Being both cynical and romantic, embittered and yet not entirely bereft of the urge to communicate, I pondered on the variety of holiday music that’s been on heavy rotation the last month, as overheard on other people’s radios at work, in stores, and so on. Among that subgenre of rockin’ Christmas tunes, there are two I consider especially great, and one I hate.

One I really love is U2’s razor-sharp cover of Christmas (Baby Please Come Home), and then there’s the magnificent Happy Xmas (War Is Over) by John Lennon and the execrable Wonderful Christmastime by Paul McCartney. googling for info on the U2 song led me to a Best Xmas Albums list and Trent McMartin’s comment farther down which anticipated my view exactly.

Not to diss Sir Paul, but the thing which set Lennon apart was not being smarter or more melodic or catchier, but his gut-level commitment to emotional truth even at the expense of angering his fans. Lennon’s honesty was not cheap; it helped get him killed. It made him immortal. Where Macca’s Christmas tune is a lightweight, toylike arrangement carrying a lyric of insular domesticity and comfort, Lennon’s is a soaring waltz and a cry from the heart against conflict. He’s not pretending the world is beautiful one day a year; he’s asking why we can’t make it beautiful all the time. McCartney’s problem is that he’s not that tough on himself and nobody else can tell him what to do. Memo to Paul: pack one guitar, camp out on Rick Rubin’s doorstep, and await further instruction.

In earnest of all this, I wrote my own Christmas song. It’s obviously not in the league of Lennon, Bono, Vince Guaraldi, et al; but at least it’s honest enough from my bilious vantage, and I don’t know what else you can ask. It starts out with a riff in the flavor of Jingle Bell Rock and goes rapidly downhill from there. In a time when fascists are accusing liberals of ‘waging a war against Christmas,’ it says a bit about what kind of Christmas they’re giving us to celebrate. I guess it’s called:

All Lit Up
2005 Tom Buckner fuck copyright

All the apple cheeks are gathered to the sound of clinking glass
We will sip suburban bourbon and discuss the year that’s past
All your friends are home for Christmas, so let nothing you dismay
Yes, there may be bombs a-falling, but that’s half a world away

Through eponymous foundations the beautiful people share a bit
With the hungry and the hopeless from whom they’ve stolen most of it
For the cloak of great compassion is the fashion’s finest fit
They’re so proud they can pretend to give a shit

We may be running out of antibiotics, drinkable water and oil
We may be led by stone psychotics, but that’s no excuse to spoil our time together
(Spoken) But who needs an excuse, anyway?
(Chorus)
And the snow is blowing deeper across the sleepers in the ground
You can feel it getting colder, boys and girls
But the stores are all lit up just like it’s Christmas coming ‘round
You just hope it’s not the last one in the world

We’re killing our mother earth with chainsaws while praising our father above
We turn her into televisions, toasters, hats and gloves
We push it all to the shops in the mall where we hustle and shove
Can you point me to the shop where they sell love?

So the north pole is all melting and it’s full of al Qaeda cells
And the reindeer caught the bird flu and they gave it to the elves
And the Christians kidnaped Jesus and they’ve brainwashed him as well
We were happy-go-lucky, now it’s happy-go-fuck-yourself

Now the Constitution is necrotic, the founding fathers are roiled
And Pharaoh’s reign has grown so despotic, Moses would send us boils
And lotsa locusts
(Spoken) And about ten other things you don’t want…
(Chorus)
And the snow is blowing deeper across the sleepers in the ground
You can feel it getting colder, boys and girls
But the stores are all lit up just like it’s Christmas coming ‘round
You just hope it’s not the last one in the world
Yes, the stores are all lit up just like it’s Christmas coming ‘round
You just hope it’s not the last one

I worked out the chords, and it don’t sound bad, but I couldn’t motivate myself to get out to an open mike and play it. Maybe next year. But maybe I’ll do a demo and e-mail an mp3 out.
I should note that I blatantly stole that swell pic of old Saint Nick blowing his brains out from My Miserable Christmas, so somebody go look. It’s only fair to send some eyeballs over there.

And, what the hell, at least it looks like somebody’s having fun this Xmas: