The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. CXXXIX

Today we crawl back down into the nether regions of all things vinyl, down to the moldy, bottom shelves of your local Goodwill, in order to dust off another cast-aside relic from yesteryear. . . . . .

Album Title:  Christmas Wishes

Album Artist:  Anne Murray

Anne Murray isn't someone I've ever listened to before, but I've been aware of her since childhood - she was one of those artists 'adults who don't really listen to music' listen to. Like people who shy away from amplifiers because they feel making guitars loud is 'too much.' You know those people? The weird people from your parents' church that you only interact with at uncomfortable potlucks in the church basement, where during forced conversation they breathe too loud out of their nose and their breath smells like cough drops and cats.

God those people are the absolute worst.

This chick sold a shit-load of albums back in the day, and so there's clearly a whole swath of horrible people out there who snatched up her music off a K-Mart shelf whenever she came out with another bright, shiny collection of turds. And while this music definitely isn't something that I would listen to, I can see the appeal; a non-offensive blend of easy listening with a country twang, personified by an older white woman with the 80's equivalent of a Karen haircut. There is certainly nothing controversial about Anne or her music, she's a very vanilla singer. Maybe that's the Canadian in her, who knows.

This genre of music was consumed and discarded at a rate I haven't seen with any other. The easy listening, quasi- faith-based music was gobbled up by the elderly back in the day, and as those folks died off and their estates were liquidated, all of their shitty music was donated to local thrift stores. Truly, we find Anne's offering here in the same vein as some of the other Goodwill-tier Holiday albums I've reviewed in the past (The Lettermen, Roger Whitaker, etc.) Listening to Anne Murray's music gives one the same feeling one gets when starting to nod off while behind the wheel. As she crone-croons you into a false sense of peaceful slumber, you're half-aware of the fact that disaster awaits you the second you close your eyes and let down your guard.

The biggest problem with records like these is consistency. Not a lack thereof, mind you, but the opposite: a firm dedication to keeping every, last song sounding the exact same, from start to finish. No variation in tempo, no variation in vocal range, no variation in musical instrumentation or arrangement, etc. I imagine the sound engineer and the album producer came into the studio one evening and put masking tape over half the sliders in the recording booth and wrote 'DO NOT TOUCH' on half the mixing board.

The metronome should have been listed in the back cover credits, for sure. It's doing all the heavy lifting here.

Anne mostly sticks to familiar standards on this album (thank the f***ing Lord), but she still managed to squeeze in one, God-awful original onto this track list, the title track 'Christmas Wishes.' This song sounds identical to everything else on this album, except that it adds in a quiet, electric guitar soloing in the background. Nothing impressive or even remotely cool, though; this guitarist sounds like he's the sort of guy who sports a ponytail and only one earring. Maybe a leather vest over a tucked-in shirt, too. The kind of guy who roller-blades and knows how to do four or five magic tricks.

Listening to Anne's voice is weird, because you can almost hear her scowl as she sings. She's no soprano, to be sure, and it's a little bit of that mixed with the restraint she exhibits while singing that gives this impression. Like she doesn't have a lot of range, she never raises her voice and gets those high notes, and maybe it's her acknowledgement of her own limitations that give off the vibe that she's angry at the microphone. Hell, maybe she knows she's not Canada's greatest singer (they only have something like six singers, so that's gotta sting a little), and is all salty about it.

In closing, I think her outfit choice for the album artwork is a brave move on her part. I wouldn't have wanted to draw the Star Wars comparison, but hell - what does she have to lose at this point?

VERDICT:  4/10 - Borophyll (Another titan of Goodwill delivers another boring-as-watching-paint-dry Holiday album.)

- SHELVED -

- Brian

The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. LXIX

Alright, alright. . . we got another thrift store find to dust off and subject to some audio scrutiny.

Album Title:  The Gifts of Christmas

Album Artist:  Various Artists

So, full disclosure here, I did not just pop this out of the sleeve and throw it on my turntable, folks.  I'm not a savage, give me some credit.  I picked this one up at the Bethesda thrift store a week or so ago (when I picked up that stack featuring a few of my previously-evaluated selections), and I gave each one of these sons-of-bitches a thorough cleaning on the ol' Spin Clean before dropping a needle onto them.  They were pretty gross.

