This is what I performed today as part of Hollywood United Methodist's ONCE UPON A CHRISTMAS
I hate Christmas music. I hate the sound of children singing more, but I really hate Christmas music.
Statistically speaking, the rate of depression goes up astronomically during the holiday season and I think we can all blame Christmas music. It’s forced upon us, whether we’re in the grocery store, the car, or flipping through channels on television. And almost every single Christmas song is about people being alone or dead grandparents or some maniacal old man in a red suit who stalks and preys upon small children.
And Gene Autry is public enemy number one.
His “Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer” is nothing more than a horrifying little ditty about a gang of reindeer who bully someone because they are different. Because he has a red nose. They would laugh and call him names and wouldn’t let him join in their reindeer games until Santa was all, “hey, I got a job for you,” and then what happened? THEN all the reindeer loved him. Like THAT was his big “it gets better” moment.
“Frosty the Snowman” is a song about a ball of ice with two eyes made out of coal (traditionally a gift given to bad children) that becomes possessed when it acquires a hat and a pipe. He taunts children and before he melts, he says, “don’t you cry, I’ll be back again some day.” I prefer to think of the song as being about rejection and alienation, rather than idle threats of revenge.
“Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” This song scared the living crap out of me growing up. There’s not a single line in the song that’s cute: “You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout, I’m telling you why. Santa Claus is coming to town.” “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.” Here, Autry portrays Santa as a sociopathic stalker who, apparently, will end your life if you’re naughty. Go back and look at photos of yourself as a child, screaming your head off while sitting in his lap at the mall. NOW you’ll remember why. You blocked it. Collectively, we all have Mall Santa Stockholm Syndrome.
And if “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” was a warning shot, the next song on the radio is usually “HERE Comes Santa Claus!” telling you, too late! Here he comes, you can’t run. You can’t hide. Instead the lyrics inform children to “jump in bed and cover your head.”
There are songs about children walking in on their parents’ infidelity, like, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” What’s cute about that?! It’s basically a song about a homewrecker. Wouldn’t be so cute if it was I saw daddy kissing Santa Claus.
Or Wham’s “Last Christmas,” in which George Michael “gave his heart” to whom I can only imagine was Andrew Ridgeley and what did Andy do? The very next day, he gave it away. Nice. There’s a word for that, but I can’t use it in church. So George continues, “this year, to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special.” And apparently he found someone in a park in Beverly Hills.
There’s Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne” about two former lovers who bump into each other on Christmas Eve, have a good laugh, catch up, realize how much their lives suck and leave. And as they do, the snow turns to rain.
“Winter Wonderland” has been recorded by over a hundred and fifty recording artists and stars. And I’ve never understood why the couple building a snowman, pretend he’s a preacher who says, “are you married?” THAT’S this talking snowman’s first question? Not even a “Merry Christmas, everyone.” “Are you married?” And you have to admit, that’s creepy when little kids are singing it and respond, “no, man. But you can do the job when you’re in town.”
I’m not even going to get into the passive aggressive songs to slit your wrists by like, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” (if only in my dreams). “I’ll Have a Blue Christmas” (without you) and “Please Come Home for Christmas.” Those are all pretty self explanatory. They suck. Cry me a river.
Like Joni Mitchell’s “Wish I Had a River I Could Skate Away On” where she sings about cutting down trees (a lot) and how someone loved her, but she didn’t love him, so she wants to skate away. Huh?
“It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” has a single lyric that has stumped me all my years. “There’ll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting and carolers out in the snow… THERE”LL BE SCARY GHOST STORIES…” Who tells GHOST STORIES at Christmas!? I write horror movies and I’ve never once said, “you know what this office party could use? A ghost story. Let’s all gather down by the fireplace and let me tell you about the headless elf who wanders the Super Walmart looking for children’s souls.” Never happened. But IS the subject of my upcoming movie, “Stumpy the Elf and the Massacre on Aisle Five.”
“The 12 Days of Christmas” sounds like a good idea, until you start to look at the list of presents this idiot gave his true love. Partridge in a pear tree? Cute. Two turtle doves? Okay, they don’t live very long. Three French hens? Well there’s dinner on Christmas Eve. But eight maids “a-milking?” Nine ladies waiting? It’s pretty much the worst drinking song of all time.
If you actually listen to the lyrics of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” you’ll realize there’s nothing depressing about the song at all. It’s just the slow, melodic, depressing pace of the song that makes you want to stick your head in an over full of gingerbread men. It’s the “Old Yeller” of Christmas songs. Close runner-ups are “White Christmas” and “Silver Bells.”
“Do They Know It’s Christmas” was written for famine relief. I can’t decide if it’s more insulting to the people in Ethiopia or the person listening to the song. “Exhausted from all your shopping and parties? There are people who don’t even know it’s Christmas and don’t have food to eat. Happy Holidays, you bourgeois pig.”
And dare we not forget the pinnacle of awful Christmas music, the Newsong classic, “The Christmas Shoes.” A song about a boy who just wants to buy his dying mother a pair of shoes. Or as Lifetime calls it, "Sunday Movie Night."
Which brings me to “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.” Highly unlikely. The lyrics tell us, “grandma got run over by a reindeer, WALKING HOME FROM OUR PLACE CHRISTMAS EVE.” First off, everyone knows Santa parks his sleigh on the roof. So he was nowhere near the street. Secondly, who let’s their grandmother walk home? The lyrics tell us she had had too much egg nog and they “begged” her not to go, but she’d left her medication at home so she stumbled out into the snow. NO OLD WOMAN should be walking out in the snow, alone, especially when she’s drunk.
So obviously grandpa would be distraught, right? Catatonic, his wife of many years was mowed down by a “reindeer?” No. The next day, Grandpa’s in the living room watching football, drinking beer and playing cards with cousin Belle. Because that’s normal.
I don’t claim to be a crime scene expert, but I’m guessing if the police checked in grandpa’s garage, they’re going to find little grandma pieces in the grill of grandpa’s Cadillac. It’s like the song was written by the Notorious B.I.G. Imagine that interrogation. “It was a reindeer… she was just walking home and…”
I’m not a big Santa Claus fan, but clearly he was framed for murder.
I mean, not all Christmas music is bad. There are a few songs that come on the radio that are fun and happy, upbeat songs like “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” “Jingle Bell Rock.” “All I Want for Christmas is You” and of course, “The Chipmunk Song.”
“Away in a Manger.” “Oh, Holy Night.” “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.” That’s my flavor. They never talk about missing people or rushing to buy Christmas presents. There’s no fear of a snowman nipping your nose off or a fat man breaking into your house in the middle of the night or some brat that claims all he wants for Christmas is his two front teeth.
I want my Christmas music to be about Jesus and his birthday! I imagine if Mary were to visit Hollywood and Highland today and heard people singing carols, she’d be all, “I was a virgin, who went into labor during tax season and gave birth to the Messiah in a cold barn without lights, electricity, heat or a doctor and had to put my baby in food trough. You’re sad your loved one won’t be with you at Christmas? Ooooh. My son was crucified on a cross for your sins! Man up, Elvis! Grow a set!”
Merry Christmas! And scene.
