A Christmas album in 2025 is a genre that long ago transformed into background noise for supermarkets. JD Days decided to take this tired format and assemble from it a ten-part animated saga, where John Lennon meets Pixar aesthetics, and the word “forgiveness” sounds more often than “snow” and “bells” combined.

Christmas Anthology is released in two stages: on December 5th, the music appeared—ten tracks, six originals plus four covers, among which “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” and “All You Need Is Love.” On December 20th, the videos will follow—full-fledged short films rendered in three-dimensional graphics, where each song has its own visual universe. Between them are bridge clips with a female voice that connects the stories into a single whole. The two-week gap between the music and video release is a deliberate decision. The collective’s frontman James wanted listeners to first construct their own images, and then the animation would enter into dialogue with them, and subsequently rewrite the imagination. Sync licensing through Sony Music Publishing, Warner Chappell, and Universal Production Music means the tracks can appear anywhere—radio, advertising, holiday playlists. JD DAYS is open to unexpected contexts, but draws a line: the meaning must be preserved. In our interview, we learn how the juxtaposition of fragility and energy helps avoid emotional numbness.

You know, there’s this moment in Pixar’s Coco—when “Remember Me” plays in two versions: first as a pop performance song, and then as an intimate lullaby. And the full emotional power only unfolds through that visual story. You have ten songs, where each one lives inside its own animated film. Did the music itself change when you saw what it was transforming into visually?

Yes — not structurally, but emotionally. Seeing the songs inhabit visual worlds clarified their intent. Some moments became quieter, others more patient. Like Coco, the meaning deepened through context. The visuals didn’t replace the music — they revealed what was already inside it.

I noticed that in your anthology there are bridge videos with a female voice that connects everything into a single narrative. It’s almost like Scheherazade—a storyteller who holds the story together. But your choice is interesting: you yourself don’t become the narrator, even though it’s your project. Why was it important to you that someone else guide the listener through these ten stories? Did you want distance, or is it actually about intimacy—so that the voice isn’t yours, but rather something universal?

It was about trust and universality. If I narrated it myself, the story would feel owned. I wanted the voice to feel like memory, not authorship — something guiding you rather than explaining. That distance actually creates intimacy; it lets listeners place themselves inside the story.

I was listening to “Angel Woman”—there’s this dawn-lit atmosphere, something very fragile. And then comes “Here Comes Santa,” which you describe as a rock anthem. That’s quite a sharp emotional shift. I’m curious: when you were building the tracklist, were you thinking about the dynamic as waves—rises and falls—or is there some other logic that connects these opposites?

I thought in terms of emotional breathing. Life isn’t one mood, especially at Christmas. Fragility gives meaning to joy, and energy releases tension. The contrasts are intentional — waves rather than a straight line — so the listener never becomes numb.

You re-recorded Happy Xmas (War Is Over). That song came out in 1971, when Lennon and Yoko were doing their billboard campaigns “War Is Over! If You Want It.” It was a specific anti-war action. Now it’s 2025, wars are multiple, but at the same time they all seem blurred and distant from ordinary life. What does “war is over” mean to you in the context of your version? What war were you thinking about when you recorded it?

For me, it’s no longer a slogan — it’s a question. Not just about global wars, but the quieter ones: inside families, relationships, nations, ourselves. Recording it now felt like holding a mirror up to that question and asking whether we still believe peace is possible.

When you were writing, say, “Evergreen Christmas,” were you consciously trying to create something that people could listen to every December for the next twenty years?

Yes — but not by chasing nostalgia. I wanted something emotionally durable rather than trendy. If people return to it year after year because it feels honest, not because it sounds fashionable, then it’s done its job.

I’m always interested in how the dynamic works in your group. Do you write songs alone, and then they become collective? How do you yourself define the boundaries between “I” and “we” in this project?

I usually write alone, but the songs become collective very quickly. Once the band, animators, and collaborators touch them, they’re no longer mine. I think of myself as a starting point, not the centre.

Your sync licensing agreements with Sony, Warner Chappell, Universal—that’s industry reality, but at the same time there’s a risk that songs about love and forgiveness will end up in advertising for something very commercial. Do you have any boundaries about where these songs can be heard and where they can’t? Or do you look at it as—if music reaches people through a Target commercial, that’s also a valid way to get through to them?

Absolutely. Reach matters, but context matters more. I’m open to music being heard in unexpected places, but not where the meaning is contradicted. Love and forgiveness shouldn’t be used cynically — if that happens, I’d rather walk away.

You chose December 5th for the music release, but the videos come out only on the 20th. That’s an interesting gap—two weeks when people are listening without the visuals. Honestly, this reminds me of the old days, when an album would come out and you’d wait a month for the video on MTV. Was this a conscious decision—to let the music breathe on its own first? Or did the production schedule just work out that way?

It was partly practical, but also intentional. I wanted listeners to build their own images first. When the films arrive, they shouldn’t overwrite imagination — they should converse with it. That delay felt respectful to the music.

“All You Need Is Love”—that’s the closer. The Beatles used that song as a global statement during the first satellite broadcast Our World in ’67. Millions of people watched simultaneously, it was a utopian idea about planetary unity. Your version closes the Christmas Anthology in a completely different world. What’s changed in that message over almost sixty years? Or should it not change at all—love as constant?

The world has changed, but the message hasn’t. What’s changed is how fragile it feels. Ending with that song isn’t utopian — it’s defiant. Love isn’t naive; it’s necessary.

Forgiveness—that word appears several times when you describe the anthology. That’s not a typical holiday theme, usually it’s all about joy, family, snow. Forgiveness is more complex, there’s an acknowledgment that something went wrong. Was there a specific moment or experience that made you think that Christmas is a time not only for celebration, but also for letting go of old grudges?

Because joy without forgiveness feels shallow. Christmas isn’t only about warmth — it’s about reconciliation. I think many people come to this time of year carrying things they haven’t resolved. The anthology acknowledges that and offers gentleness, not answers.

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