A love letter to the greatest Christmas album of all time
It’s not often that something new enters your yearly Christmas traditions. That’s why they’re called traditions, I suppose. But back in 2017, a festive blessing drifted my way like a snowflake falling from the firmament of fate that has been gracing my Christmases (and, in truth, occasional summers, springs and autumns) with a patch of unutterable beauty ever since. In a few days, I shall enjoy it again, that moment when I sit myself down for a shift of Christmas wrapping—a task that was once arduous and stressful but now immeasurably alleviated by the wonderous boon of Orlando Weeks’ The Gritterman.
The album, and accompanying book brimming with Weeks’ own luscious illustrations, tells the tale of an ageing everyday hero, an ice-cream man in the summer and, in the winter, a gritterman. We catch this roving little night worm before his final dash into the frost-lit darkness of a snowy Christmas Eve. Therein, he (Paul Whitehouse) regales us with both the majesty of collected scenes from the open roads in winter and the snapshots of memories that make up his own humble life until this point.
This concept record and all the wonderful illustrations, soaring orchestral scores, and stunning poetry that accompanies it lift the burdens of life out of mind and plough on towards a solace of seasonal enlightenment. This godsend of good tidings is chocked with the sort of heart that makes hardships seem like mere potholes on memory lane as we look back on labours of love with glossy-eyed retrospect. And that is an appeal that will never wane because it’s no Hallmark soundbite but a bottomless welter of experiential wonder that you’ll happily mine from the moment that the manna first meets you with open arms.
In a day and age where the impact of albums can be diluted by the vast swathe of culture that we are bombarded with, it is rare that a record proves truly transcendent—that it escapes the clutches of the macrocosm we dip into and permeates our lives in some sort of permanent way. However, for myself and many others (and I know I’m not alone because there are plenty of fans I know of by name), The Gritterman is the quintessential gift that keeps on giving. It is a Christmas fixture. That’s just about the hardest thing for an album to achieve these days, and it’s just about the highest purpose of one, to boot. Weeks does it with such awe-inspiring grace that it coaxes a sense of immense gratitude.
In his first post-Maccabees project, he unleashed a euphoric showering of his own stored-up share of creative individualism. The Gritterman floats up to the rarefied realm of art where bittersweet truths are painted with such cushioning poetry that you are gladdened by the windfall of wisdom that, indeed, the simple joys of life really do stack up and comfortably assail the adversities. The tale of our hero elucidates that with humble charm—the sort that has you telling people who walk in the room that you’ve just been cutting onions.
Perhaps the pinnacle, the reason why it really appeals so naturally, is that at no point does it seem to manufacture this pitch of becoming a Christmas tradition the way that many jingly songs and BBC programmes seem to. It’s too quirky and original to align with the cajoled ways of typical Christmassy commercialism, and it charismatically conquers that platitude-filled patch as a result. In the process, it casually proclaims that it might not be for everyone, but if it is for you, then you’re going to love it, and it will become a cherished part of your Christmas.
And this year, it happens to be available on vinyl for the first time, so please, can someone kindly inform the elves for me?
