Deck Log Entry # 230 Merry Christmas 2020!

In our nearly three decades together, one area in which the Good Mrs. Benson and I still disagree is the subject of music.  I sensibly maintain that little good music has come out since, oh, 1965, and the further one gets from that year, the occurrence of anything worth listening to dwindles.  The GMB, however, is sufficiently younger than me to insist that rock music, as a genre, has merit.

 

Now, I allow that, before it dropped "and roll", there were some catchy tunes.  But after it started going strictly by its first name, rock ceased to be anything melodic.  Rock---er---musicians screech out lyrics while banging on electronically amplified noise-makers.  What attracts the concert crowds is the showmanship---the gyrations, the flashing lights, the pyrotechnics.  The more outrageous the display, the more the young folks in the audience go for it, and that has nothing to do with musical talent.

 

The GMB disagrees, strongly.  My argument is that a truly good musician doesn't need smoke and mirrors to hold an audience.  He can do that strictly on the strength of his own talent.  There's one example that illustrates my point perfectly.  If the GMB is reading this, she's rolling her eyes right now, because she's heard me relate it so often.

 

Sorry, darling, but I have to bring it up one more time, because it forms the basis for this year's Christmas column.

 

If you were around in 1963, you were probably sitting in front of your television set on the evening of 13 December, when The Bob Hope Christmas Show aired on NBC.  I was, and that night, Bing Crosby was filling in as host while Hope was recovering from eye surgery.  The curtain rose and Crosby stood, spotlighted on a darkened stage adorned only with three papier-mâché Wise Men and a cardboard star.  Accompanied by an off-camera orchestra and chorus, Bing crooned a popular holiday carol.  He just stood there and sang.  No flailing around, no flashing beams of light, no special effects.  Simply a man and his voice holding a studio audience spellbound.  And when it was over, that audience erupted in thunderous applause.

 

It was a powerful moment.  But, as much as I'd like to insist that such a display proves my point about music, I have to admit, it could be that those folks in the studio knew something about the song that I didn't, at the time.

 

 

 

You see, on that Friday night in December, 1963, it had been only a little more than a year since the end of the world seemed very near.

 

October, 1962, the height of the Cold War, and the Soviet Union had been caught placing nuclear-armed ballistic missiles in Communist-governed Cuba, only ninety miles off the Florida coast.  President Kennedy demanded that the missiles be removed, and he ordered a Naval blockade to prevent any further Soviet weapons from being transported to Cuba.  Both sides threatened the use of force.

 

As the two nations postured for dominance, the United States was gripped in white-knuckled tension.  J.F.K. had informed the American public of the situation in a televised broadcast.  It's hard to know what the Russian people were feeling---we didn't know what, or if, their government had told them about it---but we were pretty damned nervous.

 

The timing couldn't have been worse for the husband-and-wife songwriting team of Noël Regney and Gloria Shayne.

 

Columbia Records was ready to release a single of what its execs thought was sure to be the next hit Christmas song.  But they wanted a nice little holiday-themed tune for the flip side.  Nothing special; just a space-filler.  That was where Regney and Shayne came in.  Columbia tapped them to write it.

 

The thing was, the composing couple wasn't sure they wanted to write it.  They disapproved of the commercial purpose behind the record company's request.  Besides, it was difficult to come up with an aspect of Christmas that hadn't already been celebrated in song.

 

Most of all, neither Regney, nor Shayne, nor the rest of the country, were in the mood for celebration while the world teetered on the brink of nuclear war.

 

Noël Regney knew about war.  The hard way.  He was originally from the Alsace province of France.  Those of you up on your world history know that Alsace lies on the border of Germany and in both world wars, it had been conscripted as a German territory.  Consequently, Noël, at the age of eighteen, was drafted into the German army.  But, instead of accepting his fate, Regney played the dangerous game of double agent, soldiering for Germany and passing critical information on German war movements to the French Resistance.  On one occasion, the Resistance asked Regney to lead a squad of German soldiers into an ambush, which he did, even though he was wounded himself in the crossfire.

 

Eventually, Regney deserted from the German army and became an active member of the French underground.  After the war, his musical talent led him into various jobs and locations before landing in Manhattan in 1952, where he met and married Gloria Shayne, a talented musician in her own right.  She arranged music for composers such as Irving Berlin and Stephen Sondheim.

