Hello, gentle reader!
I'm scrambling to get the final edits done on one of the two chapbooks I have coming out in November (if you didn't spot it on my landing page, I'll put the little "coming soon" image at the end of this post). I don't have time to write a new blog post. But . . . the chapbooks do contain some new content. Could I possibly steal some of that content, post it here, and try to pass it off as a sneak peek of my upcoming release, Longo Looks at Christmas?
You bet I could.
_______________________________________
Over the years, I’ve found the radio can be a source of joy, elevating my mood with a little Duran Duran or INXS when I’m feeling down, nudging me with a few bars of “Come on Eileen” by Dexy’s Midnight Runners to get me to shake some of my crankiness and start singing along. (Also, if it’s not evident from these song choices, I am a Gen Xer who grew up in the eighties. Don’t judge my music, whippersnapper!) But the radio can also expose huge betrayals when you least expect them.
I am, of course, talking about the Beatles.
My first solid memory of the fab four was on December 8, 1980, when the radio announced John Lennon had been shot. My mother gasped. It was her reaction that likely ingrained this memory in my seven-year-old brain, because I’d had no clue who this Lennon fellow was. Though Mom likes to think of herself as a non-conformist, preferring the Animals over the Beatles, she did take the time to explain how the Beatles—and Lennon—had changed the entire face of modern music. “You know that song Daddy likes to sing so much? About the raccoon?” I nodded. My sister and I loved the little tune. “That’s a Beatles song,” she confirmed. The full weight of what she was telling me settled on my tiny shoulders.
My father had not made up “Rocky Raccoon” himself.
After much therapy lasting long into adulthood, I forgave Dad, and also eventually learned who the Beatles were. I snuck a few of my aunt’s vinyl albums (shut up, whippersnapper!) out of her collection and gave them a spin. I liked them. When my interest in true crime developed in my teenage years, the connection between the White Album and the Manson family solidified the Beatles’ coolness in my mind. When a psychotic cult leader thinks you’re sending him private messages through the hot mess that is “Revolution 9,” well, then, you’re really somebody.
So I was not prepared for any of the lads from Liverpool to stab me in the back.
Back in 1979, Paul McCartney (“the cute Beatle,” according to Mom and millions of other Baby Boomers) recorded a ditty that received little attention when it was slipped onto his McCartney II album, likely as filler when he found himself short on tracks. It didn’t even chart on the Billboard Top 100. At this point, I was still blissfully unaware of its existence.
But by 1984, it had gained some traction. It popped up at number ten for two weeks on Billboard’s Christmas singles chart that December. However, the Longo family had its own tradition by then, which was to listen to Mom’s favorite Christmas songs from the fifties on cassette (I said shut up!) in the car, meaning no live radio, so this abomination was still off my radar.
Then, in 1993, Wings crammed it onto their Back to the Egg album. And its airplay exploded.
My sister and I were making a pilgrimage to Friendly’s for peanut butter cup sundaes (don’t judge us) one December afternoon when the first few notes of “Wonderful Christmastime” filled the car. I chose to ignore it, because if nothing else, I am polite when I’m stuck in a moving vehicle with someone who does not despise every last damn thing about the holidays. Then the singing started.
“Hold the phone,” I said. I turned it up. My sister nearly swerved off the road, because never in my life have I turned up the music when a Christmas song was on. “Is that—”
“—Paul McCartney!” she confirmed exuberantly, mistaking my question for enthusiasm.
“No,” I gasped, appalled. Ironically, it was a callback to my mother’s reaction to John Lennon’s death over two decades before, though arguably hers was probably more justified. “How could he?”
“Wha . . . you don’t like it?” My sister looked at me with big doe eyes, not unlike the peepers that made Mr. McCartney so popular with the now-senior-citizen crowd of my parents’ generation.
Now, gentle reader, there’s something you should know about my sister and me. We are very close. There is nobody else in the entire world who understands exactly how nutso our parents are, what it was like growing up with them at the helm, and nobody else who will crack up when I randomly throw “orange tree burglar” into a sentence. (See? You didn’t laugh just then. And if I explain, it won’t sound funny.) My point is, I love my big sister, and make it a point to never intentionally break her heart. Which my non-love of this Beatle’s Christmas song was clearly doing.
“Uh . . . what I mean is, how could he only do one Christmas song and not a whole album?” I lied.
My sister smiled. The lie was worth it.
The song came on four more times during our hour-long round trip drive. Kim turned it up every time, pleased we’d found a song I could stand.
Don’t tell her, but I really hate that song. And if I ever get the chance to meet Paul McCartney, he and I are going to have words.
