A Clarion Call to Songwriters.
Because of a series of odd circumstances I've found myself spending a lot of time listening to music on the radio lately, which this time of year means you're listening to lots and lots of seasonal holiday music. The songs that are played range from the strongly religious to the avaricious (in the latter category I lean towards the younger-than-Madonna-when-it-was-recorded version of Santa Baby by Eartha Kitt, and am amazed by the amount of truly bad new covers of it that are out this year). There are a few clunkers of course: some that are just bad songs (if I get the guy that wrote The Little Drummer Boy in an alley he's not coming out intact), others are O.K. but written or performed by someone that, to put it kindly, hasn't mastered their tools yet (this week I was in a store that was playing an all-Hanukkah album by a folk-singer that had a dynamite first cut, but the rest of the album was so dull I found myself wishing for Adam Sandler and Eight Crazy Nights). Generally I enjoy them.
In my case I started thinking about the subcategories I was hearing, and I was brought up short when I realized that I was in a demographic that wasn't covered at all. I imagine H. L. Mencken had a similar sensation back in 1927 when he some truly awful burial ceremonies for late friends and wrote his essay "Clarion Call to Poets." In it he wrote "One of the crying needs of the time is for a suitable burial service for the admittedly damned," and offered a supply of "pre-war wet goods" for a team of poets to provide a solution. While I can't offer a similar inducement I hope that someone out there will take up the challenge, or let me know if I just managed to overlook the definitive song on the subject.
Basically, while there are religious songs, and romantic songs, and children's songs, and homesick songs and dragooned songs (Baby, It's Cold Outside, which gets bundled into holiday playlists primarily because it's a cold-weather song) and wonderful season songs, there is nothing that quite fits the moment I had a couple of weeks ago when ladyjestocost and I were looking at Christmas card displays (we've had medical adventures so they're not out yet: you haven't been forgotten) when I realized that everyone I used to send Christmas cards to is dead.
Trust me: this one will stop you cold for at least 30 seconds. It's not a matter of feeling disconnected or sudden despair, or at least it wasn't for me, it's more feeling sorry that you can't drop them a line or invite 'em over for dinner and share stories and opinions and argue over pet theories that mean nothing to anyone else, and hope you'll remember all the good stuff to tell them when you see them someday and somewhere to come.
Anyway, I thought about this off and on for a day or two and then mentioned it to a couple of people in passing. Now I run with a fun-loving but thoughtful crowd, willing to toss almost any conversational ball into the air and see how often they can bat it over the net, but I found out that bringing this up instantly got an Uck! and worried looks for the rest of the time I was there.
Clearly they were getting a very different image in their heads than I was, and based on the reactions I was getting if I wrote any of the songwriters I know (Hi, Kat! Hi, Felicia! Hi, John!) about this they'd call my lovely wife instantly and make sure I was kept away from anything sharper than soup.
So I throw it open to the universe. Mind you, we don't want hordes of Hungarian Christmas shoppers throwing themselves off of the tops of malls, so avoid the heavy hand. And you'll be judged to strict standards: I know one songwriter who could have handled it with understanding and charm based on his most quoted lyrics, and the one long conversation I ever had with him, and I'd turn to him in a second--but, damn, Mike, you quit taking commissions this year and it's going to be someday and somewhere before I get a chance to ask you about it!
In my case I started thinking about the subcategories I was hearing, and I was brought up short when I realized that I was in a demographic that wasn't covered at all. I imagine H. L. Mencken had a similar sensation back in 1927 when he some truly awful burial ceremonies for late friends and wrote his essay "Clarion Call to Poets." In it he wrote "One of the crying needs of the time is for a suitable burial service for the admittedly damned," and offered a supply of "pre-war wet goods" for a team of poets to provide a solution. While I can't offer a similar inducement I hope that someone out there will take up the challenge, or let me know if I just managed to overlook the definitive song on the subject.
Basically, while there are religious songs, and romantic songs, and children's songs, and homesick songs and dragooned songs (Baby, It's Cold Outside, which gets bundled into holiday playlists primarily because it's a cold-weather song) and wonderful season songs, there is nothing that quite fits the moment I had a couple of weeks ago when ladyjestocost and I were looking at Christmas card displays (we've had medical adventures so they're not out yet: you haven't been forgotten) when I realized that everyone I used to send Christmas cards to is dead.
Trust me: this one will stop you cold for at least 30 seconds. It's not a matter of feeling disconnected or sudden despair, or at least it wasn't for me, it's more feeling sorry that you can't drop them a line or invite 'em over for dinner and share stories and opinions and argue over pet theories that mean nothing to anyone else, and hope you'll remember all the good stuff to tell them when you see them someday and somewhere to come.
Anyway, I thought about this off and on for a day or two and then mentioned it to a couple of people in passing. Now I run with a fun-loving but thoughtful crowd, willing to toss almost any conversational ball into the air and see how often they can bat it over the net, but I found out that bringing this up instantly got an Uck! and worried looks for the rest of the time I was there.
Clearly they were getting a very different image in their heads than I was, and based on the reactions I was getting if I wrote any of the songwriters I know (Hi, Kat! Hi, Felicia! Hi, John!) about this they'd call my lovely wife instantly and make sure I was kept away from anything sharper than soup.
So I throw it open to the universe. Mind you, we don't want hordes of Hungarian Christmas shoppers throwing themselves off of the tops of malls, so avoid the heavy hand. And you'll be judged to strict standards: I know one songwriter who could have handled it with understanding and charm based on his most quoted lyrics, and the one long conversation I ever had with him, and I'd turn to him in a second--but, damn, Mike, you quit taking commissions this year and it's going to be someday and somewhere before I get a chance to ask you about it!