Black Christmas
BLACK CHRISTMAS: A Guest Feature and Album Review by Patrick Wensink
Grandma loved Russian roulette underneath the mistletoe. It was a holiday tradition. Up until her fifth husband, Ed, won.
And then there was the way we’d always sing Hark the Herald Angel in the parking lot when daddy got out of jail each Christmas Eve. Except when he didn’t.
Ah, but let’s not forget that December 25 I spent in the ICU after trying to shimmy down the chimney of the orphanage to deliver puppies to all those sad kids…
Okay, wait, none of that ever happened.
I don’t actually have any insightful holiday stories of depression and redemption. Or even tales of dramatic dark-meat-induced family fisticuffs. Like a lot of other Santa Claus celebrants, my holiday usually isn’t all that noteworthy. My family gets along pretty well and cat burglars have never attempted daring nighttime Teddy Ruxpin heists.
So, in lieu of personal drama, I will focus on the holiday heartbreak of others. Namely, Frank Sinatra. Specifically, Sinatra’s 1957 non-classic album, A Jolly Christmas.
Not that you asked, but it’s my vote for best holiday album of all time. But be warned. A Jolly Christmas is a yuletide horse tranquilizer of a record. And this is coming from a guy genuinely enjoys Christmas music. Its dozen tracks are each familiar holiday classics, but something is off on each one. That something is Sinatra.
From the bottom of history’s bobsled run, 1957 looks like an elf-load of awesomeness for Saint Frank. Flipping through the man’s catalog, one would imagine A Jolly Christmas’ tracks would belt from speakers with the gusto of Sinatra’s JFK/Mafia poker nights. In the last half of the fifties, Frankie’s Midas Touch was going atomic. A quick check of the All Music Guide shows 3-star Jolly Christmas bumpered by a handful of 5-star, solid-gold up tempo classics, including Songs for Young Lovers, A Swingin’ Affair! and Come Fly With Me.
In 1957-era Francis Albert, too, one would expect the Playboy Mansion version of our favorite carols. Here was a man dressed in a tailored suit with beautiful women flapping toward him like sparrows in The Birds while STDs repelled like olive oil on Saran Wrap.
Yes, in ’57 everything was perfect for Frank.
Except, he probably wanted to kill himself. Old Blue Eyes was only choking down a chicken bone of misery while recording an ode to the hap-hap-happiest season of all. No big deal.
A little research proves A Jolly Christmas isn’t Frankie’s ironic addition to December’s temple of glee. It is, likely, a direct reflection of a man who once referred to himself as: “Being an 18-karat manic depressive." The same fella Gay Talese said could easily plunge “into a state of anguish, deep depression, panic, even rage.”
A Jolly Christmas is that guy singing.
The album pries apart Sinatra’s cool and further illuminates this Zoloft-gulping profile, subtly revealing the distant, difficult Sinatra in Talese’s famous Esquire piece, “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold.”
The cause ol’ Velvet Vocals’ anguish: genuine heartbreak. And, probably, a case of reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Love kicked Sinatra in the teeth twice in 1957. First, divorcing his wife of six years, Ava Gardner. Second, he quickly fell in love with Lauren Bacall only to end up embarrassed by a very public and ill-timed marriage proposal.
Slap those rough patches atop the fact that Casanova was stuck singing about The Little Town of Bethlehem and sleigh rides in June and July and you’ve got a recipe for something grim. On June 14, for example, Los Angeles temperatures peaked at 104-degrees. A thermostat mark that still stands. Not exactly ideal inspiration, weather-wise. Mixing the delicate miseries of heartbreak and poor timing into the fruit cake that is A Jolly Christmas all adds up to Sinatra’s vocal wrist-slicing.
And it’s wonderful to witness.
“Somber” is how I’d describe the album today. If you and I were sitting under my tree splitting a bottle of scotch, I’d tell you how this is the only record that depicts real holidays for many: depressing and made worse by pretending to enjoy the company of relatives. Not to mention all the claymation.
“Lazy” is how I would have described that same album a few years ago if you and I were under the same tree with the same bottle. (Jeez, we might have a drinking problem).
A Jolly Christmas is one of those tricky 100-level philosophy finals where all the answers are correct. It’s both lazy, somber and without a doubt the finest holiday album ever recorded. Yes, Sinatra clearly phoned it in for this studio session. But the results are all the better for Captain Fedora’s total disregard for listener enjoyment.
When I purchased Jolly Christmas in Everyday Music’s dollar bin five years ago, I expected a jazzy, hipster Ratpack holiday romp for an upcoming Christmas party. What I got, instead, was a lone stab at swingtime swagger (“Jingle Bells”) that utilized a scat-singing choir to pull a Weekend at Bernie’s number on the song. The Chairman of the Board had been dragged at gunpoint into the booth. Thankfully, “Jingle Bells” is the perfect setup for the eleven dark Christmas carols that follow.
To say Sinatra isn’t trying very hard on this album is like making some joke about the French army. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn the orchestral director needed to check Frank for a pulse at points. And Frankie Sin’s adrift ambition doesn’t even blip on the same radar of charm that made the so-drunk-I-forgot-the-lyrics-to-Frosty the Snowman Dean Martin Christmas Album such a favorite around our house. My early assessment of Jolly Christmas was that Old Blue Eyes was simply cashing a check, probably buying his latest lover a snow leopard or a moon rock or a computer the size of Rhode Island—whatever rich folks did back then.
And that remained my opinion for several years until one post-Thanksgiving holiday decoration unpacking session opened my eyes. White tree lights cast a dim glow and my liver burned bright with my usual decorating bourbon, which helped me understand Jolly Christmas isn’t a lazy album, it’s a purposely depressing album. The record is a beautifully emotive suicide note to holiday discomfort that other artists don’t have the balls to release.
From the plucked strings of “Mistletoe and Holly,” to the naked “Silent Night” to a reindeer-jerky-gnawing version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” this is a record not fit for family dinners and giftwrap, but for TV dinners and sobbing.
Sinatra sings all the familiar tunes fans demand, but through a clenched jaw. It’s not unlike getting stuck talking to your weird uncle, Salvatore, listening to him discuss the finer points of parakeet-raising for an hour before the turkey is carved. And like that holiday unhappiness, not far beneath a gloss of comfort and familiarity lurks a dark pool that can only be reflected by the album’s cover.
Black.
Probably the only Christmas album this side of Holiday Greetings from Glenn Danzig to wear so much negativity on its sleeve, the record is a perfect reflection of the icy etching within the record grooves. Which is what makes A Jolly Christmas absolutely essential.
It’s like what psychologists and parole officers always say: “Voyeurism is the best medicine.” And it’s true with Sinatra’s A Jolly Christmas. The record shows your life can be so much more painful and tragic, even though life’s already full of enough pain and tragedy as it is. Though it requires a stiff drink as accompaniment, A Jolly Christmas makes you want to embrace family that much closer.
Even Uncle Sal and his tales of parakeet woe.