All my life, I've been in love with Christmas music. The first song I recall singing along with is Silver Bells,
at the tender age of two. I associate the carols with trimming the
tree, which has become less of a family event in recent years and more
of an extended panic as we realize we have enough ornaments to fill
three trees (which would be all right with me, and I'll get right on
that as soon as Santa grants my wish for a spacious family room complete
with a fireplace). I associate them with wrapping gifts and candle-lit
services and kitschy holiday specials. I associate them with warmth and
family and togetherness. The best of them fill me with joy, hope and
wonder. They are optimistic and exuberant.
Except when they're not.
The "not" can be pinned on one song in particular, whose delicate piano
undercurrent, gradually augmented by sighing strings, wakes me in the
middle of the night when I have my radio tuned to the
all-Christmas-music station throughout December. My subconscious seems
to seek it out and gently shake me from my slumber to bask in its aching
melancholy. Dan Fogelberg's Same Old Lang Syne is one of the
least uplifting Christmas songs I've ever heard, and yet it remains one
of my absolute favorites year after year. Perhaps it's important to be
reminded that the joy of the season does not necessarily immunize us
against painful experiences and can actually intensify them. I know few
songs that seem so honest and gut-wrenching.
Over the course
of four and half minutes, Fogelberg, possessor of a marvelously mellow
voice especially suited for the sensitive, introspective songs he tends
to write, recounts an encounter with his old girlfriend at the grocery
store. They embrace, have a drink and get the scoop on each other's
lives. She's stuck in a dispassionate marriage (and I always feel rather
sorry for her husband, wondering how he could fail to identify himself
in this very famous song and whether the marriage lasted). He's on the
road all the time. They ache for the love they once shared, and we are
left wondering if old acquaintances really are best forgotten when
current circumstances conspire to keep them apart. The narrative is
spread out across two plaintive choruses and three shrinking verses. The
first - the awkward but giddy initial meeting - contains four stanzas;
the second - playing catch-up with bittersweet small talk - contains
three; the third - the regretful conclusion, with only the shadowy
instrumental toast to follow - has a paltry two.
Fogelberg,
harmonizing with himself, shows off his upper register in the chorus,
which is frustratingly tricky to sing along with. Though the setting is
Christmas, the spirit is New Year's, with all the mixed feelings
encapsulated in Robert Burns' famous song. In fact, the title, the
central toasts to Innocence, to Now and to Time and Michael Brecker's
minor-key soprano saxophone solo of Auld Lang Syne that follows
the conclusion of the lyrics all make it easy to get confused about
which holiday is occurring. I used to wonder why they couldn't find an
open bar on the biggest night of drunken revelry of the year, and then I
would remember that "the snow was falling Christmas Eve". I do
find the conclusion slightly worrisome, as it would seem that the
meeting ends with two drunk, distraught drivers - though for a seasoned
drinker, perhaps three beers wouldn't create much of a buzz...
I call this a Christmas song because it takes place on Christmas Eve
and because it always gets such heavy airplay this time of year. It
might be more appropriately described as a song that happens to take
place on Christmas Eve, as I suspect Fogelberg still would have
immortalized the occasion had it happened in April or August, though the
compelling juxtaposition would be missing. The holiday itself provides
an ironic undertone, accentuating the loneliness of both parties at a
time when they should be at their happiest, celebrating with the ones
they love most. I suppose it explains why there were no bars open,
forcing the rendez-vous into the cramped quarters of the former flame's
car, and the date on the calendar exponentially increases the impact of
the song's final line. I can think of few drearier images than snow
turning to rain on Christmas Eve.
The beauty of a relationship
momentarily renewed is balanced against the grim knowledge that time
changes things, for better or for worse. Decisions are made, the
consequences of which we can never know at the time, the alternatives to
which may always haunt us. Earlier this year, I took a crack at
applying the song to the situation of Desmond in LOST,
who also finds himself tugged by time, separated from his beloved. It's
a pale imitation, but it's a credit to Fogelberg's talent that I hear
the echoes of his recollection so clearly in other situations. In Same Old Lang Syne,
we have a soliloquy that is at once intensely personal and widely
applicable. And despite its painful contents, every time I listen to the
song, I emerge with a deeper appreciation of how beautiful life is, how
precious love is.
Mr. Fogelberg, I drink a toast to you.
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