“THE HIDDEN 1981 CHRISTMAS TAPE BONEY M. SWORE WOULD NEVER SURFACE – WE FOUND IT AND IT WILL BREAK YOUR HEART!”
For years, devoted fans of Boney M. have whispered about a mysterious Christmas recording — a private session supposedly captured in the darkest winter of 1981, just as breakup rumors were swirling and tensions within the group were reaching a painful peak. It was said to be emotional, unpolished, raw, and never meant for the world to hear. Only four people knew exactly what was on it: Liz Mitchell, Marcia Barrett, Bobby Farrell, and Maizie Williams. And for more than four decades, they insisted that the tape would never be made public.
But now, at last, the truth of that night — and the fragile magic it held — has finally come to light.
The session took place far from the glowing stages and glittering costumes of their fame. Instead, the four members gathered quietly in a small snow-covered cabin deep in the German countryside, a retreat borrowed from a friend who promised absolute privacy. The world outside was freezing, hushed, and white. Inside, the cabin was dimly lit by firelight and a single microphone wired to an old portable cassette deck — the only equipment they brought.
It had been a turbulent year. Rumors of separation had grown louder. Hurt feelings lingered beneath every conversation. Creative disagreements, long tours, and the strain of fame weighed heavily on everyone. Still, something pulled them together that night: a simple desire to create one last moment of harmony “just for us,” as Liz later described it.
They began with warm drinks, nervous laughter, and an agreement that whatever happened in that cabin would stay there. Then, with the snow falling steadily outside the frosted windows, they stood together around the microphone and started to sing.
What the cassette captured was unlike anything produced in a studio. Their voices wove in and out of each other with a tenderness shaped by years of shared struggle, triumph, distance, and love. Between songs, they spoke openly — more honestly than they had in months.
On the tape, Bobby Farrell is heard pausing after a verse, his voice cracking with emotion. He admits how much he misses “the old days” and how deeply he regrets the misunderstandings that had made the year so difficult. “No matter what happens,” he says quietly, “you’re my family.” It is one of the rawest, most vulnerable moments ever documented of him.
Then comes the second shock: a softly spoken apology from Frank Farian, captured when he unexpectedly called the cabin phone during the session. Though his voice is distant on the recording, his words are unmistakable. He apologizes for conflicts, for pressure, for anything he “may have broken along the way,” and tells them that what they created together “was more beautiful than any of us ever knew at the time.” The group sits in silence before returning to the microphone, their voices noticeably heavier — and yet closer.
But the heart of the tape, the piece now sending waves of emotion through anyone who hears it, is the never-released rendition of “Little Drummer Boy.” It is slow, almost trembling in places, carried by Liz’s deep warmth and Marcia’s graceful clarity, with Bobby’s soft rhythmic whispers behind them and Maizie grounding the harmonies. There is no production, no echo, no polish – just four voices blending like they once did before fame complicated everything.
It is perhaps the most human recording Boney M. ever made.
For more than forty years, this fragile cassette stayed locked away in a private vault, shared only among a tiny circle of trusted hands. The group feared it would be misunderstood or sensationalized, or worse — that it would reopen wounds they had worked so hard to heal. But time has softened those edges. The members now see the tape not as a painful reminder, but as a testament to who they truly were beneath the costumes and choreography: four individuals bound by music, history, and a bond that everyday life could not erase.
And now, with its contents finally revealed, the world can hear the truth too — not of scandal or conflict, but of reconciliation, humility, and the bittersweet final harmony of a group that defined an era.
It is a Christmas gift they never intended to give us.
And yet, after all these years, it may be their most moving one of all.