Roger Creager admits “I Got the Guns” back around Christmas ’79. This rocking country codependency is as fetishistic as it sounds, ending with the list: Just and old bolt-action 16 gauge; And my grandmother’s 410; A 270 that my dad fired once–He brought a mule deer in. Woo.
Judging and smoking, Mr. Loaf fronts that he comes from the 270 in “Gingerloaf.” Could be Greensboro, NC. Could be Bowling Green, KY. Sure it’s the tough part of wherever, though. Christmas is not a bright spot in this rap.
Pickup Sticks is sad, western rocking “I Wish It Was Christmas” from the bowels of summer. That electric bill just went up to two-hundred seventy-eight, just the amount returning gifts would bring. Or, wait, maybe the cold of December wouldn’t ramp up the AC usage. Regardless, i too wish it so–and dig their twangy tirade.
Three hundred may be magic for bowling, but what else can we say about it? Sure, it’s a triangular number and the sum of a pair of twin primes (149 + 151), as well as the sum of ten consecutive primes (13 + 17 + 19 + 23 + 29 + 31 + 37 + 41 + 43 + 47) and, okay, it is palindromic in 3 consecutive bases: 30010 = 6067 = 4548 = 3639, and also in base 13. But other than that….
John the Singer invites you to drink 300 beers now that you’ve made it through the shitstorm of this year. BLUE ALERT “Merry Ducking Christmas” ducks no punches in an experimental garage kind of way. Sounds like how existential angst feels.
The Macc Lads get way more BLUE ALERT with their “Jingle Bells.” Sex is like breathing for these hardcore punkers. See, when Beater found 300 johnnies in his Christmas stocking We didn’t see him ’til New Year’s Eve. That’s 300 condoms in one week, mathematicians.
Jamie Callum’s “The Pianoman at Christmas” has got three hundred songs about Santa Claus under my fingers. This psychological study adds symphony to the lonely. Worth a listen.
On the lighter side, June Christy wishes you “The Merriest” for Christmas and the next 300 and some odd days. This swingin’ jazz easy listening needs listening to. It’s hep, cat.
Red was Here has a slight problem with “Christmas in Devon (Devon?)” being as how it’s the in-laws to visit, innit? He proposes to take the A30 beat rush hour, straight up the 303 and onto Cobham. Maybe wouldn’t be so bad a drive, but still brit-screaming pop-punk, see?
If love is a battlefield, gifts are a strategy. Trey Songz raps down on the special purchases made for his lovely just to get the hoes mad. “#Christmas (Guess Who)” includes the purchase of a Hublot 305 for his own self (a watch that costs more than a car). Got it/flaunt it.
What’s going on on the third floor? Well, come around the holidays Gnarwhalz is white-boy rapping about “Christmas in 311,” an unfortunate expletive-laden get-down witchyo funky-ness.
John 3:16 cuts to the chase–swear to Jesus = immortality. Over the Rhine notices the numbering from some dive at some low point in “First Snowfall.” This old dirty city Is cleansed of its sin in this alt-folk Xmas apology.
Katy Shaw and the Search for the Stolen Secret leads to the Wilshire Hotel. Four Christmases ago the shenanigans of rooms 110, 200, 310, and 318 are discovered. (200 is the operative one, but i can’t wait.) Candice Price leads Paul Shapera’s number “Christmas in the City“–a wondering, wandering showtune of noir-ish regret. Haunting.
Luna Wave love-splains, 321 days I spent the Better half of the year just holding your space. Seems “It’s Only Christmas (If You’re Coming Around).” This pretty pop petition pines for your presence, in a co-dependent way. Talk to someone, girl.
The Gentlemen of 328 seem to be address specific in “Christmas at 328,” a grunge exploration of holiday determination. Do as they say, not as they sound.