— José Feliciano’s manager has commented on Dunstan McGill’s post about Christmas one-hit wonders.
José Feliciano
So Wikipedia tells me that Feliciano actually made it big in the Netherlands with a hit song about “guide dogs” in 1969. But, again, I DIGRESS…In the good ole US of A, Feliciano and his holy-guapo fop of hair is known primarily for that potato-ole-selling “Feliz Navidad” (lest anyone think I’m being ethnocentric, ask yourself first, are the marketing geniuses at Taco John’s above and/or below such incriminations, then, after hopefully answering yes, proceed lightly with your criticism). Like I said, Feliciano may have put out some good shit. Like some real good stuff that no one will ever fully appreciate. But no one cares. Because for two minutes and change he’s that bilingual dude with a billboard-sized acoustic guitar and unnerving vibrato, talking about how emotionally layered his wish of holiday cheer to us really is. And this limitation is too bad. I can imagine Feliciano right now somewhere in a suburban Culver’s, late at night, over a Concrete, yelling loudly at the friendly staff about his plight in life as a pop singer, damned for eternity to be the token diversity guy in your local light rock station’s retinue of Christmas humdingers.
Peter Tchaikovsky
Other than making the background music for that sweet sexual thriller about ballet back in 2010 featuring Natalie Portman and Macaulay Culkin’s ex-girlfriend, this heady Tsarist composer basically gave us a couple hours of a wooden doll fighting a rat king, then an extended promenade of ethnically-predictable dips and doo-dahs from across the globe called The Nutcracker. In other words, how you say “what have you done for me lately” in Russian.
Burl Ives
This stodgy do-gooder may have put together a string of quirky folk songs to rival that puppet act Donovan but the world shall never know. Because all we’ll remember him for is his likeness and got-a-couple-lemon-drops-down-my-throat voice of Frosty the Snowman in the eponymous film and like most of the voices in the claymation Rudolph film (Yukon Cornelius been haunting your dreams lately?). Ives is like a chubby, weirder Jimmy Stewart, without the resounding body of work to turn to once December 26 hits.
Mannheim Steamroller
Outside Donald Trump, Gerald Rivera, and maybe David Blaine, the man for largest ego without a clue as to why is Chip Davis, founder and lead percussionist of Omaha-based (yes, let me just say this again, Omaha-based) new age dope-ropers Mannheim Steamroller. Mannheim Steamroller gained traction from candy-cane-suckers back in the late 1980s with their version of Christmas tunes played by a jazzed-up Mario Kart-esque orchestra. I’m actually an apologist for this heap of tawdry balderdash, and therefore I’d like to add that I’m reticent to categorize as “(snow)ne hit wonders” because Davis put out a stirring bunch of aimless pop dullery about hot fudge, morning coffee, and semi-trucks in the 1970s and 80s, which, if not actual “hits,” did constitute legitimate offerings for sheet music by my piano teacher from about 1999 to 2001.
Vince Vance & the Valiants
Okay, so Wikipedia investigators will persist in claiming Vince Vance and the Valiants are not actually only responsible for the charming heartbreaker “All I Want for Christmas Is You” (Not the Mariah Carey screamer). In fact, VVV got popular in the 1980s for a rendition of “Barbara Ann” called “Bomb Iran,” which later got parlayed into a 2008 YouTube video sensation that rivals Uncle Mitt’s “47% video” for “most likely Internet-y thing to lose a Republican’s chance at the White House.” ANYWAY, before engaging in xenophobic surf pop, VVV did a song using holly and mistletoe as metaphors for an estranged lover—or geopolitical quagmire…can’t be certain with these trampy hucksters.
Trans-Siberian Orchestra
If being frozen in time as the auteurs of a dangerously-bland style of heavy metal in the mid- to late 1980s is your idea of self-imposed dungeon of pop culture Gehenna, let me introduce you to that—plus the 1990s and only-Christmas music. No one ever accused Christmas of being adrenaline-starved, but one year in my Dad’s CD player these clowns showed up to demonstrate what our yuletide had always been missing: butt rock and double-bass pedal. They feature the guy from Metallica on one version of “Carol of the Bells.” And on one of the few original tunes not generously yoking a neon bar sign as a metaphor for debauchery and seasonal forgiveness, they fireball home an anthem about hanging ornaments on the perfect tree, then give way to a 2 ½ minute Strat-on-parade solo.
