when, as was the case with much of his eighties output, he lets his standards slip - and that is so much more than I could ever have had a right to expect.  The debt is all mine.    

Perhaps one day I will attempt the thankless task of listing my favourite 10, 20, 50 or even 100 Dylan songs, but the reason I probably won’t is that I would feel uncomfortable at leaving so many great ones out. What I do know is that any list would include compositions from the whole spread of his career.  

Many artists have enriched my life immeasurably – Shakespeare, Mozart, Jerry Garcia, Samuel Beckett, Puccini, Jane Austen and Fra Angelico to name a few.  But none come close to providing such profound excitement and sense of challenge that I experience when I listen to the music of Bob Dylan.

So thanks Bob for everything (even though you will never read this).  We sure have seen nothin’ like you yet, nor are ever likely to see again.  It is certainly not dark yet, carry on being busy being born and may you stay forever young!

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An Afternoon in Starbucks

I have never been a great fan of Starbucks on the grounds, pun absolutely intended, that I don’t find their coffee strong enough (perhaps I should order something other than latté in future).  I prefer the more astringent taste found in Caffe Nero or Costa Coffee or, even better, a traditional, independent Italian coffee house, though they are becoming, along with corner bookshops and record stores, increasingly hard to find.

That said, I think Starbucks has more to commend it than its core product.  Firstly, it plays the best music, with a lot of classic jazz and blues and a smattering of folk rock.  As I write this in the large branch in Bluewater (Kent), Bob Marley, is singing Three Little Birds, and we’ve just had Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi and Ella Fitzgerald’s Paper Moon - a fine playlist in my books.

The company also has a history of selling CDs exclusively from its outlets.  I was lucky enough to stumble across the live One Man Band by James Taylor whilst on a long, lonely road in California a few years back, but sadly missed out on the live Gaslight recording of Dylan because the offer was only available in the US (a long, expensive way to travel for a $10 album, even for Bob).

Then there is the ambience, which is particularly appealing in this branch - massive picture window opening out onto a sparsely populated mall, a casual mix of comfortable armchairs and stiff backed seating, and wooden framed photographs celebrating the coffee making process and posters advertising the latest special offers.

Shelves of packets of tea and coffee, assorted cups and other merchandise are arranged in the corner by a long perspex fronted counter that displays a tantalising array of things to eat, including tuna melt and mature cheddar panini, skinny lemon and poppyseed muffin and roasted chicken with herb mayonnaise sandwich.

I’ll confess that the food in Starbucks is another selling point for me.  My favourite delicacy is the toasted cheese and marmite panini, whilst my wife, who has a decent claim to being a connoisseur on the subject, asserts that the carrot cake is the best anywhere.  This reminds me that, although I usually eschew the (hot) coffee, I cannot resist a coffee flavoured frappuccino, which may actually be the best frozen / cold concoction available in any coffee chain.

With the busy lunch period past, the branch is now half empty.  The muted lighting generated by small, widely dispersed clusters of yellow and blue lamps, the gentle hum of conversation and the unobtrusive yet satisfying music all contribute to a civilised atmosphere.

Opposite me, two new mothers compare breastfeeding strategies, in word rather than deed, which acts as the perfect sleeping pill for their previously irritable daughters.   In the far corner, a gaggle of young shop girls from Zara, Gap and Hollister meet up in their mid afternoon break to slurp strawberries and crème and caramel frappuccinos and relay tales of annoying customers and bossy supervisors, whilst simultaneously maintaining text conversations with their boyfriends.

An elderly couple on an organised coach trip, nibbling at blueberry muffins and sipping “traditional” tea, suspicious of the exoticism of coffee that isn’t instant, bemoan their blistered feet and the cost of everything.  A bald, middle aged man with paunch protruding through ill fitting suit leers over his espresso macchiato at a female employee, and potential lover, young enough to be his daughter yet flattered by his worldly patter (not an entirely civilised scene then).

As my wife approaches (is that solitary slice of carrot cake still available?) I suddenly reflect – I like the ambience, the food, the fairtrade commitment, the music and some of the drinks  – should I not consider rewriting that first sentence?

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This Writing Lark

It all began with a crew-cutted boy barely past his seventh birthday publishing a three part novel about the “Little White Bull”, inspired by the Tommy Steele song.  Well, it was written in three separate notebooks, though each contained but a handful of pages.  Public acclaim in the form of a local newspaper feature followed but the shy lad with the bottle green zip-up cardigan proved the proverbial one hit wonder, unlike Tommy Steele, and exchanged his pen for football and cricket bat. Writer’s block had set in alarmingly early.

The next burst, or rather dribble, of creative activity emerged at university when, surrounded, for the first time, by hundreds of attractive, intelligent and refreshingly accommodating young women, his poetic, as well as primal,  juices poured forth.  A passing resemblance to Neil Young, an extensive West-Coast and Dylan-centric vinyl collection and the coveted all-night slot on student radio kept the “ladies” (true hippie that he was he never used the term “chicks”) in thrall, but the lovelorn verse was excrutiating, even if  the paper it was “composed” on made a satisfyingly good roach.   

After university, “life” took charge and, for more than thirty years, the writing took the form of business plans, appraisal reports and other worthy but dull publications in the service of successive governments.  He strove to put some colour and sparkle into them, but “house style” and corporate terminology strangled such efforts.  All the while friends and colleagues acclaimed his talent and said that he should write for a living.  Work commitments and a natural indolence prevented him from acting upon their encouragement until he managed to extricate himself from the former a little under two years ago.

Having completed a successful home learning college course on travel and tourism, during which, once again, his tutor and others who sought his advice on a range of destinations praised his abilities, he has finally, more than fifty years after he “exploded” upon the local literary scene, decided to give this writing lark a go.  It is as if that little white bull had “come charging right up to him” and told him that he was a “brave little bull”, perhaps not the best in Spain, because after all he doesn’t live there, and that he should now test his capability of producing worthwhile written work that others might enjoy.

So there we are, dear reader.  Aside from more interesting offerings be  prepared for a series of anguished posts over the coming weeks, months and years on the subject of writing itself.

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