The Lost Tune: Should We Bring Back Christmas Serenading?

When a tradition dies, memory is buried with it. But somehow I still remember my first Christmas Eve on St. Martin, almost 45 years ago! I had barely gone to sleep when I was forced to open my eyes and my doors to the rich, unmistakable, melodious voice of Ray Anthony Thomas Sr.

He was on my porch with three other musicians, whose names I no longer recall, singing, “Good morning, Good morning, how are you this morning?/ Good morning, Good morning I come for me guavaberry.”

That was my first experience of Christmas St. Martin-style.

The song is one of the most beloved and essential pieces of the island’s serenade repertoire. It’s an infectious call-and-response tune that perfectly captures the enchanting tradition, which in other climes is referred to as “caroling”.

In St. Martin, Christmas is more than just a holiday, it is a season steeped in rich, distinctively Caribbean cultural expressions. Among the most cherished, yet now practically abandoned traditions was the ritual of Christmas Serenading, a practice that transformed the island's crisp, pre-dawn hours into a harmonious canvas of community spirit.

It was a grassroots custom, built on spontaneous movement and personal connections, that for decades defined the true meaning of the season before we lost it on both sides of the island.

The Heartbeat of the Tradition

The St. Martin Christmas serenade was an event unlike any other, seamlessly resonating across the entire island. Starting in the very early hours of Christmas Eve or Christmas morning (often between 3 and 4 a.m.), small groups of friends, family, and neighbours, simply called The Serenaders, would gather, armed with instruments ranging from guitars and mandolins to percussion like the local shak-shak (or maracas), triangles, and the ever-present drums. They were musicians, mostly enthusiastic community members driven by the spirit of the season.

Their mission was simple but profound: to bring the joy of Christmas directly to the homes of loved ones.

They would stealthily approach a house, often in the dark, and begin playing and singing lively, indigenous Christmas songs. The repertoire was a mix of local carols and adaptations of classics, all infused with a rhythmic, up-tempo Caribbean flair.

The act was a testament to community bonds. Once the family inside woke up and opened their home, the Serenaders were welcomed in or stayed on the porch. The music would continue, sometimes accompanied by dancing, and the hosts would offer traditional St. Martin Christmas treats, guavaberry rum, guavaberry tart, Johnny cake and warm cups of sorrel.

This exchange of music for hospitality was a deeply personal ritual of respect, love, and seasonal goodwill. The groups would linger, share warmth, and then move on to the next house on their list, traversing neighbourhoods and, crucially, often crossing the invisible border between Dutch Quarter and French Quarter, thus emphasizing the island’s unified cultural heart.

Why did the Music Stop?

While a very few dedicated groups still try to maintain the custom, its widespread popularity and dominance as the defining Christmas activity have virtually disappeared. The demise of the St. Martin serenade can be traced primarily to two key, interconnected factors that affected both halves of the island: changing legislation and rapid socio-economic transformation.

1. Urbanization and Noise Complaints

On the southern half of the island, rapid urbanization driven by the rise of the tourism industry fundamentally changed not only the island’s demographics but also its social fabric. As Sint Maarten’s population grew and became highly diverse, particularly with an influx of residents unfamiliar with the local culture, the late-night serenading, which by tradition was meant to be loud and joyous, began to be perceived not as a cherished custom, but as a disturbance, a nuisance.

Complaints to the police and local authorities soared. Unlike in the North, where gendarmes might enforce noise ordinances, in the South, the pressure often came directly from residential areas and especially from hotels or guest houses that prioritized the sleep of visitors. Official interventions and the threat of fines led many Serenaders, who saw their act as an inherent cultural right, to conclude that it was "not worth the trouble." This, combined with the general increase in traffic and noise, made the stealthy, intimate pre-dawn journey less feasible and enjoyable, leading to a visible decline in participation post-1990.

2. The Rise of Commercialized Entertainment

Both sides of the island experienced a massive shift toward commercialized entertainment. The popularity of traditional serenading waned as younger generations focused on:

• Modern Events: The rise of large, formal, and ticketed Christmas parties and concerts offered scheduled fun that competed directly with the spontaneous, early-morning serenade.

• Lifestyle Changes: The demanding schedules of a service-oriented economy meant fewer people could afford to stay up all night serenading or be ready to host visitors at 4 a.m., leading to a decrease in both performers and welcoming homes.

• Loss of Oral Tradition: The songs and the know-how required for successful serenading were passed down orally. As younger generations embraced international music genres, the immediate, personal link to the traditional Christmas repertoire weakened, further accelerating the tradition's decline.

The Case for Revival

The question of whether the Christmas serenade is worth reviving is not merely one of nostalgia; it is a question of preserving the island's unique cultural identity and strengthening community cohesion.

The argument for revival is compelling. The serenade was a unique cultural signature of the island, one that provided an intangible social benefit: it fostered genuine, face-to-face community interaction, built bridges between neighbours, and offered a tangible way to express affection outside of commercial gift-giving. A successful revival would not just bring back music; it would revitalise a foundational social structure of the island.

Any successful effort to revive the tradition, however, must be done with sensitivity to the modern context:

1. Cultural Education: Newcomers must be educated on the significance of the tradition, perhaps through public service announcements or community programs, helping transform perceived "noise" into an appreciation of our culture.

2. Official Support: Local cultural organizations and government entities on both halves of the island must officially designate and support the tradition, perhaps providing community spaces or guidelines for serenading routes, possibly transforming it from a private gathering into a public cultural event. This would be seen as more authentic and culturally relevant than the fake snow and reindeers that have been introduced to create a “white Christmas” ambiance. King T-MO’s song “I don’t want a white Christmas with plenty of snow” keeps ringing in my ears with its simple but powerful message.

3. Youth Engagement: Workshops focused on traditional instruments, especially the rhythmic percussion, and the classic repertoire are essential to ensure the tradition is passed down not just as a memory, but as a living art form embraced by the next generation.

The fast-receding tune of the Christmas serenade represents a cultural loss felt deeply across the entire island. While the music may have been temporarily muted by noise complaints and the pressures of modern life, the deep community spirit it embodied remains a vital part of the St. Martin identity. Reviving this beautiful tradition is not just an act of remembrance; it is an investment in the island's unique and unified cultural soul.

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