“The Fairytale of New York” as a song of hope

As Christmas songs go, “The Fairytale of New York” is problematic. In addition to having a third verse that sparks yearly debates about censorship throughout the UK, the tune itself masquerades as an Irish classic despite being written and recorded by a London-based band, and its jovial chorus references the musical talents of an NYPD choir that has never existed.

Nonetheless, in the 37 years since its release, “The Fairytale of New York” has built a legacy. It’s made its way onto several greatest songs lists and ranks as the century’s most-played Christmas song in the UK.

Critics have written extensively about the song’s enduring popularity, ascribing it to everything from its earworm melody to Kristy MacColl’s brassy, raw vocals. They applaud its authentic lyrics and theme of ruined dreams, claiming that they make it much more heartfelt and heartbreaking than the sentimental Christmas chart toppers that preceded it.

I still remember the first time I heard the “Fairytale of New York.” I was spending a year in Dublin. Christmas season had arrived, and so, uncharacteristically, had snow. That peaceful white made the town gentle during the day, and at night, it made the pubs, with their glowing lights and warm fires, even more inviting.

One early afternoon, as I waited for friends in a pub off Fenian Street, the song came on. The place was not yet crowded, so I could hear the tune and weepy, wistful lyrics well even before MacColl made her grand entrance. And what an entrance it was: Her energy and youth echoed through every syllable as she let me know that New York was a place for her and not the old. In a Christmas-song world filled with Dianna Rosses, she was Aretha Franklin. It was love at first listen.

Oh, but then came that problematic third verse. It wasn’t the language: it was the viciousness of the argument, the borderline violence and venom with which MacColl and MacGowan spat the insults at each other. How could I possibly cheer for this couple? For this Christmas story? Despite learning from friends that it was a classic on this side of the pond, I decided that it wouldn’t become a Christmas classic of mine.

And yet it grew on me. Whenever I was in a pub and the patrons sang it with all the sincerity that a drunken crowd can muster, I began to love it a little more—the catchy chorus, the poetry of the lyrics.  Over time, I began to even appreciate the role of that harsh third verse, which takes and breaks those beautiful, youthful dreams.

Life is hard; relationships are difficult. We all go through tough times, and we say things we regret to the people we love. With age, I’ve become more forgiving of the protagonists and their tumultuous relationship.

I still love “The Fairy Tale of New York,” but now that I’m older, I no longer hear it as a song about broken dreams. I hear it as a song of hope.

I hear it the same way that I hear a much older, starkly different Christmas carol that’s also grown on me over the years.   

When I was a child, my primary school put on a carol service every year. I loved the ceremony of it—walking to the church, wearing the red and green choir robes, and singing in the dimly lit cathedral. However, each year, the music instructor set aside the same Christmas carol for the best soloists, and I couldn’t fathom why the adults liked it so much. To me, “Oh Holy Night” was high pitched and boring, especially when compared with other options, such as “We Three Kings” or “Ding Dong Merrily on High.”

These days, I feel differently.  

It doesn’t matter if I’m wrapping presents or driving in the car or standing in line at the grocery store, when “Oh Holy Night” comes, its beauty catches me off guard.

The thrill of hope: the weary world rejoices.

This thrill of hope, I think, can only exist and be appreciated during adulthood. When we’re young and not yet world weary, our beautiful dreams—naïve though they be—come naturally, so earnestly hoping does not excite us.

As we age, weariness hardens us, and cynicism makes belief in hope more difficult. In its rarity, honestly hoping becomes a divine thrill because we want desperately to believe, even in our weariness, that things can and will get better, that tomorrow could bring a new and glorious morn, or that our long-held unfulfilled dreams could yet come to fruition because despite everything that’s happened, the boys from the NYPD choir are still singing “Galway Bay” as the bells ring out for Christmas day.

And that’s the legacy worth having.