måndag 22 december 2008

Winter What-the?-land

Season greetings to all, and to all a happy Xmas

Friends, something has been eating away at my fragile sanity for some time. Something dark, sinister, and most confusing appears every year around this time, colouring my red-and-green spirit a dull brown.
I am referring, obviously, to the song Winter Wonderland. Or, more specifically, its lyrics.
Now, I am not one to criticize songwriters, especially those who make a living writing Christmas standards. Songs like "White Christmas", "Jingle Bell Rock" or "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" has ever been a part of my celebratory traditions. 
But the happy-go-lucky lyrics of those songs tend to focus on describing and foreseeing simple concepts like "I want snow, because it's totally awesome" or "Santa will give you a present and eat your cookies" or "Fuck the Jews, Jesus loves Mickey Mouse".
Now, having listened to all these songs several thousand times each, I can't help but feel that Winter Wonderland was written by someone who had been inhaling a very serious amount of cocaine.

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening, 
In the lane, snow is glistening
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight.
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Alright, fair enough. "In the lane" is a pretty awkward expression, but fine. You're pleased to see pearly snow lining your driveway.

Gone away is the bluebird,
Here to stay is a new bird
He sings a love song,
As we go along,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

"A new bird"? What fucking new bird? A woodpecker? Because he sure as shit won't sing you any love songs. Also, bluebirds don't migrate, as far as I know. He's not "gone away", homie.

In the meadow we can build a snowman,
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married?

We'll say: No man, 

But you can do the job

When you're in town. 

Okay. Here it is. This line has been the bane of my existence for the past few Christmases, and I've finally found out what it means. Apparently, back in '34 when this here song was done written, parsons – that's a protestant minister, a church-man – would travel the small towns and perform impromptu weddings.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

So let me get this straight. You'll go to a big ol' clearing, erect a snowman, and go all crazy-brainfreeze-schizo, pretending that it's just the friendly neighbourhood random priest, passing by for a quick marriage. Great!
And isn't that exactly the kind of conversation you would imagine taking place in a 1934 american small town. 
- Hey there, children. My name is Brown. 
- Hello. I'm Michelle, this is Kevin. We're both 26 years old.
- Say, are you two young sinners married? I saw you holding hands.
- We are not, actually. But since you showed up here all random and sudden, we might as well let you do it. Right now. 

Later on, we'll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid, 
The plans that we've made,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

"We'll conspire, as we dream"? That's nonsense. And "To face unafraid, the plans that we made"? You'll face your plans? Come on. Rephrase, please.

In the meadow we can build a snowman,
And pretend that he's a circus clown
We'll have lots of fun with mister snowman,
Until the other kids knock him down.

This is just retarded. Yeah, I'm sure you'll have "lots of fun" with three gobs of snow stacked on top of each other, until some asshole bully shows up and devastates said construction. 
Where's the verse about you avenging "mister snowman" and beating the shit out of those "other kids"? Huh?

When it snows, ain't it thrilling,
Though your nose gets a chilling
We'll frolic and play, the Eskimo way,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

"Frolic and play". Yeah, I'm sure that's precisely the Eskimo way. They sure do love their snow, them silly Eskimos. 

As with most Christmas songs, this one has been recorded dozens if not hundreds of times since it's inception. Artists as varied as Louis Armstrong, Michael Bolton, Macy Gray, Ozzy Osbourne, Kenny G, Cyndi Lauper, Willie Nelson and The California Raisins have all gotten a stab at guessing what in the hell a Parson Brown is.

Me, I'll stick to Mr Hankey's Christmas Classics, thank you very much. Nothing says Happy Holidays like hearing racist, bigot Mr Garrison singing "Merry fucking Christmas". 
That, and chocolate. Mounds of it.

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