And then, as predictable as the outcry that greeted the new 55-mph freeway speed limit, each washed-up artist and every no-talent flavor of the month wants to share the holiday spirit with us by reheating a platter of yuletide drivel. Even straight-up legends get in on the act, dashing off Christmas albums that were it not for the charity granted them by the season, would forever blemish their résumés. What is it about the Christmas season that spawns such dreck?
To the curmudgeons among us, it comes down to one word: money. Many of the hoarier Christmas chestnuts have passed into the public domain, so singers don't have to give songwriters a cut. And Christmas CDs, as those of a horticultural bent would say, are "hardy perennials." Wax one of these discs, and what doesn't sell this year can be reshipped the next. In fact, this year's top-selling holiday disc at Cactus Music and Video is actually the several-years-old and immensely disappointing Christmas Is a Special Day by Fats Domino. (This legend-who-should-know-better lolls through a few Christmas classics accompanied by what sounds like a very early model, quite possibly a prototype, Casio keyboard and a tinny drum machine.) While it's the rare holiday CD that goes gold, much less platinum, sales of 10,000 or 20,000 per year are not uncommon, even for acts that should be past their sell-by date.
Cactus general manager Quinn Bishop takes a somewhat rosier view. While even he admits that the CDs discussed in this column make up "a roll call of shame," he argues that for many artists a holiday album is something to aspire to. "You stick around long enough, you make a Christmas record," he says. "There is something special about Christmas."
Something especially crappy, if you ask Racket. The current trend in Christmas tripe seems to be classic rock and '80s acts. While the world eagerly awaits such releases as O Holy Night Ranger and I'm Dreaming of a Whitesnake Christmas, there remain plenty of vintage artists actually attempting holiday-fueled comebacks. Take Heart's A Lovemonger's Christmas, for example. Maybe it's me, but if I want to hear the definitive version of "Ave Maria," Ann Wilson's distinctly suboperatic version is not the ticket. Still, on Heart's message board, several "Lovemongers" (as Heart devotees style themselves) share their heart-rending tales of woe: A Lovemonger's Christmas is so hard to find! A Netizen from San Antonio, however, says that every record store in her town has plenty of copies (not surprising, given that San Antonio is infamous in music business circles as the only town on the planet in which Foghat and Deep Purple are still considered hot properties).
While it's true that everybody wants to be a millionaire and everybody wants to rule the world, who wants to spend Christmas with .38 Special? Apparently, some do. Said band is banking that enough are desirous of their seasonal company to make a moneymaker out of this year's A Wild Eyed Christmas Night, which to Racket conjures images of Cops episodes filmed in some of the more desperate of our Southern white ghettos. You know, the policeman's Mag light shines in on Daddy (he of the eponymous methamphetamine-n-Fighting Cock 101 proof-induced "wild eyes"), who's hiding nekkid under the festively decorated trailer vigorously denying he bit Mama even though he's got bloody swatches of her hair tangled up in his few remaining teeth. As always, .38 Special remains in the creative wake of their onetime Jacksonville running buddies Lynyrd Skynyrd, who released Christmas Time Again last year. No yuletide whiskey-fueled domestic dispute should go without this double shot of longhaired rebel rock, and here's hoping for future releases like Here We Go A-Wassailing with Wet Willie and O Little Town of Black Oak, Arkansas.
But neither L.A. nor New York (nor the Deep South) can match Nashville's horrid holiday output, which Bishop of Cactus sees as the "tonnage" approach to Christmas music, throwing a ton of crap against the wall of pop culture to see what sticks. "Let's make money," Bishop says, taking the role of a Nashville mogul. "While we're still ringing up Billy Gilman's last record, let's put a Christmas record in front of them too." Wanna spend Christmas with Lonestar? Shedaisy? Billy freakin' Gilman?? Me neither. Garth Brooks and the Magic of Christmas is the winner of the worst cover art sweepstakes. Only God and Garth can know why the country king is pictured clutching a crystal ball and looking as if he were plotting the immensely excruciating death of your entire extended family. Country music has a long history of giving garbage for Christmas. The late John Denver, lumped here with the Nashville artists for the sake of convenience, gave us "Please Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)," quite possibly the worst 1970s-era dollop of after-school-special-infused maudlin treacle ever to disgrace the holiday. "You came home a quarter past 11," Denver croons, sensitively taking the child's view. "Fell down underneath our Christmas tree." C'mon kid, get used to it. It's Christmas. Whaddaya doing up so late anyway? And this coming from a guy who racked up not one but two DWIs