The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. LVII

Time for another round of festive turntablin', America . . .

Album Title:  Christmas with

Album Artist:  Slim Whitman

Typical Christmas selection, here.

So, not going to lie, I have no idea who this guy is.  Before I go into this, I just wanna ask, who the hell names their baby 'Slim?'  And, if it's a self-imposed monicker, why 'Slim'?  Was he rail-thin growing up, and people made fun of him for it, or was it the polar opposite - was he a fat kid and people called him 'Slim' as a way of making fun of him?

Or, most likely, did he just move to Nashville, have difficulty booking gigs as a mediocre country musician who sounded just like hundreds of others trying to break into the business, and changed his name from 'Ottis' to 'Slim' in order to book the occasional dive-bar gig?

I'm going with the last one.

Anyway, as we've seen before time and time again in this here Record Odyssey of mine, I got suckered into picking this up by the cover art alone.  There's such a sleazy vibe to this Christmas album I couldn't not drop $1 on this one (which, if memory serves correct, was picked up at Radio Wasteland about a month ago.)  One glance at Slim on the front of this cover and you know what's about to go down.

You're about to be drugged and raped.

Just look at this guy and his decor and tell me I'm wrong, folks.

I might not know who this guy was when I read his name on the album cover, but I knew who he was when I saw this picture.  Slim lives in a gawdy ranch house, filled with shag carpet and gold-colored everything, somewhere down in Florida like Sarasota, or maybe out in Texas.  He drives a pastel-colored cadillac and all his attendants where bolo ties and alligator skin boots.

Slim acts like a mix between a cowboy and a princess, and walks about his mini-mansion (probably not a legit mansion, because I've never heard of this guy before) in slippers and a silk smoking jacket (like the one you see in the pics.)  Across his walls are his records and awards - hell, maybe he has a gold record for a random single up there somewhere, you never know - and pictures of him with more famous people who are more household names.  He has animal heads on his walls, too, but he didn't shoot them - he just thought they added to the decor that proves his country music-ness.

You CAN'T resist the Slim. . .

Now, let's say your a young woman and get invited back to Slim's ranch house after some award show or variety TV special or whatever.  Let us further say that it's around the Holiday season.  Slim is just the sort of guy that would put this very album - his own album - on the Hi-Fi, as he cha-chas across his living room shag carpeting to make you a Christmas cocktail.

Little do you know, he's about to give you the Bill Cosby treatment:  there's some serious shit he's just dropped into your drink.

As you start to sip on your cocktail, and Slim flashes you the same, dirty-as-f*** car salesman smile that he's flashing you on this album cover, you start to feel drowsy and a little out of sorts.  At first, you assume it's the Vaseline-slathered sound production of this snooze-fest of an album that's putting you to sleep:  God knows this record sounds just like every other country singer's lame attempt at the classic Holiday Crooner approach to making a Christmas album.  Like when Glenn Campbell tries to be Frank Sinatra. . . except when Slim does it, it just sounds creepy, as if he's about to put something in your drink.

And that's when it hits you, Young Missy:  you're about to be date-raped by Slim Whitman.

Happy Holidays!

VERDICT:  4/10 - Borophyll (Bad things will happen to you if you fall asleep to this album. . . and you will fall asleep while listening to this album.)

- SHELVED -