Real talk: I was born on Christmas Day.
As a result, here are a few things you should know about me: I can easily rattle off a few dozen of others who were as well (like Ricky Henderson, Annie Lennox, Humphrey Bogart, Shane McGowan, Isaac Newton, Dido, Jesus H. Christ); I'm really tired of hearing about being a "Christmas Baby" everytime I flash my Massachusetts driver's license; and I'll quickly cut the living shit outta you if you ever ask if I "get gypped" out of presents. Hey, kindly go fuck yourself, but not before noting: the answer to the last question is "no," because I am awesome.
Being born on December 25 was never really a big deal, and I always thought it would kinda suck to be born on some random, forgettable date, like June 5 or something. All my life, I never had to work or go to school on my birthday, and as a kid my parents always threw parties for me around the middle of the month ('80s McDonalds birthday parties were the best). It was never a personal affront to not have a party actually on the date of my birth, and I never minded sharing the day with everyone else. Given my ego, I'd have likely declared June 5 the official Michael Marotta Day of Birth by now, with commemorative bindles and grinders, so let's be glad the clips fell where they did.
But now that I'm a bit older, and my idea of a "birthday party" is more about hanging with my friends and washing a few mystery pills down with Stoli and less about awkward gift-giving from the unlikable mothers of my even-more-unlikable 5th-grade classmates while Uncle Sandusky dressed up as Grimace takes the boys to go pee, commemorating another year of survival the way I'd prefer is rather difficult. People have families, people have lovers, people have kids, people have obligations. And the packies are closed as fuck.
My entire life people have reacted to me being born on 12/25, mostly with sympathy (except the bank-teller cat ladies who squeal at the idea of me being born in a manger). But you find weird value in the little things, like people rarely forgetting, or in certain songs, like ST. ETIENNE'S 1993 disco-holiday single "I Was Born On Christmas Day." The lyrics seem to suggest the song is more about marriage feeling like the joys of the holidays than a particular shout-out to Conrad Hilton, but that's not important when the title speaks so strongly to some weird chance-happening that no one outside Sissy Spacek can understand. It's really nowhere close to Sarah Cracknell and Co.'s best work (hello, "Nothing Can Stop Us") but it's always been one of my favorite songs ever.
About a week ago I wrote online that anyone who covered the song would either have it featured in the Phoenix or get to make out with me. A few days later, MICHAEL POTVIN and the MOON CREW (Ming Ming, DJ Volvox, a bunch of other former Bostonians now living in a warehouse arts collective space in Brooklyn) stepped up to the challenge, and re-booted the techno-pop romper into a trippy, thumping, sparkly freak-out.
It leads off the free Boston Phoenix Holiday EP, and the video is just as awesome. Why? Not because Ming Ming is in drag, but because I consider it a present.
After all, I'm used to getting gypped this time of year.
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