On The First Day of Rantmas
Welcome to Rantmas. A little tradition we started years ago featuring our friend, The Rant, from over at Calliope Crashes. If none of that makes sense, just remember that’s what the holidays are about. We now put you in the eggnog-induced, trembling hands of The Rant.
We know it’s been a tough year and you want, nay require, some Rant and hot toddies to get you through your parents’ bizarre and rambling conspiracy theories again this year. The Rant has noticed even our once dependable lefty friends have grown as wild in their explanations for the mysteries of America as Sean Hannity after his third trip to the holiday punch bowl. There’s no escape friends.
So we thought, why not propose something ridiculous, like ranting for twelve straight days in honor of the holidays and that song we’ve never understood? Yes, we know Catholics will tell you “The Twelve Days of Christmas” secretly taught children the catechism when the faith was repressed in England. But honestly, nine ladies dancing will help you remember the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit? Even Dan Brown would scoff. Never mind: Brown just released a novel called The Ten Lords A-Leaping into the Maw of Hell in Behalf of Diabolical Jesuits Code. We’re putting the over/under on this train wreck of an idea at three days. But you have to try or the terrorists win. Although The Rant wonders lately exactly what anyone believes the terrorists would be winning given the fact America has become more of a parting gift than the Showcase Showdown these days.
Obviously The Rant needs music to get the party started, and we have never begrudged the endless stream of Christmas albums from artists desperately seeking a hit that will provide steady income into old age. We welcome any and all covers, especially when they give us delights like the Hall and Oates video for “Jingle Bell Rock,” the greatest, kitschiest creation in holiday history. Oh, John Oates’s mustache, you deserve your own exhibit in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
But let’s be clear: certain songs belong to certain artists, and others only borrow them. The Reverend Horton Heat does a fine rendition of “Santa Looked a Lot Like Daddy,” but that tune belongs to Buck Owens, and not just because he wrote it. Few people really understand how to deliver a Bakersfield country song except Buck, Dwight Yoakam and the Derailers. Just like you have to ignore Jumpsuit Elvis to appreciate his accomplishments, you have to forget Buck Owens looking like he just finished a pint of moonshine from pappy’s still when he appeared on Hee-Haw to understand his talent.
So let’s review some Definitive Versions of Christmas Classics that Will Brook No Argument. The Rant is tough, but we’re fair.
“The Christmas Song”–Nat King Cole. Mel Torme wrote the song and Cole told him it was his forever. Done.
“Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)”–Darlene Love. If you’ve never read the tragic story of Love and her horrific treatment by Phil Spector, wait until after the holidays to do so. If you absolutely insist on the Mariah Carey version, we’re going to allow it for two reasons: 1) Carey crushes that song, and it reminds you of how good her voice once was, all five octaves of its range. Remember when she had to cover all those octaves in every song? Did you also realize Carey has become Marlon Brando with backup dancers? A once great talent we continually give gigs so we might see even a flash of brilliance 2) You should then realize Love has a voice just as powerful as Carey’s but never got her due. Perhaps because Mariah just happened to marry her controlling producer, Tommy Mottola, instead of waging war with him like Love did with Spector.
“Santa Baby”–Eartha Kitt. We really only bring this up to mention who never should have covered this song: Madonna. Her baby-doll-voice interpretation makes you want to hurry down the chimney with a chainsaw.
“White Christmas”–Bing Crosby. Did we really even have to mention that? Yes, so we can bring up the movie of same name featuring Vera-Ellen’s waist. More on that another day.
“Blue Christmas”–Elvis. Another obvious fact, but easily the most butchered song in the Christmas canon. Leave it alone, kids. Even irony doesn’t work when trying to come to grips with The King.
“My Favorite Things”–This in not a Christmas song in the name of humanity. Stop putting it on Christmas albums. Coltrane made it transcendent and Outkast deconstructed it just as brilliantly. The Rant would like to point out we went Coltrane and Outkast in the same sentence. Don’t try that at home, hipsters. We’re a professional. You’ll get your beard all tied up in knots. Now let’s move on. Did we mention not even a Christmas song?
“Fairytale of New York”–The Pogues. The grittiest, saddest, most honest Christmas song ever written. Starts in a drunk tank and breaks your heart when you hear Kirsty MacCool and realize all over again she died too young.
Gritty, sad, and heartbreaking. That’s the holidays for many of us and why we need music and tinsel and occasionally a drunk tank to get us through. Now go listen to Kirsty’s “In These Shoes?” instead of “My Favorite Things” and knock back a nog for The Rant.
