One of the longstanding traditions around the 'Dome, along with Taco Tuesdays and the monthly Google Nude® check to see if any of my favorite actresses have "accidentally" Tweeted "private" pictures of themselves recently, is the annual viewing of A Charlie Brown Christmas
. Few things bring back the warm memories of childhood and invoke the true spirit of the holiday more than the beloved 1965 animated special, which is a jewel even among the many treasures of the golden era of network television holiday specials.
I am of a generation that cherishes Charlie Brown
and How the Grinch Stole Christmas
over more recent holiday fare like A Christmas Story
and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation
. It was arguably a simpler, less cynical era when simple heartfelt sentiments could be expressed without incurring the wrath and derision of every agitated crackpot and hipster with access to the Internet. Even the commercials seemed more earnest in their attempts to entertain as well as advertise. I still get wistful whenever I see that hokey stop-motion animation of Santa tooling through the snow in a Norelco electric razor. And to this day, I can't think of my beloved Coca-Cola's Sprite without hearing that jingle in my head ("Sprite makes brighter holidays, limon is the reason"), sung to the tune of "Good King Wenceslas," who, ironically, preferred Fanta).
Be that as it may.
Nowadays, of course, viewing these specials is nowhere near the event is used to be. I grew up in a time before home video and DVRs, when a holiday special would only be shown once a year at an appointed time. If you missed it, you had to wait until next year. I know that may sound to today's youth like something out of the Dark Ages, like rotary telephones and having to say nasty things to people right to their faces instead of hiding behind social media like a little bitch, but there is something to be said for having to wait for something and not having everything available instantly at your fingertips. It made the event special, created indelible memories, and served as an important reminder (of which today's kids are in particular need) that the sun did not shine out of our precious backsides. A Charlie Brown Christmas
contained not one, but two important messages (in the Sixties, all network television was compelled by FCC regulations to include a socially acceptable Message): 1. The crass commercialism and mindless consumerism of the secular celebration of Christmas was destroying the spirit of love and joy that was the true reason for the season, and 2. No grade school lunchbox was complete without a Dolly Madison snack cake. But beneath the obvious moral, there was a more insidious message contained in the seemingly innocuous holiday special, one that left a lasting impression on uncountable numbers of my generation; Jazz could be cool. Vince Guaraldi
's happening Jazz soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas
marked the first time many kids of my era had ever heard Our Music in a familiar and non-threatening context. It wasn't needlessly complex and overly intellectualized like most Jazz had become during the Bop and Post-Bop era, nor as opaque and inaccessible as the Free school had made it seem. It wasn't consigned to Fusion's netherworld of neither/nor somewhere between Rock and Jazz, occupied by Rockers seeking to be respected as Real Musicians and Jazzers looking to get in on some of that decadent Rock Star lifestyle they'd heard so much about. What good was spending the requisite 10,000 hours acquiring musical virtuosity if it didn't get you any leg? Especially if you're wearing corduroy jeans and Earth shoes, and look like you haven't done anything with your hair since Eisenhower's second term.
The Jazz contained in Charlie Brown
was relatively uncomplicated and accessible, but still managed to swing. Knowing what I do about it now, I can see the influence of the Cool school in Guaraldi's light touch and recognizable melodies. At the time, though, it was small-c cool. It was the kind of Jazz that a preternaturally hip kid like me in the relatively unsophisticated confines of Clifton Forge, Virginia, could listen to right out in public without it being viewed as an invitation to give me a Melvin. Even in the climate of counterculture sentiment lingering from the late Sixties, non-conformity had its own strictly enforced set of rules. Bell-bottoms and peace symbol belt buckles were acceptable, listening to any music not on the approved list (Led Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd, or anything that contained a swear word and/or thinly-veiled drug reference in the lyrics) was practically begging for a wedgie.
Bear with me, kids, I'm going somewhere with this.
The point is that the holidays are an excellent time to surreptitiously introduce the unsuspecting to Jazz, as well as an opportunity to demonstrate your affection for those devotees of Our Music on your shopping list. Forget what I said earlier, this is a wonderful time to have almost the entire world at our fingertips. We no longer have to battle packed malls and maddening traffic, or the relatively limited selection of our local bricks-and-mortar retailer, in order to accomplish our holiday shopping. And we no longer have to endure the shame of sitting on some fake Santa's unpleasantly moist lap, hoping he will relay to the real St. Nick our desire for Bill Evans
's Live at the Village Vanguard
box set and enough Legos for us to finally finish our replica of the Cotton Club.
