The Shorter New Oxford Book of Carols

An excellent, practical book for singing the standard carols, as well as learning the unfamiliar ones

All the ages of mankind have gained their names in retrospect, based primarily on the technological levels of each period: the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, the Iron Age. It would be interesting, though, to see how a time period might be summed up not by future generations, but by those of the past. If our ancestors were able to look forward to see—and hear—our time, I can't help thinking they would summarily dub it the Age of Noise.

Not the Age of Music, but of Noise. Thanks to advances in audio technology, we in the Western world virtually swim in music—at work, at home, while we shop, and piped into every form of transportation. We wake up to music and fall asleep to it. Even when we hike up into the peace of an empty canyon or walk out onto a vast, windswept prairie, we bring along a Walkman. Overfamiliarity has bred a kind of lyrical deafness—as we are buried in music, we actively listen to less and less. Rather than being perceived, it becomes the constant drone of the hive; we have become inured to it. Modern bands seem to recognize this almost instinctively, as they produce harsh, discordant, sometimes obscene sounds merely to get people's attention. In our drive to imbue all life with a soundtrack, we have reduced music to the level of noise.

Music on demand is a very recent development in human history. Up until the early 20th century, musical performance could not be preserved—you simply had to be present while it was happening. A composition could be ciphered into musical notation for later performance, but only imperfectly. Before notation, music had to be memorized or improvised. The idea of instrumental music for the masses is likewise relatively new—in the past, only the wealthy could afford to hire professional musicians, and it was expensive to purchase or make the instruments and lessons necessary to create such music for oneself.

The one type of music open to all classes was the song—as long as you had a voice, you could participate. One of the commonest forms of song was the carol, a vocal accompaniment for a round dance. Carols existed long before Christianity as popular song. They were meant to express joy—the exuberance of life, of song, of dance, of being able to make and hear music—and they were not at all confined to a particular time of year. There were once carols for midsummer days, for the close of the year, for numerous festivals and every other conceivable reason for merrymaking. Most of these carols have been lost to antiquity, but there are still staggering numbers of carols for Christmas in existence.

The New Oxford Book of Carols, the book from which these songs were taken, is considered the definitive reference book on Christmas carols. However, it is expensive and not readily available, and at 700-plus pages it's hardly fit for choral use. Oxford University Press therefore issued The Shorter New Oxford Book of Carols for vocalists and choirs. This condensed version confines its selection to 120 carols and their variants, starting with Latin plainsong and continuing into the early 20th century.

Represented herein are carols in their original languages, usually with translations into English, and often with a short history of the song if it is known. Both traditional and composed, familiar and obscure carols are here—everything from early Latin chants to American spirituals, but alas, no Russian carols. Don't think this book has nothing to offer you simply because you know a lot of Christmas carols. I was humbled the first time I opened the book, cocksure that my familiarity with carols was near-complete—and discovered that about half the songs were new to me. It's a fantastic book for carol-singers who would like to try something different—whether it's singing "O Come O Come Emmanuel" in the original Latin, or trying out a rarely-performed carol for a Christmas concert.

The only reason why this book doesn't get a full five-star rating is the binding. Although the text was clearly meant to be used for performances, Oxford University Press opted for a textbook-style perfect binding. It would have made more sense to give this book a spiral binding, allowing it to lie open flat without damaging the spine. This is a minor concern, but every time I wrestle with the book in an attempt to prop it open so I can pick out a melody on the piano, I mutter out my opinion of Oxford University Press and its binding choice.

Many of our oldest Christmas carols were written in a time when musical performance was still rare enough to be considered holy, when song was a mingling of the human and divine, and when most people were capable of being deeply moved by music. It's interesting, then, how often carols use stillness as a motif to stress the importance of the birth they celebrate—"Silent Night," "Still, Still, Still," and others. Perhaps the carol that speaks most frankly of stillness and its symbolism is "O Little Town of Bethlehem," especially in this verse:

How silently, how silently,
The wond'rous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.

In this, our cacophonous Age of Noise, I believe it is still possible to appreciate the music of the Christmas season. Perhaps it is worth taking the time to turn off life's soundtrack, even for just a little while. Turn off the Walkman and the background music, silence the radio and TV, and listen actively to the stillness, both within and without. Then, in the framework of that stillness, it may be possible to sing and savor with renewed appreciation the bright joy of a carol.

Happy Christmas.

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