The Wicker Man heralds the beginning of the Apocalypse.

So, this collection is from the 'Guideposts' people of Carmel, New York.  I have no idea what in the hell that means, but apparently this was a big deal and all, because this is an exclusive recording.  I mean, you can't just slap that name on any old album, can you?  God knows they paid out the ass for this top-tier art layout on the front cover (see right).  Check out the Wicker Man angel, for Christ's sake.  They only needed one picture for the front of this damn record, and that's the one they went with.

Maybe the music speaks for itself, so they didn't need to fork out a lot of dough on art direction, I don't know.  Let's see who exactly we're dealing with here:

Holy f***ing shit.

This is a Christmas no one alive still remembers.

You read that right, guys.  Percy Faith, Jim Nabors, Mitch Mitchell, Kate Smith.  That's like the Four Horseman of the Goodwill Vinyl Apocalypse.  I swear to God, if you go into a thrift store trying to find a diamond LP in the rough that is their moldy-smelling vinyl offerings, you're going to find each and every one of these assholes highly represented.  Wedged right in there among the Mantovani records, polka collections, church recordings, Mills Brothers, Lawrence Welk. . . you see where I'm goin' with this.

Well, these guys straight-up carpet bomb this album with shittiness.  I honestly can't see which one of these assholes I hate the most, they all sound like people pretending to sing.  Like, karaoke singing, if you will.  The arrangements themselves are of the Great Songs of Christmas variety, but lacking the Frank Sinatra and Julie Andrews talent that makes those compilations, while boring in their own right, at least somewhat palatable.

No, 70% of this album is pure garbage.  Like, 2/10 on the ol' Odyssey Rating Scale of mine, that's what we're dealing with here.  

But, then we have a couple rare glimpses of hope pop up from time to time.  A choir/instrumental medley on the third track of Side A isn't half-bad - if anything, it's generic background Christmas music.  Alas, when compared to the rest of the crap on this album, it shines like a frickin' star.  

Then, you have Johnny Cash with a track on here ('I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day'), and while it's not necessarily great (because, as I've said before, his Christmas songs rarely are), it's still Johnny frickin' Cash, and the man's mere presence on this record is enough to drag this sludge-fest up a point on its own.  Aside from him, there's a pretty soulful track from Mahalia Jackson (not sure if she's any relation to the dead child molester), who belts out a Southern Gospel-styled rendition of 'Go Tell It on the Mountain' that is way better than it should be, and, as such, stands out on this album like a sore thumb.

So, needless to say, consistency is definitely not this album's strong suit.  Honestly, I don't think it has one at all.  A dusting of songs on here are decent, most of the album is bottom-shelf, thrift store fare, and the arrangement styles are all over the damn place.  The only people who would possibly like this horrible, horrible collection are elderly people who shop daily at thrift stores, and who actually like artists like Percy Faith, Jim Nabors, Kate Smith, and Mitch Mitchell.

All the more reason for me to return this as soon as possible.  After all, there might be elderly women waddling about Salvation Army as we speak, looking for Christmas records to liven up the Hi-Fi's in their crotchet-covered living rooms.  And Christmas is a time for giving, America.

VERDICT:  4/10 - Boraphyll (A parade of Goodwill heavyweights let loose in all their shittiness, and not even Johnny Cash is enough to salvage this boring record from the dusty, mothball Hell from whence it came. . . and to where it'll be returning very shortly.)

- SHELVED -

- Brian

As Falls Tahquamenon, So Falls Tahquamenon Falls, Pt. II

(contd.)

Tahquamenon Falls - Day Two

The girls and womenfolk all slept in until about 9am or so - the previous day's long car ride, insane humidity, hike to the Falls, and drawn-out site set-up process had worn everyone out.  I, however, am an early riser, regardless of what time I go to bed, so I was up at 6:30am or so (five-hour nights of sleep are pretty commonplace for me while camping.)  While everyone else slept in, I brewed a pot of coffee (yes, we also brought our very own coffee maker this year), and got to reading my current novel of choice, Caldwell's Pillar of Iron.

Abby was the second up in the morning, and made a bee line straight for the powdered donuts.  As you can see here.

Photo courtesy of the Cannonball.

