Billy Babel Rings in the New Year

'Twas the week before Christmas when I agreed to bring my much-adored current Billy to a neighborhood gathering of holiday-themed rounds singing. In terms of gifts from the universe, it was maybe the best White Elephant we've yet shared. 

What, one might wonder, could be some pertinent reasons I would be strongly advised to decline an invite to such an occasion? Well, aside from the most obvious facts that a) I am not at all religious, while most Christmas-based songs tend to Keep The Christ In Christmas™, and b) I also mostly dodge my neighbors, c) I am borderline musically-illiterate.  

(Fuck it, I'll just get the clef's notes for this thing.)

Here's the thing: a good hearty wassailing is no doubt a fine activity for a somewhat-marriageable, Dickensian-type lass of yesteryear.* But it is, to put it nicely, an unlikely setting in which to find yours truly and/or any Billy who would willingly spend time with me. 

*(Speaking of lasses of yesteryear, a Young Susie Solo did in fact sit through semesters upon semesters of gradeschool music class (in a private Prep-school that could actually afford instruments and a teacher who was not also responsible for gym class, no less!). But during this era, I was generally relieved to be relegated to the back row finger-cymbals or the plastic recorder. Additionally, Braces-Wearing Tweener Susie took several years' worth of violin lessons, at the bribery of a grandmother who promised a pony in exchange for the achievement of some measure of musical prowess. Unfortunately, these lessons were Suzuki method, meaning that though I learned, through endless complaint-filled diligence, how to play barely-recognizable renditions of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, I managed it by ear rather than via any sort of sheet music reading, which apparently never amounted to enough skill to merit that horse.)

(At least I got those buckteeth fixed.)

A note about the neighbor-dodging: 

I live in a community that wholeheartedly embraces such things as regular potlucks, unscreened talent shows, and carpooling. While these activities are all indicative of good, wholesome neighborhood camaraderie, they also happen to be the sort of fairly socially-awkward events that I generally will go to heroic lengths to avoid getting roped into any more. 

Lest you presume I'm a complete misanthrope, please take into consideration that I did show up to one such potluck early on in my residency. I also coerced The Mover, my then-housemate, into attendance, where we both almost lost our shit halfway through a completely unexpected, horrifically protracted "silent hand-holding circle" sort of hippie cult welcome ritual. The fact that it involved lights-dimming and low candlelight - which might be what sent us over the edge - may have also been our only face-saving grace. Anyway, keep this circle habit in mind.

Look: my neighbors are all very nice folks, with whom - unless you truly enjoy sharing hummus recipes and engaging in group-breathing-exercises to align your chakra at HOA meetings - extended eye-contact is not recommended. 

(Oh and also, in a largely-uncomfortable, semi-recent, and intervention-like parking lot encounter, it was furtively suggested to me by a united contingent of the Garden Meditation Club - yes, that's a thing in our neighborhood - that a certain sort of a cappella song coming from my home, the bedroom window of which happens to overlook the community gardens, apparently brings less joy to nosy frost-season kale-tenders than is experienced by those performing the duet. Fine. We'll have kitchen-sex.)

(Oh hey Susie, can I talk to you about that unsorted trash you threw out last night? Condoms are recyclable, you know.)

But, I have in recent times acquired a new puppy, whose incessant need for outdoor neighborhood walking time has already led to all manner of unintended interactions with other adult humans. To wit: the very sweet lady who coordinates the abovementioned yearly rounds singing soirees approached while I was immobilized by my puppy's choice decision to take a protracted shit upon the pristine white snow of this woman's winter-wonderland flowerbeds, under which duress I agreed to attend. Why? Because I am absolutely terrible at telling people no.

Luckily for me, my current Billy - who for the purpose of this post I'll refer to as Billy Babel - is absolutely terrible at telling me no, so on the spot, I presumed I'd at least have a backup singer. 

Um. I don't sing, stated Billy Babel flatly when I arrived back at our doorstep, bringing the good tidings as well as a bag of dog feces clutched in my hand like an especially pungent offering of frankincense.

But... you *could* sing, right? If you *had* to?, I countered. Billy Babel's expression was a roadmap of the exact strain of dismay visible on the face of a child upon whom it has just dawned for the very first time that it is possible for the ones you love to betray you very, very deeply:

(Oh come on, nobody even said you had to wear a tie, Billy.)

How bad could it possibly be?, I plied, after casually repeating our now-mandatory plans for the evening to reinforce the itinerary. Billy Babel cracked open an IPA and frowned in a sort of festively desperate way. 

But you grew up Catholic!, I persisted. You sang in church, right? You can at least understand a music staff, right?? I NEED YOU. Billy Babel sighed, barely containing his excitement at having been cornered. He downed his beer and reached immediately for the fridge handle in jolly silence.

That's the spirit!, I said merrily, pouring a hefty share of Bota-Box red into a glass. And so together, we began our preparation for the coming eve's caroling adventure.

Now, one might assume, given the audition-and-prerequisite-free, friendly-neighborhood-recreation nature of this gathering, that the songs chosen would be well-known classics accessible to singers of all ages and ability levels. One might also assume, having literally been recruited off the sidewalk whilst holding a warm bag of animal poop such as I had been, that the expected vocal skill of participants would span a wide range, including such well-intentioned but heavily novice merry-makers as Billy Babel and I.

