A few Christmas’ back, when Nixon was president and Three Dog Night’s Joy to the World was #1, the only thing on my list that year was the Partridge Family Album. It never made it under the tree but my Dad packed us all into the Country Squire on Christmas vacation, drove to some hip little record store in Malden and let me buy it with my own money. On the ride home I was overcome with complete joy and happiness; pure childhood ecstasy. My hands were shaking as I thought about watching the album spinning on the fold up, portable stereo in my bedroom. And then it happened. Grinch-like and with a Pall Mall dangling from his lower lip my Dad uttered, “I don’t understand what you’re so excited about; they don’t even play their own instruments.” In a second I was scouring the credits to prove him wrong. A tear trickled down my cheek as I realized he was right. At that very moment there was no more Easter Bunny, no more Tooth Fairy, no more Santa Claus.

Once home I forced myself to listen despite the violation, despite the deceit. Within days nothing else mattered: the songwriting was impeccable, the vocal harmonies were luscious, the musicianship outstanding. (Later I would discover the Partridge Family session players were also laying down tracks with Steely Dan, Paul Simon, Harry Nilsson, Joni Mitchell, John Lennon and Jerry Garcia to name a few; not bad company to keep.)

Digital sampling, loops, editing…keeps getting easier and easier to make music now a days. But one thing hasn’t changed since that fateful Christmas; a great voice is still a great voice and a great song is still a great song. Merry Christmas.