As Andy Williams famously sang, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year…”. To many people, Christmas certainly is that. However, even the most devoted “Christmasophile” can find the constant assault on their senses and wallet to be somewhat debilitating. Like so much of modern life, Christmas has been transformed into a commercial crusade, seemingly endless competition for the almighty buck…your almighty buck.
This is my last column before the “Don’t Believe A Word I Say” Christmas hiatus. Pull up a chair and I will regale you with some of my Christmas memories. Not in strict chronological order, but I hope to shed some light on Christmas on Franklin Street in the 60’s and 70’s.
There was probably a time when one release would not have meant as much to me as it does today. I worked in the record business for so many years I became jaded, the major labels releasing numerous albums each month and the independents trying to squeeze the few that they had through the stampede. I never really cared about the really big ones— it is a part of me I have had since I was very young, this aversion to the stars— and have learned only within the past ten to fifteen years to really appreciate the significance of the lesser-knowns. I get tired of all the pissing and moaning about how the “new” music biz has watered down the quality of music and allowed the less talented to record massive amounts of lesser works. As if they were lesser.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 