One would be wrong.

(Well this verse seems easy enough...)

When Billy Babel and I semi-inebriatedly showed up in decidedly relaxed attire (read: elastic waistbands), following the smells of cookies and cinnamon-spiced cider at the promised hour, what we heard while pausing to shake off the Jack Frost-y cold and steady our collective drink-buzz in the entryway to the Community Hall was not, as expected, a boisterous cacophony of voices into which ours would easily blend. What we heard was not a babel at all. What we heard was orderly and coordinated and intimidatingly angelic. What we heard emanating from the Community Hall sounded like the goddamn Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

(Shit. And we forgot our neighborhood-issue robes!)

There were printed packets - each up to 20 double-sided pages - of this year's songs, most of which had clearly seen numerous rehearsal usages in the month leading up to this event. There were four-part harmonies. There were multiple-arrangement verses in other languages. There were accent solos flying about. There were our neighborhood's denizens all trimmed in their well-pressed (male) and most-sequined (female) holiday finery, harmonizing their blessedly earnest hearts out in pitch-perfect precision like all the Whos in Whoville. And all the chairs in the Community Hall had been pre-positioned into a large circle (I should have already known my neighbors' love for circles!), meaning there was nowhere for Billy Babel and I to discreetly hide.

Billy Babel tenderly crushed my winter-mittened hand in his as all eyes in the room turned our way, and he shot me the sort of one-millisecond between-lovers glancing look that's capable of canceling Christmas for at least the next three years.

(Noooobody notices our red noses, we're fine.)

And then we took the last two seats available, and our song-maestro announced the next selection would be an easy one for our newcomers to warm up with, whereupon everyone launched with eager precision into a sprightly and complex jingle that caused us to both silently panic and elbow one another frantically with holiday delight. This was not "Frosty the Snowman." This was not "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" or "Jingle Fucking Bells." This was not the humble, homey manger-gathering we'd been expecting.

Oh, just jump in on whichever voice part you normally sing, our song-maestro/captor stage-whispered in our direction with glee.

Yes yes, of course, whichever voice part we would normally sing! She clearly had no idea how meaningless this particular string of words was to both of us. There was no escape, outside of a Christmas miracle, which for Christ's sake did not come. So Billy Babel and I blinked back in yuletide horror at the ring of expectant celebrants, and without any remaining options, we both took deep breaths, and then took the plunge.

(Just... move... lips...)

It became immediately clear, to all in attendance who were not deaf, that this was not going to go well. 

While I alternated skillfully between complete lip-syncing and a timid and off-meter voice that could best be likened to the sweet sounds our puppy makes when she is desperate to get out the door with explosive diarrhea at 3 a.m., Billy Babel masterfully began booming out-of-tune notes in the style and cadence of a singing GoBot with several fuses blown. 

We killed it. 

Eyebrows began to politely arch around the circle, no doubt in amazement at our vocal stylings. The neighbor seated immediately to my left casually placed her finger into her right ear, causing our uplifted voices to slowly snowball into the staccato sounds of a losing battle to fight off hysterical laughter. Billy Babel and I struggled to keep it together, both of us trying and failing to tune each other out for at least a fighting chance of latching onto a neighbor's voice as a guide. But nobody was capable of guiding that sleigh tonight.

(Community Hall closed-circuit camera footage, closed-captioning added.)

After perhaps seven distinctly different verses broken out into at least five groups of rounds-singers, our simple warm-up song of peace and goodwill (or this is what I would guess it addressed, based on my limited familiarity with Latin verbiage) drew to a close. While one would think that the not singing part of any song would have naturally been our one moment to shine like the star of Bethlehem, this proved unexpectedly challenging: all the neighbors were apparently aware of some secret signal indicating when the final round had been sung, of which we had not been informed. Suddenly the entire ring of rosy-cheeked revelers silenced as though an unseen director had done the finger pinch, leaving our two atonal and now-unaccompanied voices to continue heedlessly mangling the opening notes of another round of our part, before falling into a rapid yet still uncoordinated fadeout. Billy Babel's eyes thereafter closed in what I can only presume was a private reverie of sugarplum fairies, while his entire body soundlessly began to shake like a bowlful of jelly for some reason.

(Sit up straight and use your diaphragm to really hit those last notes.)

One hour, or possibly several millenia later, we managed to beg out of the remaining ten or so songs in the packet under the pretense of puppy-kennel-training duty, exclaiming our warmest apologies, ere we skulked out of sight.

Returning to our house, we were enthusiastically greeted by said puppy belting out unbridled songs of great comfort and joy, which we accompanied with our own pent-up laughter until we were both in tears. Even the dog might have laughed a little. 

But you know what? That warmup song really did make our spirits bright - not to mention getting our vocal chords ready to unabashedly sing our own praises (to the top of the roof - to the top of the wall!) later on, just before settling in for a long winter's nap. 

And in the frosty gardens below, untouched snow glistened in the otherwise-silent night.

(...and to all, a good night!)