Like last year, we once again utilized the trunk of a vehicle for a 'pantry,' and this year used Smitty and Rita's, since we'd be driving around Kris' van throughout the week (it seats more people than the Smitties' SUV.)

A couple of lazy girls - and not their dad - enjoying a peaceful morning in the hammock.

Professional Photobomber.

I tried to enjoy this, but with kids. . . you just don't enjoy much in the morning.

Back at the Lower Falls, later in the morning.  Killing time before Smitty woke up from his hibernation.

Not sure which of my photographically-impaired children took this.  I was done with taking pictures from such a crappy vantage point - we were planning on getting closer on Day Three, when we'd be to hiking from the Lower to the Upper Falls.

Portrait cutouts.  Never gets old.

Both girls really wanted souvenir novelty pennies from the souvenir store.  50 cents apiece?  Done.

Our seating arrangement, whenever we drove anywhere, usually looked like this.  Sometimes the girls were in the backseat, sometimes Rita and Kris were in the back, and other times they were staggered like this.  Regardless, Smitty drove and I rode shotgun. . . except instead of carrying a shotgun, I equipped an SLR.

Smitty and Lake Superior.

This year, we devised a pretty good plan for scheduling our activities.  We knew what we wanted to do in the area before heading up there - we had planned it all out after the girls' combo party early in June - we just didn't have any dates set for these activities.  We kept everything 'weather dependent' - sunny day activities, rainy day activities, humid day activities, etc. - and was therefore able to remain flexible and un-stressed about seeing everything we wanted to.  The previously-mentioned hike, for example, would take up an entire day, and we settled on tomorrow for that activity because it'll be in the mid-70s and brightly sunny (we didn't want to spend hours and hours hiking if it was too hot, or rainy.)  Since today was going to be rainy, we selected our 'rainy day' activity:  shopping in Sault Ste Marie.

Smitty and Rita, like me, are die-hard thrift shoppers, and they have a cool tradition of whenever they travel somewhere they swing by the local Goodwill or Salvation Army in order to score some plunder.  As fortune would have it, there just so happened to be a Goodwill in the Sault.  As always, I picked up a some records - a few LPs and four super-hokey German 45s - along with a large Ghanaian fertility statue, a couple t-shirts (since I had packed for slightly cooler weather, and it was hot as hell up here), and some bandanas.  Spent $11.  I love thrift shopping.

The Tower of History.  Looks like some shitty Lego tower one of my nephews would build.

Some boat thing.

The Sault Locks - for those of you not in the know - connect Lakes Superior and Huron, and provides major shipping lanes to access the Midwest and interior Canada.  Tons of freighters pass through the Locks on a regular basis, and since shipping is such a large part of this town's livelihood, there's a lot of boat-related what-have-you to be found throughout town.  Like, for example, floating ship museums.

Some fort we didn't stop at - we were driving around looking for a place to park.

We had to pay a meter, which always sucks, but we found a good spot nestled square in the middle of the Sault's touristy stretch of souvenir stores, fudge shops, and assorted eateries.

Not much in this town has changed since the '60s/'70s by the looks of things. . . 

It was nearing lunch time, so we ducked into this nautically themed diner for some grindage.

The girls check out the kids menu while we wait for a table to open up.

We were eventually seated upstairs, overlooking the touristy street and the Locks, which was pretty cool. 

I had eaten a protein bar shortly before we left our campsite, so I wasn't necessarily hungry.  A Bloody Mary, however, was just my cup o' tea.

Some painting I came across, just outside the Men's Room.  I imagine this is what I'll probably look like at 60.  Or 50.

Abby makes a friend.

While waiting for Smitty to get out of the bathroom, following our meal, Kris took this picture of an imaginary family.

Smitty gets some local attraction insight from a quirky store owner, while the womenfolk poke around yet another souvenir shop.

After shopping for an hour or two, Smitty wanted some ice cream. . .  and the girls unsurprisingly backed him up.

Mustachios.

Back in the car after our ice cream break, we made one last stop in Sault Ste Marie before heading back to our campsite:  Meijer.  We had to buy a few more food items, some more beer, and a few other odds and ends that had been overlooked or used up prematurely.

