Possibly the worst Christmas recording of all-time

 My sides still hurt from laughing at this.

https://open.spotify.com/track/2uAQJzHmfvMoI9cFnG5dbS?si=TmxvN2xxTH21D-w8ErlziQ

Look at this masterpiece.

I saw it on my evening walk.

Highlights to note:

The Italian flag (top right)

The flying pig (centre)

The neon cocktail flamingo (mid-right)

The T-Rex (mid-lower-left)

Cookie Monster (dead centre, Zoom in on the porch just above the steps).

...On this Winter's Night with You

So, as discussed in one of last year's few posts, my high school's Christmas concert is one of my most prized holiday traditions.

Last year, I was fortunate enough to share said occasion with Gus. This year, sadly, we have been separated for the yuletide season and I opted instead to go with my friend Naomi (more on her in a forthcoming post).

Curious about the surroundings and circumstances, Gus was educated on the weird intricacies and linguistics of my Arts School upbringing:

"SPLASH" is a musical theatre troupe, and one of the school's marquee attractions.

"The Lunch Bunch" is a massive choir made up of the entire musical theatre program (now totaling between 150 and 200 students, up at least 50 bodies from when I left the school).

And then there's "Jamme".

First of all: No, I do not know where these names come from.

Second: Jamme is a vocal jazz ensemble (because of course it is) and possibly the act with the highest consistency level for incredible arrangements and performances.

Last year, Gus was enamoured with the group and particularly a young soloist who featured in a vocal arrangement of Coldplay's "Fix You".

This year, said student was the first point of questioning when he asked about the concert. Unfortunately, said student was no longer in the ensemble. However, they did give a performance that made me miss Gus' company terribly (not to knock Naomi's company, she was outstanding on a completely different level).

You'll have to pardon the quality, because it is an iPhone recording. But here is the back half of Jamme's lovely arrangement of Gordon Lightfoot's "Song for a Winter's Night".


Audio recording >>

Back to Before

One night over some mulled wine and Odetta Christmas tunes, Gus turned to me and wondered what my high school experience was like over the festive season. My response was, "well, we could still see it first hand"

Such was the launching pad for Doc & Gus' trip down memory lane to the Etobicoke School of the Arts Festive Celebration.

First a noe about my alma mater. My high school was the first publicly-funded arts specialty school in Canada when it took over the former Kingsway Collegiate in 1981. Since, it has become a blueprint of sore for numerous arts schools to rise out of the ashes of failing collegiate institutes not only across the Greater Toronto Area, but also across Canada.

The festive celebration (formerly the Christmas Concert, before my friend Naomi raised an objection and famously drew permanent ire from the school's founder) is a showcase of all the school's musical performance groups: a symphony, jazz ensemble, show choirs (known by ridiculous-y show-y names like SPLASH and GLO... Yes, all caps) and the feature concert choir, formerly known as the Lunch Bunch.

Gus and I schlepped out to Etobicoke by transit - he marvelling at the fact that the southern reaches of Ford Nation are both suburban and surprisingly picturesque. We arrived at the school, a labyrinthine, largely one-level complex where most of the available wall real estate is covered by student murals dating back 30-plus years. We were quickly ushered to our seats prior to show time when the first act hit me with a double blast from the past.

Smiling costumed teens full of glee (heh) and spirit launched into a gorgeous three-part staging of Radiohead's "No Surprises". Wait, what?

It's bad enough I'm confronting my secondary school ghosts, but they lead with a seminal track from when I, myself, was in high school? Nevertheless, it was heart-warming.

The performances from there on varied. One girl tried too hard in a "Footloose" medley, but she was chased by a gorgeous and understated soloist doing "Georgia on my Mind". The jazz ensemble was a bit out of their depth on "Salt Peanuts" but the smaller jazz combo featured one of the best guitarists I've heard anywhere.

We got to the intermission in high spirits, mostly by watching one conductor who was a perfect jovial mix of Santa and Wendy's founder Dave Thomas.

At intermission we caught up with the few teachers that remembered me (fondly! Go figure!) and browsed the old photos of myself in compromising costumes in addition to current friends and family in addition to a certain past lover.

