Bon Natale
When the boys returned to the city in the middle of March, Colin put them back into the studio to record a Christmas album. Unlike most holiday albums that comprised an assortment of bright, unrelated carols, Colin had a specific concept for the record in mind. Madrigals were coming back into vogue and Colin opened the album with a medley of traditional carols using the boy’s intricate, four-part harmony. He then moved the album into a beat driven, secular direction featuring Steve on the lead vocals, and transitioned that into a starker, more melancholy vibe, giving Kevin the lead on an after-hours arrangement of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Wanting to end the album on a spiritual note, he handed Vince the lead sheet to Oh Holy Night, one evening after the other boys had left the studio.
“What’s this,” said Vince, looking at Colin?
“It’s a lead sheet,” said Colin. “What do you think it is?”
“Why are you giving it to me? Steve already left for the day.”
“I’m giving it to you, because you’re doing the lead.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously. Steve’s great at Jingle Bells, but he can’t handle a lead like this. I need a strong voice to finish the album, and that’s you, Vince.”
“Since when do you care about the music? I thought you only cared about what sells?”
“And since when did we become enemies?”
“Since you started changing everything, and screwing around with our sound.”
“Vince, I’ve already explained my reasoning behind the changes, and I don’t want to argue about it anymore. All I want is to come to some sort of understanding, so we can work together and become friends again.”
“I wasn’t aware we were ever friends.”
“Look,” said Colin, taking in a deep breath. “I know I’m not very open with my feelings, but despite what you think, you and the boys mean a lot to me, and the rest is just business. I don’t know what else I have to do to convince you of that?”
“I don’t know, either,” said Vince, running his hands through his hair. “It all feels so personal, like a slap in the face.”
“That’s in your imagination, Vince. Now, I’m not saying I don’t want things my way, but I’m only thinking about our longevity and what’s in the best interest of the company.”
“And that’s the problem,” said Vince. “I don’t think what’s in the best interest of the company is in the best interest of the group.”
“Vince,” said Colin, getting exasperated. “We’re just going around in circles. Personally, I think those pills are making you paranoid, but can you at least give me the benefit of the doubt and trust me this time?”
“Alright. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go into the studio and record the song.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“But the other guys aren’t here.”
“That’s because they won’t be on the song. It’s just you. I only want one voice at the end of the album.”
“Alright,” he said, resigned. “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you,” said Colin, pleased that his paternal strategy worked.
“And Colin,” said Vince, as he started to go into the studio. “If I didn’t say it, before. Thanks for all your help, when my father died. It made it a lot easier.”
”I’m glad,” said Colin, sensing Vince’s genuine effort. “Now go. Make some magic.”
As Vince stood behind the mike and studied the chart, it transported him back to the dimly lit kitchen on Bungalow Terrace and the memory of his mother. He saw her standing at the counter, making the Cucidatis and the Pizzelles, drinking a glass of Lambrusco and humming Adestes Fideles. He saw her long, raven hair and the glint in her eye as she playfully coaxed him into singing one of her favorite carols. He also remembered how much his parents loved each other, and how his father would quietly sneak up behind his mother, grab her around the waist, and gently caress her nape with his lips. He remembered how she’d turn around and look at Joe, like he was the only man in the world, and he remembered how it all fell apart the night she died.
As Vince sang, he once again became that boy standing in the kitchen, and put the full range of his experience into the song. As the key modulated and he sang the song’s climax, he remembered how much he loved his father, and embellished the familiar lyrics with all the unresolved resentment that defined their relationship. He invoked a certain amount of irony into the sacred invocation, and as he pierced the last note, his eyes welled up with tears and he gently smiled at the knowledge that his parents had been reunited and his father was in a better place. Opening his eyes, he looked at Colin for some semblance of approval, and seeing the producer’s broad, signature grin, felt a momentary sense of relief.
As Vince awkwardly wiped the tears from his eyes, Colin observed the broken, young man in front of him, and turning to the engineer in the booth, said, “That kid’s a pain in my ass, but he can fucking sing.”
Seven months later, when the record stores were filling their bins with current releases and seasonal music, A Bungalow Terrace Christmas, became the biggest selling album of the 1967, holiday season.