Christmas Music

I made the mistake of going to IKEA yesterday. Yes, I know. A Saturday afternoon, a few weeks before Christmas, in a fluorescent labyrinth designed specifically to trap the unwary shopper.. what was I thinking? I can only presume it was temporary insanity or a momentary lapse in self-preservation. Actually, Lin wanted a stand for some plants, and I wanted some lights. 

In any case, IKEA was awful. It seemed as though every child under the age of ten had been fed a dangerous cocktail of energy drinks and unregulated performance-enhancing substances, and speed… Their parents, bless them, though bless is perhaps not the word I muttered fairly loudly, appeared to find nothing unusual about letting their offspring sprint about like caffeinated wasps in a jam jar, colliding with adults, furniture displays, and folk with trays of meatballs.

At several points, I found myself silently willing Krampus to appear from between the flatpack wardrobes, scoop up the lot of them in his giant wicker basket, and carry them off to wherever he takes his victims; presumably a noise-cancelling void where the only sound is the distant hum of Nordic efficiency. I would have waved him off with a smile and probably bought him a glass of mulled wine for his efforts.

Yet, hidden within this Scandinavian hellscape was a small, unexpected mercy: There was no Christmas music.

Not a jingle, not a sleigh bell, not a single festive croon. And considering that most shops in my area have been pumping out saccharine yuletide cheer since late October, this absence felt like divine intervention. The silence, broken only by screaming toddlers and the dull thud of flatpack frustration, felt positively luxurious.

Now, this could have been a deliberate policy decision by IKEA headquarters. Perhaps they’d realised that forcing shoppers to navigate both self-assembly furniture AND Mariah Carey shrieking about what she wants for Christmas was simply too much human suffering to cram under one roof.

But I suspect the reason was more chaotic.

There was a young lad manning the PA system. Perhaps he was normally the weekend employee responsible for restocking tealights (which, in IKEA, is a full-time occupation worthy of its own merry band of elves). For whatever reason, he had seized control of the microphone and was enthusiastically announcing that today there was 50% off all Christmas baubles, trees, and, oddly, stars. Why stars were singled out, I have no idea, but he said it with conviction.

Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t worked out how to turn the microphone off between announcements. So I, along with several hundred unwilling participants, was treated to his running commentary on his personal life, his lunch plans, and a heated debate with his colleague about who was supposed to be unloading the pallets of fir trees that were selling like…Christmas trees at Christmas. You’d think someone might have told him, but no, we were all dragged into this Nordic (well, French) reality show whether we wanted it or not.

Still, it was blessedly free of Christmas music, and for that, I was willing to forgive a great deal.

Now, please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not a complete Scrooge. I don’t mind a carol or two at actual Christmas time.  You know, the real Christmas, the one that used to begin in mid-December rather than the moment the Halloween decorations were pulled from the shelves. The modern “Holiday Season” (a term imported from across the pond… apologies, American readers) seems to stretch on indefinitely, devouring months like a tinsel-covered month devouring beast.

I remember, back when I worked at the Yorkshire Post Newspapers, that “Rockin’ Robin” was used to herald the start of the “Christmas campaign”. When did this campaign begin? Late November? The start of Advent? No. It began in September. And once the cheery chirping of that infernal bird began, it was on a constant loop (a musical torture device) until we finally broke up for the holidays on Christmas Eve. By that final week, you could see grown adults twitch at the opening bars, like Pavlov’s dogs, but traumatised rather than conditioned.

Which brings me neatly to the topic at hand: Christmas music, or rather, the relentless, unstoppable, aggressively cheerful tsunami of Christmas music that assaults us every year.

You know what’s coming, don’t you?
Mariah Bleeding Carey is coming, that’s who! 

She emerges from hibernation like some rhinestone-encrusted festive deity, thawed from her eleven-month slumber by the first whiff of pumpkin spice (another American import). The moment she starts singing about what she wants for Christmas (spoiler: it’s you), the entire world appears contractually obliged to play the song at least six times per hour.

Now, I have nothing against Mariah personally, and I appreciate that the royalties must keep her in a lifestyle of impressive square metreage, but there is only so much high-register festive belting a man can take before he starts fantasising about snapping a shops PA system in half.

Then, of course, there’s Slade, and specifically Noddy Holder, whose seasonal battle cry of “IT’S CHRIIIIISTMAAAS!” has become both iconic and, depending on your tolerance levels, a warning siren signalling incoming auditory chaos.

Every year, without fail, the internet resurrects the meme of Noddy popping out from behind a tree, a sofa, or some other improbable location, yelling that it’s still “NOT TIME YET!” and begging people to wait until December before playing the song.

If only they listened. If only anyone listened.

Instead, we get two full months of relentless festive cheer in every shop, supermarket, café, and petrol station. It is impossible to buy a loaf of bread without encountering at least one attempt to force Yuletide joy directly into your skull.

Yet, for all my ranting, I’ll admit something that may surprise you. I do like a good carol.

There is something warm and nostalgic about traditional Christmas music; the kind sung properly, not auto-tuned within an inch of its life. I’ll even confess, here in print, that I once played Joseph in the infant school nativity play. I stood proudly beside Mary, wearing a tea towel on my head and clutching a stuffed donkey. I did not sing, thankfully (the world was spared that), but I did have the solemn dignity of a 6-year-old fully committed to his role. But even with this sentimental streak, I stand firm in my belief that Christmas music should be limited to a strict two-week period.

Two weeks. No more. It is the perfect amount of time. Long enough to feel festive.Short enough to avoid irreversible psychological harm.

Shops that break this rule should be fined…Heavily.

I’m talking serious and very real consequences: Confiscation of their CD stock. Removal of their streaming service. Mandatory playing of non-festive Motorhead and Crass until they learn their lesson. A sternly worded letter from Noddy Holder himself.

Bah humbug? Absolutely. With pride. And with baubles on! 

There’s something wonderful about Christmas when Christmas actually arrives. The lights, the carols, the slightly wonky tree, the first mince pie you pretend is “just to test they pass muster”. But the magic fades when we drag it out for months on end. Christmas music should be a treat; a short burst of shared nostalgia, not the background radiation of the retail sector.

So yes, IKEA may have been full of uncontrollable children, shrieking like off-key banshees. And yes, I may have been moments away from joining them by the time I escaped. But at least I did not have to listen to Mariah, Slade, or any of the other usual suspects while doing battle with flatpacks. I’m talking about you Wham! And I consider that a win.

Here’s to a peaceful, musical Christmas; starting no earlier than the 12th of December, thank you very much.

Bah humbug until next week! 

Stuart Smith

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