I’m the High Note in “O Holy Night,” and I’m Ready to Hijack Your Christmas Eve Service
It’s that magical time of year again. Candles and poinsettias decorate every surface, small children are dressed as sheep, angels are telling people to “Fear not.” So, really, with Christmas just hours away, what do any of us have to fear?
Me, bitch.
I’m the high A flat at the end of “O Holy Night,” and I’m not optional. I’m printed right there in the second ending after the coda, soaring above the treble clef line. I will be sung.
Were you thinking about presents? The ham defrosting at home? The birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ in the most humble and abject of circumstances? Not anymore!
It says “Special Music: O Holy Night” right there in the bulletin, between the sermon and the offering, and now you’re not going to be able to think about anything else. You’ll be on the edge of your seat waiting for me, because you’ve heard way too many singers screech and waver and get me all wrong. What catastrophe awaits this time?
And just like that, I’ve hijacked the whole service.
Don’t pretend you don’t know me. If you’ve heard this song all the way through even once, you know my game: “O night, di-VIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE…” I just read they’re bringing Vine back, but with me, it never went away, and just like those little videos, once you hear someone attempt me and fail, I’ll live in your memory forever in a tight loop. Sure, I may fade back into the background by spring, but now it’s Christmas eve, and I’m front of mind for you and every literate congregant here.
And if you’re the soloist, oh baby. This is going to be the longest service of your dang life, dragging by as you dampen with flop sweat, waiting for that fateful walk to the microphone.
Because getting to my summit: girl, good luck. I’m like Everest, littered with corpses who didn’t quite make it to the top. Singers who thought they could slide into me like they’re Etta James and I’m the second syllable of “At Last.”
I cannot be slid into. And you are no Etta James.
You have to land on top of me, from above, like I’m a runway. But the air gets pretty thin up here. Don’t you even dare take me sharp.
I was written by opera composer Adolphe Adam, the guy who wrote Giselle, which is about a girl who goes nuts and dies of a broken heart, and that’s before intermission. This guy wasn’t thinking about the over-confident hometown tenor who has been invited to perform this solo on his first Christmas back from college after discovering menthol cigarettes and Monster-fueled all-nighters. Or the new mother who used to sing in the choir but hasn’t even warmed up since the baby and is now feeling very anxious that, with the necessary deep diaphragm breathing I require, she might pee her pants. (Spoiler alert: she will.)
Nope, all Adam was thinking about when he penciled me into the score was beauty. Glory. Angelic voices pealing from the fucking heavens. No pressure.
Some soloists bail and sing the F below me at the critical moment (pussies). It happens. But be warned: if I get skipped, everyone feels cheated. Like opening an elaborately wrapped gift tomorrow morning only to discover… socks.
Sometimes they play a recording after promising “Special Music,” and that’s even worse: like unwrapping a Ziploc bag of mismatched LEGOs, or printed pages of your brother’s “novel.”
Look, you just can’t escape me. I’m the highest note in the season of high hopes. I’m the possibility—no, the promise—that effort and artistry and faith can align into one shining moment of transcendence. And while no amateur ever gets me just right… maybe, just maybe, this year will be different?
Then again, perhaps you’re not that into Christmas this year. Money is tight. People are stressed. It’s tough to hope for the miracle of humanity and sacrifice that lie at the core of the nativity when everything else in the world is kind of shit. If you don’t hope for much, you won’t be as disappointed.
But for the next forty-five minutes, you’re going to need something to at least distract you.
And I’m coming, babe. Fear not.