For those who thought the Nancy Sinatra Christmas song referenced in “My Dream Date with Lana Del Rey” was a fiction. One bit of admitted artistic license: this song didn’t actually appear on the Sinatra family Christmas album.
Our editor Jay Gabler has recently been liking my Spotify account more than usual—a nod on my Mannheim Steamroller, a witty comment about Jackson Browne’s contribution to Celtic tradsters The Chieftains’ seminal holiday album Bells of Dublin, and maybe a good-natured “like” on my venture deep into Christmas in Sarajevo by Trans-Siberian Orchestra (yes, that band that has supplied a steady stream of tunes timed to suburban-holiday-light displays for the last ten years).
The tired, cynical uptake—and perhaps this appears as such from a distance—would be to say that Jay is recognizing my ironic displeasure in these tunes, hence my hipster-fortifying listening. In fact, just last week I put together a department Christmas party with another faculty member who insisted we make an “awesomely bad” Christmas music playlist on Spotify. I giggled, then went about selecting what I thought were choice tunes (Wham!’s “Last Christmas,” Kenny Loggins’ “Celebrate Me Home,” Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas is You”).
But you can guess my disappointment when she put together her half of the list with shit like “polka Christmas” by the “Sandusky Brothers” or whatever and a Christmas rap about science from some obscure weirdo. It was awful. And throughout the party, I found myself conveniently skipping over her tracks (say, something by New Kids on the Block) to get to that sad, bluesy Christmas song by the Eagles so that the students didn’t hang themselves with the leftover tinsel.
As you can see, I’m an unapologetic celebrator of shameless Christmas music: Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas, Perry Como’s sweater-infested crooners, and even that moody, depressing number about snow-turning-into-rain by Dan Fogelberg. When it comes to the yuletide jukebox, I want gingerbread-infused, Kris Kringle-alluding, hokey numbers about silent nights, rosy cheeks, and big presents under the tree that have a giant, North Pole chorus and some non-ironic sleigh bells in the background.
Now, I’m not going to engage the part of the discussion (that I can sense most internet music mavens ready to pounce on) about the distinction between “art” and “commercial,” etc…Maybe the holidays would be better if I listened to Rev. Peyton’s “Plasma for Christmas” or indulged only what Thom Yorke has to say about the holidays in a falsetto. Great. Go enjoy yourselves. While you audiophiles are getting your groove on, I’ll be over here riding the fictional sleigh rides with a giant icicle-sized candy cane in my mouth while John Williams’s soundtrack to Home Alone pipes through my speakers.
Just let me have Christmas, ya know? I mean like the rest of the year, I’m thoroughly obliging to the critical culture’s demand for dubstep, those dudes who named themselves Real Estate, and something called Into the Wild. I’ll come back out of the frosty-covered windows of my imaginary Terry Redlin house, ready my Spin, and complain into Sound Opinions for being too mainstream.
But for December, I’m going to indulge in the quickest line between me and holiday cheer: hit the Andy Williams and quit it 30 days later. If my parents listened to Springsteen’s collection, maybe I’d be defending those tasteful, held-at-arms-length covers by respected 20th Century artists.
But I’m not. I’m writing a post defending that fat Nebraska band director named Chip Davis who created Mannheim Steamroller.
Moreover, December is the only month I can be who I want to be with fear of backlash. And it turns out beneath my haranguing about culture writ large (I write for Tangy, no?) that I just want to be that kid in line up the stairs to meet Santa with his annoying kid brother in tow.
OF COURSE THOSE THUG ELVES WILL KICK ME DOWN THE SLIDE!!
But that’s what the other 11 months are for.
(Source: thetangential.com)
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me in this months rookie :)) shot by dana boulos