The second act was much brisker with the senior, more polished acts coming on and busting out more festive repertoire, culminating in the grand finale.

Keeping with tradition, the final act of the night is the Lunch Bunch (or whatever they go by now) performing Handel's "Hallelujah" Chorus with the symphony. In keeping with tradition, anyone who knows the piece was invited on-stage to take part.

I ran up and asked the director where to stand (He: "tenor? Oh, they'll love the help!") and stood next to the smallest kid I could find.

Kid: You're really singing with us?

Me: ummm, yeah.

Kid: Siiiiiick.

It's amazing how much easier that piece is to sing when you haven't already sang 20 numbers in a night. I saw the choir slowly dying during the number and only then realized that it was always such a chore for me because it was usually my fifth set of the night. A few "King of Kings and Lord of Lords" later and I stood beaming amongst raspy-throated near-exhausted 14-year-olds taking a bow.

The point of all this remembrance is this. The ESA concert was a huge part of Christmas growing up. I attended four with my family before I attended the school (my brother also being an alumnus) and performed in five myself. So, coming back for a round 10, it really brought the season home.

So many of us grow up expressing Christmas to others through our own performances but rarely get to enjoy the festivities until we become parental age ourselves. There's a huge difference between a school concert and a professional production and that difference - for me - is memory.

It seemed a strange, almost inappropriate decision to me at first to go back to a school with which I've had no affiliation in over a decade. However, in the end, it was right.

The holiday spirit distances itself more and more from me in any natural existence every year. Part of that is age. Part of that is professional choices I've made, but this one concert, for this one night, was everything I needed to set the 2013 holiday season off in the right way.

Hopefully it's a tradition I've started and one I can revisit in coming years.

Who says you can never go back to before?

Memoirs of a Teenaged Santa

I was definitely a jolly teenager.

I'm not sure whether it was a matter of size or my penchant for drama that caused my frequent nomination for Santa performances.

For whatever reason, I played Claus almost every year during high school.

The first time I masqueraded as St. Nick was in a thick summer heat in 1999. "Christmas in July," at the Anglican summer camp where I was a counsellor in training.  It was a theme day for Tadpole Camp, the week of the summer when most kids in our care are barely out of kindergarten (and/or diapers).

My cabin assignment as a counsellor-in-training was a gaggle of five year olds. This was a constituency that needed help getting dressed, cutting food, appreciated lullabyes before bed, and believed in Santa with evangelical fervour.

The camp was pitched on a tiny piece of land at the edge of a sleepy little hamlet near Kingston. Tumbling down a steep hill to the murky lake were charmingly ramshackle cabins. Most of the cabin walls were decked out in graffiti etched well before Crosby first crooned Mele Kalikimaka. Near the bottom of the hill lay a campfire circle- our standard gathering place.

I remember the head counsellor chuckling as she handed me a garbage bag and sent me off to assume my disguise. The bag contained one of the flimsiest Santa get-ups imaginable- cheap red felt, stringy wig and beard, lifeless hat. Eager to prove my worth as an aspiring counsellor in spite of the lacklustre threads, I donned the gay apparel and underwent the unceremonious pillow-shove to accent my potbelly. With a mixture of excitement and trepidation I stepped out into the shimmering late-afternoon heat to make my Santa debut.

The kids and the rest of the staff were assembled at campfire circle to await my arrival. I paraded down the hill while doing everything possible to exude jovial, geriatric jolliness.

I arrived at the centre of the action accompanied by an elf counsellor, who helped me distribute small gifts to the children.

All was merry and bright until little Paul approached me and took a flying leap onto my knee. HO HO HO, LITTLE BOY! I started, but before I could even launch into a summer instalment of the nice vs. naughty assessment, Paul gave my sad excuse for a beard a confident tug.

SNAP, it flapped back onto my chin after giving Paul a full viewing of my pimply, clean shaven face. I stuttered to figure out what to do next. It was clear from the look in Paul's eyes that his continuing belief in Santa lay in the balance of my next move. Paul had managed a good glimpse of my acne-laden face beneath the beard, and was coming quickly to doubt my authenticity.