 

 

 

After days of unproductive effort---in an interview, Regney later recalled how the studio producer had kept his ear to the radio so he would know when the nukes had been launched---the couple decided to give up on the idea.  That is, until a day or so later, while walking home to his New York City apartment, Regney saw two young mothers who had stopped to chat while pushing their children in strollers.  The toddlers were smiling at each other in delight, naturally oblivious to the on-going tensions.

 

The picture of such innocence struck Regney.  Not only was his mood suddenly lifted, it gave him the narrative hook for the Christmas song he had given up on.  When he got home, he excitedly dashed down the lyrics to the entire song, then turned it over to his wife to compose the music.  Curiously, this was opposite to their usual division of labour, in which Gloria wrote the lyrics and Noël, the music.  But the imagery in the words scripted by Regney was so compelling that the melody came easy to her.

 

By the time they finished the song, two things had happened.  First, Khrushchev had blinked first, and the Soviet missiles were removed from Cuba, with the world breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

 

Second, the deal with Columbia Records fell through, but executives at Mercury Records were so impressed with Regney and Shayne's composition that they agreed to include it as one of the songs recorded by the Harry Simeone Chorale for their holiday album The Wonderful Songs of Christmas.  The album, along with a 45 r.p.m. single by Simeone, were released in the week after Thanksgiving, 1962.

 

The single sold a quarter of a million copies, impressive, but not a world-beater.  Particularly given the fact that most of you are thinking, "Harry Simeone who?"  That's what they were thinking then, too.

 

And that was just fine, as far as Bing Crosby was concerned. 

 

In 1942, the famous crooner had set the gold standard for Christmas songs with his recording of "White Christmas".  By 1962, it had sold over one hundred million copies.  Crosby was still a bankable talent, but it stung his professional pride that he hadn't recorded anything nearly as popular in the last twenty years.

 

He desperately wanted a song that he could turn into the same kind of compelling hit as "White Christmas".  When he heard the Harry Simeone Chorale version of Regney and Shayne's song, he was sure he had found it.

 

Crosby's instincts were right on the money.  His rendition of the song was released as a single at the end of October, 1963, and it sold nearly a million copies by the time Der Bingle sang it that December night on Bob Hope's Christmas special. 

 

 

 

What Regney and Shayne came up with has the ring of a traditional carol.  So much so that many think it stems from an old folk ballad.  The melody steadily builds to a crescendo as the lyrics relate the Nativity as told in the gospel of Matthew, but loosely.  It avoids specifically naming Jesus or Mary or the Three Wise Men.  The lack of direct reference sets up the ending of the song, which differs from the Biblical account of King Herod's response to the birth of Christ.  Instead, an unnamed king makes an impassioned plea for peace in the last, most powerful verse:

 

It became an instant Christmas classic.  Much of the credit for that goes to Bing Crosby, whose sonorous, commanding delivery turns the song into a pronouncement of hope and peace.  Because of that, Crosby has become inexorably linked to it.  It has been covered by hundreds of artists, but whenever people think of it, Crosby's version is the one they remember.

 

It's a pity that Bing's no longer with us.  I can't help thinking that, with our country so divided the way it is, it might do a world of good to have him walk out on stage on this day of days and ask all of us . . .

 

"Do You Hear What I Hear?"

* * * * *

From Cheryl and myself, to all of you, our fondest wishes for a Merry Christmas, and many more of them!

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Replies

  • You kept me guessing right up until the reveal.

    MERRY CHRISTMAS!

  • That was great as always, Commander.

    A very Merry Christmas, to all of the Legionnaires, your family, and friends!

  • Another Holiday Classic, Commander!

    May we all have a Merry Christmas and Peace this year!

  • A great song performed by one of the greatest singers of all time. There was something oh so comforting in the way Bing delivered his songs - especially the Christmas numbers.

    Merry Christmas to all!

  • Beautifully written, Darling.  Merry Christmas.

    And no, I didn't roll my eyes.  I sighed and muttered "Ah geez, not this again."

  • Excellent as always, Commander. You're completely wrong about rock music, though. ;)

  • The duet version with David Bowie (and the video related) is favorite Christmas fare even for people who don't like Christmas carols.

    Merry Christmas and thanks for another cool tale, Commander.

    My wife and I have very different tastes, she being fifteen years younger, though I've never felt there was a point where they stopped making good music.

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