Nothing Against Der Bingle but I-I-I’m Dreaming of a Doo-Wop, ‘White Christmas.’

By Fred Bruning

Dec. 14, 2025

Every year around this time, an old Brooklyn friend, Anne, gets in touch by email from California with no message but a link to the Drifters singing, “White Christmas.” On tap is an animated doo-wop version of the 1954 favorite with Santa handling lead and four reindeer from the neighborhood doing backup harmony.

Classic.

“I, I, I, I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.”

The email hasn’t arrived yet – whassup, California? – but I’m already going around the house channeling Clyde McPhatter, the lead singer, and Bill Pinkney, the famous bass, voice familiar as a roll of thunder.

In the shower, I do all the parts, McPhatter, Pinkney, the harmonizing reindeer, a novelty act that played once on Ed Sullivan but went nowhere.

“May your days be merry and bri-yi-yi-yite and may all your Christmas-es-es be whi-yi-yi-yi-ite. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, ooo-ooh.”

I especially loved the little r’n’b “Jingle Bells” improvisation, zippy departure from the Bing Crosby version – different as the Drifters were from Der Bingle, himself.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” I can hear my mother, Winnie, saying when McPhatter launched a few bars of falsetto phrasing and Pinkney dropped into a brief, deep, bravura solo. What was this, after all?

And, listen, nothing against Crosby – nice voice, fedora, gentleman, perfect for his time, blue of the night meets the gold of the day – but, love ya’, Mom, this music was different. It was special. It was ours. A bigger world awaited and we weren’t turning down the record player!

We danced to groups like the Drifters (Five Satins, Cleftones, Cadillacs, Penguins, Nutmegs, Flamingos, Heartbeats, Harptones, Turbans, Chantels, other immortals) in Rich Moller’s little rec room, King Street, Red Hook, Brooklyn, Lutheran boys and girls, lights low, and, really, not much going on beyond spin the bottle and a few smoochy foxtrots as the Five Keys sang, “Close Your Eyes,” or Moonglows, “Most of All.”

Ah, yes, but let’s return, shall we, to the here and now?

Christmas is coming, which, despite the Drifters, I await with familiar yuletide jitters.

I’ve been staying off the roads as much as possible because, even if they have artificial antlers attached to the roof, or tie a wreath to the bumper, or a stick a red Rudolph nose on the hood, or drape their Jeep in colored lights like the guy I saw the other day, people drive crazy this time of year, frantic to get everything done, I guess.

Also, there’s the money, everyone saying they are going to cut back, and we should, too, but somehow it doesn’t turn out that way, and even if you make a donation to UNICEF, or give the postman a tip, or stick five 20s in an envelope for the lovely fellow who cleans up the property and blows leaves out of the gutters each time he visits – even with those small gestures you can’t help wondering again, why some have enough and others don’t.

I was over at the community center the other day delivering a few boxes of food because the big-hearted woman from church who usually makes the run was recovering from hip surgery. The poor and needy were lined up waiting for groceries, maybe a package of spaghetti and jar of Ragu, or box of Cheerios, and, I thought, what is wrong here that so many in our country need help with their next meal?

“Good day,” I said to folks in the line.

“Good day,” they said back, pleasantly as though we all were waiting to be seated at Per Se.

No use going on and on, I suppose, it’s just where we’re at.

People are good, though, the pantry shelves at the center are filled with donated rice and beans and canned tuna and peanut butter and, on our block, a neighbor just delivered baked treats with a greeting that said she, and her partner, Mike, and their dog, Waffles, wished my wife, Wink, and me a Merry Christmas.

Take the season as it comes, I tell myself. Get in the spirit.

I could Google, “White Christmas,” to psych up but I’m waiting for Anne on the West Coast.

Meanwhile, I’m singing the shower, five voices, a novelty act, inviting memories of King Street, slow dances, the Moonglows, days merry and bright.

Recently, Anne sent an article saying nostalgia once was considered a fatal disease.

Could be but I’m still around.

Previous Invisible Ink posts at: https://fredbruning.substack.com/archive