Earworms: Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) by Darlene Love

Perfection in under three minutes

As far as I can figure, nobody had made a fetish out of the word “Christmas” in a song before Jeff Barry, Elle Greenwich, and Phil Spector came up with this classic song back in 1963. Generally, Christmas always was accompanied by an adjective – “White Christmas,” “Merry Christmas, Baby,” you know the rest – or served as an object – most particularly for our purposes today, “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.”

Kim Gannon and Walter Kent wrote “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” during World War II, and Bing Crosby made it a huge hit for Americans hoping against hope their sons, husbands, and friends would come back to them soon. By 1963, few Americans were worried about their soldiers overseas. “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” gets entangled with American involvement in Vietnam, though at the time of its writing, that boondoggle was just getting started. I think that Barry and Greenwich (who, I’m sure, wrote the majority of the song) were trying to imagine a song in which the singer didn’t get the message of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” It didn’t have to be a war that kept the lovers apart – any reason would do, and that’s why they didn’t tell us where the missing person had gone.

I don’t know for sure, but it seems logical that Spector’s contribution to the song was the background vocalists repeated chants of the word “Christmas.” That seems more of an arrangement decision than the kind of thing two people sitting at a piano would come up with. At any rate, that chant, which serves as a call to Darlene Love’s responses detailing the contrast between the celebration around her and the turmoil within her, is vital to making this song a timeless expression of the season. Again, I don’t think anybody had done it before, but simply repeating the word “Christmas” ad infinitum makes this personal plea seem universal.

The song was included on what Spector expected to solidify his position as king of teen pop, A Christmas Gift For You. He put together tracks for the holidays featuring his star attractions – the Crystals, the Ronettes, Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans, and of course, Darlene Love. Then he released it, days after my fifth birthday, on the date John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Suddenly, the country wasn’t in the mood for yuletide cheer in a Wall of Sound manner. The album sank in the charts, and for years was only available in sporadically issued cheap reissues, sometimes even in fake stereo.

The whole record is spectacularly good, putting familiar Christmas songs from the previous two decades into the hit sound of the early 60s, the girl group style Spector had mastered. The only original song on the album went to Darlene Love, the singer with the biggest, most expressive pipes in Spector’s stable. (She would be challenged in that regard later by Tina Turner, but in 1963 she ruled the roost.) Love took this song of disparity between personal longing and public joy, and made it seem the richest, most universally compelling song of hope imaginable.

The record starts with a blast of a chord – strings, baritone sax, guitar all blended together before the bass dances for a measure. Repeat, go higher, go bigger, bring in the drums – Hal Blaine, man, what a monster! – then the five women, including, according to Wikipedia and why would they lie?, Cher!, chant “Christmas” for the first time. Darlene Love sets the scene:

“The snow’s coming down.”

(“Christmas”)

“I’m watching it fall.”

(“Christmas”)

“Lots of people around.”

(“Christmas”)

As the band hits that highest chord, she reveals her real concern:

“Baby please come home!”

(“Christmas”)

The second verse is more of the same, describing the happy sound of the church bells before the cry of “Baby please come!” It’s a holiday, you know, and everybody besides Darlene Love is experiencing the highs, the joys, the festive atmosphere. Someone is missing, somebody we know nothing about. The only clue comes in the third verse: “They’re singing “Deck the Halls” / But it’s not like Christmas at all / ‘Cause I remember when you were here / And all the fun we had last year.” Love does a little playful yelp on the last half of that last phrase, allowing us to share those good times. Where did they go? We’ll never know, but we are certain that Love does. It’s interesting that the backing vocals drop the “Christmas” chant for this verse, relying on “aahs instead,” reinforcing that we’re focusing on the singer’s sorrow rather than the public’s delight.

“Pretty lights on the tree / I’m watching them shine.” Love is making an effort, is trying to go along  with the program, but, “You should be here with me / Baby please come home!” Then comes that baritone sax solo, played by Steve Douglas. It’s a masterpiece of mood, mixing exuberance with melancholy in just 16 measures. Time for Love to reiterate the “Deck the Halls” verse so we can remember what she’s missing, then up the vocal ante for one final verse expressing all her agony.

(“Christmas”)

“If there was a way,” she shouts.

(“Christmas”)

“I’d hold back this tear.” More matter-of-fact, less of a broadcast.

(“Christmas”)

“But it’s Christmas Day,” the unfairness of it all is clear in the cry she inserts here.

Now it’s time to mix James Brown and Rachmaninoff. She is metaphorically on her knees, begging, “Please, please, please, please, please” while the piano (played by Leon Russell) hammers out romantic chordal expressions, the chorus answers each impassioned “please” with one of their own, and finally she releases the fully realized expression of anguished desire: “Baby please come home” at the top of her lungs, the piano pounding more chords, the band swiriling behind her, Blaine’s drums in a frenzy.

From there, it’s Love repeating her plea for a return, the backing vocals still chanting, but the piano takes over the response from Love’s call, and it the record starts to fade out, with no resolution. Does Love’s lover return, this year or ever? We don’t know, but we’re ready to start the record over and over.

Somehow, this record achieves immortality in my book. It’s the combination of sadness and joy, the contrast between public and private, the crazed mix of blues and classical and rock’n’roll and pop, the gigantic emotions of the whole thing. For 29 years, Darlene Love, aided by Paul Shaffer’s impeccable ability to lead musicians in recreating any sound, performed this song annually on Late Night with David Letterman. These performances always sounded exactly like the record, only live and in color. I miss them.

Darlene Love never became a superstar, and part of the reason may have been that she wanted to sing again and again like she did on this record, as if her whole world was breaking but she had to put on a huge, loud front for the people around her. Sometimes, as here, a song required that particular approach. But it’s not always appropriate, especially if the musicians around her aren’t as nuanced as those in the Wrecking Crew. Still, I’d rather hear her chops than a lot of more famous singers who don’t share the control she maintains over how she sings.