Carol

 

In my childhood, services of carols and lessons were a regular part of the season. They still are regular, though not as universal. Christmas morning heard the acclamations of the choir of St Paul’s London through the house, singing the standards and rarities from the record-player, as wrapping paper was gaily strewn across the rooms to reveal the unexpected within. All of which was continuation of what had been happening in church that morning and the night before. These memories return when I walk through interminable supermarkets and dazzling department stores this Christmas Eve in search of last-minute presents, the entire atmosphere sugared with American schmaltz. Even city streets and arcades are jingly with the bling of Bing. When did crooners and faux-jollifiers become the default setting for Christmas, as if the whole world is eternally New York City in December 1958? Pleasant it is to stop by a busker doing a disjointed ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ on the saxophone. I wish I could drop some gold coins in his hat, but the credit card economy has done away with cash. Pleasant to find a teenage quartet of strings, out of the blazing sun before a shop window, playing their run-through of familiar beauties with admirable pitch. Does that still happen? Yes, back in the days of cash economy when I could at least smile supportively at their artistry; even that is impossible in the years of the mask. It is bizarre the number of Paul Kelly posts online during the Season, as his gravy song gets rotation airtime. It would be a Scrooge who grumped at this carol, though the poignant meaning of the song became clear on first listening. Its theme of genuine disjunction from the social life of the Day makes me wonder how many listeners feel removed from the spirit they are supposed to feel. Kelly’s song reminds me of Raymond Carver’s poem about life after alcoholism: “it’s all gravy, every minute.” At church the children’s nativity pageant is the gospel reading. It is an artless combination of harmonised Incarnation stories and carols, the musical accompaniment to the tough old words. A children’s ensemble of xylophone, triangles, flutes and violin transmits peace on Earth. On Christmas Day in the morning the greetings come easily. Carol streams English carols through the rooms on her laptop, St Paul’s London, I wouldn’t be surprised. I ask her did she know that ‘carol’ means song of joy? This is a standard joke. Mockingly she reacts, yes she has been aware for some time that ‘carol’ means song of joy. She goes on preparing breakfast. Soon it will be time to open the presents that have stacked up slowly over weeks under the tree, purchased as usual from the Ivanhoe Scouts and delivered off the back of a trailer early December. David Willcocks was some kind of genius.