Why the hate-on?

I have a strange memory for music. If you ever need someone to hum a small, high-pitched rendition of the soundtrack from Amélie, or Harry Potter, or The Lord of the Rings at a moment’s notice, I’ve got your back.

Years ago, I saw the musical Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. To this day, I can sing, word for word, the chorus to Sobbin’ Women, in which one brother urges the others to enact a sort of Rape of Sabine by kidnapping the women they want to marry (“Oh, they acted angry and annoyed/But secretly, they was overjoyed!”).

This is not a good party trick, I’ve found. But that song will be with me, taking up a little corner of my brain, for the rest of my life.

This is probably why terrible Christmas music pains me so much: I can never, ever be rid of it. This is why I’m especially upset that after roughly three decades of blissful ignorance, I’ve just now discovered Paul McCartney’s Wonderful Christmastime.

You see, I’m a fan of Sir Paul’s. It’s not that I think he’s only ever written gems — let us all take a moment to remember Why Don’t We Do It in the Road? — but I somehow didn’t know about this one. And now I do. And now it will stay with me forever, alongside those Sobbin’ Women, making my life just a tiny bit worse.

“We’re here tonight and that’s enough,” McCartney sings. But that’s a lie and he knows it.