Smitty more or less serves as a one-man entertainment committee for our girls whenever we go camping.  They're drawn to him like moths to a flame.

Smitty and I wanted to take a different route back to our site, which would add about 15 minutes to our trip, but would be broken up by multiple (historic) stops.  From Tahquamenon State Park to the Sault, it's a looooong stretch of boring highway.  For the way back, we wanted a quieter, more-forested route that was littered with spots of interest.

Like this, for example.

The Point Iroquois Lighthouse.  We stopped off here and were fortunate enough to have the place practically to ourselves - there was one other car in the parking lot, and we never saw the people.

Some totally f***cked up stuff happened on the beach behind this lighthouse back in the 17th century.  You should seriously read up on it.

All hail the Butt Bucket.

Abby sprints off for the beach behind the lighthouse. . .

(From Abby's camera.)

Checking out Lake Superior

Smoke break while the kids toe along the shoreline.

Back of the lighthouse, from the beach.

The Smitties.

The Houghs.

Comforting the Cannonball, who saw a bug.  Seriously.

These piles of stones (sometimes, and usually incorrectly, referred to as cairns) are ancient symbols utilized in cultures around the world, dating back to the dawn of mankind, that indicate a spot of importance.  Often times they indicate a person passed by here, and purposely left behind the stones to mark a trail for people who would come by later.  Like the bow and arrow, domestication of the dog, and the utilization of fire, this is one of those skills that man must have possessed before spreading out of Africa, hundreds of thousands of years ago, and that survived in various civilizations for ages.  

Yours Truly in front of a tower I didn't climb up.

Here.  Educate yourself.

I love it when properties feel the need to break it down for the masses like this.

The beginning of the Sinister Stairs. . .

Smitty ascends.  Rita and I stayed at the bottom of this nonsense:  it was a tight stairwell that went up and up for a long, long way, and was about 30 degrees warmer (and more humid) than the fresh, outside air.  No thanks, lighthouse.

Kris and the girls, however, are more masculine than I, and were able to enjoy the view from the top.

What an adorable family.

Coming back down to ground-level.

This bird feeder is ridiculous.

There was a 'museum' in the main building of the station, adjoining the lighthouse, that was still open, so we decided to waltz through their before heading back to the van.

I guess this is what the living room in the lighthouse station looked like back in the 1950s.  I'm not sure if the people who run this place know what a 'museum' is. . .

Some people in frames.  I'm assuming they had something to do with the lighthouse station, but since there weren't any informational placards to be found (See: Running a Museum for Dummies), I wasn't sure.

And here's a kitchen.  Just go ahead and put the ironing board right there in the middle of everything, guys, it's cool.

I bet that pie is expired.  I'd toss it out.

Back outside, we saw this dude putzing along the shoreline.  You can't really tell, but this thing was HUGE - it was a ways off the shoreline, and I'm using a telephoto lens in this pic.

Another gratuitous lighthouse station picture, this time with a different lighting setting.

Leaving Point Iroquois, we continued along our rural drive along the shoreline, passing by a ton of creepy run-down buildings, shacks, trailers, and - on occasion - railcars.

The rain, which had been foretold to us by meteorologists and weather apps days before, had yet to appear all day.  Our day in the Sault - while occasionally cloudy - was dry as a bone.  On our way back to the campsite, however, things began to look perilous in the skies.  As we stopped off to check out this overlook on the side of the road, we began to hear rumblings in the distance.

Trouble brewing over Lake Superior. . .

Safe bet that all Hell's about to break loose. . .

By the time we hit Paradise, we were getting slammed with rain.  We stopped off to pick up more firewood and ice, and one of the girls snapped a picture of some asshole getting soaked while picking out hardwood.

Miraculously, the rain passed us by in less than twenty minutes.  All those clouds throughout the day, all that build-up, for a mere twenty-minute downpour.  We totally lucked out.  The sun even came out (a little bit) in the evening, and we were able to enjoy our campsite in peace for the rest of the night.

A super-serious Kris picks out a hamburger bun.

We stocked up on a few of these bad boys before the trip, you bet your ass.  The mosquitos and black flies up here are ruthless, and so we kept a constant candlelight vigil throughout the evenings.

. . . .aaaaand, in closing, here's the Cannonball.  Doing what she does best.

- Brian