Tie Me Up to the Sound of Christmas
I was determined to write something profound about a Christmas show... Instead, I nervously drank too much and got distracted. Here’s what I remember from the Friday before Christmas.
THE CHAMELEON’S “CHRISTMAS SPECIAL”, photo by Brennon Poynor
“Wow.”
The doorman’s eyes widen to perfect circles. He’s stationed at the two-step midway point between the entrance and lobby, shielded from the creeping cold by a glass door. Framing his fingers repeatedly in an ID-shaped rectangle for the next in line to whip it out, he cranes his neck to check the line again. Each time his eyes grow bigger and bigger as the line stretches further back, snaking around the corner until it curves onto 3nd Ave.
With the line at a momentarily standstill, he hurries from his station toward the ticket counter. His partner, busy wrapping appropriately green bands around a conveyor belt of right wrists, doesn’t need to look up as he leans in. “There’s a line around the corner.” He delivers it with a mix of joy, logistical trepidation, and a small hint of disbelief. If this was a black and white Christmas classic, it’d be said in the same tone as “It’s a Christmas miracle!”
Despite its success, and the dozen or so times I’ve been here since it opened not too long ago, I’ve never seen the Chameleon quite like this. Inside, another line of similar length wraps itself around the bar, threatening to buttonhook into the narrow walkway between the queue and the tight row of red-leather booths fitted against the wall. It’s a touch overwhelming.
Admittedly—be it cynicism or insecurity masked as aloofness—for as many shows I've been to in the last decade or so downtown, nobody would mistake me for being a vocal cheerleader for the scene. Most shows I’ve attended over the years can be chalked up to obligatory displays of support for a friend or convenient excuses to spend a few minutes with someone I haven’t seen in a minute. I don’t mean that as a slight to any artists who have come and gone, more so a testament to the dome of indifference that has seemingly cursed this city since before the time of color television.
That indifference doesn’t skip Christmas shows, or commercialized Christmas anything for that matter. While generally fine, I imagine plenty of people can relate to feeling a little on edge this time of year. We make up for whatever snowfall we don’t get this December by burying ourselves in an avalanche of year-end reflection, regret, and trepidation for the year to come. Honestly, most shows this time of year feel like a bit of a put-on because we’ve all been conditioned to expect a theme. I mean, why not take whatever the hell you were going to do anyway and gussy it up in ribbons and wrapping paper to drum up interest? I don’t judge- that’s just smart business.
And with that, here I am, at the Chameleon’s “Christmas Special”, a yuletide who’s-who of longtime Spokane music mainstays: Karli Fairbanks, Scott Ryan Ingersoll, Jenny Anne Mannan, Marshall McLean, Caroline Fowler, Water Monster and Automatic Shoes among others. Unfortunately I’m a little bit late. Like the doorman, I too may have underestimated the turnout, and my expectation of rolling in without having to wait cost me the chance to see them perform something called ‘Come on Let’s Boogie to the Elf Dance’. Luckily, I’m just in time for the second song of the night.
(L to R) MARSHALL MCLEAN, JENNY ANNE MANNAN, CAROLINE FOWLER, KARLI FAIRBANKS, photo by Spicy Ketchup
Caroline Fowler puts away this tiny little music suitcase thing she used for the first song and introduces the next song as an original from her album, Medium Christmas. It’s a catchy title for a holiday album, for sure, the kind that begs the question: by comparison, what qualifies as a large Christmas?
I passed the album on the merch table when I was walking in. It’s the only thing for sale tonight, though Caroline will later say anyone can grab one of the few remaining copies for free, though her bandmates' lightheartedly protest for her to charge at least a few bucks for her work. Sometime later I’ll circle back to admire the cover art. It’s a photo of a young girl in a green dress—presumably Caroline in her younger years—sitting on the lap of an awfully tired-looking Santa Claus. It’s a genuine image, sincere, earnest without triggering suspicion of irony. It’s like you’re being let in on a cherished core memory, too charming not to share.
