The Redwoods Christmas Special

So I was going to do this post about All Of The Strands and some amazing work the Alopecia Aerata foundation was doing along with their super rad Christmas Cards. But then I realised that you couldn’t buy their Christmas cards in time anyway now because I forgot to post this sooner. So, an update on that and a rad interview with Chel, the amazing and inimitable champion who heads it up, will be coming once we have guitar recorded and a proper update on the release of the song. Expect it in January. Honestly, this time. Probably.

For those of you wondering where it’s up to, we’ve tracked all the instruments except for electric guitar. Drums need mixing and there’s a few vocal takes still to go, but it’s shaping up nicely.

We did also record a demo for a song called Silent Nights and Little Towns. It’s a song reflecting on how the amazing Christmas story has become so du jour and familiar that it actually doesn’t seem amazing; the sheer logistics of announcing the arrival of The King of Kings from celestial phenomenon to stopping an impending divorce to getting the right people together in the right place for the humblest entry imaginable. 

I personally have a bit of a bug-bear with Christmas Carols, especially ones about Santa and my most-hated song, Rocking Around The Christmas Tree. Musically, they’re all the same and I have to play them every year which frustrates me. But it takes a world of laughable fantasy and tries to put it on the same level as an event which changed the course of history. To sell cola, of all things. 

I could go on about this. Instead, here’s a stupid poem I wrote.

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Well maybe a mouse, for I didn’t see

What they might have been doing. I know. Silly me.

Perhaps the mice stirred, which may have seemed shocking,

But mice aren’t well-known for hanging up stockings,

And since they’ve no part in the rest of this tale,

I’ll say they were still, and call it a fail.

Anyway, so, as I said once before,

There was no sound of footsteps heading out on the floor,

(except perhaps tiny mammals, quite possibly mice,

I still can’t believe that I’m saying this twice,

Let’s be clear: in this tale, the mice had been fat,

And didn’t move because they’d been et by the cat.)

When Santa arrived with a bag full of cheer,

A bottle of schnapps, and a half keg of beer,

A hip-flask (was labelled “100% proof!”)

And crash-landed everything right through the roof.

The jolly fat man stumbled into our room

With his merry voice raised in obtuse Christmas tune:

“On Donner! On Dancer! On Prancer! Hey, miss-

Come sit down with Santa and give us a kiss!”

My wife, stupefied, arose with some flair

And pummeled poor Santa with the edge of a chair.

“This’ll teach you to break into our house!” she cried,

“If they give you the Chair, I’ll be happy you fried!”

Santa tried to raise his hand to object,

But by that stage, she’d gotten a hold of his neck,

An arm-bar, then choke hold, he was trying to tap,

She suplexed him right through the air on his back,

He lay down there prone, a-twitching and moaning,

While my wife at that moment the coppers was phoning,

“Come and help me!” she cried, “a fat man broke in!”

“You’re kidding,” I yelled, “the cops should help him.”

Poor Santa lay bleeding and trying to stand,

But my wife wore stilettos, and stepped on his hand,

“Come Rudolph! Come Blitzen! Come Dancer!” she screamed,

“Get your own on the Fat Man, he’s gonna get creamed.”

The sound of hoofs running, as the door opened wide,

And a half-dozen reindeer were stepping inside.

One walked up to Santa, looked him straight in the eyes,

Then lashed out and kicked him right between his thighs,

He objected, and called out, “I looked after you, right?”

“You jerk, you flew us right round the world in one night!

“Even QANTAS have better conditions!” they yelled,

“And we’re the ones who you’re making compelled;

Lift your own stupid sack!” as a hoof hit his ear, 

And now let me try to be perfectly clear,

It was seven on one! How could I intervene?

So Santa got beaten and I got away clean.

As the medics took him away on a stretcher,

I went in to check on young Jack and Fletcher,

Asleep with an air of child-like reassurance

Having missed out entirely their mother’s performance,

What would happen when they both got up in the morning?

No presents? No reindeer? No elves and no warning?

How could I look into those poor little faces,

And try to keep covered the blood-spattered places?

Their stockings were empty, so I figured instead

I’d just put in $50, and went back to bed.