Dear Santa,
You gotta help me here man, I’m in deep doo-doo. See, I think somebody laced the mince pies with some lysergic action (and you know I haven’t dared touch that stuff since the time Gypsy Jerry gnawed off his toes when we went backpacking in the Burren). I stumbled home from the Dog & Duck on Christmas Eve, raided the fridge, had a wee nightcap, and well, I couldn’t help but take a peek under the tree, and there it was, the new Dylan platter. Except commensurate with the weird logic of this particular Yuletide trip, it had morphed into – don’t laugh – A Christmas Album.
Now this was obviously one of those incredibly baroque and elaborate and detailed hallucinations, ‘cos when I threw the thing onto the dansette and slipped the phones on, the trip modulated into aural territory and there he was, the Big Zim singing a string of goddamn pipe and cardie fireside ditties, all recorded for charity. Imagine it, St Nick: His Bobness croaking ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’ elfin style with bells, Charlie Christian guitar and Jordanaires type back-ups. Next thing he’s doing ‘Do You Hear What I Hear?’ and man, it’s heavy. And just when it couldn’t get any more bizarro, he’s into ‘Winter Wonderland’, ‘Little Drummer Boy’, ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, ‘O Little Town Of Babylon’, and it all sounds like, well, almost exactly like Love & Theft, only with cheerier lyrics. (Except for ‘Must Be Santa’, which sounds a bit like the Pogues brawling with Los Lobos.)
Santa, I’m spooked, I really am, scared shitless that I ain’t never coming down from this one. I swear, if I ever recover I’ll never do another bad thing ever again.
They say if you’re afraid you’ve gone mad then you haven’t really gone mad, right?
Yours in hope, Happy Christmas,