Stop the Week 6

It’s Christmas Day! It snuck up on me, like I knew it would. I should have taken my cue from the weather. The temperature plunged alarmingly, an Arctic wind blew up and snow fell the other night when we were least expecting it, tucked up tight in our beds. There it was the next day, deep and crisp and even, turning the place into a winter wonderland.

It's a winter wonderland

The upshot of the matter is: we have a White Christmas. Bing the C. need dream no more. But Christmas has fallen on a Saturday this year and it doesn’t seem quite right. Taking Alf on his walk this morning, there wasn’t a soul to be seen. It just wasn’t like a Saturday. A Sunday’s fine, but a Saturday somehow doesn’t work properly.

Never mind, it’s Christmas and we’ve already opened our stockings together in the parental bed, made our phone calls to family and friends and opened our presents to each other. My daughter spent her pocket money on the most beautiful book on Paul Gauguin for her dad. I was touched to the core. And when she told me that she got it for a petit prix in a remainder shop, I was even more pleased. Clearly she’s a chip off the old block.

I did my customary bit and bought myself some music in anticipation of a cheque from my parents – most of which goes on practical things like electricity bills, but a little bit of which goes on frivolities for their son. I’ve already unwrapped another in my collection of Harmonia Mundi boxed sets of the best jazz from a given year. I wait until the discs cost little more than a euro each – and then I swoop. This 1955 set truly lives up to the generic name of the series: Les trésors du jazz. Check out amazon.fr, pop-pickers.

My sister and brother-in-law arrive tomorrow evening and they’re bringing a few more of my indulgences. There’s a double CD collection of that most romantic but tragic soul-singing partnership: Marvin Gaye and the delectable Tammi Terrell. She collapsed in his arms and poor bereaved Marvin was never the same man after that.

There’s a double CD of two of Horace Silver’s lesser-known gems from the 50s, which amazon.co.uk are virtually giving away. I saw the Great Man in Brighton once. It was a thrill, though slightly marred by Andy Bey’s vocals. He’s a good enough vocalist, but the joy of Horace Silver’s brand of funky jazz was its simplicity. It’s lack of unnecessary embellishments – like vocals.

Most of all, though, I’m a-quiver at the prospect of the complete works of Billie Holiday on the Columbia label. Many of them are in the company of her beloved Lester Young, he of the original pork-pie hat, who held his tenor sax at roughly 45 degrees off vertical, almost as if he were nursing an infant. Few would bother arguing that her Columbia recordings are probably the greatest examples of jazz vocals ever recorded.

An unassuming, mousey little man in the finance office of Brighton Unemployment Benefit Office introduced me to them over 25 years ago, when I wasn’t long out of university and eager to learn as much as I possibly could from whatever source presented itself. Alan lent me his treasured collection of double LPs, not knowing whether I might be one of those dreadful types given to scratching and fingering vinyl, but presumably prepared to make that leap of faith because of my youthful enthusiasm. There wasn’t a lot I could do to reciprocate, but I shall never forget his trust and generosity.

I’ve just eaten a bowl of cream of chestnut soup peeled by my good self and prepared by my dear wife. I’ve just listened to the Clifford Brown and Max Roach Quintet play ‘George’s Dilemma’. My daughter has just requested Sergeant Pepper. So my cup of yuletide joy overfloweth. It’s a happy Christmas for the privileged few on earth.

I bring you all glad tidings of comfort and joy. Comfort and joy.