As I tour the country performing The Forgotten Carols every night I am still asked how this project came to be. Depending on the time I have, and the energy I can muster, I try to give a bit of the background, but don’t always get around to telling one of the most personal parts of the story. I’d like to take the time and share that with you today.
I thought it was an obvious question, so I asked it. “Who needs new Christmas songs? We’ve already got “White Christmas”, “Chestnuts Roasting”, “Silent Night” and Handel’s “Messiah”.
This was my best argument for NOT doing a Christmas album. My record label countered:
“But look at the huge success of Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas albums.”
“Those records aren’t collections of new songs, they’re new arrangements of old ones and they prove my point, which is, that at Christmas we hunger for tradition, we crave the familiar. How else do you explain egg nog and fruit cake? And who would be arrogant enough to think they could write original material that would belong in the same CD player as the greatest and most beloved music of all time?”
Why were they looking at me like that? I didn’t know whether their silence was a form of agreement or an indictment. They asked me to just think about it, again.
“I already have…since you asked me last year…and the answer’s the same. I just don’t have anything to bring to the party. Sorry. ”
A part of me really wished I was a clever arranger or a wonderful orchestral guy so that I could do what they wanted, but I was a storytelling songwriter out of his depth when it came to Christmas.
I thought about it a lot, though. Wondered what musical approach to Christmas might cause me to re-examine and deepen my own feelings for the holiday. And then I’d put on my favorite Christmas albums and I realized that it had already been done by masters.
I can’t remember what sparked the idea, (perhaps it was a couple of years of wondering about it subconsciously) but early one December evening I was sitting at the piano and simultaneously a glimpse of a melody and a thought popped into my heart. What if we got a chance to talk to the innkeeper who turned away Joseph and Mary? What would he tell us? Maybe something like: “I am a man forgotten and no one recalls my name. Thousands of years have failed to fully erase my shame….”
There’s a moment in the creative process when something comes out of the blue, like a gift from a cherished but distant friend, that is so exciting it surpasses the thrill of your first bicycle. You can’t quite believe you’re so lucky, and you can’t wait to learn how to ride it.
As I was trying to channel the Innkeeper and transcribe his thoughts onto my legal size yellow pad, my son leaned against the edge of the entrance to my writing room and just stood there.
“What’s up?” I said, without giving him too much eye contact.
“Nothin’”
“You need somethin’?” I said it while penciling in a list of words that rhymed with shame…
“Nah…” He shuffled his feet, looked down and put his hands in his pockets.
For anyone who’s ever had a twelve year old, the grunts, shrugs, mono-syllables and shuffling are all part of a code language that isn’t all that difficult to translate, if you’re not in the middle of writing a song.
“You wanna talk about something?” I kept looking at the yellow pad and repeated a riff on the piano a few times. But I wasn’t completely insensitive. I played it softly.
My son shifted his weight and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m okay”.
“Good. Well if there’s anything you need, let me know…” I offered a partial glance, but no real eye contact. It may distract me and chase away the ever illusive creative muse that had just distilled upon my soul after years in hibernation in my subconscious.
I can’t recall exactly how long he stood there in the doorjam. I was too busy working on the song that might change the world. After all, wasn’t this my special gift and didn’t I have a responsibility to develop my talents (not to mention, pay the light bill). More than enough justification for me. I spent the next couple of hours finishing the song.
When I get real excited about a new song, I often sit at the piano in the middle of the night and play it over and over again until it feels pretty good to me. Then I start searching for an audience. Whoever’s in the house gets rounded up first. Sometimes, if nobody’s home and I’m desperate for feedback I’ll start calling friends and singing the latest creation over the phone. I’m not shy about grabbing people at the office, or at church, and strong-arming them to the nearest piano and putting on a little private concert. I don’t believe I sought my son’s opinion of this song. Strange, isn’t it, since the words I thought were about the Innkeeper and the babe of Bethlehem were really about my son and myself.
I am a man forgotten…No one recalls my name.
Thousands of years will fail to fully erase my shame.
But I turned a profit nicely that day
That I turned the couple away,
I turned them away.
I didn’t sleep that evening…though I’d sold out my place.
Somehow I felt uneasy…Something about her face
Why do I wish that I’d let them stay
I didn’t think they could pay..or could have paid
Restless, I left my bedroom…I walked the streets all night.
Lost in the world I lived in
Found by a heavenly light
Staring at one bright star in the sky
I heard a baby cry
And I knew where the cry had come from
Cause I’d told them where they could go
But I didn’t think I could face them
So I walked slowly home
Missing my chance to share in their joy
I never saw the boy
He never would condemn me
I did that all on my own
He offered his forgiveness
And ever since then I’ve known
He lets us choose each hour of each day
If we’ll let him in to stay
Let him in…let him in…
Let the joy and hope begin
Let him in…let him in.
Let the peace on earth begin.
And whether it be in your world todayOr a crowded Bethlehem inn.
Find a way,
Make him room,
Let him in.
Listen to “Let Him In”
My enthusiasm for the new Christmas song (and the album and book that followed) prevented me for quite some time, I’m ashamed to say, from seeing it’s deeper meaning. And my apology to my son was postponed far too long because I was so distracted by the attention given my newly born song-child.
I’m afraid that early in my career my song-children often received more attention than my flesh and blood children, possibly because I could mold my musical offspring just to my liking, and as young men they never complained.
They did what they were told and tried to become what I wanted them to become so I could hold them up to the world and take credit for them.
But human beings are a different deal. You can try to shape them and mold them, but in the end, they get to choose who and how they want to be. And the credit for their success belongs to them.
As much as my songs have taught me, I never brought a song into the world that taught me as much as my unique, independent, creative, spontaneous, insightful, passionate, intense, children. Come to think of it, it’s their musical siblings (like LET HIM IN) that have tried to teach me where my greatest happiness would be found, and from whom my greatest lessons would be learned How this all works, and works so well, is a mystery, a miracle and a gift…like Christmas itself.