CAROLINE FOWLER’S MEDIUM CHRISTMAS, photo by Caroline Fowler
‘Hurry Up Christmas!’ puts some of that same sincerity on display. At first it could easily be mistaken for a somber number by the stereotypically sunny, double denim, eternal optimist troubadour-types you usually find at shows like these. But it works for me. The lyrics are soft, if inoffensively yearning, painting a quick picture of quiet desperation that flatters us with its simplicity. In just a few seconds shy of five minutes, she captures the dread that seems to wash over all of us in varying degrees every year: inviting us to agree with her gentle admission that the tide’s been rising longer than we care to admit.
♪ We need some relief from
Sense of impending doom
From our low grade depression
And we need it soon
We need some laughter
Some lightness and fun
Please carry us Christmas
Until all this is done ♪
She had me at low grade depression.
The next few songs seem to melt into one another, hanging over the by-and-large cheerful atmosphere. Selfishly, I’m waiting for some unexpected drama—an argument or something to break out around the bar—as I could use the excitement of something chaotic, but I make do with the music and accept the tranquility that comes with it. There’s a seamless current running through it all that’s hard not to notice, a polished ease that feels both natural and deliberate. It would be easy for musicians of this caliber, with devoted fans and probably a few decades of collective experience among the pack, to lean lazily against the kitschy poinsettia-strewn backdrop, and offer up a forgettable mix of thin, sugary, flavorless fluff.
But tonight is different. What a relief.
ANOTHER VIEW OF THE CHAMELEON’S “CHRISTMAS SPECIAL”, photo by Spicy Ketchup
The stage radiates a certain kind of intimacy, a deep bond born of years spent playing and growing together. You can feel it in the way their instruments and voices come together, not as separate pieces, but one shared breath. It’s not quite right to cast them off as “family band”-adjacent (despite some of them actually being related) yet there’s a familial closeness in the air, something so inviting that it’s next to impossible to stay unfazed by it.
A few songs later the intermission hits and my energy isn’t exactly conducive to milling around. I don’t have the patience to wait in line for another drink, nor do I have the bandwidth to politely inquire about the holiday plans of longtime acquaintances. Instead, I head downstairs to take a peek into something that had intrigued me from the moment I walked in: something called a “Shibari Social”.
The contrast here is unmistakably stark, a testament to one of the Chameleon’s many little charms. Being a two-floor venue, they have a unique opportunity—even on a night like tonight—to maximize the space in a way that can almost be jarring if you’re not ready for it.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find this smaller room sitting at about half capacity, with a collection of small groups hugging the outer walls, leaving the center of the space sparse by comparison. My first scan of the place reveals an eclectic mix of ropes, chains, mesh tops, and a single pair of animal ears on someone who clocks me the second I step into this other world. I don’t have much time to take in the strange sense of calm the room projects before I’m greeted by a tall woman with a welcoming smile. We talk for a moment before she proudly introduces me to her husband, the “leader” of the group.
For reference- Shibari is a Japanese style of bondage that balances aspects of rope art and eroticism, whereas “Shibari is the Way” is the name for this loose coalition of sexual adventurers and fans of various paraphilias. I only have a few minutes before I need to head back up, but I get the highlights at a breakneck pace: the quick how do you do, how did you get here, and what even is this turns into talk about rope work, a brief preview of a technically impressive burlesque show, an internal note of the term “kittens” as a shorthand for sexual partner of some sort, and repeated requests for clarification on whatever the hell “electrical play” is- still figuring that one out.
A VISUAL SUMMARY OF MY BRIEF TIME WITH “SHIBARI IS THE WAY”, illustration by the Author
As the music starts to hum from the ceiling I know it’s time to hurry back, and I promise my impromptu guide that I’ll return for one of their shows sometime in the near future. We trade info and I mention that I’ll find him on socials. He laughs and shows me his Instagram page. He says, “Add me first so I can add you back. Every time I add someone I have to delete someone else cause I can only follow 69 people at a time.”
