I ventured into the outside world today, always a mistake. Christmas songs are out in force. Far from making my yuletide spirit bright or my año prospero, most only inspire me to insert gun into mouth—and not necessarily my own.
Any attempt to discuss the worst, then, requires that we narrow terms. For the sake of argument, I'm giving passes to the traditional Christmas carols of my youth. Why pick on "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas" when Regis has two Christmas albums? But even he doesn't make bar. A truly awful Christmas song must meet the same critical test that slander must meet: above all, it must be heard. This leaves the most dreadful species of all: the insipid Christmas rock song. These are the songs guaranteed to ruin my day.
Jingle Bell Rock. (Any version) What started it all. The "muzak Kenny G." of Christmas songs—did "Jingle Bells" really need to be made even less interesting? As tempted as I am to include a picture of a miniskirted Lindsay Lohan singing this song, just to annoy Carla, I'm moving on.
Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time (Paul McCartney) Why, God? Why? Why, when this song already existed, was John Lennon the one gunned down?
The party's on
The feelings here
It's all because
This time of year
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time
Don't cry poor children, sing this song
Ding, dong, ding, dong,
Ding, dong, ding.
Don't you feel better now, poor children?
Step into Christmas (Elton John) Miraculous in that it means even less than McCartney's song. Conceived as a quick cash-grab when Elton was hot in 1973, we've been stuck with this acoustic excrement ever since. I heard it twice today. Everybody now:
Step into Christmas
Let's join together
We can watch the snow fall forever and ever
Eat, drink and be merry
Come along with me
Step into Christmas
The admission's free
Do They Know It's Christmas? (Bob Geldof and Band-Aid) Written as a fund-raiser to relieve famine in Ethiopia, a predominantly Islamic nation. So no. No, they don't know it's Christmastime. At all.
P.S. They're called "books," and they don't hurt. At all.