Handel It Ain't
The holiday season in the Gulf Arab community of ex-pats has once again been tolerated with weeks of preparation, a significant chunk of change, a close network of friends and colleagues with whom we could commiserate, some generic Valium left over from my last trip to Cambodia and a few low-spectrum seasonal disorder mood swings.
Christmas in the Gulf often seems like a somewhat peculiar affair, as with most everything in the Arabian Gulf, especially the UAE and Dubai in particular. First off, one would think the opposite what with the "And it came to pass" landscape with its "Lo!" date palms and "Behold!" desert scrub; not to mention its flocks of goats and sheep grazing just beyond the always-under-construction retro future skyline or the back roads peppered with camel shit. Then there are the locals whose dress year round is along the lines of adoring Magi and other curious Baby Jesus onlookers. Wouldn't all of this "Gospel According To" ambience seem more applicable to the whole living nativity scene thing? You would think.
But then this being a Muslim country, the Christmas holiday--like all forbidden fruits from the land of the infidels, like, say, alcohol, Marshall amplifiers, and, because they contain some kind of pork by-product, marshmellows--has to be surreptitiously imported and discretely distributed.
We found solace with a team made up of half-dozen Brits, a German couple from one of my old stomping grounds, Mannheim, and an Iraqi who's chain guzzling Heinekens to cope with his exile.
We'd made reservations for a pig out brunch at the Ajman Kempinsky Hotel, then scheduled a Christmas evening booze fest with "nibbles" and punch.
St Nicholas showed up at the Kempinsky. He had almond eyes and his "Ho Ho Ho" had a high pitched Filipino accent. As he awkwardly made his way from table to table, he doled out Kempinsky key chains with miniature flash lights. I'm pretty sure he endured the humiliation sober, so, he's more of a mensch than I--and I salute him.
Later, in someone's living room, a clatter of folk joined our gang, and we all sat around sopping up cheap Freixenet Champagne/B and R rasberry sherbet punch.
At some point, someone or other hectored me to go home and fetch my guitar. Now, I don't know any Christmas songs save for one--that John Lennon "War Is Over" song which I played, and since they were all pretty pie-eyed and sloshed, I forged ahead and faked a few others.
I played Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" which is a typical Leonard Cohen song about coping with suicidal muses and manic depression, but it does have a chorus with a whole lot of Hallelujahs in it, so I thunk. . .what the hell, I played it and got away with it. Even the tots joined in on the Hallelujah chorus, their parents none the wiser to the song's suggestions of stalking, voyeurism and masturbation.
I also know the chord progression to "Greensleeves" because Jeff Beck played it on his first solo album. So long ago when I worshipped the ground Jeff Beck raced his 1932 roadsters on, I picked it out and I still remember it. As you might know, it's the same tune for "What Child is This?" That worked. Then someone asked for the inevitable "Jingle Bells" and, well, that's sort of the same 2/4 beat and two chord song as Hank Williams' "Jambalaya", so while I strummed the Hank Williams song, people sang Jingle Bells, and it all came together.
I did not want desperately to impress anyone, and that's one of the keys to successfully accompanying people on a holiday evening sing-along when reluctantly pressed into service.
Just for the record--not too many tears. Some laughter. Happiness was thought of and produced in generous amounts or so it seems.
Christmas in the Gulf often seems like a somewhat peculiar affair, as with most everything in the Arabian Gulf, especially the UAE and Dubai in particular. First off, one would think the opposite what with the "And it came to pass" landscape with its "Lo!" date palms and "Behold!" desert scrub; not to mention its flocks of goats and sheep grazing just beyond the always-under-construction retro future skyline or the back roads peppered with camel shit. Then there are the locals whose dress year round is along the lines of adoring Magi and other curious Baby Jesus onlookers. Wouldn't all of this "Gospel According To" ambience seem more applicable to the whole living nativity scene thing? You would think.
But then this being a Muslim country, the Christmas holiday--like all forbidden fruits from the land of the infidels, like, say, alcohol, Marshall amplifiers, and, because they contain some kind of pork by-product, marshmellows--has to be surreptitiously imported and discretely distributed.
We found solace with a team made up of half-dozen Brits, a German couple from one of my old stomping grounds, Mannheim, and an Iraqi who's chain guzzling Heinekens to cope with his exile.
We'd made reservations for a pig out brunch at the Ajman Kempinsky Hotel, then scheduled a Christmas evening booze fest with "nibbles" and punch.
St Nicholas showed up at the Kempinsky. He had almond eyes and his "Ho Ho Ho" had a high pitched Filipino accent. As he awkwardly made his way from table to table, he doled out Kempinsky key chains with miniature flash lights. I'm pretty sure he endured the humiliation sober, so, he's more of a mensch than I--and I salute him.
Later, in someone's living room, a clatter of folk joined our gang, and we all sat around sopping up cheap Freixenet Champagne/B and R rasberry sherbet punch.
At some point, someone or other hectored me to go home and fetch my guitar. Now, I don't know any Christmas songs save for one--that John Lennon "War Is Over" song which I played, and since they were all pretty pie-eyed and sloshed, I forged ahead and faked a few others.
I played Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" which is a typical Leonard Cohen song about coping with suicidal muses and manic depression, but it does have a chorus with a whole lot of Hallelujahs in it, so I thunk. . .what the hell, I played it and got away with it. Even the tots joined in on the Hallelujah chorus, their parents none the wiser to the song's suggestions of stalking, voyeurism and masturbation.
I also know the chord progression to "Greensleeves" because Jeff Beck played it on his first solo album. So long ago when I worshipped the ground Jeff Beck raced his 1932 roadsters on, I picked it out and I still remember it. As you might know, it's the same tune for "What Child is This?" That worked. Then someone asked for the inevitable "Jingle Bells" and, well, that's sort of the same 2/4 beat and two chord song as Hank Williams' "Jambalaya", so while I strummed the Hank Williams song, people sang Jingle Bells, and it all came together.
I did not want desperately to impress anyone, and that's one of the keys to successfully accompanying people on a holiday evening sing-along when reluctantly pressed into service.
Just for the record--not too many tears. Some laughter. Happiness was thought of and produced in generous amounts or so it seems.
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5 Comments:
hah hah!
The 'lo' date palms. Oy! Funny, funny man.
I'm going to cheerlead you on to learning O, Come Emmanuel and, for the Brits who are invariably at any expat gathering, 'Once in Royal David's City.' And Silent Night because I know the words. And that other ditty, the one with all the Glorias. That one's good.
We had to listen to a diva-in-the-extreme opera singer on Christmas instead of doing our usual howl-along. The howl along is much MUCH more fun.
Hat: "What do ya mean, funny? Let me understand this cause, I don't know maybe it's me. . .I amuse you? I make you laugh...What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?"
Booda: You said it, a howl along. Next year I'll come to my archives and Google those songs and play to the crowd. I could possibly be brought up on kiddy-abuse charges for teaching kids Leonard Cohen songs.
Oh and Hat: We don't do Oy in the Arab world but there's a Schlotsky's in Bahrain so go figure.
HAH HAH!
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