I stood up and slowly stepped away from Paul. Hoping I could make a quick exit and limit the extent of my exposure as a fraud.

Sadly, Paul's bold gesture of curiosity did not go unnoticed by the rest of his tadpole colleagues. Soon I was swarmed by the rest of the camp's five and six year-olds, pawing and pushing and tugging and pinching.

The gig was up.  Paul now had full command of his fellow campers. YOU'RE NOT SANTA CLAUS, YOU'RE GUS, he hollered at me, indignant, doing his best to draw everyone's attention to my charade. I'M GOING TO GET YOU, AND THAT RIDICULOUS SUIT TOO.

Yes, those words came from the mouth of a five year old. I was dismissed by a five year old with the phrase 'ridiculous suit.'

Now that Paul had condemned the suit, he wanted to destroy it and obliterate me with it. I looked to the other staff assembled at the campfire in desperate hopes someone might come to my assistance. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that no rescue was on offer.  My colleagues were quite enjoying the spectacle of my uncovering and probably laughing too hard to help me even if they wanted too.

The tadpole rebellion was now of such hostility that I knew I needed to escape. I began to run up the hill towards the staff bathroom.

Have you ever been on the run from 30 angry children under the age of 7? Have you ever hidden in a toilet stall while those same children bang violently on the locked bathroom door?

It's not pretty.

Stay tuned for further memoirs of a teenaged Santa.......

St. Christopher

There is a story I ask my Grandfather to tell every year at Christmas. It has become legendary, a storyteller’s gift, and one I think worth sharing.

It was Christmas Eve in Toronto in the fifties. Leaving the office at four o’clock, Grandpa rushed home to Willowdale. He and my Grandmother tucked the kids under some blankets in the back seat, packed away luggage and gifts, and set off in the fading winter light.

Darkness comes early in December, and the night was ‘black as the ace of spades,’ as Grandpa says. In the bitter cold, everyone looked forward to the journey’s end: my Great-Grandmother’s house on Phillips Street in Kingston.

These were the days before the 401. The Highway 2 journey was long and winding. By the time the family made it past Napanee, Kingston beckoned. The warm glow of the city was almost within reach when the car sputtered to a halt, exhausted.

Christmas Eve, a silent highway, and not a drop of gasoline. The nearest light was a farm a mile or so away. Grandpa thought seriously of heading there for help. Imagine: a stranger from the city, on Christmas eve, coming through the frozen fields to beg a jerry can of gas.

In that moment of fear and uncertainty a car appeared. ‘We’re out of gas,’ Grandpa sheepishly admitted to the gentleman stepping out of his vehicle. ‘No problem, friend,’ said the stranger.‘There’s a station just down the road from here. I’ll head there for a jerry can and bring it to you shortly.’

A handful of minutes later the stranger returned. Grandpa thanked him profusely for the gas and asked how much he owed. ‘Just settle up with the lad at the station down the way. You can’t miss it. He’ll be expecting you.’

Five minutes along the quiet snowy roads, and no gas station. Ten minutes and still nothing but emptiness and brush.  The family was almost in Kingston before they reached a station. But the stranger returned from his quest so quickly- how could he have driven so far?

To be sure, Grandpa asked the attendant if someone had been by with a jerry can. No one had stopped there for well over an hour. To be doubly certain, Grandpa asked whether there were any other stations along the road he might have missed. The chilling answer: no other gas stations on that stretch of highway.

Fifty years later, the mystery of this story could probably be solved if we wanted to spend enough time and energy unwrapping the well-worn tale, devising various hypotheses to explain away a miracle.

Instead, we simply delight in it. As we prepare to celebrate light in the darkness, may we remember to be kind to the traveler. To welcome the stranger.  To celebrate unlikely angels in our midst who make heaven and earth sing together.

The 12 Days After Christmas

I had completely forgotten performing this song in high school.

Then it got stuck in my head last week.

Kinda dark, but also the kind of stuff custom designed to always make your parents laugh.