The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. CVIII

Welcome back to the Odyssey. Grab a drink, guys - you're gonna need it for this one. . .

Album Title:  Swingle Bells

Album Artist:  Various Artists

A quick glance at this one, one is immediately struck by the 'clever' play on words, Swingle Bells. You know, 'Jingle Bells'. . . buuuuuut with some kind of a 'swing' element thrown in. So when I saw this one at Radio Wasteland last weekend (this one I snatched up recently), I figured this was too good to pass up. 

I mean, 'swing' could mean several, different things. Perhaps it's the sort of swing from the 1940s, the Glenn Miller variety. Or it could also mean 'swing' in the 1960s, pop way (a la Ray Conniff, etc.) Maybe some kinda Hooked on Swing sorta thing, who knows.

But then one's eyes are drawn to the rainbow coloring of the text, and 'swingle' suddenly takes on a whole, different meaning all together. Perhaps, dear readers, 'swing' in this sense is a Saturday night party, in some South Florida gated community, where a bunch of older guys get together, drink a lot of bad things, and do lots of gross stuff to one another. Underneath the mistletoe, of course - this is a Christmas album. 

I mean honestly, this could go in a lot of different directions, folks.

Yet, now that I'm listening to it, I still don't know what to make of this album.

First things first, these aren't legit artists - if they were, they'd have their name on the front cover (or, at the very least, credited next to the songs on the track listing on the back.) No, this is like an eight-person a cappella group (too shitty to even have a frickin' name) but backed by a stripped down band of - I assume - local studio musicians. The production value of this album, while certainly not setting anyone back in terms of 'paying for talent,' is at least mixed well.

And that, dear readers, is about the only thing that this weird, weird album has going for it.

What I've learned this evening is that there is, indeed, such as thing as too much 'swing.'

The singers on this album can definitely carry a tune, so there's nothing to complain about in terms of their actual voices, per se, but rather it's the manner in which they're wielding these voices of theirs that's the issue.  There's a lot of scat-singing (I'd say 'scatting' here, but I think that has to do with animal poop or something), which actually outranks yodeling on the Most Annoying Singing Styles Scale. 

Like, why use words when you can just sing 'bum-bum-ba-dum dum, biddy-biddy-dabba-babba' and crap like that to the tune of Christmas carols?

What the f***.

Technically, there's only like eleven tracks on this particular album, but most of these are medleys, which means the overly-jazzy, full-swinging scat-singing usually stops after the first leg of the medley and then abruptly transitions into a church choir singing softly and quietly the unintelligible lyrics to some European peasant carol. You literally go from go-go dancing to German monks singing in crumbling cathedrals in only a handful of measures. Call it a medley if you want, but I think it's more accurately referred to as a shitshow.

"Thank you coming to this evening's performance.  Have a safe drive home."

Want a feeling for what this album sounds like? Pretend you and your date are going out to your local Community College for a Thursday evening (yes, Thursday evening) musical program, back in the mid-'60s. Neither of you attend said Community College, nor do you know anyone who goes there, but admission is only $2 and what the hell, right?  Well, it's the Holiday season, so you're expecting to hear some Christmas songs (that's a no-brainer) so after you guys pick up some complimentary hot chocolates and take your seats (first come first serve, folks), the 'show' starts. 

The theater and music clubs that put this on then take the stage, all dressed in black turtlenecks. There's interpretive dance, there's a small collection of beatnik musicians at the rear of the stage (all clearly high as kites), and there's a lot of spoken word deliverance between the music numbers, delivered by angry-looking women who seem to hate the Holidays just as much as they hate the Patriarchy. 

At the end of the evening, on the drive home, your date doesn't say a f***ing word to you. And you never hear from them again.

Sound like fun?  Of course it doesn't.

VERDICT:  3/10 - Seriously? (Turns out 'scat' does mean shit.)

- SHELVED-

- Brian