Yule Miss Them When They're Gone

I have a daughter at that awkward age where she doesn’t know whether to believe in Santa Claus or not. Everything in her environment and everyone around her is pointing towards the complete implausibility of his existence. And yet she’s worried that, if she lets go, nothing will happen. It’s not a dissimilar state of mind to the one I find myself in this Christmas.

I’m frantically crossing fingers and willing myself to believe that the Irish music business is viable. However, like the toymaking elves and the flying reindeer, every rational part of me knows this isn’t really true. I have the Santa list, neatly handwritten and ready to go up the chimney, I swear to God I’ve been good this year and I’ll gladly go to sleep early on Christmas Eve if it means any of my wishes would come true. Sadly, I know I’m on a hiding to nothing.
We’ve long since stopped believing, not just in Santa Claus, but in music. We don’t buy music. In fact, we haven’t really bought music in years. We buy lifestyle: music to fit our car, our house, our Christmas decorations, what have you – and the cost of a lifestyle has just gotten way beyond our means. I know it’ll seem more than a little pathetic to blame the travails of the contemporary Irish musician on Biffo (but please, please Santa, if I can only have one wish this Christmas, can it be not having to look at him or any of his unctious, insincere, inept and incompetent peers in the New Year). After all, musicians the world over are struggling. And yet, between politicians and bankers we have created a generation of people who can’t wait to splash out on the latest iToy, but won’t pay for the music it needs to justify its existence. So top of my Santa list is a change of direction away from our Celtic Tiger petting, monetarist, shameful past to something that has some human values somewhere in its quiver.
Also for Christmas this year Santa, I’d like a Christmas No. 1 that isn’t sung (if you can call it that) by some monkey off the X-Factor. No-one releases Christmas singles anymore, no-one writes Christmas songs. What would be the point? We know in advance who is going to have the Christmas No. 1. Do you remember the childlike excitement in the run up to Christmases past when you would compare people’s chances, rate the song, try and figure out whose fan-base could push them over the line? I can’t believe it, I’m even hankering after the Singing Turkey with a dose of full-fat nostalgia, but at least with the puppet you knew you were buying into a gimmick and what’s more, that the humour was intentional. I’m all for singing shop assistants but I would really prefer it if they kept it to the shop rather than clogging up the mediasphere with the kind of vocal prowess and lack of creativity that you can find on any Saturday night in any pub anywhere. If they’re going to produce television like this, why can’t they spare us the aural agony and just have ‘Karaoke Factor’? Or better again, why can’t Louis and Simon just go to the pub on Saturday night. They would love it!
Anyway, enough of that, I’m starting to come across like Scrooge. So if we can’t ask Santa for world peace, economic stability and a music business not hogtied to reality TV, what are we allowed ask for? My Santa list this year is going to be a homage to nostalgia. Let’s start with a record player for everyone in the country. I don’t mean ‘decks’, just a record player – mono will be just fine – that you plug into the wall and not your USB port. And some great big thick chunky slabs of vintage vinyl, in their dog-eared, gatefold sleeves, each the weight of a small dog. We’ll need one for each day of Christmas to see us through, and we’ll be insisting on records that pre-date the advent of the compact disc, which should provide us with some protection from such seasonal snowballs as Ashley Tisdale’s version of ‘Last Christmas’ or Twisted Sister’s ‘Twisted Christmas’. Maybe the best idea of all would be to stay well clear of the Christmas records entirely – I can start to see Scrooge’s point of view again – and just get 12 great old records. Let’s start with something old-school. Bill Monroe’s Bluegrass Breakdown album would make a good start. It’s sufficiently fun and upbeat enough to get those feet moving.
Or how about Bob Dylan’s The FreeWheelin’ Bob Dylan to sober us up? We can’t get too hung up on American either, so let’s throw the first Planxty album into the stocking along with maybe a Tir Na nOg album. It’s hard to choose which one, but I’ll plump for Strong In The Sun, if I have to be pushed. Then, for the season that’s in it, let’s pick up a copy of Hymns And Sacred Songs by the Stanley Bothers and The Clinch Mountain Boys. In case we get too mushy, I’m going to throw in a copy of Loretta Lynn’s Fist City, and although I personally can’t stand Nick Drake, in the spirit of goodwill to all men I’ll ask for a copy of Bryter Later. After that bout of selflessness I’ll need to redress the balance with maybe a copy of Hank Williams’ Moanin’ the Blues. I think we’ve possibly neglected our UK neighbours a little too much, so let’s throw in Richard and Linda Thompson’s I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight and Fairport Convention’s Liege and Lief. It would be wrong too to let our own island go under-represented, so let’s leave it with two of our finest – one from the north, Paul Brady’s The Island, and one from a band whose members straddle both sides of the border, with the first, eponymous Moving Hearts album.