JCK-at-large SITE

We thought staying around town for Christmas this year sounded like a good idea.  What with the Omicron mutation on the loose — why not enjoy our own Nkana yard, with it’s ten foot walls and hedges, and maybe step out for Christmas dinner?  

It sounded good, but when we ended up at the Urbana Hotel for Christmas Eve, I started to have second thoughts.  We had arrived a bit early for the 6.30 buffet, and thought we would opt for a drink, see if we liked our table, and listen to some “live Christmas music.”  As Nkana goes, this was the top of the heap.

But I was feeling a little uncomfortable in the elegant dining room, pillars all festooned with wide Christmas ribbons and bows of red and green under twinkling star-shaped lights.  This place was starting to fill up.  There was one huge table with family members of all ages, big people, little people, a dozen teenagers who would descend on the buffet in droves.  And then there was the “live music” which, I was thinking, might have been a mistake of Rudolphian proportions.

What we had was a small combo unit of four or five players in a little space on the terrace level.  They were attempting Christmas carols.  The pianist turned out to be vocalist as well, and therein lay the nub of the problem.  

“I’m going to ask the waitress to get them to turn it down,” I said, after an opening number which featured a growly baritone swallowing an over-amped microphone, with a very limited range.  Plus a tendency to go flat.  But this would not be easy: a cello, a flute, an electronic keyboard, a bass guitar.  I had a feeling that these sounds were irreducible, not to say irremediable.  And the pianist-soloist kept clunking the melody line at near distortion levels.  “Why can’t he find ‘Soft Strings?’” I knew keyboards well enough to know you can combine the stops and produce a softer sound.

“Just put up with it,” said my bejewelled companion for the evening.  “It’s not a perfect world, and they’re doing their best.”  The lady was contemplating the whole scene as though it were a perfect Christmas world.  But Joy to the World?  God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen? How could such songs be any further from my world?  I was wishing desperately for “how still we see thee lie!”  

We were not going to make it through this evening, that much was becoming crystal clear.  How could the Urbana opt for live music on Christmas Eve without thinking about priority one, sound control? 

“Why is there no vaccine against bad dinner music?,” I wondered out loud.  We were inoculated against the coronavirus well enough.  But who was going to inoculate you against these viral sounds?  Where was ‘science’ when we needed it?  Your only protection, it seemed, would be noise-cancelling headphones — and how do you do justice to a Christmas buffet looking like a Martian?  “Maybe if you surfeit on that lovely food,” I told myself, eyeing the steaming copper pots among the white-toqued chefs, “and some Christmas libations…. you will forget all about the bad music and the evening may turn out okay.”

It was Away in a Manger which would finally drive us away — to the Mueller melody.  Here was a doleful sorrow which could not be drowned. The cello did a loud, plaintive verse which reminded us that the cattle were indeed lowing.  Then the soloist took up the challenge. Luther would have been most unhappy with his ‘Lullaby.’

“I’m a little uncomfortable,” said the lady finally, looking around as the place filled up.

“You are?”  Sweetest music to my afflicted ears!  I was beginning to think her limits of endurance were unsurpassable. She, who teaches music, must finally be tuning in to a wreck of a performance!  

But think again!  This lady’s discomfort was not about the music at all!  In fact all those rude sounds were floating right over her head like the sounds of the kitchen!  “I’m not feeling comfortable,” she said, “with all these people.  This place is really filling up.”

“And we are among the ‘vulnerable,’” I said, repeating the line we often used when wanting to avoid some public appearance.  I’m sure no one ever felt more ‘vulnerable’ than I at that moment.  She was eyeing the large family table which kept adding large members.  “When all those people hit the buffet,” she said…. “with the omicron stats….” 

I had heard all I needed to hear.  “Let me catch the matre dis,” I said, rising up.  “We’ll exit one by one.  If I don’t return, we’re gone.”

Natashya was understanding enough, even offering to move us to a different table.  I assured her we would come back another time when they were less busy.  “The lady is not comfortable… Its the omicron thing.”  I left the music alone. 

So it was the mutated virus that saved the day!  If you cannot get modulation, mutation is the next best thing!  We made our casual way toward the exit one by one, trying not to offend the cellist.  It might even have looked like a bathroom break, I thought.  I suppose it was a bit dishonest to pin all the blame on the dratted virus.  But how could I explain rude sounds put to music? 

Whatever, we found ourselves driving down Chandamali and being seated at the last unreserved table at the Mukwa, our favourite little stop for Indian food.  We were politely early for dinner — most of the reserved guests would not be arriving for an hour — and there was lots of elbow room.  “Yes it will be Chicken Tikka Masala and Biryani Rice,” we said to Ramon, who was already guessing our order.  Lovely Christmas lights around the place, some candles lit on the mantel… the place was looking Christmas Eve perfect!  

And was there dinner music, you ask?  Yes indeed, it wafted softly over head.  It was so soft that you had to listen closely to catch the melody.  And truthfully,  it was the worst possible song for the occasion: Mariah Carey singing the sappy “Learning to Love yourself” one more time.  But who cared?  Such drivel at Christmas of all times — the song had the great virtue of being so soft that the words were almost undetectable, even with Mariah at full throttle. 

Voila, we had the moral to our Christmas Eve saga.  If the volume is low enough, it doesn’t matter how bad the music is!  We went home quite content, myself thinking that maybe Christmas wasn’t the time for dinner music at all.  Before the evening was out, we would have the Choir of King’s College, Cambridge filling the house with their anthems and organs!  Here was something getting closer to the angelic choir which filled the Bethlehem sky!   “Glory to God in the highest!  And on earth peace!”  You cannot turn that thunderous choir into dinner music.  

That music makes you want to rise up like a Premiere League Soccer fan and shout out the song for the ages!  At the top of your lungs.