I'm scrambling to get the final edits done on one of the two chapbooks I have coming out in November (if you didn't spot it on my landing page, I'll put the little "coming soon" image at the end of this post). I don't have time to write a new blog post. But . . . the chapbooks do contain some new content. Could I possibly steal some of that content, post it here, and try to pass it off as a sneak peek of my upcoming release, Longo Looks at Christmas?
You bet I could.
_______________________________________
Over the years, I’ve found the radio can be a source of joy, elevating my mood with a little Duran Duran or INXS when I’m feeling down, nudging me with a few bars of “Come on Eileen” by Dexy’s Midnight Runners to get me to shake some of my crankiness and start singing along. (Also, if it’s not evident from these song choices, I am a Gen Xer who grew up in the eighties. Don’t judge my music, whippersnapper!) But the radio can also expose huge betrayals when you least expect them.
I am, of course, talking about the Beatles.
My first solid memory of the fab four was on December 8, 1980, when the radio announced John Lennon had been shot. My mother gasped. It was her reaction that likely ingrained this memory in my seven-year-old brain, because I’d had no clue who this Lennon fellow was. Though Mom likes to think of herself as a non-conformist, preferring the Animals over the Beatles, she did take the time to explain how the Beatles—and Lennon—had changed the entire face of modern music. “You know that song Daddy likes to sing so much? About the raccoon?” I nodded. My sister and I loved the little tune. “That’s a Beatles song,” she confirmed. The full weight of what she was telling me settled on my tiny shoulders.
My father had not made up “Rocky Raccoon” himself.
After much therapy lasting long into adulthood, I forgave Dad, and also eventually learned who the Beatles were. I snuck a few of my aunt’s vinyl albums (shut up, whippersnapper!) out of her collection and gave them a spin. I liked them. When my interest in true crime developed in my teenage years, the connection between the White Album and the Manson family solidified the Beatles’ coolness in my mind. When a psychotic cult leader thinks you’re sending him private messages through the hot mess that is “Revolution 9,” well, then, you’re really somebody.
So I was not prepared for any of the lads from Liverpool to stab me in the back.
Back in 1979, Paul McCartney (“the cute Beatle,” according to Mom and millions of other Baby Boomers) recorded a ditty that received little attention when it was slipped onto his McCartney II album, likely as filler when he found himself short on tracks. It didn’t even chart on the Billboard Top 100. At this point, I was still blissfully unaware of its existence.
But by 1984, it had gained some traction. It popped up at number ten for two weeks on Billboard’s Christmas singles chart that December. However, the Longo family had its own tradition by then, which was to listen to Mom’s favorite Christmas songs from the fifties on cassette (I said shut up!) in the car, meaning no live radio, so this abomination was still off my radar.
Then, in 1993, Wings crammed it onto their Back to the Egg album. And its airplay exploded.
My sister and I were making a pilgrimage to Friendly’s for peanut butter cup sundaes (don’t judge us) one December afternoon when the first few notes of “Wonderful Christmastime” filled the car. I chose to ignore it, because if nothing else, I am polite when I’m stuck in a moving vehicle with someone who does not despise every last damn thing about the holidays. Then the singing started.
“Hold the phone,” I said. I turned it up. My sister nearly swerved off the road, because never in my life have I turned up the music when a Christmas song was on. “Is that—”
“—Paul McCartney!” she confirmed exuberantly, mistaking my question for enthusiasm.
“No,” I gasped, appalled. Ironically, it was a callback to my mother’s reaction to John Lennon’s death over two decades before, though arguably hers was probably more justified. “How could he?”
“Wha . . . you don’t like it?” My sister looked at me with big doe eyes, not unlike the peepers that made Mr. McCartney so popular with the now-senior-citizen crowd of my parents’ generation.
Now, gentle reader, there’s something you should know about my sister and me. We are very close. There is nobody else in the entire world who understands exactly how nutso our parents are, what it was like growing up with them at the helm, and nobody else who will crack up when I randomly throw “orange tree burglar” into a sentence. (See? You didn’t laugh just then. And if I explain, it won’t sound funny.) My point is, I love my big sister, and make it a point to never intentionally break her heart. Which my non-love of this Beatle’s Christmas song was clearly doing.
“Uh . . . what I mean is, how could he only do one Christmas song and not a whole album?” I lied.
My sister smiled. The lie was worth it.
The song came on four more times during our hour-long round trip drive. Kim turned it up every time, pleased we’d found a song I could stand.
Don’t tell her, but I really hate that song. And if I ever get the chance to meet Paul McCartney, he and I are going to have words.
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