I respect the commitment.
On paper these two events couldn’t be more different—one wholesome, festive, and utterly sexless, the other charged, provocative, and mysterious in the way that the simple question “are you open to a conversation?” could lead to any number of things—but as I made my way back upstairs I found it funny that in a roundabout way both these spaces perfectly embodied the Christmas spirit of openness, hospitality, and togetherness. You almost have to wonder if this is all by design, or just some strange magic accidentally conjured by the Chameleon’s brain trust. Either way, I’m impressed.
Around this time, my sister shows up with her long-time boyfriend and another friend who happens to be in town for the holidays. This is the California Crew, a two-to-one split of the Bay Area and sunny San Diego, and for some reason I feel nervous, protective even of where I brought them tonight. I talked them into coming here, if anything for a buffer on the likely enough chance I say too much or act a fool to any number of people I’d love to charm or impress. At least in the case of my sister, these are people whose respective locales allow them more opportunity to see just about any major touring artist at one point or another, and despite each of their own roots or plus one connection to the city, none of them have been to the Chameleon before.
I see them look around, give me their own versions of the obligatory “this is so cool!” like I built this place from the ground up, and I get the urge to point out every interesting feature of the space, every cool little tidbit I’ve gathered over the years about the musicians on stage. I want them to like it so bad, and by all accounts they do. We settle in the back row of bar seats, perched in comparative shadow, with a short view over the standing room crowd. Whatever nerves I have slowly creep away as a new voice turns my head all on its own.
With respect to the other vocalists, when Jenny Anne Mannan takes the lead the energy shifts dramatically. Paying no mind to cliches here, when she sings it’s like the sky opens up to reveal a happy smiling sun, tanning my heart to a soft honey gold. There’s a timeless quality to her voice—comfortingly maternal and twang-tinged—that pulls me out from under my mountain of introspective garbage into a world of fantastical Americana that seems to only exist in fantasy. I’m hooked back in, they got me. I consider the previously unthinkable prospect of wading into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd at the front of the stage. The impression stays for so long that whatever comes next moves slinks by at a blur, and the show comes to a close.
ONE MORE PHOTO OF THE CHAMELEON'S “CHRISTMAS SPECIAL”- LOOK AT THOSE POINSETTIAS, photo by Brennon Poynor
It ends with the kind of clarity that only familiar music and the presence of so many incredible people can bring. As the static of speakers fade and the crowd begins to spill out into the incoming fog, I find myself lingering, making the kind of small talk I had avoided up until this point. I imagine the doorman, still wide-eyed, still pointing out the line that snakes endlessly around the block beyond the boundaries of my daydream. I think about passion, spilling my guts outside a grocery store just past closing time. I think about the upcoming holiday, the new year, and whatever lies beyond that. For a moment I get too far ahead of myself, a headrush from the stimulation of the show, the Shibari folks, everything.
It hits me, then, as I watch the musicians quietly packing up their gear, the poinsettias hanging in place as the dimming stage lights cut to black; this wasn’t just a show, the Chameleon’s not just a venue that happens to dabble in a little this and a little that. This is a real, honest to God gathering place, something less and less common these days than I remember it being in a time before the plague. It’s a reminder of what happens when people—family, friends, strangers—come together, not out of obligation but out of love. Love for the music, for the season, for each other, for this god-forsaken dusty hidden gem of a city, and the people that call it home. Even if it’s messy or complicated or wrapped in a half-tied Christmas bow, it’s perfect.
My night will wrap up someplace else, and as I too eventually stumble out into the fog, something about the night feels different. Less cold, I guess. Maybe I’m just carrying a little more warmth with me now, wrapped up in the kind of intangible fire that can only be stoked by a night like this. Whatever it is, it’s a good feeling- a simple, sincere, medium Christmas miracle.