As fortune would have it, you've landed at exactly the right spot to assist you in your search for the finest in Jazz-related gifts for both the neophyte and the connoisseur alike. Being both the largest and most powerful Jazz website in the world (we dyno'ed at 672 HP, almost 100 horses more than our nearest competitor, and with over 750 pound-feet of usable low-end torque. Suck it, Jazz Times), we are uniquely positioned to guide you through this wonderland of porn and cat videos called the Internet and help you find just the right presents for nearly everyone on your list. Well, except perhaps your teenaged niece, who is at that stage where she thinks everything is boring and provincial. This, in spite of the fact she works at Arby's and drives a hand-me-down Toyota Corolla that she's plastered with snotty bumper stickers. There's just no pleasing that kid, so you might as well have a little fun with the situation and give her a Hickory Farms sampler just to get her spun up because you know
she's a vegan
. Then, in two or three years, you can have the pleasure of reminding her of that moment while at the holiday dinner table when she loads a slab of ham onto her plate.
But I digress.
There are few better ways to introduce people to new things than to get them good and liquored up first. This is especially true with Jazz, which owes a great debt to alcohol for its very existence. It was the passage of the epically moronic Volstead Actwhich forbade the manufacture, sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages in a republic culled from the world's most prolific imbibersthat turned America from a nation of occasional tipplers to a populace of the perpetually pie-eyed. By making drinking illegal, and thus considerably more fun, the temperance movement succeeded in driving the intake of silly sauce from skeevy bars and taverns to hip, stylish speakeasies and blind tigers.
Before Prohibition, most Americans drank in one form or another (even Grandma's patent medicine for her bursitis was 90 proof). After the pokenoses and killjoys succeeded in banning booze, everyone drank. The forbidden allure of illicit clubs and the liberating effects of giggle water combined fortuitously with the loosening morals and diminishing modesty of the era (having a good snootful made it hard for ladies to put on the requisite chastity barrier of needlessly complicated undergarments, and for men to negotiate a whalebone corset without almost putting an eye out). Together, they created an environment ripe for the lively, kinetic, cathartic sounds of Our Music. Jazz and booze thus formed a symbiotic relationship that continues to this day, as I labor over this piece to the swinging refrains of Sinatra's Capitol-era stuff with the able assistance of a nice Jack & Coke.
Speaking of which.
My deep and abiding love of Jack Daniel's liquid legacy goes back to before I ever drank a drop of the whiskey. Growing up in the South, the Jack Daniel's label was ubiquitous; it appeared on hats and T-shirts, belt buckles, etc. Like teenagers of every age, we thought we were being cool by identifying ourselves with the brand and suggesting that we were engaging in illicit acts of youthful rebellion. In truth, the vast majority of us were braggarts and lightweights, staggering around boasting about how wasted we were after a couple of Coors Lights and half a Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler. A hearty swig of real adult-strength liquor would probably have come right back up about as quick as it went down, bringing the contents of our entire upper digestive tract with it.
Nonetheless, for our family vacation when I was fifteen, my country music-loving parents chose to go to Nashville and Opryland theme park. On the way back, at my request, we took a detour to Moore County and toured the Jack Daniel's distillery. My parents were cool that way. Thus began my lifelong appreciation for Tennessee whiskey and bourbon. The difference between the two, in case you were wondering, is in the additional charcoal filtering process that Mr. Jack's whiskey undergoes. Both bourbon and Jack Daniel's are made from the limestone water common to Kentucky and Tennessee (which is naturally low in iron, and ideal for distilling), from a sour mash consisting of at least 51% corn, and aged in new oak barrels. The one additional step of charcoal filtration produces a mellower character, much like listening to "The Way You Look Tonight" through headphones while having a nice dram or two of your tonic of choice.
Then, at seventeen, I attended a performance by the Jack Daniel's Silver Coronet Band. It was the first time I'd actually heard another euphonium being played by someone better at it than I was. Suddenly, my undisputed, undefeated title of first chair baritone horn wasn't enough. I wanted to play like that
guy. At that moment, I decided to attend Mars Hill College for their extremely selective but highly respected music department instead of going to nearby Washington & Lee and becoming another useless lawyer. It was a fateful decision that has led, almost thirty years later, to my position as The Dean of American Jazz Humorists®.
Rambling back around to the point.