Electronic Christmas music played outdoors
My next-door neighbors have decided to celebrate Christmas in a very public manner. They have set up a festive, glowing Virgin Mary 'n' Jesus display, accompanied by strings of white Christmas lights. They've also installed a little outdoor intercom speaker that glowers down upon the sidewalk with a palpable aura of low-tech electronic menace.
The lights are fine. Different people have different philosophies on Christmas lights, but unless your neighbors have gone off their nut and turned the house into a blazing beacon of Christendom, it's pretty easy to ignore the illumination and get on with life.
The speaker, however, is not fine. It plays Christmas carols that sound like they're being plinked out by a 1984-era Yamaha electric keyboard.
The speaker belches forth quite a medley of festive holiday tunes, including "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," "Jingle Bells," "Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer," "The Twelve Days of Christmas" and "Silent Night." Each ranges in length from between 21 and 41 electronic beeps and boops.
It's hard to decide which to hate most. On one hand, there's something both pathetic and frustrating about hearing a single instrumental verse of "The Twelve Days of Christmas." "The Twelve Days of Christmas" is not a song that should be contained within a short series of slightly warped electronic pulses of sound. It needs space to breathe.
On the other hand, the bittersweet irony of "Silent Night" being rendered as a series of infuriating, nearly atonal notes floating through the neighborhood at 9 p.m. makes it a real contender.
An obvious option is to just play Soul Coughing albums at a volume sufficient to drown out any trace of the hellish Christmas dirges. But that eventually grows frustrating — sometimes silence can sound even sweeter than the faux-satanic rhyme chanting of lead-singer M. Doughty.
Another option is to call the police. But, really. That's not acceptable, although it would be pure pleasure to see officers of the law fire a volley of hollow-point bullets into rendition #522 of "Rudolph."
A third option would be to personally destroy the speaker. But that would be unquestionably evil. It's easy to imagine some sad, gray-haired granny emerging from the house the next night to see why the 25 notes of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" aren't merrily streaming through the cold December air. Hey, that's not cool.
So the civilized choice is to pay the neighbors a holiday visit, and see if there's some kind of volume control. But the neighborhood is Portuguese, as are most of the neighbors. Having a sensitive conversation about how projected religious feelings are annoying the living hell out of you is difficult enough with absolutely no language barrier. And the gulf between English and Portuguese can be formidable indeed, as proved by a recent trip to the local butcher, "Live Poultry, Fresh Killed."
The woman behind the counter was nice enough, but her English was heavily accented. After working for about 10 minutes to communicate my interest in buying four pounds of chicken breasts with skin and bone (for a chicken pot pie), I decided to push it, and explore the store's selection.
Flak: By the way, do you have any chicken broth?
Counterwoman (speaking with a heavy accent): Broth?
Flak: Yes, broth.
Her: Broth?
Flak: Yeah, chicken broth.
Her: You have to bring your own container.
Flak (surprised, charmed): Oh. Really?
Her: Yes, come in the morning. Come tomorrow morning, bring your own container. It's Saturday tomorrow, come at eight.
Flak: And then I'll get chicken broth.
Her: (smiling and suddenly sympathetic): Are you Portuguese?
Flak: (smiling back uncertainly): Uh, no.
Her: (clearly articulating the noun in question): Oh, well it's usually only Portuguese people who like the chicken blood.
Flak: (getting it): Oh, blood, yeah! Well. My. I'm cooking tonight, so tomorrow morning is a bit late. But I'll bring my own container next time I drop by!
Her: Okay, have a nice night!
All in all, a close call. Had the visit taken place in the morning, the nice Portuguese lady might have proudly handed over a half-gallon milk jug filled to the brim with coagulating chicken blood.
Therefore, let the music play on. Ruby Vroom can take it.
— James Norton (jrnorton@flakmag.com)
