Bruised Tinsel: Reflections on Ferdinand Rennie's Christmas
In the month of December, on Scotland's west coast, one experiences a certain degree of quietness compared with the previous summer months. This quietness is damp and salty, and it seeps into your bones and allows you to take stock of things in life again (this is where Ferdinand Rennie stands when this recording starts—he does not stand on stage in Monte Carlo under chandeliers). Rather, he is standing now at the end of a long career, when the applause that is there now is gone; he is standing now at a time when questions are becoming much more prevalent and louder.
The ordinary world that he came from was the world under the musical theatre; it was under the glare of TV lights; it was a life of singing songs perfectly when the cue came; and it was a life of security that came from using one's craft. Then, at some point, the light (for him) goes out, or maybe things just get too clean. When listening to the recordings that he is making during this time, it is easy to hear that there is a level of uncertainty in the artist; it seems as if he does not want to allow himself to sit back and enjoy the moment of recognition, but instead, wishes to express the joy in a different way. Instead of allowing music or Christmas to become merely background noise, there is an intensity in this musician that can be felt through the sound of the recordings, almost as if he is leaning into the bruise.
The initial needle drop sounds warmer than expected, but not in the “cozy” sense.
Rather, it seems “human.” The timbre of his voice comes from simply being there; from having been there long enough to sing “Hallelujah” to strangers who think they already know it. From having been there long enough to revisit “Someone to Remember Me” fifteen years later and see how differently it has aged than you have. The production is modern, yet it’s produced in a way that feels restrained. The piano feels like cold outside air, while the strings seem to float and then back away from the listener.
There is no mentor to guide him or look out for him; there is just repetition, the accumulation of shows and tours and benefit galas, until they have accumulated enough moments to begin to have a resolution. You can feel this in the way he phrases a lyric that speaks about togetherness: there is a slight hesitation as if he is checking to see if he actually believes it. You can smell like pine needles and wet wool and hear 2 a.m. television static and feel the end of another year hummed through the walls.
And just when you think that the resurrection will occur with a flourish, it does not. The resurrection occurs with calm, measured determination. His voice knows the moment not to stretch, and this record is not meant to save you but rather to accompany you as the world exhales.
When it comes to an end, you will not see this as simply nostalgia, but rather as a message to you from someone who has experienced hardship and now is at peace with themselves and settled in their life. In your heart and mind, you will be waiting for whatever the future may hold for you and the world, even if it is not intentional.