It's Christmas, at one of those massive
family gatherings that requires a rented hall. Grand-parents,
great-grandparents, uncles and aunts, nephews, nieces and cousins,
and an incomparable host of distantly-removed cousins to boot. The
Pater Familias went ahead and hired a band to show up for an hour.
They trudge in — seasoned veterans to a person — set up their
equipment and tune up.
The band leader knows exactly what he's
in for. The Pater Familias is old enough to remember what an
electrical jolt it was to see Elvis on Sullivan. There's the usual
group of grizzled aunts and uncles who have staked their claim at the
bar at the back, where they guzzle VO and Coke between begrudging
trips outside into the weather for a smoke. And there are the young parents, anxious
for anything just a little hipper than what the purple dinosaur is
offering, and bracing themselves because their kids are going to cry when the music gets loud. And, of course, there are the hipster
yoots, milling at the edges of the crowd and smirking because they're
sure this is going to be bad — in a bad way.
All present and accounted for.
The band leader clears his throat,
strums the opening chord, and approaches the mic. Howls: “Children
go where I send theeeeee...”
It's old-timey rockabilly and it . . .
kinda . . . cooks!
With
this opening note, Nick
Lowe gets
the entire crowd on-side — and keeps 'em on-side for the remaining
45 minutes, covering all the bases from the sentimental, to the
sincere, to the inevitably acerbic (because how can you not
be?)
with just enough base-line rock 'n' roll to keep the hip young things
from leaving the room. It's a hell of a show, and it leaves everyone
smiling.
And it closes all-too-quickly, because too short is better than too
long. The usual music sweeps in and takes over the sound-system. It's
the Christmas everyone is familiar with.
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